I have just been to Luther's cell in the old Augustine Convent, and if
my pilgrimage at Wittenberg was less interesting by the dirt and
discomfort of the actual present, here were surroundings less
calculated to jar on the frame the scene should inspire. It was about
sunset, - a very golden and beautiful one, and C. and I drove through
various streets of this old town. I believe I am peculiarly alive to
architectural excitements, for these old houses, with their strange
windows, odd chimneys, and quaint carvings, delight me wonderfully.
Many of them are almost gnome-like in their uncouthness; they please
me none the less for that.
We drove first to the cathedral, which, with an old deserted church,
seemingly part of itself, forms a pile of Gothic architecture, a
wilderness of spires, minarets, arches, and what not, more picturesque
than any cathedral I have seen. It stands high on a sort of platform
overlooking a military parade ground, and reached by a long flight of
steps.
The choir is very beautiful. I cannot describe how these lofty arches,
with their stained glass windows, touch my heart. Architecture never
can, and never will, produce their like again. They give us aspiration
in its highest form and noblest symbol, and wonderful was that mind
which conceived them. This choir so darkly bright, its stalls and
seats carved in black oak, its flame-like arches, gorgeous with
evening light, were a preparation and excitement of mind.
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