I have just come from the little Lutheran chapel, and while the picture
is fresh before my mind, I will endeavour to describe it.
On entering the church, the service I found had begun, and the first
thing that struck me was, that the pulpit was empty, there being
no minister of any sort or kind to be seen! The congregation were
chaunting a psalm to very much the same sort of drawling tune which one
hears in England; yet the difference in their performance of it was
very remarkable. As all were singing about as loud as they could, the
chorus was certainly too much for the church: indeed, the sound had
not only filled its walls, but, streaming out of the doors and every
aperture, it had rolled down the main street, where I had met it long
before I reached the church. Yet, though it was certainly administered
in too strong a dose, it was impossible to help acknowledging that it
proceeded from a peasantry who had a gift or natural notion of music,
quite superior to anything one meets with in an English village, or
even in a London church. The song was simple, and the lungs from which
it proceeded were too stout; yet there was nothing to offend the ear:
in short, there were no bad faults to eradicate--no nasal whine--no
vulgar tremulous mixture of two notes--no awkward attempts at musical
finery--but in every bar there was tune and melody, and with apparently
no one to guide them, these native musicians proceeded with their psalm
in perfect harmony and concert.
As this singing lasted nearly twenty minutes, I had plenty of time to
look about me. The church, which with its little spire stands on a
gentle eminence above the houses of the main street, is a small oblong
building of four windows in length by two in breadth; the glass in
these recesses is composed of round, plain, unpainted panes, about the
size of a common tea-saucer. The inside of the building is whitewashed:
a gallery of unpainted wood, supported by posts very rudely hewn,
going nearly round three sides of it. There were no pews, but rows of
benches occupied about three-fourths of the body of the church; the
remaining quarter (which was opposite to the principal entrance-door)
being elevated three steps above the rest. At the back of this little
platform, leaning against the wall, there was a pulpit containing only
one reading-desk, and above it a sounding-board, surmounted by a gilt
image of the sun--the only ornament in the church. In front of the
pulpit, between it and the congregation, I observed a small, high,
oblong table, covered with a plain white table-cloth, and on the right
and left of the pulpit, there existed an odd-looking pew, latticed so
closely that no one could see at all perfectly through it.
The three galleries were occupied by men dressed all alike in the
common blue cloth Sunday clothes of the country. The benches beneath
were filled with women; and as I glanced an eye from one row to
another, it was impossible to help regretting the sad progress, or
rather devastation, which fashion is making in the national costume
even of the little village of Langen-Schwalbach. Three benches nearest
to the door were filled with women all dressed in the old genuine "buy
a broom" costume of this country--their odd little white caps, their
open stays, and their fully-plaited short petticoats seeming to have
been cast in one model; in short, they were clad in the native livery
of their hills. Next to these were seated four rows of women and girls,
who, nibbling at novelty, had ventured to exchange the caps of their
female ancestors for plain horn combs; over their stays some had put
cotton gowns, the coloured patterns of which seemed to be vulgarly
quarrelling among each other for precedence. Next came a row of women
in caps, frilled and bedizened.
The Langen-Schwalbach ladies, who occupied the other two benches,
and who were seated behind a row of boys immediately before the
white table, had absolutely ventured to put on their heads bonnets
with artificial flowers, &c.; in short, they had rigged themselves
out as fine ladies--wore gloves--tight shoes--blew their noses with
handkerchiefs, evidently conceiving themselves (as indeed they were)
fit for London, Paris, or any other equally brilliant speck in the
fashionable world.
As soon as the singing was over, a dead pause ensued, which lasted for
many seconds, and I was wondering from what part of the chapel the
next human voice would proceed, when very indistinctly I saw something
moving in one of the latticed pews--slowly it glided towards the stair
of the pulpit, until mounting above the lattice-work, the uncertain
vision changed into a remarkably tall, portly gentleman in black, who
was now clearly seen leisurely ascending towards the pulpit, on the
right of which hung a large black slate, on which were written, in
white chalk, the numbers 414 and 309.
As soon as the clergyman had very gravely glanced his eyes round
the whole church, as if to recognise his congregation, he slowly,
syllable by syllable, began an extempore address; and the first words
had scarcely left his lips when I could not help feeling that I was
listening to the deepest--the gravest--and the most impressive voice
I ever remember to have heard. But the whole appearance and manner of
the man quite surprised me, so completely superior was he to anything I
had at all expected to have met with. Indeed, for many minutes, I had
given up all hopes of hearing any clergyman at all; certainly not one
whose every look, word, and action, seemed to proceed from the deepest
thought and reflection. Dressed in a suit of common black clothes, he
had apparently nothing to distinguish his holy vocation but the two
white bands which are worn by our clergymen, and which appeared to
be the only neckcloth he wore. In a loud calm tone of voice, which,
perfectly devoid of energy, seemed to be directed not to the hearts but
to the understandings of his hearers, he advocated a cause in which
he evidently felt that he was triumphant; and the stillness of his
attitude, the deep calmness of his voice, and the icy cold deliberation
with which he spoke, proved that he was master not only of his subject,
but of himself.
Every word he said was apparently visible in his eyes, as if reflected
there from his brain. He stood neither entreating, commanding, nor
forbidding; but like a man mathematically demonstrating a problem, he
was, step by step, steadily laying before the judgment of his hearers
truths and arguments which he well knew it was out of their power to
deny. When he had reached his climax he suddenly changed his voice,
and, apparently conscious of the victory he had gained, in a sort of
half-deep tone he began to ask a series of questions, each of which
was followed by a long pause; and in these solemn moments, when his
argument had gained its victory--when the fabric he had been raising
was crowned with success--there was a benignity in the triumph of his
unexpected smile, which I could not but admire, as the momentary joy
seemed to arise more for the sake of others than for his own.
Occasionally during the discourse he raised a hand towards
heaven--occasionally he firmly placed it on the bosom of his own
dark cloth waistcoat, and then, slowly extending it towards his
congregation, it fell again lifeless to his side; yet these actions,
trifling as they were, became very remarkable when contrasted with the
motionless attention of the congregation.
At times, an old woman, with the knuckle of her shrivelled finger,
would wipe an eye, as if the subject were stealing from her head to
her heart; but no show of feeling was apparent in the minister who was
addressing her; with apostolic dignity, he coldly proceeded with his
argument, and amidst the storm, the tempest of her feelings--he calmly
walked upon the wave! Never did I before see a human being listened to
with such statue-like attention.
As soon as the discourse was concluded, the psalm was given out--a
general rustling of leaves was heard, and in a few moments the whole
congregation began, with open barn-door mouths, to sing. During this
operation the preacher did not sit up in his pulpit to be stared at,
but his presence not being required there, he descended into his pew,
where I could just faintly trace him through the lattice-work. Whether
he sang or not I do not know; he was probably resting after his fatigue.
The singing lasted a long time--the tune and performance were much what
I have already described, and when the psalm came to an end, the same
dead pause ensued. It continued rather longer than before; at last
the front door of the latticed pew opened, and out walked the tall
self-same clergyman in black. As he slowly advanced along the little
platform, there was a general rustling of the congregation shutting
their books, until he stood directly in front of the little high table
covered with the white cloth.
With the same pale, placid dignity of manner, he pronounced a short
blessing on the congregation, who all leant forwards, as if anxious to
receive it; and then dropping his two arms, which, during this short
ceremony, had been extended before him, he turned round, and as he
slowly walked towards his latticed cell, the people all shuffled out
the other way--until, in a few seconds, the small Lutheran chapel of
Langen-Schwalbach was empty.