The old Protestant Church, at the lower extremity of Langen-Schwalbach,
has not been preached in for about three years; and being locked up,
I had to call for admission at a house in the centre of the town. The
man was not at home, but his wife (very busily employed in dressing,
against its will, a squalling infant) pointed to the key, which I
gravely took from a nail over her head. This venerable building stands,
or rather totters, on a small eminence close to the road--long rents in
its walls, and the ruinous, decayed state of the mortar, sufficiently
denoting its great antiquity. The roof and spire are still covered with
slates, which seem fluttering as if about to take their departure. The
churchyard continues in the valley to be the only Christian receptacle
for the dead; and within its narrow limits, Catholics, Lutherans, and
Calvinists end their worldly differences by soundly sleeping together,
side by side. Here and there a tree is seen standing at the head of a
Protestant's grave; but though the twig was exclusively planted there,
yet its branches, like knowledge, have gradually extended themselves,
until they now wave and droop alike over those who, thus joined in
death, had, nevertheless, lived in paltry opposition to each other.
The rank grass also grows with equal luxuriance over all, as if the
turf, like the trees, was anxious to level all human animosities, and
to become the winding-sheet or covering of Christian fraternities which
ought never to have disputed.
In various parts of the cemetery I observed several worn-out, wooden,
triangular monuments on the totter; while others were lying prostrate
on the grass--the "hic jacet" being exactly as applicable to each of
themselves as to that departed being, whose life and death they had
vainly presumed to commemorate. Although the inscriptions recorded by
these frail historians were scarcely legible, yet roses and annual
flowers, blooming on the grave, plainly showed that there was still
in existence some friendly hand, some foot, some heart, that moved
with kindly recollection towards the dead. Upon several recent graves
of children there were placed, instead of tombstones, the wreaths of
artificial flowers, which, during their funeral, had either rested upon
the coffin, or had been carried in the hands of parents and friends.
The sun and rain--the wind and storm--had blanched the artificial bloom
from the red roses, and, of course, had sullied the purity of the white
ones; yet this worthless finery, lying upon the newly-moved earth, had
probably witnessed unaffected feelings, to which the cold, white marble
monument is often a stranger. The little heap of perishable wreaths,
so lightly piled one upon the other, was the act, the tribute, the
effusion of the moment; it was all the mother had had to record her
feelings; it was what she had left behind her, as she tore herself
away; and though it could not, I own, be compared to a monument
sculptured by an artist, yet, resting above the coffin, it had one
intrinsic value, at least--it had been left there by a friend!
At one corner of the churchyard, there was a grave which was only just
completed. The living labourer had retired from it; the dead tenant
had not yet arrived; but the moment I looked into it, I could not help
feeling how any one of our body-snatchers would have rubbed his rough
hands, and what rude raptures he would have enjoyed, at observing that
the lid of the coffin would be deposited scarcely a foot and a half
below the sod. However, in the little duchy of Nassau, human corpses
have not yet become coin current in the realm; and whatever may be a
man's troubles during his life, at Langen-Schwalbach he may truly say
he will, at least, find rest in the grave.
I know it is very wrong--I know that one is always blamed for
bringing before the mind of wealthy people any truth which is at all
disagreeable to them; yet on the brink of this grave I could not help
feeling how very much one ought to detest the polite Paris and London
fashion of smartening up us old people with the teeth and hair of
the dead? It always seems to me so unfair, for us who have _had_ our
day--who have ourselves _been_ young--to attempt, when we grow old, to
deprive the rising generation of the advantage of that contrast which
so naturally enhances their beauties. The spring of life, to be justly
appreciated and admired, requires to be compared with the snow and
storms of winter, and if by chicanery you hide the latter, the sunshine
of the former loses a great portion of its beauty. In naked, savage
life, there exists no picture on which I have so repeatedly gazed
with calm pleasure, as that of the daughter supporting the trembling,
dilapidated fabric of the being to whom she owes her birth; indeed,
it is as impossible for man to withhold the respect and pity which is
due to age whenever it be seen labouring under its real infirmities,
as it is for him to contain his admiration of the natural loveliness
of youth. The parent and child, thus contrasted, render to each other
services of which both appear to be insensible; for the mother does
not seem aware how the shattered outlines of her faded frame heighten
the robust, blooming beauties of her child, who, in her turn, seems
equally unconscious how beautifully and eloquently her figure explains
and pleads for the helpless decrepitude of age! In the Babel confusion
of our fashionable world, this beautifully arranged contrast of nature,
the effect of which no one who has ever seen it can forget, does not
exist. Before the hair has grown really grey--before time has imparted
to it even its autumnal tint, it is artfully replaced by dark flowing
locks, obtained by every revolting contrivance. The grave itself is
attacked--our living dowagers of the present day do not hesitate to
borrow their youthful ornaments even from the dead--and to such a
horrid extreme has fashion encouraged this unnatural propensity, that
even the carcase of the soldier, who has fallen in a foreign land, and
who,
"----------leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Looks proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame,"
has not been respected!
One would think that the ribands and honours on his breast, flapping
in the wind, would have scared even the vulture from such prey; but no!
the orders which the London dentist has received must, he pleads, be
punctually executed; and it is a revolting fact, but too well known to
"the trade," that many, and many, and many a set of teeth which bit the
dust of Waterloo, by an untimely resurrection, appeared again on earth,
smiling lasciviously at Almack's ball! So much for what is termed
FASHION.
After rambling about the churchyard for some minutes, occasionally
spelling at an inscription, and sometimes looking at (not picking) a
sepulchral flower, I walked to the church-door, and turning round its
old-fashioned key, which ever since I had received it had been dangling
in my hand, the lock started back, and then, as if I had said "Open
Sesame!" the door opened.
On looking before me, my first impression was that my head was
swimming! for the old gallery, hanging like the gardens of Babylon,
seemed to be writhing; the four-and-twenty pews were leaning sideways;
the aisle, or approach to the altar, covered with heaps of rubbish, was
an undulating line, and an immense sepulchral flag-stone had actually
been lifted up at one side, as if the corpse, finding the church
deserted, had resolutely burst from his grave, and had wrenched himself
once again into daylight. The pulpit was out of its perpendicular;
some pictures, loosely hanging against the wall, had turned away
their faces; and a couple of planks were resting diagonally against
the altar, as if they had fallen from the roof. I really rubbed my
eyes, fancying that they were disordered; however, the confusion I
witnessed was real, and as nearly as possible as I have described it.
Still, however, there was no dampness in the church, and it was, I
thought, a remarkable proof of the dryness of the light mountain air of
Langen-Schwalbach, that the sepulchral wreaths of artificial flowers
which were hanging around on the walls were as starched and stiff as on
the day they were placed there.
A piece of dingy black cloth, with narrow white fringe, was the only
ornament to the pulpit, from which both book and minister had so long
departed. The thing was altogether on the totter; yet when I reflected
what little harm it had done in the world, and how much good, I could
not help acknowledging that respect was justly due to its old age, and
that, even by the stranger, it ought to be regarded with sentiments
of veneration. In gazing at monuments of antiquity, one of the most
natural pleasures which the mind enjoys is by them fancifully
transported to the scenes which they so clearly commemorate. The Roman
amphitheatre becomes filled with gladiators and spectators;--the
streets of Pompeii are seen again thronged with people;--the Grecian
temple is ornamented with the votive offerings of heroes and of
senators;--even the putrid marsh of Marathon teems with noble
recollections;--while at home, on the battlements of our old English
castles, we easily figure to ourselves barons proud of their deeds, and
vassals in armour faithfully devoted to their service: in short, while
beholding such scenes, the heart glows, until, by its feverish heat,
feelings are produced to which no one can be completely insensible:
however, when we awaken from this delightful dream, it is difficult,
indeed impossible, to drive away the painful moral which, sooner or
later in the day, proves to us much too clearly, that these ruins have
outlived, and in fact commemorate, the errors, the passions, and the
prejudices, which caused them to be built.
But after looking up at the plain, unassuming pulpit of an old
Lutheran church, one feels, long after one has left it, that all that
has proceeded from its simple desk has been to promulgate peace,
good-will, and happiness among mankind--and though, in its old age, it
be now deserted, yet no one can deny that the seeds which in various
directions it has scattered before the wind are not only vigorously
flourishing in the little valley in which it stands, but must continue
there and elsewhere to produce effects, which time itself can scarcely
annihilate.
Turning towards the altar, I was looking at pictures of the twelve
apostles, who, like sentinels at their posts, were in various attitudes
surrounding it, when _à propos_ to nothing, the great clock in the
belfry struck four, and so little did I expect to hear any noise at
all, that I could not help starting at being thus suddenly reminded,
that the watch was still ticking in the fob of the dead soldier--in
short, that that clock was still faithfully pointing out the progress
of time, though the church to which it belonged had already,
practically speaking, terminated its existence! Never did I before
listen to four vibrations of an old church clock with more reverential
attention: however, at each stroke involuntarily looking upwards, I did
not altogether enjoy the sight of some loose rafters which were hanging
over my head. I therefore very quietly moved onwards, yet, passing a
small door, I could not resist clambering up an old well staircase
which led to the belfry; not, however, until I had calculated that,
as the building could bear the bells, my weight was not likely to
turn the scale. I did not, however, feel disposed to reach the bells,
but managed, through a rent in the wall, to look down on the roof,
and such a scene of devastation it would be difficult to describe.
The half-mouldered slates had not only been ripped away by the wind
in every direction, but the remainder appeared as if they were just
ready to follow in the flight. The roof was bending in, and altogether
it looked so completely on the totter, that the slightest additional
weight would have brought every thing to the ground. After descending,
I went once more round the church, opened some of the old latticed
pews--peeped into the marble font, which was half-filled with decayed
mortar--took up a bird's nest that had fallen into the chancel from
the roof, and strolling towards the altar, I found there a small board
covered with white pasteboard, and ornamented with a garland of roses.
On this simple tablet were inscribed, in black letters, the names of
the little band of Langen-Schwalbachians who had been present in the
great campaign of 1815; and in case the reader should like to know not
only who were the heroes of so remote a valley, but also what sort of
names they possessed, I offer him a copy of the muster-roll of those
thus distinguished for having served their native country, which the
German language emphatically calls "Vaterland."--
Dem. Verdientfeer
Conrad Blies
Adam Buslach
Adam Klenig
Christop Lindle
Ludwig Liedebach
Ludwig Diefenbach
Martin Eschenever
Philipp Hoenig
Eberhard Rucker
Casper Schenk
Philipp Singhoff
Eberhard Hofman
Wilhelm Koch
Philipp Kraus
Johannes Sartor
Ferdinand Wensel.
Having carefully locked up the old church with all the relics it
contained, descending the steps of the eminence on which it stood, I
once more found myself in the street among fellow-creatures.
The new Protestant church, which is very shortly to be built, and to
which the bells of this old one, if possible, are to be removed, will
be in the centre of the town, but this site, though more convenient,
will not, I think, be so picturesque as that of the old building,
which, with the Catholic Church at the other extremity of the
town, seem to be the alpha and omega--the beginning and the end of
Langen-Schwalbach. From the surrounding hills, as the eye glances from
the one of these old buildings to the other, they appear to be the
good Genii of the town--two guardian angels to watch over the welfare
of its people here and hereafter.