THE CONGREGATION FESTIVAL.
As the day passed on, all thoughts were evidently directed toward the
solemn scenes with which it was to close. It was pleasant to our friend
to walk along the street toward the end of the afternoon, and look at
the pretty cottages, each with its garden of flowers in front and its
vine-encased windows and doors. Now and then he saw at door or window or
in little garden young girls with flowers in their hands: were they
weaving them into emblematic devices for the coffin and the grave? This
little hamlet seemed to be the sanctuary of beautiful thoughts and
things. Music was loved and served here, and he had never seen so many
flowers as were crowded into these gardens.
Instead of entering the church at the hour appointed for the funeral, as
Mrs. Loretz had advised him to do, Leonhard merely ascended the steps
and looked within on the neat edifice, all the architectural points of
which could be surveyed at a glance, for there was neither pulpit nor
altar within, nor pointed window nor arched roof to gaze at, but merely
a large square room well furnished with benches, and a table and the
minister's chair; and then descending the steps, he retired to a group
of trees in the distance, beneath which he sat down to await the
procession. He had not to wait long. Soon the sound of trombones came
floating upon, encompassing, filling the air. A slight breeze was
stirring; the sun was going down; the willow-covered plain was aglow
with its golden light; among the hills the evening shadows were already
gathering. Night was only awaiting its swift-coming opportunity.
A small company gathered around the corpse-house, the body was brought
forth upon the bier, and the procession, which had silently and quickly
gathered at the signal of the trombones, started on foot for the church.
When all had entered the edifice, Leonhard went in and sat down near the
door. It was but his third night in Spenersberg, yet he was not among
strangers, and how his heart was moved by all he saw and heard! An
influence prevailed in this place which was fast mastering him.
As he sat down and looked upon the faces of the elders, the faces of the
men and the women--of the people who had toiled, and whose toil had been
blessed to them--who had suffered, and whose suffering had been
sanctified to them--his heart was like wax. In the drive and hurry of
life he had never seen such faces. When he watched the troop of
children, dressed in white and walking hand in hand, he thought of his
own lonely childhood, and sighed to think that he had come here too
late. And the minister, whom Spener had spoken about with patronizing
contempt--looking at him, Leonhard said to himself, "Here is a man who
could counsel me. He has fought his fight, and for him there is a crown
of victory and rejoicing."
The impression he had received when he glanced toward the minister's
place was deepened as the services went forward, and he saw Mr. Wenck
stand looking down upon the coffin, and from it toward the people.
The music for the congregation festival was sung. It was all as Benigna
had arranged it: there was no omission of parts except her own and
Elise's. Such voices, such trained voices, and such instrumental
performances, Leonhard said to himself, and could say truly, he had
never heard. He was dumb with wonder, and because he loved music he wept
as though he had loved Benigna. It seemed indeed that the mourners--and
the church was filled with mourners in spite of all the words of
resignation and immortal hope upon their tongues--were all intent on
doing honor to the woman whose life among them would never be forgotten.
In accordance with the usual custom--nothing could he omit that would do
honor to her memory--the minister gave a slight biographical sketch of
Benigna. He spoke of her childhood, and told the children that there was
not one of them who had not been born in a happier home and to better
fortunes than she. She had served music well because she loved it well,
and they were all witnesses whether she had received any reward for
faithfulness in that service. She had served her Master well because to
her His service was the highest freedom, and she found in it the
greatest joy. They had but to think upon, to look upon, her beautiful
face if they would know whether she could have chosen another service in
which she would have found such joy. Did she not appear to them--not
because she had departed: would she not if she were still among
them?--the most complete in excellences and virtues of any character
they had known? Was she not farther on in the perfect life than any one
of them? And how happy her life in Spenersberg had been! "Surely,
surely," he concluded, "this heroic example of constancy to duty, of
struggle against weakness, will not be lost on us! Never, on any
battle-field of faith, fought a braver soldier. God has given her the
victory. In a moment, at the close of a day of labor, in her
school-room, right there in that blessed, that sacred place--just there
where she would have chosen, with the kisses of her children on her
face--just there she heard the summons. Can we doubt, O friends! that
when our day of labor is ended we shall see Sister Benigna again? Not
if we resolve that with God's help we will prove ourselves worthy of the
high honor of being called her friends on earth."
The silence which filled the house after the minister sat down was
broken by the sounding of the trombones: then from beneath the trees
Leonhard saw the beautiful procession again following the bier; and as
he watched the flutter of garments between the dark-green cedar walls,
it had been no difficult thing to see in that company not a company of
mourners, but the ransomed sons and daughters of the New Jerusalem.
After the services at the grave the people assembled in the church again
to partake of the love-feast. Leonhard still followed. No wonder if he
walked as in a dream, and at times stood to ask himself where he was,
and what all this might mean. A month ago, a week ago, he might have
seen half his acquaintances hid away in darkness, and such feelings not
have been stirred, such thoughts suggested, as were stirred and
suggested here. So much human kindness he had never heard in human
voices or seen in human faces. The fierce grasping at opportunity, the
wild struggle for place, which his short experience had shown him was
the world's way of living, made him wonder if it was possible that
mortals could live so near heaven as these people lived. In that hour
the sharp strain of life relaxed--his disappointments ceased to torment
him--he almost forgot that he stood in the attitude of an absconding
debtor. Around him flowed the isolating, soothing, life-renewing waters.
He had passed rapids and cataract: could his humbled head receive the
benediction of the hour? Could he drop his burdens here, and go forward
on a new path and with a new ambition? What were all the honors of the
world, its rewards, its pride, compared with the peace and satisfaction
of this people? Home, work, friendship, holiness--could so much
content him? All were to be had here. But why might he not find
the same elsewhere--home, work, friendship, uprightness, honor,
success--patience to do the work that offered and to wait for the
ripening of the harvest which should rightfully be his? While the people
sat at their love-feast, exchanging the grasp of friendship and the kiss
of peace, these questions waited upon him. Then came thoughts that were
like answers. He would write to Wilberforce: if Spener had spoken
seriously he would undertake those buildings; and then he looked around,
and his imagination transformed this room of the worshiping congregation
into a temple all beautiful within; and somehow into tint and form the
character of the Spenersbergers seemed so to enter that over the people
as well as the house of worship he saw the wings of the Angel of the
Covenant outspread.