Thus died the leader of the stormers at Elchingen,—the man who carried the Hill of Asperne against an Austrian battery. He sleeps now in the little churchyard of the “Marien Hülfe” at Cassel.
CHAPTER XXXII. THE WARTBURG AND EISENACH.
I left Cassel with a heart far heavier than I had brought into it some weeks before. The poor fellow, whose remains I followed to the grave, was ever in my thoughts, and all our pleasant rambles and our familiar intercourse, were now shadowed over by the gloom of his sad destiny. So must it ever be. He who seeks the happiness of his life upon the world’s highways, must learn to carry, as best he may, the weary load of trouble that “flesh is heir to.” There must be storm for sunshine; and for the bright days and warm airs of summer, he must feel the lowering skies and cutting winds of winter.
I set out on foot, muttering as I went, the lines of poor Marguerite’s song, which my own depression had brought to memory.
“Mein Ruh ist hin. Mein Hers ist schwer;
Ich finde sie nimmer—und, nimmer mehr.”
The words recalled the Faust—the Faust, the Brocken, and so I thought I could not do better than set out thither. I was already within three days’ march of the Hartz, and besides, I should like to see Göttingen once more, and have a peep at my old friends there.
It was only as I reached Münden to breakfast, that I remembered it was Sunday, and so when I had finished my meal, I joined my host and his household to church. What a simplicity is there in the whole Protestantism of Germany—how striking is the contrast between the unpretending features of the Reformed, and the gorgeous splendour of the Roman Catholic Church. The benches of oak, on which were seated the congregation, made no distinctions of class and rank. The little village authorities were mingled with the mere peasants—the Pastor’s family sat nearest to the reading-desk—that, was the only place distinguished from the others. The building, like most of its era, was plain and un-ornamented—some passages from Scripture were written on the walls, in different places, but these were its only decoration. As I sat, awaiting the commencement of the service, I could not avoid being struck by the marked difference of feature, observable in Protestant, from what we see in Roman Catholic communities—not depending upon nationality, for Germany itself is an illustration in point. The gorgeous ceremonial of the Romish Church—its venerable architecture—its prestige of antiquity—its pealing organ, and its incense—all contribute to a certain exaltation of mind, a fervour of sentiment, that may readily be mistaken for true religious feeling. These things, connected and bound up with the most awful and impressive thoughts the mind of man is capable of, cannot fail to impress upon the features of the worshippers, an expression of profound, heartfelt adoration, which poetizes the most commonplace, and elevates the tone of even the most vulgar faces. Retsch had not to go far for those figures of intense devotional character his works abound in—every chapel contained innumerable studies for his pencil. The features of the Protestant worshippers were calm, even to sternness—the eyes, not bent upon some great picture, or some holy relic, with wondering admiration, were downcast in meditation deep, or raised to heaven with thoughts already there. There was a holy and a solemn awe in every face, as though in the presence of Him, and in His Temple, the passions and warm feelings of man were an unclean offering; that to understand His truths, and to apply His counsels, a pure heart and a clear understanding were necessary—and these they brought. To look on their cold and stedfast faces, you would say that Luther’s own spirit—his very temperament, had descended to his followers. There was the same energy of character—the indomitable courage—the perseverance, no obstacle could thwart—the determination, no opposition could shake. The massive head, square and strong—the broad, bold forehead—the full eye—the wide nostril, and the thick lip—at once the indication of energy, of passion, and of power, are seen throughout Saxony as the types of national features.
The service of the Lutheran church is most simple, and like that of our Presbyterians at home, consists in a hymn, a portion of Scripture read out, and—what is considered the greatest point of all—a sermon, half prayer, half dissertation, which concludes the whole. Even when the Pastors are eloquent men, which they rarely are, I doubt much if German be a language well suited for pulpit oratory. There is an eternal involution of phrase, a complexity in the expression of even simple matters, which would for ever prevent those bold imaginative flights by which Bossuet and Massillon appealed to the hearts and minds of their hearers. Were a German to attempt this, his mysticism—the “maladie du pays”—would at once interfere, and render him unintelligible. The pulpit eloquence of Germany, so far as I have experience of it, more closely resembles the style of the preachers of the seventeenth century, when familiar illustrations were employed to convey such truths as rose above the humble level of ordinary intellects; having much of the grotesque quaintness our own Latimer possessed, without, unhappily, the warm glow of his rich imagination, or the brilliant splendour of his descriptive talent. Still the forcible earnestness, and the strong energy of conviction, are to be found in the German pulpit, and these also may be the heirlooms of “the Doctor.” as the Saxons love to call the great reformer.
Some thoughts like these suggested a visit to the Wartburg, the scene of Luther’s captivity—for such, although devised with friendly intent, his residence there was; and so abandoning the Brocken, for the “nonce,” I started for Eisenach.