If Against The Martyr Only
The Worldly And Dissolute Stood Arrayed, He Could Bear It; But When
The Church, Claiming
To be the visible representative of Christ, casts
him out; when multitudes of pious and holy souls, as yet unenlightened
In their piety, look on him with horror as an infidel and blasphemer,
- then comes the very wrench of the rack. As long as the body is
strong, and the mind clear, a consciousless of right may sustain even
this; but there come weakened hours, when, worn by prison and rack,
the soul asks itself, "Can it be that all the religion and
respectability of the world is wrong, and I alone right?" Such an
agony Luther expressed in that almost superhuman meditation written
the night before the Diet at Worms. Such an agony, the historian tells
us, John Huss passed through the night before his execution.
Now for the picture. The painter has arrayed, with consummate ability,
in the foreground a representation of the religious respectability of
the age: Italian cardinals, in their scarlet robes, their keen,
intellectual, thoughtful faces, shadowed by their broad hats; men whom
it were no play to meet in an argument; there are gray-headed,
venerable priests, and bishops with their seal rings of office, - all
that expressed the stateliness and grandeur of what Huss had been
educated to consider the true church. In the midst of them stands
Huss, habited in a simple dark robe; his sharpened features, and the
yellow, corpse-like pallor of his face, tell of prison and of
suffering. He is defending himself; and there is a trembling
earnestness in the manner with which his hand grasps the Bible. With a
passionate agony he seems to say, "Am I not right? does not this word
say it? and is it not the word of God?"
So have I read the moral of this noble picture, and in it I felt that
I had seen an example of that true mission of art which will manifest
itself more and more in this world as Christ's kingdom comes; art
which is not a mere juggler of colors, a gymnastic display of effects,
but a solemn, inspiring poetry, teaching us to live and die for that
which it noblest and truest. I think this picture much superior to its
companion, the Martyrdom of Huss, which I had already seen in America.
JOURNAL - (CONTINUED.)
Wednesday, August 3. Frankfort to Cologne. Hurrah for the Rhine! At
eleven we left the princely palace, calling itself Hotel de Russie,
whose halls are walled with marble, and adorned with antique statues
of immense value. Lo, as we were just getting into our carriage, the
lost parcel! basket, shawl, cloak, and all! We tore along to the
station; rode pleasantly over to Mayenz; made our way on board a
steamer loaded down with passengers; established ourselves finally in
the centre of all things on five stools, and deposited our loose
change of baggage in the cabin.
The steamer was small, narrow, and poor, though swift. Thus we began
to see the Rhine under pressure of circumstances.
The French and Germans chatted merrily. The English tourists looked
conscientiously careworn. Papa with three daughters peered alternately
into the guide book, and out of the loophole in the awning, in evident
terror lest something they ought to see should slip by them. Escaping
from the jam, we made our way to the bow, carrying stools, umbrellas,
and books, and there, on the very beak of all things, we had a fine
view. Duly and dutifully we admired Bingen, Cob-lentz, Ehrenbreitstein,
Bonn, Drachenfels, and all the other celebrities, and read Childe Harold
on the Rhine. Reached Cologne at nine.
Thursday, August 4. We drove to the cathedral. I shall not
recapitulate Murray, nor give architectural details. I was satisfied
with what I saw and heard, and wished that so magnificent a
conception, so sublime a blossom of stone sculpture, might come to
ripe maturity, not as a church, indeed, but rather as a beautiful
petrifaction, a growth of prolific, exuberant nature. Why should not
the yeasty brain of man, fermenting, froth over in such crestwork of
Gothic pinnacle, spire, and column?
The only service I appreciated was the organ and chant: hidden in the
midst of forest arches of stone, pouring forth its volumes of harmony
as by unseen minstrelsy, it seemed to create an atmosphere of sound,
in which the massive columns seemed transfused, - not standing, as it
were, but floating, - not resting, as with weight of granite mountains,
but growing as by a spirit and law of development. Filled with those
vast waves and undulations, the immense edifice seemed a creature,
tremulous with a life, a soul, an instinct of its own; and out of its
deepest heart there seemed to struggle upward breathings of
unutterable emotion.
LETTER XLII.
COLOGNE, 10 o'clock, Hotel Bellevue.
DEAR: -
The great old city is before me, looming up across the Rhine, which
lies spread out like a molten looking glass, all quivering and
wavering, reflecting the thousand lights of the city. We have been on
the Rhine all day, gliding among its picture-like scenes. But, alas I
I had a headache; the boat was crowded; one and all smoked tobacco;
and in vain, under such circumstances, do we see that nature is fair.
It is not enough to open one's eyes on scenes; one must be able to be
_en rapport_ with them. Just so in the spiritual world, we
sometimes _see_ great truths, - see that God is beautiful,
glorious, and surpassingly lovely; but at other times we feel both
nature and God, and 0, how different _seeing_ and _feeling!_
To say the truth, I have been quite homesick to-day, and leaning my
head on the rails, pondered an immediate flight, a giving up of all
engagements on the continent and in England, an immediate rush
homeward. Does it not seem absurd, that, when within a few days'
journey of what has been the long-desired dream of my heart, I should
feel so - that I should actually feel that I had rather take some more
of our pleasant walks about Andover, than to see all that Europe has
to offer?
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