A Sabbath in Lausanne
After a long journey we arrived at the head of the lake of Geneva, by far the most interesting portion of this sheet of water. The mountains on the left of the valley are extremely wild and majestic, and at their feet, close on the borders of the lake, is the little village where I had promised to spend the Sabbath with my old friend Wagner. The sun had gone down, but a rosy flush tinged the clouds and lingered about the tops of the mountains.
The walk was not long to the parsonage, a low rambling cottage, with deep windows and overhanging roof, embowered in trees and fragrant with the breath of flowers. All this we took in at a look, and without any break in the talk, taking us back as it did to the day when we bade good-by to the college and its professors, and shook hands with each other for the last time. Looking into Wagner’s face it did not seem so long ago; while I, floating round the world, had gathered experience enough to make me feel, if not look, something older. At the porch we were met by Maude, her slight girlish figure rounded into the perfection of womanhood, the rich bloom of her cheek not quite as deep perhaps; but the sweet blue eyes met mine with all the old frankness, the charming naivete that had rendered her so much a favorite when a child.
Sitting there in the lessening light it all came back; the old university at Basle, and above all, the old professor, Maude’s father, whom we all loved.
“His place is well filled, and still we miss him,” said Wagner.
There were tears in the young wife’s eyes, and rising hastily she disappeared into the house. A few moments later she appeared, her face smiling and glad, a very sweet-faced babe clasped in her arms, another tugging at her gown. “Allow me to show my treasures,” she said, as she seated herself beside me. Hours passed as hours will when friends have been separated for years. Then came a summons to tea; and after that Maude put up her jewels, and the pastor introduced me to his study. Summer though it was, a bright fire of sticks was burning on the hearth; bright, but not too bright to exclude the outside view. Slowly the purple curtain drooped over the mountains, falling lower and lower, until the small village, the tiled roofs, and the wooden spire were wrapped in a cloud of dusky haze.
“You have wondered why I content myself here, when a professorship was offered me at Basle,” said Wagner at length. “It was a temptation, I allow; and when I thought of Maude and the social position from which I had taken her, I hesitated. She did not, however. ‘These people love you, and your preaching is blessed to them. I am afraid if you leave, there will be no one else; and one soul saved outweighs all their professorships.’ It was sweetly said, and I knew by the look on her face that her heart was in keeping with her words, and I answered her accordingly.”
It was late, and the next day would be the Sabbath. Maude joined us, when a hymn was sung and a prayer offered, and we slept.
The sun was shining when I awoke, and opening my lattice I looked away to, the mountains, their white heads mellowed with a glory that inspired only thoughts of that God who made all things, and who holds them by the power of his might. There was a stir in the village, just enough to show the inhabitants were not sleeping away the precious hours. A cheerful, calm reigned, in keeping with the hallowed day; the very birds sang in a subdued and still triumphant tone, as if they knew ’twas holy time; while the dumb cattle, feeding on the road, cropped the brown grass noiselessly. Gliding down the broad stairway, I opened the study door. The pastor was there, and I saw by the open book, with the cushion before it still deeply indented, that he had been kneeling. He advanced with his usual good-humored smile, while his voice had the mellowed sweetness of one who had been on the mount speaking face to face with the King of kings.
“I question if the Sabbath is as beautiful in the larger towns,” said the pastor, leading me to the deep window.
Below, the garden sloped away to a considerable distance, and the flowers still sparkling with the dewdrops lifted their heads timidly. “You see there is some compensation for our solitude; with less temptations to draw away our thoughts, we are privileged to go up through these temple gates from glory to glory. Did you ever see anything more grand and inspiring?” and he stepped out on to the balcony, and pointed me to a range of hills ascending gradually till the top seemed to reach the clouds.
“Here linger yet the showers of fire,
Deep in each fold, high on each spire
On yonder mountain proud.”
Up the walk came Maude, leading by the hand the little Lotchen, the prattle of the child showing the lesson the mother had been attempting to teach. Beautiful such a Sabbath! and my heart felt refreshed as I stood upon the threshold and looked out into the new day.
“We used to work together in Basle,” said the pastor as we seated ourselves at the breakfast-table, “suppose we make the effort to-day.”
“That will depend upon the portion that falls to my share,” I replied.
“Give him the pulpit, Heinrich,” said Maude naively.
“I am not sure that I wish him to fill it,” replied the pastor with a smile.
“I more than half wish I could,” came to my lips unbidden, and I could hardly keep the tears as I thought of the few months it had been mine to labor in this manner, then of that fearful illness, the loss of voice, and the journey to regain health and strength to be spent in His service.
“You remember the old Bible class,” said Wagner; “I have one here, or rather two, for we meet twice a day, some finding it more convenient to come in the morning and others after service, so that my time is pretty well filled.”
“And you would give me one of the classes,” I said, as Maude filled my coffee cup the second time.
“This is what I propose to do.”
“And I accept most cheerfully.”
“We have but a little time; in an hour you will be ready,” and the pastor went to his study.
An hour afterwards the street was full of eager faces, all going to the house of God, quiet and calm, but still cheerful and happy, stopping to interchange greetings with each other, above all glad of a welcoming look and smile from the pastor. I soon saw wherein was the charm; sympathizing and kindly affectioned toward his people the pastor interested himself in the little history of each, neglecting no one, and especially attentive to the poor and feeble aged ones of his flock. All loved him as a pastor, and by reason of this he persuaded them the more easily.
The church was a quaint structure, half gothic, and half of a nondescript architecture peculiar to itself. Leaving the vestibule we entered at once the main audience-room, large, and sufficiently commodious, but somewhat dark and gloomy. The pulpit was high, and looked like an upright octagonal vase perched on a square pedestal. This was unoccupied at present, the people taking their seats, and forming as I saw at once into two distinct classes. In a few words the pastor explained why it was thus, and then offering a prayer in which all joined he proceeded to give me one of the classes, while he began to question the others.
It was a novel group, the women in black skirts, with square boddices, surmounted by white kerchiefs, with long flowing sleeves of white. But the head had the strangest appearance. The more elderly women wore a black cap, from the edge of which depended a trimming rising perpendicularly from the cap from four to eight inches and gave to the head the appearance of wings. Strange as it at first seemed, I soon forgot all but their eager, animated attention. The theme was the love of God in giving his only Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Very evidently, it was no stranger of whom we were speaking. Not satisfied with a mere bearing of his name, they knew and loved him. His divine arm had been reached down to them. Charmed with his sweet countenance, and won by his gentle, loving words, “Come unto me,” they came with the trust and confidence of little children, acknowledging their sin, but taking him at his word, “I, even I am he that blotteth out thy transgressions, for my own sake, and will not remember thy sins.” It was sweet to talk of him, this Saviour, who had done so much for them; and before I was aware the tears were running down my own cheeks, and my words were broken and fragmentary. In the meantime other worshippers came in. The hour for this kind of instruction was over. The pastor availed himself of a moment’s respite, and the next was seen ascending the pulpit stairs. Maude was seated among the singers, and the morning services commenced.
I had never heard my friend deliver a formal discourse, but I knew it mattered little to him whether his message was given to few or many—love for Christ, and earnestness to save souls was the all-absorbing passion of his heart. It was only a continuation of what he had been saying, the sweetly touching story of Christ’s love told simply, and still with the earnest, truthful spirit of one who knew by blessed experience the reality of what he was saying. Standing in his place and holding up the cross, for the moment it seemed that we could see Him, the Divine Son, hanging, bleeding, dying that sinners like us might be redeemed, saved, reinstated. What love! What tenderness! Is it any wonder that we wept? Not a dry eye was in the house. Those hardy peasants, with little intellectual culture, had hearts to love, hearts that could understand and appreciate in some feeble manner the promise of pardon and peace through a crucified Redeemer.
It was an hour well spent. Never have I felt nearer the divine presence, nor more of the joy, the rest that springs from intimate communion with the blessed Saviour. How strange the revulsion of feeling in a few moments of time. I had looked with a little of pleasantry upon the quaint figures and novel costumes of the worshippers; now, I saw only the earnest attitude, the anxious gaze, the loving look. Jesus was all in all, and their love for him beautified their faces.
As we went home many kindly words were interchanged, the pastor seeking out the elderly feeble ones, and Maude speaking with the mothers, and patting the heads of little children, while I found my way to a group of youths, to deepen if possible the impression of the morning.
After dinner there was a repetition of the Bible-class, though now they met at the pastor’s house. As it was warm and pleasant we seated ourselves in the garden, dividing into three groups. This class was entirely different from the one of the morning, being made up of those, many of them mothers, who could not leave their children to go out earlier; and with some, this service was the principal one of the day. The attention was quite as good, and the manner the same. It was a pleasure to teach, and the sun was throwing his last red beams on the hillside as the last one left the garden. It had been a long day, but we felt repaid.
“You have had a glimpse of our family and of our work,” said the pastor. “How do you like it?”
“Is this a specimen of all your Sabbaths?”
“Just the same, with the fluctuating difference of numbers; scattered as our people are, many of them living halfway up the mountains, they are not always able to be here.”
“I agree with Maude that your service is needed here.”
“I knew you would. There are souls to save here as well as in Basle, and sometimes I think the love of these simple hearts is sweeter to Jesus.”
Far away the mountains were lifting their heads, bathed in the golden glory from the setting sun. Maude caught the direction of my eyes.
“Perhaps I fear to much the effect upon my own soul; but these grand temple-gates are always open, and from their entrance we seem to catch glimpses of the celestial city beyond, inspiring only good and noble thoughts, with an anxious, earnest endeavor to reach higher resting-places.”
“And you fear this would be less in the noise and din of the city.”
“Not quite that, for the heart that loves Jesus can live and work for him anywhere; but with a free choice I prefer this.”
I felt that she was right, it was the work God had given her to do, and she was willing to do it; while the question returned to me with tenfold force, Are you as willing to labor in the field that He has given to you? The man with a vineyard places his laborers as he would have them, giving each one according to his capacity, be it more or less. Our Father has a vineyard; it is the world, and his children are the laborers. “Go work in my vineyard,” is the command. The choice is His who placed us there; to work is ours.
“Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you; and lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.”
The next day I left Lausanne, the good pastor and his wife joining me for a few miles on my way, and then we parted—to meet, teacher and taught, in the city of our God.