A Day of Rest
The sight-seeing came to an end at last, and so did our boys'
visit to The Hague. They had spent three happy days and nights
with the Van Gends, and, strange to say, had not once, in all
that time, put on skates. The third day had indeed been one of
rest. The noise and bustle of the city was hushed; sweet Sunday
bells sent blessed, tranquil thoughts into their hearts. Ben
felt, as he listened to their familiar music, that the Christian
world is one, after all, however divided by sects and differences
it may be. As the clock speaks everyone's native language in
whatever land it may strike the hour, so church bells are never
foreign if our hearts but listen.
Led on by these clear voices, our party, with Mevrouw van Gend
and her husband, trod the quiet but crowded streets, until they
came to a fine old church in the southern part of the city.
The interior was large and, notwithstanding its great stained
windows, seemed dimly lighted, though the walls were white and
dashes of red and purple sunshine lay brightly upon pillar and
pew.
Ben saw a few old women moving softly through the aisles, each
bearing a high pile of foot stoves which she distributed among
the congregation by skillfully slipping out the under one, until
none were left. It puzzled him that mynheer should settle
himself with the boys in a comfortable side pew, after seating
his vrouw in the body of the church, which was filled with
chairs exclusively appropriated to the women. But Ben was
learning only a common custom of the country.
The pews of the nobility and the dignitaries of the city were
circular in form, each surrounding a column. Elaborately carved, they formed a massive base to their great pillars standing out in bold relief against the blank, white walls beyond. These columns, lofty and well proportioned, were nicked and defaced from violence done to them long ago; yet it seemed quite fitting that, before they were lost in the deep arches overhead, their softened outlines should leaf out as they did into richness and beauty.
Soon Ben lowered his gaze to the marble floor. It was a pavement
of gravestones. Nearly all the large slabs, of which it was
composed, marked the resting places of the dead. An armorial
design engraved upon each stone, with inscription and date, told
whose form as sleeping beneath, and sometimes three of a family
were lying one above the other in the same sepulcher.
He could not help but think of the solemn funeral procession
winding by torchlight through those lofty aisles and bearing its
silent burden toward a dark opening whence the slab had been
lifted, in readiness for its coming. It was something to think
that his sister Mabel, who died in her flower, was lying in a
sunny churchyard where a brook rippled and sparkled in the
daylight and waving trees whispered together all night long; where flowers might nestle close to the headstone, and moon and stars shed their peace upon it, and morning birds sing sweetly overhead.
Then he looked up from the pavement and rested his eyes upon the
carved oaken pulpit, exquisitely beautiful in design and
workmanship. He could not see the minister--though, not long
before, he had watched him slowly ascending its winding stair--a
mild-faced man wearing a ruff about his neck and a short cloak
reaching nearly to the knee.
Meantime the great church had been silently filling. Its pews
were somber with men and its center radiant with women in their
fresh Sunday attire. Suddenly a soft rustling spread through the
pulpit. All eyes were turned toward the minister now appearing
above the pulpit.
Although the sermon was spoken slowly, Ben could understand
little of what was said; but when the hymn came, he joined in
with all his heart. A thousand voices lifted in love and praise
offered a grander language than he could readily comprehend.
Once he was startled, during a pause in the service, by seeing a
little bag suddenly shaken before him. It had a tinkling bell at
its side and was attached to a long stick carried by one of the
deacons of the church. Not relying solely upon the mute appeal
of the poor boxes fastened to the columns near the entrance, this
more direct method was resorted to, of awakening the sympathies
of the charitable.