"'Thou queen of the Roses of Saron, art thou
holding court in thy temple of beauty?'"
Page 216.

A Tale
OF THE
KLOSTER

A Romance of the German Mystics
of the Cocalico

By BROTHER JABEZ
Illustrations by Frank McKernan

Oh, blessed solitary life,
Where all creation silence keeps!
Who thus himself to God can yield
That he ne'er from him strays,
Hath to the highest goal attained,
And can without vexation live.
Faith, toleration, love, and hope,
These all have come to his support.

—Johann Conrad Beissel. Translation
from the German by Julius Friedrich
Sachse, Litt. D.

PHILADELPHIA
Griffith & Rowland Press
1904

COPYRIGHTED 1904 BY
ULYSSES S. KOONS
Published December, 1904
From the Press of the
American Baptist Publication Society

TO THE MEMORY OF
My Mother
THIS STORY OF THE LITTLE BAND
OF BROTHERS AND SISTERS
OF THE KLOSTER
IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED

INTRODUCTION

A great New England historian has said that "The colony of Pennsylvania was not only more heterogeneous in population than any of the others, but it actually was the principal center of distribution of the non-English population from the seaboard to the Allegheny Mountains. All of the population of the Carolinas, as well as in Virginia and Maryland, entered the country by way of Pennsylvania, and this migration was so great, both in its physical dimensions and in the political and social effects which it wrought, that Pennsylvania acquires a special interest as the temporary tarrying place and distributing center for so much that we now call characteristically American."[1]

It is undoubtedly true that into none of the other colonies did there flow such a tide of German immigration, bringing with it many a hardy Swiss and French Huguenot refugee from the Palatinate, along the lower Rhine.

Up to the Revolution there were more Germans in Pennsylvania than in all the other colonies together. Benjamin Franklin, it is well known, feared that the State might become a German province. Among the causes of this resistless tide of immigration were: Religious zeal, fostered by the teachings of William Penn and George Fox and their followers, and Penn's far-sighted pledge of tolerance as to liberty of worship, sectarian ambition, escape from religious persecution, and bad government.

Especially were the first-comers inspired by religious zeal, and it was to this that such old settlements as Bethlehem and Germantown and Ephrata owe their founding. Later, when the tide rose to a thousand German immigrants a month, a great majority came with the simple desire to earn a livelihood in peace and safety—a desire played upon by the glib-tongued, unscrupulous land agents of that day so successfully, that shipload after shipload of poverty-stricken German peasantry, enduring uncomplainingly the sufferings and hardships of hunger, thirst, and fœtid air of the crowded hold and consequent ship-fever, poured into the port of Philadelphia and immediately took the oath of allegiance.

Quaint and curious names they had, as is evidenced by many an ancient shipmaster's list—patronymics indicative of trade, occupation, profession, personal characteristics, nicknames, names that by a slow but sure process of anglization have lost much of their humor and flavor, and are now so changed in spelling and sound as hardly to be recognized in their original form.

But with all the fears of pauperism and disease and racial deterioration and establishment of inimical foreign institutions, this mass of crude, uncouth peasantry, with their unpronounceable names, besides bearing the brunt of Indian depredation and massacre during the French and Indian wars, became the ancestry of perhaps not less than one-third of the population of Pennsylvania to-day.

Beneath the unpromising exterior of these peasants were firmly fixed the virtues that give strength and stability, if not mercurial brilliancy—piety, industry, patience, thrift, peaceful dispositions, and intense love of home. The men were homemakers; the women were homekeepers. Devoted tillers of the soil, politics and business had few charms for them.

Although in such counties as Bucks, Lehigh, Lancaster, Dauphin, Northampton, York, Carbon, and Monroe, there are many communities inhabited almost entirely by Pennsylvania-Germans, still retaining their peculiar dialect, nevertheless their German church service and German newspapers are rapidly becoming things of the past.

The present generation of Pennsylvania-Germans is going to the public schools, normal schools, and colleges, and in other respects is becoming thoroughly English; for however strongly the more conservative ones may cling to the old habits and traditions, it is true that ere long Pennsylvania-German and such things as Pennsylvania-German singing schools, "Fóstnacht" festivities, "frolics," and "vendues," will be matters of tradition.

Perhaps no phase of their history is more interesting than that of their early religious experiences. In no other of the American colonies were there at such an early date so many altars raised to the various faiths—orthodox, sectarian, mystic, and separatist, Lutheran, Moravian, Quaker, Mennonite, Dunker, Seventh Dayer, and New Mooner. But though differing in creed and tenet, and frequently hurling at each other their broadsides, as their controversial pamphlets were called, all these sects were conspicuous for their thrift, industry, and religious devotion; for though many of their beliefs were extremely mystical and, showed every vagary of pietism, one great fundamental idea inspired and possessed these people, namely, to live in the utmost simplicity of habit, manner and speech, garb and diet, in strict conformity with the practices of the early church, and as close as possible to their Lord and Master, to whose service their lives were consecrated. It is because of this idea conscientiously lived out that this Commonwealth is so greatly indebted to them.

The author has selected as a type the Kloster at Ephrata (a name fragrant with biblical suggestiveness), the founder of which, Conrad Beissel, was a strong, intensely earnest, impetuous religious leader, who in a few years gathered about him a number of zealous men and women, some of them of considerable learning. In less than a decade there arose a semi-monastic community which developed into a religious, educational, commercial, and industrial settlement that at an early date set up in that far-away wilderness, many miles distant from the chief city of the province, the third printing press in the colony, and the first to print with both German and English type.

The little town, or "mountain borough," of Ephrata lies about eighteen miles southwest from the flourishing city of Reading and not more than thirteen miles northeast of Lancaster, with its memory of the Continental Congress, in the rich, fertile valley of the Cocalico in the northern part of Lancaster County.

The Ephrata of the present day, numbering possibly three thousand inhabitants, is situated at the foot of the gentle northwestern slope of the Ephrata Mountains. A broad main street that easily ascends toward the southeast leads up close to the "Ephrata Mountain Springs," a famous resort in the days before the war of the Rebellion. But directing one's way in the opposite direction, leaving the little town with its banks and hotels and industrial establishments, the unfailing accompaniments of these prosaic, unsentimental days, the wide, ancient thoroughfare leads northwestward, the business features giving way to the neat, pleasant, comfortable homes so characteristic of the Pennsylvania-Germans. The houses, with the peculiar feature of their gable ends toward the side instead of facing the street, are well set back in the grassy yards enriched with glorious dahlias in crimson and gold and ivory white, purple asters, bright geraniums, flaunting hollyhocks, and all the other well-beloved, old-fashioned favorites, while from the opulent garden in the rear, most likely a magnificent sunflower in solitary gorgeousness turns his dark, golden-fringed eye to his god of fire and light, now and then the whisper of some truant breeze swaying the stately head of the ardent devotee into a half-wistful glance out over the dusty road.

But neither these nor the spacious front porch, with its luxurious trellised vines and the inviting benches before the front door, receive more than an admiring and half-envious glance, and are left behind as the road passes over the arches of the old stone bridge that spans the Cocalico, flowing along the northwestern edge of the town. In the angle formed by the northern bank of the stream and the southern side of the turnpike road, but a short distance beyond the point of the angle where the road leaves the bridge, lie the Kloster grounds, formerly known as "The Settlement of the Solitary" (Lager der Einsamen), but now locally referred to as "The Kloster," a full and excellent description of which is contained in "The German Sectarians of Pennsylvania," by Julius Friedrich Sachse, LITT. D., in which he has, after years of patient labor given us a most admirable, critical, and legendary history of the Ephrata Kloster.

Within the confines of this out of the way nook the author has placed the personages of this romance, which he fondly hopes may be of interest not only to Pennsylvania-Germans, but to all who delight in a story which is only a story. Over a century and a half has elapsed since the Sisterhood and Brotherhood were in the zenith of their little world, and it were well-nigh impossible to reproduce at this late day with absolute fidelity such matters as dress, customs, manners and habits, religious rites and ceremonies; and yet, thanks to the exhaustive investigations of Mr. Sachse and others, the author has been able to pattern forth in the warp and woof of this tale more or less distinctly, considerable that relates to the homely architecture, the cloistral life, worship, rites, ceremonies, and beliefs of these peculiar but devoted, plain-living, high-thinking Sisters and Brothers.

To reproduce their speech, even if possible, were of course sadly out of place at this day; for the German, even of the early settlers, was represented by such various dialects as Swabian, Würtemberger, Bavarian, Swiss, Hessian, Palatinate, and others; and though these were all German dialects, yet since those days there has been such a copious infusion of English words, that to-day Pennsylvania-German, though "it is still, in the articulation of its bones and its general form and spirit, the tongue of the Rhine country,"[2] is none the less neither German nor English, but "a hybrid, non-descript jargon,"[3] at best an Americanized dialect of the German, but a dialect able to produce beautiful flowers in the fields of lyric poetry under the cultivation of such as Harbaugh, Hark, Zimmerman, Zeigler, Fisher, Grumbine, and others.

Pennsylvania-German being a dialect not of the almost universal English tongue but of the German, and what is especially to the point, a fast declining dialect with but a small remnant who can speak and understand it in the vernacular, the author feels not only that he should by employing this dialect address himself to an exceedingly small audience, but might, moreover, justly incur the charge of pedantry and affectation.

Thus while it is true that the greater number of the Sisters and Brothers of the Kloster were Germans and spoke the mother tongue in their daily intercourse, yet after all language is only the means of conveying ideas, thoughts, and these we know have a language understood by all.

Moreover, this volume is not presented from the standpoint of the antiquarian or philologist. The Brothers and Sisters of Ephrata, though celibates, sworn to the love of the celestial Eve and the heavenly Bridegroom, were none the less flesh and flood, subject to the same passions and temptations as the men and women of the present day. They too had "eyes, hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions," and were "fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer." In a word, they were men and women of like passions with ourselves.

It is of such men and women the author writes; men and women unused "to the courtliness of state, unskilled in the hollowness of vain compliment, untutored in the frippery and polish of artificial society, unacquainted with the insincerity and diplomacy of the wider world, removed from kith and kin and thrown upon their own resources among strangers and amid new surroundings."[4]

The author, that he may not be held to have drawn too deeply from his neighbor's well, fully acknowledges his great indebtedness to his friend, Mr. Sachse. Indeed, to do exact justice, it must be said that this volume contains nothing more than a romance wound about the facts, incidents, traditions, and descriptions, taken by the author from the "German Sectarians," with the kind permission of Mr. Sachse.

Acknowledgment of indebtedness should also be made to Rev. J. Max Hark and Hon. Samuel W. Pennypacker, Governor of Pennsylvania, for the use of translations, portions of which are prefixed to Chapters XV. and XIX. It should also be added that the initial letters used through the book, as well as the design on the cover, are made from reproductions of pen-work drawings executed by the Ephrata Sisterhood.

The Author.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

FLIGHT FROM THE WORLD

Happy the man who has the town escaped;
To him the whistling trees, the murmuring brooks,
The shining pebbles, preach
Virtue's and wisdom's lore.

The whispering grove a holy temple is
To him, where God draws nigher to his soul;
Each verdant sod a shrine,
Whereby he kneels to heaven.

—Ludwig Heinrich Christoph Hölty.

For a clearer understanding of what I have here written in the fond desire that there may be those who delight in a tale simply told, even though it be of my brothers and sisters who lived their quiet, peaceful lives, with now and then, 'tis true, a jarring note, consecrated to their faith, in the solitude of a new-world wilderness, I must set forth, without weariness to the reader, I hope, somewhat of the humble pilgrim whose now old and time-worn hands pen these lines.

I, Johann Peter Müller, son of a reformed minister, under the inspection of Kreis Kaiserslautern, was born in the year 1710, at Altzborn Oberamt Kaiserslautern in the Palatinate, studied at Heidelberg, matriculated 1725 at that university and in my twentieth year volunteered in response to the urgent calls for clergymen from the province of Pennsylvania.

Leaving my beloved father and mother and Vaterland in the summer of 1730, I floated on a raft down the Rhine to Rotterdam, embarking there for America on the good ship "Thistle," and after a long, uneventful voyage arrived at Philadelphia, August 28, 1730, taking the oath of allegiance the following day, which oath I am proud to say I have always kept. Almost immediately upon my arrival I applied to the Rev. Jedediah Andrews, for ordination, pastor of the First Presbyterian Church in Philadelphia.

After asking me a great many questions he advised me to apply to the synod. This excellent advice was acted upon so promptly that in three weeks after my arrival the notes of the synod recorded, "It is agreed by the synod that Mr. John Peter Miller, a Dutch probationer lately come over, be left to the care of the presbytery of Philadelphia to settle him in the work of the ministry."

In pursuance of this resolution the presbytery appointed three ministers to examine me for entrance upon my holy office, and what they required of me is best shown by a minute of the meeting where I "came under Tryals and after a previous Test of his ability in Prayer, Examining him in the Languages, he read his sermon and Exegesis on ye Justification and Various suitable questions on ye Arts and Sciences, officially Theology and out of Scripture."

Briefly, the presbytery licensed me as a candidate to preach the gospel "where Providence may give him opportunity and call," and for four years after my ordination to the ministry I preached the word, during which period I received much assistance from Conrad Weiser, one of my church officers, who for years was consulted by both the civil and military authorities in times of need and danger, he being an efficient Indian interpreter to the government.

I officiated among my countrymen in Philadelphia and Germantown, and in the Skippack Valley, besides visiting the more widely scattered congregation in the province. I was also called upon to take regular charge of the Tulpehocken Church, together with the Union Congregation of the Lutheran and Reformed which had been formed by the Germans living in the valley of the Cocalico and the Bucherthal. This region was almost wholly settled by those of the Lutheran and Reformed faiths, the circuit being known as the Canestoga congregation. Ere long a church for the United Congregation was built about six miles northeast of Ephrata on a commanding hill beyond the Bucherthal, the Moden Crik (Muddy Creek) Church.

Having preached to mine own people for several years, I quit the ministry and returned to private life, not, however, without much prayer and meditation; for about that time the Ephrata community was in its infancy. I had never had much inclination to join it, because of the reproach and contempt which lay against the community by the orthodox churches of the province; but my inward conductor brought me to that dilemma, either to be a member of this new institution or consent to my own damnation. I chose the first, and received baptism into the congregation in May of 1735, together with Conrad Weiser and a number of families from the Union Church. We were baptized by Conrad Beissel, whose inspired eloquence had finally prevailed upon me to take this step.

I did not much differ from a poor criminal under sentence of death when I was led into the water. However, the Lord our God did strengthen me when I came into the water, and then I in a solemn manner renounced my life with all its prerogatives, without reservation, and I have found, in all my long life, that all this was put into the divine records, for he hath never failed to assist me in times of need, and these have been many.

But much wrath and indignation was engendered against us by our baptism. We were called "seceders," "rebels," "Beisselianer"; others said we had been deluded by the witchcraft and sorcery of Beissel; still others said that our conversion was the work of the Evil One; others were for bringing civil action against us; but in all the noise and smoke of this great tumult, Brother Weiser successfully prevented any charges being brought against us. Pastor Boehm, my old Skippack rival, hath kindly said of me in this matter in his report to the Amsterdam Synod: "This Miller at the same time drew the Tulpehocken church to himself, against whose false spirit I frequently warned them; but they continued to adhere to him like misguided, silly people. Finally, the fraud against which I warned them so honestly and continuously has come to light, and this Miller publicly went over to the dissolute Seventh-day Tumpler sect, and had himself baptized Tumplerwise in the Canestoka, in the month of April, 1735. He took out ten families, Reformed and Lutheran, from the Tulpehocken congregation, who did as he did."

May the Lord forgive him for his narrow sneer as I have long ago, for it hath ever been my rule not to bear spite or malice, no matter how grievous the injury, knowing full well that what the Roman philosopher hath said is true, and that is, "Malice drinks one-half of its own poison."

Brother Weiser, I regret to say, did not possess himself of the same spirit; but on the contrary always resented every insult, and it is still current among us that shortly after he left the Kloster in later years to accept a justice's commission offered him by Governor Thomas, our Brother Weiser, while riding the road to Reading, met the Reformed pastor of the Cocalico, on his nag. Brother Weiser, foolishly forgetting the spirit of humility of the Kloster, cried out to the pastor that he surely must think himself above his Lord whom he professed to serve. Asked for an explanation, Brother Weiser replied that where an ass was good enough for the Saviour it should be good enough for his followers, to which came the quick rejoinder that this was perfectly true, but as Governor Thomas had appointed all the asses as justices, people were forced to ride upon horses.

Within two days after our baptism, and in order that we might cut ourselves entirely loose from our former mode of life and thought, we determined that all books which were now considered libri heretici, such as the Heidelberg Catechism, Luther's Catechism, the Psalter, and Arndt's "Paradies Gärtlein," should be utterly consumed by fire. In short, all devotional literature of the old faith not in accord with our new departure, we gathered from the various families that had been converted, and not a few from mine own little library, and upon the appointed day Brother Weiser and the converts and myself assembled at the little cabin of Brother Fiedler, and there solemnly condemned the pernicious volumes to be burned.

The "Paradies Gärtlein," however, had a peculiar sanctity attached to it by the German settlers; for it was firmly believed that it was protected by Divine interposition from both fire and flood. I had heard, even in my boyhood days, many a story of the miraculous preservation of this book. Some present objected to its being included, for surely the Lord would save it. Others, as ardent in their new faith as they had been in the old, no more honored the book as sacred, but were now firmly convinced that as its immunity hitherto had been from the Evil One, the greater the reason it must be destroyed with the others.

The brush heap was accordingly prepared in front of Brother Fiedler's cabin. Each of the participants gathered up an armful of the doomed volumes, and at the word filed out of the little doorway headed by myself, followed by the schoolmaster. Arriving at the brush heap it was soon set afire, and the various books were solemnly consigned to the flames by Brother Weiser and the schoolmaster and others, with the solemn invocation "Thus perish all priestcraft!" Afterward the ashes were scattered to the four winds, and we departed feeling that we had thus cut ourselves off from the faith of our forefathers and had this day taken a step pregnant with glorious promise for the future.

It was said the next day, and I firmly believe this was an invention of our enemies, that one of Brother Fiedler's family found among the now cold ashes the little "Paradies Gärtlein," a trifle charred on the edges, the leather cover shriveled and blackened, the clasps almost burned to a crisp, but the leaves still holding together, and not a page of the print in the slightest impaired. Its preservation soon became noised abroad, and was greatly used as an argument against us by those who opposed our step. As for me, despite the many foolish and malicious charges that have been made against my soundness of mind for taking part in this thing (which I defend on the ground of necessity and possibly due somewhat to youthful zeal) I never believed that the book had been saved but for the reason that when it was thrown into the pyre it was tightly clasped and by chance fell to one side of the flames, and as I have often noted paper tightly pressed together yields but grudgingly to the flames. Many good people, however, believed the miracle story and feared extreme punishment for condemning such a sacred volume to destruction, and the demand became so great for the book that an edition was later printed by Christopher Sauer, of Germantown; but strange to say not one of his great output was able to withstand either fire or flood when it came into contact with these elements.

CHAPTER II

"PETER THE HERMIT"

Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of every star that heaven doth shew,
And every herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like poetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give:
And I with thee will choose to live.

—Il Penseroso.

Within a few weeks after the events already narrated, Brother Beissel made another visit to Dulpehackin with the intention of forming the converts into a new congregation, with myself as leader. When this proposal was made to me, I requested over night for reflection and prayer. In my zeal I had thought my recent baptism had cleansed and purified me from all fleshly lusts and from all such heaven-separating vanities as pride and ambition; but that night witnessed within me such a struggle between evil ambition on the one hand, and the desire to surrender myself completely to my Maker on the other, as I shall never forget.

To be elder of the as yet little band of followers of Brother Beissel, what might it not lead to? For I doubted not at the time but that the little band would eventually grow into a large congregation whose influence should be far-reaching. Like the mustard seed it might grow and increase until the whole world were living as one grand, consecrated sisterhood and brotherhood.

Some such splendid temptation the Evil One dangled before my eyes during that long night, but with the dawning my mind became clearer and the last star had just closed its eyes when I felt stealing over me a feeling of sureness that I would do what was right, and with that I felt myself pervaded with a sense of ineffable peace.

When Brother Beissel saw me in the morning, anxious for my reply, I told him I must decline his offer as I intended to withdraw into the solitudes and live unmolested from the frailties and follies of the world.

He acquiesced with a cheerfulness which I confess hurt the remnant of pride in me and which, I fear, hath ever been imperfectly suppressed, for I had hoped he would show his appreciation of me and what I was able to do by expressing at least some regret. But that pride is ever the forerunner of a fall is, indeed, true, and my chagrin was not relieved any upon Brother Beissel's calmly announcing, as if it had all been prearranged, that he would appoint as teacher, or elder, of the congregation, Bro. Michael Wohlforth, whom I knew and respected for his sturdy love of our cause, but who, by reason of the infirmity of a harsh tongue and violent temper—and I regret to say it, though in charity—was not too well fitted for an office that requireth a gentle tongue, there being, as human flesh is made up, a limit even to Christian forbearance.

At that time, in May, 1735, the Solitary Brethren and Sisters had dispersed in the wilderness of Conestogas, each for himself, as hermits, and I, following that same way, did set up my hermitage in Dulpehackin, at the foot of a mountain, on a limpid stream; and that they who in these days live in their large, comfortable houses may know what the hermits' homes were like, I shall set forth how my own little hut, or cabin, was built, as a great many cabins of the first settlers were after the same pattern.

These be the dimensions of the proper model, which I set down in all particularity, so that if there be of my readers who ever take themselves to a life of solitude they may know how the true hermit should be housed, for I know there be many that have not this knowledge and thus are in exceeding danger of running after some vulgar variation of the ideal model: Length, twenty-five feet; breadth, twenty feet; height under joist, eight feet six inches. The measurements must be no more, no less. The door should open toward the south to catch the sun, and above the doorway must be a small overhead piece, or porch, six feet from floor to ceiling. As I was fully six feet, if not more, my head and my pride received at first many a hard knock whenever I forgot that a hermit, at least if he be tall, must not walk with too haughty a stride. For the foundation we, my faithful adherents and myself, took four large stones, as flat and even as we could find, about a foot thick, and laid them for the corners, so that the floors of our huts would be clear from the damp ground; but, and this was not so desirable, not only the smaller wild animals would creep underneath, but occasionally some straying serpent would stick its repulsive head out at me and make me regret that a hermit's hut must needs offer such attractions to these monsters.

Upon the stone foundations the ground logs were laid. These were notched at the ends and fastened with hickory pins. Smaller logs inserted into these longer ones formed the floor joists, though in most cases a solid log floor was laid. The cabin was then raised upon the ground joists, the logs being run upon skids by the help of wooden forks, the corners of the logs being notched so as to bring them as close together as possible. In this work I could not give much help, for this notching and fitting together was done by experienced ones, called the axe, or cornermen. The less experienced of us carried the logs and ran them up into place, the doors and windows not being cut until all the logs were resting snug and secure in their places. But with all the care in fitting the logs closely, there were cracks and crevices that had to be filled with a mixture of loam and dry grass, so that the cabin might be proof against rain or snow and not give too draughty ventilation. For the rafters we took chestnut saplings, hewn flat on the top, and these were usually covered with shingles of flat oak, although it sometimes occurred that a temporary thatch or sod roof had to serve until the oak shingles were prepared. Last of all came the fireplaces and chimneys. Both of these were built of loam and stones outside, at one end of the cabin. Thus from the simple materials that lay at our hands and feet—the trees, the stones, and the earth—our cabins were built, and though small and insignificant as the worldly-wise consider things, were not too small to hold heads and hearts that thought and throbbed greatly for God and man. No iron was used, for as at Ephrata, when it came to be organized into a community, we ever regarded iron as an evil metal. The temple of Solomon was built wholly without iron, and according to the Rosicrucians, from whom we had learned much concerning the mysteries of the Infinite, we were taught that no dwelling or building consecrated to the Almighty could have iron in it, as that metal was the emblem of darkness and destruction—nay, of the Evil One himself.

My little hut, so securely built, is still there, as are the old trees in the orchard I planted in those early days. Sometimes in later life, when even the Kloster wore upon me, I have resorted to this sequestered spot, quietly and unbeknown to the others, there to renew my faith and strength by undisturbed communion with God, reading and pondering with never lessening delight upon this little page out of his wonderful book of nature, for it was a lovely nook, an ideal retreat. The little Mühlbach, clear and cold and sparkling and pure as the water of life, came dancing joyously down the dale, kissing many a wild flower looking at its mirrored sweetness as it hung over the bushy brink. Many a time have I wandered along its wooded sides, drinking in, in all its fullness and completeness, the solemnity, the holy stillness of the long aisles of stately pine and heavy fir and balsam, with their fragrant odors rising from this woodland temple like incense toward heaven.

The only sounds that broke the stillness were the murmurous song of the stream, the chirp of insects, and now and then the choiring of the feathered songsters of these delightful glades. Such was the incomparable spot selected by me, now a recluse, for my probation and retirement, and here I fondly imagined I might live in beatific and solitary communion with Him; but I see now that this blissful idleness was not to be mine; for his service means more than a mere folding of the hands and pious meditation and contemplation of his beauty, his goodness, and his mercy.

Here I lived in all the simplicity that seemed to me best comported with the life of a hermit. My bodily wants, though oft clamorous, displeasing me much as showing how close I still was to earth, had to be content with exceeding little; my little cabin sheltered me from storms—a hard bench to sleep on, a long cloak of most humble make and material to form my covering; for drink, the pure water from a near-by spring, varied sometimes by acorn coffee; and for bread and meat, a bread made from acorn flour.

There may be those who care to know how this acorn coffee and acorn bread were made, not only by me, but by Brother Beissel and others who were leading lives of solitude; and lest some think we were utterly daft in relying upon this for sustenance, it may be said that it was not original with us; but we were taught that from the earliest days of man the oak, wherever it grew, furnished him both meat and drink from the acorn and contained all that was necessary for his nourishment.

For making bread the acorns were first soaked in water, or steamed, to free the bitterness; they were then dried and ground into meal which was afterward worked up in the usual manner. This bread, which we in German called Eichelbrod, had as much sustenance as Pumpernickel (a favorite bread among the German peasants), but was wont to occasion more trouble for the digestion.

As a substitute for coffee the largest and soundest acorns were selected, only the thoroughly ripe ones being used. They were then hulled and taken out of their cups, cut into quarters and scalded with boiling water, after which they were drained and allowed to cool. After being placed in a bake oven until they were thoroughly dry, they were finally roasted and ground, in which state they were ready for use.

To make acorn coffee we would take about a drachm of the grindings for every three cups of boiling water, which we poured over the powdered acorns and boiled for about ten minutes. I must confess I never cared very much for this concoction for it lacked both the taste and gentle stimulation of the regular coffee. This acorn coffee was accredited with wonderful medicinal and mystical properties and was supposed to drive all hereditary taint or distemper from the system. Indeed, even now it is frequently given to children afflicted with scrofula. I recollect that afterward in the early days of our community life at Ephrata there came to us one Jean François Regnier, a French-Switzer, whom we regarded as a visionary, as he claimed to have been awakened in his seventh year and professed great holiness. He was the special apostle of the acorn diet, not only claiming it to be good for food and as a substitute for coffee, but he also made a sort of vinegar from acorns and an excellent sort of whiskey which we used only in illness, but never as a drink, for our community never permitted the use of strong liquors to corrupt the body and inflame the imagination. Brother Regnier also made a sort of Analeptikum, or tonic, to be used after any serious illness. For this purpose the acorns were to be buried when the moon was in a certain quarter, I forget which, until they had lost their bitterness, after which they were dried, roasted, and powdered and mixed with sugar and certain aromatic herbs.

For myself I never could see much in this acorn diet, for I grieve to say that all my life I have had a most unpriestly appetite. I fear I was never made for scanty fare. Be this as it may, I know that the Rosicrucians taught that the oak furnished the first food for mankind, the acorn being the meat and the honey-dew (Honigmüth) the drink. The Rosicrucians also taught that the rustle of the foliage of the oak denoted the presence of the Deity and even at Ephrata the Zionitic Brethren were wont to wander in the forest and appeal to the oracles of the oak, as the Druids had done in Britain hundreds of years before. It was also fully believed that when the time of the complete restoration of brotherly love should come there would come with it the primeval simplicity, when man's entire sustenance would be drawn from the oak. All these things were exceedingly difficult for me to believe, and I was even suspected of heresy because I could not subscribe to these extravagant beliefs.

Thus housed and fed I hoped to live out my days; but how utterly foolish is the boasted wisdom and foresight of man; for how true it is that we never know what a day may bring forth! When I went to my rest one night not many days after my retirement to this spot I had no thought but that here in this quiet, peaceful retreat, far away from the distracting cares and temptations of a gain-seeking, pleasure-loving world, I should live a calm, serene life, consecrated by daily communion with Him who filled it.

In this mind, while above the roof of my hut the night glowed with stars, sown by my Creator as thickly over the blue fields of heaven as the husbandman scatters his seed across his broad acres, I sank into sweet, refreshing, dreamless sleep; and yet not wholly dreamless, for it seemed to me, far in the night, I heard a light footstep near and saw a woman's form filling the doorway that stood open as was my habit, night and day, and then I thought I heard a cry—the cry of a child—but which to my sleep-deadened ears was also like unto the scream of some wild creature of the dense mountain forest behind my hut; for I often heard such cries and occasionally detected the stealthy footsteps of the wild beasts that prowled near my dwelling, under the dark mantle of night; but dream or no dream, I heard nothing more and slept on undisturbed until the light of the dawn shining through the doorway bade me arise.

CHAPTER III

SONNLEIN

And when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
To archèd walks of twilight groves.
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude axe with heavèd stroke
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt
There, in close covert, by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye.

—Il Penseroso.

The dawn was still blushing at the greeting of the sun when, as usual, I took my way with bowed head to an old monarch pine, my altar, to greet the day with prayer. Absorbed in pious meditations I knelt down; but just as I was closing my eyes, I felt something lightly strike, or push, my knee. Still unheeding I knelt, when a more vigorous push made me turn to see what venturesome creature had the temerity to disturb my adorations. I shall never forget the bewilderment that encompassed me when I beheld beside me, lying at the foot of the old pine, the form of a child, almost covered with leaves and cones. But this little visitant, of earth or heaven, child or cherub—I scarce could believe mine own senses! In truth, I know not how long I knelt there, mouth agape, eyes wide open and hands outstretched. But finally I recovered myself sufficiently to see that miracle or no miracle, the being was a reality. And then brushing aside the leaves I scrutinized the little foundling more closely; for sleeping it was, as sweetly and trustfully as if in the Mutterchen's arms, instead of on the hard bosom of mother earth with a wilderness about it. The little head with its tangled mass of dark, silky hair was resting against a large, sheltering root that reached out from the base of the pine, in a broad, tender arm-like curve about the babe. Recently dried tears had furrowed the not over-clean face, flushed with sleep, with grimy little water courses. A stained and tattered white baby cloak afforded scanty covering for the child; for beneath the frayed edges extended the poor, tiny, wayworn feet, which, like the chubby hands, were torn and scratched with thorns, filling my soul with pity, and with indignation at the wretch who could thus desert an innocent child; and my wrath was not diminished when I felt that hair and face and hands and feet were damp with dew.

"In truth I know not
how long I knelt there."
Page 22.

And yet the dear stranger slept on so unconscious of such trifling things as dew and hard, earthen cradle, I could not find the will to awaken the little one. Instead, I turned again toward the east and raising mine eyes to Him I implored and beseeched him, with all the power I could put into my petition, to guide and direct me in the care and conduct of this lost, orphaned one; for somehow—I never knew why—I accepted the idea unhesitatingly that this child had come into my life to be a part of it to the end of my days. My prayer ended, I saw that my charge still slept. I quietly sat down on a rock near by and watched and waited for the awakening.

How long I sat I know not, motionless as to body but of a verity sadly puzzled in mind as to how the child came there and what I should do with it in my hermit life amid such wild surroundings. From the leafy coverts about me came the calls and the chattering of the birds greeting the morn with such lusty will I was almost minded to join in, but wisely refrained lest my heavy voice arouse the sleeper and mayhap drive far from me the cheerful songsters. A saucy red squirrel with waving, rearward plume came down the old pine, stopping now and then to bark defiance at sleeper and watcher. Still nearer the red rover came, his proud plume fairly quivering with excitement. Once he rushed down in a burst of half-hearted confidence, coming almost to my feet, looking up at me as though challenging to mortal combat—and then with might and main he scampered back again, his long tail almost brushing the face of the little slumberer, as the bold tree-dweller rushed far up into the branches of the pine, as if he never again would be so rash and heedless.

At last, however, the little form at the foot of the tree moved uneasily and the yawnings and twistings showed that the awakening had come; and so it had. The little one sat up rubbing its eyes and blinking and winking, when suddenly it saw me and then such a full-lunged cry burst forth as drove the red squirrel in precipitate flight far into the depths of the forest and also drove me into a state verging upon imbecility; for verily I knew not what to do. The more I tried to soothe the child, the louder it yelled and truly my patience was tried most sorely. But I have since learned that the cry of a healthy child, however lusty, does not last long and so after many rubbings of the eyes and gradually subsiding sobs, and sundry sniffs, the little wanderer took out of my large, awkward hands the pretty wild flower I had plucked, and actually laughed as the big, dark eyes looked trustfully into mine.

I asked it in German to tell me its name—where was the Mutterchen? but the big eyes grew bigger still and a quivering of the underlip warned me I was only frightening the poor child. If not German, surely English, and again I asked, and this time in English, "What is thy name?" My little visitor looked at me gravely and then as if surprised that I should not know, said—a trifle crossly, I thought—what sounded to me like "Tass." "Tass what?" I insisted gently, but he only replied more firmly as he rose to his feet holding on to my hand, "No Tass Wot, Tass!" And then as if a great thought had come to him he said proudly, "Me gone be man some day; me find faver." "Very well, 'Tass,' where's Mutterchen—I mean mother, mamma?" But the mention of "mamma" was too much for the over-burdened little heart and flinging himself into my arms, his tiny hands clasping my neck, he cried as if he never would be consoled again. But I did the only thing I could do, let him cry; and I have since learned that it is an excellent thing not only for the tiny folk, when troubles press heavily on their little souls, but even for us larger children to cry it out and have done with it.

But when he was through crying for the time at least for his "mamma," another problem stared me in the face like some hungry beast; for the poor child cried over and over with irritating persistence, "Me wants sumfin to eat"; and "me hungry"; or "Me want watta," or "Me want mik." The "watta" I readily interpreted was water, which was soon supplied to him from the fresh, sweet product of the spring in the rear of my hut; but what "mik" meant I could not for some time decide; for I did not recollect that I had ever heard such a word in German, or English, or Latin, or Greek, or Hebrew, or any other language. At last it struck me it was an English baby word for milk. But I hardly knew how to get him that, since I kept no cows or goats. In short, in my hermit's life I never saw any milk and I could not run the risk of destroying the child's stomach with my acorn coffee; yet I did not know how to get him the milk, for which he cried incessantly. It was some distance to the nearest clearing where I could procure milk and it was much too far for him to walk, and indeed, rather far for me to carry him. Moreover, I did not care as yet to introduce him to the simple-minded but suspicious settlers, for I knew full well what a harvest of insults and taunts I should reap from my enemies who had not gone out with me should I suddenly appear with this little boy.

But if I could not take him along I did not see how I could leave him behind. However, I took him into my hut, and for the first time it seemed bare and cold and cheerless. I ventured a small piece of a loaf of acorn bread on which my teeth had been paying penance for over a week. He ate the hard dry crust as though it had been the choicest morsel and then calmly announced that he wanted "moe."

"Merciful Father," thought I, "where am I to find food for this little glutton?" as I respected his request by handing him such a generous portion of the loaf as I thought would surely keep him quiet for the rest of the day.

It was evident I must take account of his appetite, and leaving him in the hut, closing the door behind me and fastening it so, as I thought, that such a small child could not open it, I marched forth to the nearest settler's, to one of the families that had followed me in my baptism by Brother Beissel.

After loading me up with Swartzbrod, a rough sort of rye bread, but exceedingly wholesome, and with a small crock of apple butter and some smoked meat of the pig, besides giving me a jug of fresh milk, the good sister remarked with that inquisitive hunger for news that is ever present in the lonely dwellers of the wilderness, whether I had company, because I took so much more than usual.

In my confusion, I hurriedly said "Nay," but recollecting I must not lie, I shouted back as I started off rapidly, "Yea, a little, not much," leaving the good sister staring at my retreating form as though she greatly feared much piety had made me mad.

As I approached the clearing, burdened with my rich cargo—even to this day I smile when I think how eager and anxious I was to get back and find that boy safe—I saw that the door of my hut was wide open. I fairly gasped with apprehension. Had he been spirited away as mysteriously as he had come? I rushed into the cabin letting my load fairly fall from me as I looked about everywhere and into the most foolish places for this strange child. Then out again and to the old pine where I had first found him; but he was not there; back again toward the hut, my heart in my throat, I went, but how joy possessed my soul when hearing a gurgling and a bubbling and a laughing and crowing behind me I turned about like a flash and there sat the blessed rogue, his bare legs and feet swinging and splashing, kicking up and down, in my spring.

When he saw me he looked up with such a glad knowledge of me that I forgot to scold him for his vandalism and catching him in my arms I carried him crowing and kicking to the hut, where he filled himself so full with milk and meat and the fresh rye bread that I was greatly alarmed immediately lest he might become ill from his gorging; but he minded it not in the least and ere many hours had gone by was clamoring for more, so that I doubted not the rest of my hermit life would be spent in making trips to the settlements for something to eat for this hungry mannikin.

Indeed, I should like to tell of all his bright ways and the wonderful things he would say all during the remaining summer we lived here in this lonely spot. At first he often cried for "mamma," but gradually he seemed to forget her and greatly delighted me by calling me "faver," which in later years he changed to the more affectionate Vaterchen. I tried almost every day for a long while to get him to tell me his name, but beyond assuring me it was "Tass," I never could learn anything. At first, I called him Söhnlein, but soon after, upon reflecting that he was English and not German, it seemed but just that I should make his name at least half in his mother tongue, and this I did by calling him Sonnlein, for a precious little son he was to me.

The cloak I preserved most carefully hoping that some day it might help me find my boy's parents; especially did I care to keep it because I had noticed worked on it in pretty red letters the initials "C. S.," but beyond this there was absolutely nothing about the cloak or any of the child's clothing in which I found him, to tell who he was or whence he came; nor did any reports come as to any lost child, so that I was confirmed in my first belief that he was mine for the rest of my days.

CHAPTER IV

WE LEAVE THE HERMITAGE

In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

—Bible.

Thus our souls came closer and closer to each other, day after day, and grew into a love that bound us together as one for life. It seemed as though the father and mother love he had lost were all given to me; for children must turn their love toward somebody or something, as surely as the rivers run to the sea whence they come. As for me, I doubt not that the love which is in every man, more or less, saint or sinner, turned me so strongly toward this pretty little fellow, with all his taking ways, as if he had been my own flesh and blood.

In this sweet companionship we drank in together the springtime splendor all about us, when the brook flashed bright as silver and the wooded hill in the rear of my hut was gay with the songs of the little birds, their delicate harmonies frequently emphasized by the harsh cawing of the crows flying in a thin line overhead, while from the deep recesses of the forest came now and then the long drum call of some proud partridge calling to himself with lordly air, so I imagined, his numerous wives, or, perchance, bidding indignant defiance to some intruding brother partridge.

But the glory of the spring soon merged into the glowing beauty of summer, and all too soon for me and Sonnlein, who like the birds and the beasts were ever out of doors, came the fall, with its magnificent coloring of hill and woods; but none the less the shortening days and the keen air were portentous of the dying year and the cold, dreary winter that ere long would shut us off still more from my followers from whose visits I received such great comfort and delight.

But the inevitable, inquisitive mischief makers also came all too frequently, and these, especially they that held me as a heretic, presuming on my meekness of temper could find no sneer or taunt or insult too mean not only for me but even for my innocent boy, who the malicious ones pretended to believe was a child of mine and some nameless woman's.

Had my persecutors known how my soul raged within me, the chains of my will being scarce stout enough to hold my wrath, when they thus insulted Sonnlein and spat even on him as being the "devil's spawn," just as they oft spat on me, they had not been so bold; for though I always have had the heart of a priest my Maker saw fit to give me the strength and stature of a warrior, so that it had been no great task for me to pick up my tormentors bodily and hurl them headlong into the brook—and at times I wondered whether I had not been justified had I done so. But my wise father had early impressed on me that any weakling can resent injury, while only a truly great nature can forgive; that the more we learn to forgive, the more we grow like Him who suffered everything and forgave all. So in all the afflictions mine enemies heaped upon me, especially through my boy, the chains, I rejoice to say, always held, though greatly strained, and instead of revenging myself I merely uttered an inward prayer for my tormentors, and in the long years allotted to me—so wonderful is God's wisdom—it hath fallen to me more than once that they who treated me so vilely came to see the error of their ways and were glad thereafter to hold me in their esteem and friendship. Truly, time and loving patience conquer all evil.

As the fall advanced I found though I had left the world, the world had not left me, and the melancholy temptations which troubled me every day did prognosticate to me misery and afflictions, so that Sonnlein not infrequently seeing me in this gloomy state would confide to his playmates, the birds and flowers, that I was cross. Indeed, I came to the conclusion that under the pretense of holiness, I was doing nothing but nourishing my own selfishness, and I knew full well that selfishness cometh only from the Evil One.

But while I was in this state matters were shaping themselves for my redemption from this narrow, hermit's life; for when I withdrew from the world a number of brethren and sisters were living the solitary life dispersed in the wilderness of the Canestogues; but strangely enough and yet perhaps not so strange—for the right human heart leaneth toward the companionship of others—during the summer a camp was laid out for all the Solitary at the very spot where now the Kloster stands, and where at that time Brother Beissel, the leader of the hermits, among whom were the four Eckerling brothers, lived down in the meadow, near a spring, and nigh the Cocalico, which name hath its ancestry from the Indian Hoch-Hale-kung, meaning "the den of serpents," for that the low lands along this stream were infested with water snakes.

The little camp on the Cocalico grew rapidly, accessions coming from many directions. The Germantown Dunkers after the death of their patriarch, Alexander Mack, a veritable saint, sent no less than seventeen members. Others came from Falkner Swamp, from Oley and elsewhere, so that the settlement soon grew into large proportions. But for all these good people there was no cabin or house large enough for the holding of worship, as the little hermit huts were barely big enough for their own occupants. The largest building within the Lager was a cabin built against the hillside, wherefore this cabin was called the Berghaus (Hill-house); but even this was too small to hold the love feasts and the meetings.

While matters were thus progressing on the Cocalico, I was greatly surprised one morning, just as day was breaking, to see Brother Beissel coming toward my hut, Sonnlein for a wonder being still asleep. As he saw me, he hastened forward with his gentlest smile; for though he could be as stern and forbidding as Jove, our brother could, when it pleased him, use all the wiles and arts of Mercurius; so that, though I have ever been loth to suspect others of aught ill, I could not help wondering what new thing was on foot for tempting me.

"Surely, my dear brother, I marvel not that thou preferrest this paradise to our mean little place on the Cocalico," he said; for he always affected great humility, even though with all his godly zeal he was exceedingly proud and stubborn and often harsh and violent.

"Paradise it may be," I replied quietly, "and yet every earthly paradise hath its serpent to lead the sons of Adam into sin."

"Thou meanest the child?" he insinuated.

"Nay, not the child," I repeated with unbecoming heat. "Were it not for his dear companionship I had been unable long ago to remain apart from the world."

"It is verily true the hermit life hath its temptations and tribulations," remarked Brother Beissel, so quietly I should not have suspected anything had it not been he was watching my face closely all the while. But with all my simplicity I was not such an utter stranger to his dissimulation that he could wind me about his fingers like wax.

"So," I merely responded, "it hath, verily."

After a few minutes, during which he coughed lightly a few times and scratched the ground with his stick, he inquired indifferently, "Hast heard of our change on the Cocalico?"

"Naught much," I replied, also indifferently, being determined to make him come to the point, if it took all day, for I knew he had something at heart which in good time I should hear.

"Hast heard we have almost completed a large building where our Brothers and Sisters may worship?" he inquired.

"I have heard so," I made answer, still with seeming indifference.

And then he paused even longer than before and scratched the earth thoughtfully, neither of us saying a word. Then he resumed as though partly speaking to himself and partly to me: "This house which we have erected to the glory of God we have called Kedar, 'the house of sorrowfulness'"; after another pause, "it containeth a hall for the meetings and likewise still larger halls furnished for holding the love feasts. There are also a number of Kammers intended for the Solitary, after the manner of the early Greek Church."

"Ye have built wisely," I said, still quietly.

Then the longest pause of all, at the end of which he placed his hands meekly across his breast, saying to me as he turned about to leave: "When thou art minded to leave thy hermit's life, we shall give thee welcome at Ephrata."

He had actually proceeded, but slowly as if in deep thought, almost beyond the farther boundary of my little orchard, when he turned about gravely and came back again like one who had forgotten something. "Now," thought I, "shall I see the kernel of the nut he hath been cracking"; for I had not stirred, knowing he would return, and as he came toward me he said, watching me closely: "Our good Brother Michael Wohlforth exhorteth the Solitary with exceeding harshness and violence."

"Still they should heed him for I hear he is a godly man," I replied.

"But Brother Weiser and his followers can no longer bear Brother Michael Wohlforth's temper."

"A little temper will not hurt the Solitary."

"But Brother Wohlforth hath been recalled as teacher," continued Brother Beissel.

"There be many among you to take his place," I assured him.

"Nay, not so many, for upon the recalling of Brother Wohlforth, he was succeeded by Brother Emanuel Eckerling."

"A worthy man," I said strongly.

"But he preacheth too long; sometimes he discourseth even six hours without a stop."

"Surely he is of most excellent zeal," I murmured, smiling inwardly.

"The Solitary incline to think six hours be too long even for preaching," said Brother Beissel doubtfully.

"Six hours' preaching doth seem of rather great length," I admitted; "still an eloquent man maketh the time fly on swift wings."

"But our good Brother Emanuel is not eloquent. Before he hath spoken half an hour, most of the Solitary be asleep, so that this thing is a great disgrace to us."

"Surely the Brethren are not so rude and ungodly?" I asked innocently.

"Yea, I grieve that he too was recalled, and now we have no one that seemeth suitable."

"Thou hast forgotten thyself," I reminded him.

But he felt not the point. Instead he blurted out as I liked better to hear him, forgetting all his serpent's slyness—which I dislike greatly in man or woman—"We want thee, Brother Miller. The Solitary all want thee. We must have thee. I am enjoined not to return without thee." Brother Beissel could be just as outspoken as he could be insinuating. "What sayest thou?"

"Doth the invitation extend to the child?" said I pointing to my boy who had by this time come out to me and was hanging shyly to my hand, and looking with no great favor upon Brother Beissel.

"If needs be he come with thee, the invitation extends to him," he replied, although I thought reluctantly.

"Then we come," I promised him, whereupon our brother turned to say "Good-bye," but the strange feeling between Sonnlein and Brother Beissel, for some reason or other never wholly left either.

But even though I had chosen with so little hesitation to cast my lot and Sonnlein's with our Brothers and Sisters at Ephrata, I found that my hermit's life, with all its lack of companionship and intercourse with kindred souls was after all very dear to me, so that I was almost resolved to recall my promise; but in my bewilderment I turned to Him for help and guidance, and after long and earnest prayer it became clear to me it was my duty that Sonnlein and I join ourselves to Brother Beissel and his followers.

The simple preparations for our departure were soon made. My hut and the little garden adjoining and my apple orchard were consigned to the care of one of my nearest adherents, and in a few days after Brother Beissel's visit, Sonnlein and I, my back loaded with my books, among them a number of volumes on the law, of which science I have been all my life an eager student, started out together sorrowfully enough for Brother Klopf's cabin, where he and his household, as well as Conrad Weiser and Hans Michael Miller and their families, and several men and women were gathered waiting for me and Sonnlein.

A brief season of the morning was spent in praise and prayer, after which we solemnly proceeded on foot—except Sonnlein, who had to be carried much of the way on our backs—to Ephrata, and by evening we were in the welcoming folds of the little community of which Sonnlein and I and most of the Dulpehackin converts became an abiding part.

CHAPTER V

EPHRATA

That we may lead a quiet and peaceful life in all godliness and honesty.

—New Testament.

In this wise Sonnlein and I came to Ephrata, the "fruitful," or like Bethlehem of Judea, the "House of Bread," and in this beautiful, peaceful camp, whose narrow domains embraced the rich, green meadows along the northern banks of the gentle Cocalico and the higher ground, named by us Mount Sinai, rising from the meadows, Sonnlein and I were destined to learn, after the long lapse of years, the mystery of his coming to me. Surely, then, I may look for forgiveness if at times I delay my story to tell somewhat of the manner of our life with the rest of the Solitary in this little forest-hidden corner of our large world.

When our little party arrived at Ephrata, we received a grave but none the less soul-satisfying welcome; but as the Solitary always had great regard for the value of time, we new-comers, without waiting to be bid, at once added our labors toward the completion of Kedar, which though by now was under roof, was unprepared for its sacred purposes.

I fear no contradiction when I state that this structure was different from anything then to be found in the New World. As in the building of our cabins, there was no iron whatever used in the construction of Kedar. The material used was the timber we cut from the trees in the forest about us. The spaces between the framework and the floor joists were filled with wet clay from the banks of the Cocalico and cut grass from the meadow, the sides then being coated with a thin layer of lime prepared from the rocks near by. This filling was a peculiarity also of all our large later structures and had the advantage that it made the house warm in winter and cool in summer, and what was also exceedingly desirable, this filling was impervious to vermin. Incredible as it may seem, even our fireplaces and chimneys were built of wood and lined with this mixture.

In height, Kedar was of three stories, of which the chief one was in the middle. This contained the Saal, or meeting room, as well as the rooms necessary for holding the agapae, or love feasts. The first story, or ground floor, was divided off into small rooms or cells called Kammern, for the Solitary. These cells were so exceedingly small that the Solitary had barely room to turn about though there was but one Solitary to each Kammer. The white walls, in their symbolism of heavenly purity, were utterly bare of ornament. There were no paintings or pictures, magnificent or otherwise; in their stead the occupant of his narrow cell had but to look out of the only window, glass and small, and soothe his longing by gazing on a most glorious picture of rich meadow, sparkling stream, waving forests, dim, distant mountains, and blue sky above, all painted and framed for us by Infinite power and love. The only furniture was the hard, narrow, wooden bench that ran at a right angle along the length and the adjacent width, and on these religiously uncomfortable beds, with their flesh-mortifying wooden blocks for pillows, the Solitary, after their daily toil, could sleep, unvexed by troublesome consciences, with such peace and refreshing as many a king in all his idle luxury might well envy. The only mitigation against the chilling winter was our daily dress and the heat that sometimes drifted in to us from the fire-place in the little hall at the end of the narrow corridors leading into the Kammern.

The uppermost story of Kedar was given to the spiritual virgins who had pledged themselves to a communal life. Shortly after, the ground floor was handed over to the strictest of the single Brethren for a similar purpose, these being Brothers Wohlforth, Meyle, Just, and Theonis, while two of the Eckerlings, Israel and Gabriel, as well as Brother Kalckgläser and Sonnlein and myself, as being the most important in the community, outside of Brother Beissel, who occupied his little cabin in the meadow, were quartered in the Berghaus.

Even before Kedar was wholly finished, Nachtmetten, or night meetings, were instituted by the Solitary. These were religious meetings held every midnight; for it was at that hour the great Judge was expected to come. At first they lasted four hours from midnight, but as this allowed so little time for necessary rest, two hours were held sufficient. It was arranged that the Brethren should hold their devotions first at these night meetings and after they had filed out of the Saal the Sisters would enter for their hour of prayer; but this was soon changed so that the midnight prayers were held jointly. This arrangement soon gave rise to such gossip and scandal among the enemies of our community that Brother Beissel exhorted the Brothers and Sisters to pray earnestly that these evil-minded ones might still their tongues; but though we prayed earnestly and in all faith these gossiping tongues were something even prayer and faith could not stop and so after these joint meetings had continued a few months our good Brother Sigmund Landert proposed to Brother Beissel that Kedar should be kept exclusively as a Sister House, in which event Brother Landert promised he would out of the wealth God had vouchsafed him, build a house adjoining Kedar, the new structure to be used exclusively for assembly purposes, provided, however, that he and his two daughters be received into the settlement.

Though Brother Beissel objected at first, matters so arranged themselves finally that through the generosity and devotion of Brother Landert and another Brother, Hermann Zinn, a large edifice was constructed on the hillside, the Bethaus, House of Prayer. Besides the large Saal for joint meetings and public worship there were ample room for the love feasts, and at the time of the completion of the Bethaus the Saal was the largest and most imposing room for public worship in the province. At one end, toward the east of the Saal, was a raised platform for the gray-bearded fathers, while on either side of the length of the Saal ran the Por-kirchen, or galleries for the Solitary, the Brothers sitting on one side and the Sisters on the other. The body, or main floor of the Saal, was for the secular members, or householders, as we called them; for be it known our community was not composed entirely of Brothers and Sisters pledged to lives of celibacy, but in addition to these we had a large number of members from the country round about us, husbands and wives and their children, who believed as we did, that the Seventh Day was the true Lord's Day, and who differed from us in belief in this only that they practised not celibacy.

The Bethaus, like Kedar, was built entirely of wood, and clay and grass for the filling, the walls inside being made snowy white with lime, the only decoration being a number of proverbs and sentences of Scripture written in ornamental German characters, in script, known as Fracturschrift, which became famous far and wide for its beauty, and even now, after the passage of over half a century, these proverbs and sentences remain on the walls of our meeting-houses as clear and beautiful as the day they were first written.

Upon the completion of the Bethaus, the Brethren who had been quartered on the ground floor of Kedar were again relegated to the cabins and henceforth Kedar was handed over to the Sisterhood, and the Saal upon the second floor now became the chapel of the Order of the Spiritual Virgins, and from that time on, while the night meetings of the Sisters were held in the Saal of Kedar, the Brethren held their meetings in the Saal of the Bethaus for a number of years.

Thus, these buildings were the foundation for a more perfect communal life and in pursuance of which all the provisions were delivered to the Sisters in their kitchen, who daily prepared a supper for the entire settlement, in the large dining hall, the Brothers and Sisters divided from each other by a screen, everything being done in order and reverence according to the leading of the Holy Ghost.

About this time too occurred the first, so far as I know, of those mysterious manifestations that for so many years were a great bewilderment and anxiety not so much to the rest of the community as to me, for that with rare exceptions it chanced I must be the chief witness of the doings of this strange being that so long harassed us.

Even before Kedar was fully completed—being, however, far enough advanced for dedication to its glorious purposes—Brother Beissel made great preparations for a general love feast; and Einlader, or inviters, were sent throughout the province, especially among all the German Baptists and English Sabbatarians, requesting them to participate in the dedicatory services. As the time approached, ample preparations were made for a great multitude; for from all the reports brought unto us by our messengers we could not doubt but that there would be a great gathering in our humble little community to take part in the dedication, and to this day—and I like not to be considered superstitious—I cannot account for the failure of the dedication other than through this mysterious influence; for as a matter of fact but few strangers presented themselves, the only exception being that quite a number of English Sabbatarians from the French Creek visited us and took an active part in the exercises.

But not only were we greatly depressed by the failure of the invited ones to come and add to the glory of the occasion their presence and their praise and prayer, but the night preceding the love feast was exceedingly dark and cloudy. Moreover, as the darkness grew the clouds seemed to gather heavier and heavier overhead, so that toward midnight the gloom and depression were almost overpowering, so much so that about an hour before midnight, Sonnlein being sound asleep, I arose—so unaccountably disturbed and troubled I could not sleep—and made my way, why or how I know not, for I seemed almost as one walking in his sleep, toward the cabin where Brother Beissel was slumbering down in the meadow. Suddenly, although I saw not his little hut, I heard a howl like one in pain coming from the direction where I knew our brother's hut should be. Then another cry as in pain and a sound as if some one were beating another with great force and violence. I rushed blindly on in the darkness stumbling and floundering until ere I knew it I had run up against what with feeling around I found to be a hut. From within came moans and groans but the beating had ceased while with the moaning and groaning were mingled a sort of snarling and growling and muttering as of some wild beast. I had just reached the doorway, the door being wide open, when suddenly there rushed out a something which as it passed struck me a most violent blow across the eyes fairly staggering me so that all I could do was to make a wild clutch at the beast, or fiend, that was now speeding away leaving a trail of snarlings and growlings and cacklings such as human being could scarce make.

Recovering from the smarting blow over my eyes, I groped my way inside only to hear Brother Beissel say feebly, "Art come again, thou Prince of Darkness, to persecute me?"

"'Tis not the Prince of Darkness, brother; whatever hath been here hath fled; 'tis Brother Miller," whereupon with all his bravery he leaned against me for support, seeming to find great comfort in my being there.

"Surely the Evil One hath troubled me most sorely this night," said our leader more strongly now.

"But I smell not brimstone or fire, brother; dost thou?" I asked.

"Nay, but I tell thee 'twas the foul fiend himself; most grievously did he beat me with his long tail."

"With his tail, brother—surely thou meanest not that?" I protested.

"But I tell thee Beelzebub took his tail in his claws and beat me. Did I not see him in all the darkness, lift his forked tail on high and bring it down on me; and all the while he spat and snarled as though he were about to rend me asunder."

"Why didst not cross thyself?"

"The foul one came so sudden. I verily believe he rose up through the floor. I heard him not open the door and I sleep lightly."

"Yet thy door was open wide when I found thy hut; and if 'twas the devil, he left not the way thou sayest he came; for devil or beast as it rushed out the door, this evil thing struck me across the face so it still burneth."

"'Twas the Prince of Evil," still persisted Brother Beissel; "full well he seeth how we are shaking the walls of his foul kingdom. He thinketh to terrify us all by assailing me, your leader," and even in the darkness of the cabin I could see our commander straighten himself up as though he feared not a legion of devils, and in truth, Brother Beissel feared neither man nor devil, and I know now that it was my brother's undaunted will and courage more than aught else that ever gave him such sway over my gentler, cowardly nature.

Knowing he was firm in his belief I cared not to dispute with him then that I thought it might not be the Evil One; but that, perhaps, some wild animal had strayed into his hut or else some of our enemies had taken this dark night for an opportunity to beat him, it being well known that among the German settlers were those who were greatly incensed at our leader for that the wives of some of them had left their homes and joined the spiritual virgins; and, indeed, there were those who upon hearing of the matter the next day declared that no doubt our leader had been persecuted by some one of our unfriendly neighbors. But most of the Solitary were just as firm in the belief which our leader unhesitatingly proclaimed, that the Prince of Darkness, being greatly exercised with our inroads into his kingdom had sought our leader in person, thinking no doubt to terrify him from further fighting against the powers of sin. Be that as it may, while I at the time hardly knew which side to join with, I myself felt certain in later years that our community in the person of Brother Beissel had received the first manifestation of that evil influence I had such good cause to dread for so many years.

CHAPTER VI

CONCERNING TAXATION

E'en if a vicious man were like a leaky vat,
That wastes what it receives, pour in, for all that!
If vat and man are not in too decrepit plight.
Keep pouring in thy gifts. How soon a crack soaks tight.

—Lessing.

And now, early in the year 1737, occurred a matter which hath been held up against our community as a great reproach; for by reason of this thing, which I shall set out fully, hewing to the line, caring not whither the chips may fall, we were regarded by many who were ignorant of the truth, as disturbers of the peace; others accusing us of being misers, while still others went so far in their condemnation as to hold us guilty of nothing less than treason.

The whole trouble arose out of what was known as the "Single Men's Tax," our province having passed an Act some twelve years prior to our first introduction to it, providing that "those single men whose estates shall not be rated at fifty pounds, they shall be assessed after the rate of three shillings a head upon a tax of one penny per pound, both for poor rates and city and county levies."

There were then, as before and ever since, those who had no regard for the sanctity of religion, no appreciation for what religion preserves better than all our courts and justices, namely, the safety and security of the State. For, let it be known to our credit, though we like not to boast of ourselves, we on the Cocalico did not spend all our time in pious devotions and speculations upon the mysteries of the infinite. Hard manual labor marked much of our lives, and I glory to say that this labor was not for ourselves alone. Up to this time, indeed, works of charity had been our chief occupation. Canestogues was then a great wilderness, but a wilderness into which many a poor German settler came to cut out of the deep woods a little clearing for his grain, and to build a log cabin he could call his home. These poverty-stricken brethren from the Vaterland often called upon us to assist them in building houses for them. To these calls we always responded, and for many a summer we were kept continually employed in hard carpenter's work, so that by this too great consideration for the needs of our poor neighbors our own poverty was so increased that we wanted even things necessary for life.

Not only did we build their homes and help them till the soil, but we also bestowed such great care on our lands in the plowing, sowing, and reaping, that we often were blessed with such rich harvests that out of our bounty we supplied the poor for miles around with grain and flour, when their own crops, through inexperience, or improvidence, or rust, or drought, had failed.

Substantial assistance was never refused to such as needed it. The Solitary, whether sister or brother, always imbued with God's priceless gift of charity, were swift of foot to all calls of mercy and humanity. In the early days of our Kloster life we would not employ any four-footed animals to do our heavy work, thinking it unchristian to put on them what we should ourselves bear; and thus all our hauling and carrying and plowing was done by our own hands and feet and with our own backs. I recall full well how the Brethren and the Sisters, instead of mules and oxen, pulled the plows through the hard soil of our fields for the planting and sowing. Our life being orderly and systematic, we had time for devotions, and for work, and for charity, each receiving its due proportion, but the greater proportion falling to works of charity and benevolence. Indeed, this was the chief reason, and not because of any foolish superstitions, that the greater part of our devotions were held at night.

But though we lived in this primitive manner of the early Christians and did all these works of charity, yet there was a number of persons who appreciated not our charity, or our stern but simple piety, and the hardships of our mode of life.

Such was the township constable, who, hungry for his worldly fees, was bent upon making the Brethren pay this "Single Men's Tax." With this purpose the worthy dignitary, much swollen with the importance of his high office, descended upon us one day, as a chicken hawk swoops down upon some unsuspecting domestic fowl, and with a loud voice and boisterous manner demanded that we pay the tax, all the while shaking his head and holding his nose in the air as if he already scented the fees that would fill his rapacious pockets.

His coming, and more his loud, gruff manner, threw great consternation into our hitherto peaceful camp. Brother Martin at first sight of the fat impressiveness of the bloated form of the constable, and on hearing his loud voice of command, shrank behind me and whispered timidly, "Is't the king come for his tax?"

"King! thou simple one!" I scowled at him, "King's fool, more like!" for I did not much admire the overbearing airs of this unmannerly tax collector, who, like many another of his stripe, evidently thought because we were a plain, simple folk, we were easily frightened by the show of any authority of the law, especially when emphasized by bulk and big voice in the representative. But our bawling officer soon found that while we were ever a law-abiding people, not seeking to quarrel with any one, yet we were not accustomed to hide in terror every time the law appeared; so instead of rushing forth in great haste with our taxes in our hands and beseeching the collector to accept them and leave us in peace, Brother Beissel, unheeding the constable's commands to hurry up and not delay him, summoned all the Solitary Brethren to the Saal to have our views in the matter. And at once there were formed two opposing parties; one, headed by Brother Weiser—or Brother Enoch as was his cloistral name—arguing that it was just and right to pay unto Cæsar his tribute as commanded by Scripture, and counseling that the tax be paid and thus all trouble be avoided. The contrary party, of which I was the chosen head, contended the assessments should not be paid, because by our manner of life we were entitled to immunity from all taxation. And to support this I reminded my brethren that in the Eastern countries monks and hermits paid no taxes, it being a matter of well-known history that when the monks and hermits collected by their labors every harvest so much grain as to supply regularly all the prisons in Alexandria with bread, Theodosius Magnus and other Christian emperors declared all such monks and hermits free from taxes. I could not see that we were in any wise inferior to the ancient hermits, and if not, it were contrary to custom to deny us the same immunity.

Brother Beissel interrupted loudly, forgetting his usual subtility, "Brother Jabez, I doubt much whether our constable will feel bounden by the practices of the early church."

"That I will not," growled the constable, who had been admitted to the council; "the Act does set forth the tax must be paid, and the tax will I have ere I leave."

"But the Act doth not apply to us, I tell thee, or else I should counsel immediate obedience to thy demands," I said as calmly as I could; "we refuse not to pay this paltry tribute because we care overmuch for the little money we have; but we do not think it right for us to pay."

"Of that I know not," came another cavernous growl from the depths of the constable. "I know I leave not till I am paid the tax."

"Well, I for one shall pay it not," I cried out. "If our Kloster labors were merely for the enrichment of our coffers, then I should pay the tax as being my share of the support of the province. But we work not for ourselves further than is necessary for our slender needs. The overflow of our abundance hath ever gone to the poor and needy settlers far and wide. If we came not to the relief of these, then would the province have the burden of their support. In all ages it hath been the custom and the law to grant immunity of taxation to the church and to those whose lives are spent in charity. I say I shall not pay the tax, for it is neither right, nor custom, nor law."

"If thou payest not the taxes thou goest to jail, for so the Act declares," bellowed the constable.

"So be it," I replied quietly, "and I fear not but I shall have worthy company."

"Thou goest not alone with this ungodly man," answered me Brother Elimelech—his secular name being Emanuel Eckerling—as he stood bravely by my side.

"I too go with thee into the camp of the Philistines," said Brother Jephune, brother to Elimelech, also coming to my side.

Another of the Eckerlings, Brother Jotham, stepped over to me and said quietly: "Even if it be to the stocks or the gallows I go with thee."

"And if I go with thee, Brother Jabez, as I surely will, then thou hast all the sons of my mother with thee," said Brother Onesimus.

"With all these Eckerlings—Emanuel, Samuel, Gabriel, and Israel—I fear naught, not even our formidable friend, the tax collector," I said gayly, not at all disturbed by his fierce looks and scowls at me, whom he regarded as the instigator of all this little rebellion, although in truth there were more than the Eckerlings and myself who thought it not right to pay the taxes. But thus it ever hath been, for doth not the Scriptures say that out of the ten thousand who gathered to fight under the banner of Gideon only three hundred were worthy to be led against the enemy?

"The devil take ye all for a lot of pious fools if ye go not with me at once," thundered the constable, choking with wrath, so that I greatly feared from his purple face he might perish from the palsy.

"The devil, or his deputy, may take us now if he be ready," I said to him, which but the more enraged him, so that he rushed from us puffing and wheezing as he floundered across the meadow, the very swaying of his broad back expressing his indignation at our disregard for the majesty of the law.

"Brother Jabez," said Brother Enoch, as the majesty of the law disappeared down the road beyond the meadow, "dost thou know if we pay not the levy we shall be arrested and taken to jail?"

"If the constable be a man of his word, I doubt not thou art a true prophet," I replied, "but thou knowest Ecclesiastes sayeth there is 'a time of war and a time of peace.' It seemeth my duty to oppose this unjust tax, and now is the time to set our faces firmly against the levy. If we five must go alone, so be it."

Just then some one laid hold of mine arm, and turning about I saw Brother Martin—Martin Brämer being his secular name—our tailor. I asked him: "What hast to say, Brother Martin, shall we pay the taxes?"

"Will they hang us if we pay not the king's officer?" he asked, still with the image of the king in his eye, looking first at me and then at Brother Enoch and then at the four Eckerlings.

"That I do not know," I said, after a pause. "Brother Enoch," said I, turning to him, "thou art learned in the laws of the province. What will be done with us?"

"Most likely ye will be imprisoned until ye promise to pay the taxes," said our learned brother, who afterward became one of the justices of our province.

"And our good Brother Jabez is so stubborn in this, if we pay not the levies, then must we abide in jail for all our days," sighed Brother Martin, "for I know he will never make such promise."

"Ye tailors are ever a timid folk," I broke in with some impatience. "'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'"

And yet with all the differences about the taxes, when the constable returned with five or six neighbors who liked not our Sabbatarian views and who answered willingly to the summons to arrest the "rebels" and "heretics," as it pleased them to call us, I rejoiced exceedingly to see that not only the whole Brotherhood but even the Sisters were united in their determination to oppose the tax. And so when the constable and his eager minions came rushing across the meadow as though they were about to storm some walled city, they found us quietly gathered at the foot of Mount Sinai, our hands meekly folded across our breasts, no one saying a word, except that Brother Beissel, as guardian of our flock, stood somewhat in advance of the Brothers and Sisters, with me close to him, to meet the first onset of the doughty constable and his deputies.

As they came nigh, they paused, and then came to a full stop as they saw this goodly array of Brothers and Sisters. Whereupon Brother Beissel spoke up to the constable: "'Are ye come out as against a thief with swords and staves to take us?' Ye need not come in such haste and violence; our good neighbors, though they seem overly anxious to help thee in this, must say we have never done violence toward any one. We are gathered here to go with thee and to have our cause heard by the justices."

This was more than our constable had bargained for, for they were hardly prepared to convoy such a gathering, and we could but smile, Brother Beissel and I, and even the Brothers and Sisters, to see the consternation that now reigned on the side of the constable and our officious neighbors. Drawing closely together they held such a lively conference, in which each seemed bent on out-talking the others, that it was no great difficulty for us to hear everything that passed between them. The constable was for taking me alone, because he regarded me as the ringleader; another argued just as violently that our superintendent and I should be taken, as we were the leaders of the community and therefore represented them; still another loudly claimed that the four Eckerlings and myself should be taken as being guilty of open treason for saying we would not pay the taxes; and still another thought we all should go.

Finally, it was decided to take only the Eckerlings and myself, and as Brother Martin cried out from behind my back that he would not pay the tax, he too was added to our number. As soon as this result was achieved by our adversary the constable, he stood forth and in a loud voice called our names and demanded that we stand forth, that we were arrested, and that we must go with him to Lancaster to be heard before the justices. It was with great difficulty that we prevailed upon Brother Beissel and the remaining Brothers and Sisters that they could not accompany us, for they were all determined that in this we must make common cause. Finally, however, I succeeded in showing them that we six represented the community and were willing to stand trial for the sake of all, and that it would be the duty of the rest to remain at home and look after the sewing and the spinning and the preparing of the fields for the spring planting and to take care of the sick and poor and needy.

Thus matters at last having been settled, another problem stared our enemies in the face. They demanded that we provide some conveyance in which to be taken to Lancaster, which was some thirteen miles from us. To this I replied that we had none; that we always traveled afoot. Knowing this to be true, they had no more to say other than that they would furnish conveyances at their own expense, wherein we could ride to Lancaster. This also we said we could not do because it was our custom never to ride but always to walk, with staff in hand like the early pilgrims. When this conclusion was made known to the constable I thought, in all truth, he would now surely die in a fit; for he howled and stormed and raged like some one possessed with a thousand devils; but we merely stood quiet, saying not a word until the storm had somewhat subsided and he was sufficiently sensible to understand that if we were to go to Lancaster it would be on foot and not otherwise. Thus we departed after—with some misgivings it is true—I had first had a promise from Brother Beissel that he would look after Sonnlein until I came back again, the constable and his deputies in the lead, and we following in single file, with our staffs in hand, quietly and peacefully.

At first our captors were disposed to heap on us all the indignities and insults they could think of, pulling us by our long beards which they in their humor were pleased to liken to goats' beards, and calling us "he-goats," "men with women's frocks on," "bleached fools," "Beissel's lambs," and spitting on us every now and then; to all of which we raised not our hands or opened our mouths but followed meekly, as was our custom to bear all insult and indignity. Uphill and down again, through dale and valley, long stretches of forest broken only at rare intervals by some little clearing with its humble log cabin, we trudged along patiently and uncomplainingly only that the constable and his deputies who at first set out with such a high pace as though they intended to devour the way in a few steps soon found that even their spite and anger could not furnish endurance for such a pace. Gradually they slackened, the constable, by reason of his great bulk and this unaccustomed exercise puffing most violently and every now and then growling at our stubbornness and our pig-headedness in making them travel afoot and roaring and swearing most vile oaths that we should pay dear for this great contempt of the law.

Indeed, before we were more than half-way to our destination our constable, not being built for walking, was suffering severely in his feet and limbs from these unaccustomed exertions, which we, inured to such trifles, minded not in the least. His deputies, who looked as lean and hungry as he looked prosperous, also were in sore straits; for they too found this walking not much to their taste. It finally came to such a pass, while we were yet some miles from Lancaster that the constable announced savagely, looking at us as though he would have liked to hang us from the branches of the nearest tree, that he could not walk any farther. A short consultation with the rest of the Brethren, and I stepped up to him sitting at the foot of a tree, puffing, and mopping the sweat from his forehead, and said to him respectfully that if he would tell us where to present ourselves we would go straight ahead and give ourselves up to the justices. At this he glared at us, if anything more savagely than ever, and declared it to be a scheme to escape. Whereupon I merely replied, "Very well, we shall wait here, then, until thou art ready to proceed with us."

"No doubt ye would," he howled; "for I doubt not it gives ye great pleasure to see what a sorry state ye have brought me to by your pig-headedness."

"Perhaps thou canst find a conveyance if we press on, and thou canst ride the rest of the journey?" I suggested to him gently.

He was not to be soothed, however, for he merely growled: "I know no place between here and the justices' courts where I can find beast or wagon to carry me."

"Dost thou object if we carry thee there, we and our kind neighbors who are helping thee?" I asked.

"Now are ye quite crazy, for do ye see anything by which ye can carry me, or do you intend to take me on your backs one at a time and thus carry me a laughingstock into Lancaster?"

"If thou wilt wait and hear the plan we have formed in our minds thou wilt perhaps have more respect for our foolish brains," I assured him.

"Well, what is this great plan of thine?"

"Sit there until thou seest, and if it do not please thee thou needst not take it." So saying I dispatched one of the leanest deputies who I thought could best stand the strain of walking, back a short distance to a cabin we had passed on our way, for a hatchet and some strong cord, or ropes, or perchance, nails. He grumbled and growled, but upon the constable's bidding him go on our fool's quest, the deputy left us. While he was gone, my brethren and I made search in the forest about us for such timber as we could make into a litter and when the deputy returned, scornfully handing me the hatchet and some strong cord, we cut down a number of saplings suitable to the constable's weight, and with these formed a sort of litter on which he could sit or lie, as it might please him, while the rest of us carried him along. He was much loth to trust himself to what he considered a frail support for his mighty frame, but after showing him it was strong enough to hold him, he finally stretched his length thereon, sending the deputy back with the hatchet, while we waited his return.

But the constable still doubting, growled, but more softly, I thought, "Now what good is all this litter; who shall carry me? My deputies, who are themselves tired, cannot carry me all these miles to Lancaster."

"Nay," replied I, "but we six Brethren are young and strong and we will take hold of the poles and carry thee as far as we are able, after which thy deputies may relieve us until we regain our breath and strength when we shall again take thee on."

He sat up and said slowly and still doubtfully: "Do ye mean to say ye will do this for me?"

"That we will cheerfully," we all assured him; "though thou hast not treated us over kindly it is not in our minds to remember what thou hast said and done."

"You are not up to some trick?"

"Thou hast good reason to believe we be men of our word," I replied somewhat stiffly; "my brethren are not given to trickery."

The deputy having now returned, my brethren and I took the first turn and hoisting to our shoulders the long poles extending beyond the framework on which our constable sat in royal state, we trudged along quietly but cheerfully, even though our burden was not a light one, our neighbors, the deputies, under the direction of the still distrustful constable, attending to it that we departed not from our proper course, which none of us had the slightest intention of doing. Yet I must record that the human heart, as the Holy Book sayeth in its omniscient wisdom, is a deceitful thing, even in the best of us; for we had not gone far with our rude conveyance when we came to a most foul and dirty pool directly in our way. Brother Martin, being so small and slight and by reason thereof in great danger of destroying the evenness of the litter—which of course would not have been well for the choleric temper of the constable—was placed at my corner, in front of me, so borrowing from my height and strength that the litter would carry more evenly, and also our beloved little tailor be not overly taxed by the burden.

But surely the Evil One doth ever find an easy entrance to idle minds, wherefore we of the Kloster always made it our rule to be busy as far as in us lay. Now in our anxiety to save our Brother Martin from undue labor, we had made the mistake of leaving too little on his shoulders, wherefore instead of having his mind on pious things, he was bent upon evil toward the constable; for it grieves me to say that as we came to this filthy pool and were about to step over it, Brother Martin turned his head about and gave me a sly look and made a motion of his body as of dropping our end of the lifter, which foul deed, had we done it at this juncture would most surely have dropped the majesty of the law into this slimy pool. In truth, so powerful is the mere suggestion of evil to our weak, sinful natures that ere I fully thought what I was about, I had responded by bobbing down a trifle, but recalling myself in due time, straightened up sternly, giving Brother Martin such a withering glance as made him faithful for the rest of the journey, if not for the remainder of his days.

Fortunately, our constable never knew how near he was to a ducking, and as we stepped carefully over the pool—at which he looked with some apprehension—and proceeded thoughtfully on our way, very seldom relieved by the deputies—for whom the farther we had come the more the heat of their persecuting zeal had abated—I could see assurance in the constable's features that we were rising higher and higher in his regard.

CHAPTER VII

THE RIGHT PREVAILS

The Lord trieth the righteous; but the wicked and him that loveth violence his soul hateth.

—Bible.

In brief, we traveled in this way until we reached the City of Lancaster, which to us seemed all bustle and confusion. The constable, as became his dignity, alighted from his litter and took the lead, with his deputies following, and we after the deputies, in single file, creating great excitement, especially as it was conjectured by some that we were Papists—this by reason of our monkish cowls and long cloaks and abstracted air. Others of the idlers whom we passed jeered us and spat on us as being spies—of what, I am certain I never could learn—and that we were to be hanged as traitors.

As no one had known of our coming, the idlers and the busybodies were unprepared to give us such greeting as they no doubt would have relished, and we were led without any great difficulty to the court-house where, upon refusal to pay the taxes and in default of bail, we were committed to prison. Here we were held in a cold, bare room which we minded not; for our jailor permitted us to occupy it together, which gave us great joy, and we complained neither at the confinement nor the coarse food, but the rather spent our time in praising God and most of all praying for our persecutors, all of us being unshaken in the hope that deliverance would come from above and that in due time our prison door would be opened unto us.

At last—and in this I believe our constable had a grateful part—when Tobias Hendricks (whose name I write here that his good deed may shine far out into the world), a venerable old man and himself a justice of the peace, came forth and offered bail for us, though knowing none of us except by rumor and repute, taking our bare word for our appearance in court when wanted, we were released from our captivity, and quietly and undisturbed we started out for our beloved Kloster, and upon the twelfth day of our departure with the constable and his eager deputies, we six Brethren once more filed into our little camp on the Cocalico, where we were greeted with all the love and affection that the sobriety of our lives permitted.

Not many weeks thereafter, the May Court convened in Lancaster and we six Brethren, agreeable to our promise, put in our appearance before the commissioners and assessors of taxes who, when they saw before them these six gentle Brethren, in the bloom of youth, who had raised such a warfare against the world, the fear of the Lord came upon our judges so that they did not speak to us otherwise than friendly and offered us every favor.

The first question put to us was, "Will ye be lawful subjects of the king?" To which we replied—but in all respect—that as we had already pledged allegiance to another King we could therefore obey the earthly king only so far as his rights accorded with those of our eternal King.

To this our judges did not demur but asked another question, namely, whether we would pay the taxes? To which we replied respectfully as before, but firmly, not the head tax, because we acknowledged no worldly authority's right over our bodies, since they had been redeemed from men and the world. Moreover, we considered it unjust that, as we were pledged to spend our lives in our present condition, one of great benefit to the country about us, we should be measured by the same standard as vagabonds and be made to pay the same tax as they; that we desired not to be considered disobedient, because it was our rule to live peaceably with all men so far as within us lay, for thus we were enjoined by the Scriptures; but that if the judges would consider us a spiritual family we would be willing to pay of our earthly possessions according to what was just.

All this was granted us and remains unchanged to the present day; for the fear of God came upon the gentlemen who were our judges when they saw before them men who in the prime of their ages, by penitential works had been reduced in flesh, so that our judges used great moderation and granted us our personal freedom under condition that we should be taxed as one family for our real estate, the judges even asking us how much tax in our judgment would be just and fair—in short, for us to assess our own rate.

This we refused to do, but finally, after much persuasion, we suggested to the judges that a tax of forty shillings against our settlement as a whole would be fair. This proving satisfactory to the board of judges, we were discharged, and with exceeding gratitude to these gentlemen for their benevolent treatment of us, which was so different from the persecutions we often endured from our neighbors, who were so often bounden to us for our charity, we set out with light hearts and winged feet on our long tramp through forest and field for the Kloster.

It was late in the day and darkness had already come upon us when we left the city of Lancaster, but our joy made the journey seem short and by midnight we arrived in the settlement just as the night watch was in full session.

In all my long life I have never forgotten and shall never forget how we appeared to our Brethren that night as we came to the narrow doorway leading into the Saal, I being in the lead. We could hear the fervent prayers that were being offered for our release and for a moment while the Brethren within were kneeling all unconscious of our nearness, I held up my hand and beckoned the Brethren behind me to wait a moment while we stood there silently gazing upon the bowed forms of the worshipers.

I have myself attended more than one of our midnight funerals of some dear Brother or Sister, and though wonderfully impressive and touching to one's heart, even they never touched me more deeply than this impressive sight before us. As we peered into the large Saal, with the upper galleries shadowed in darkness, the only light the flickering tallow candles in front of each of our devout Brethren, we saw the dark, mysterious shadows in the corners of the Saal with ourselves standing in such a gloom we were not perceived. But for a few moments we stood thus with a great peace filling our hearts, when suddenly we walked quietly in, the prayer still in progress, and with heads bowed and hands crossed upon our breasts like the penitents of the olden days ranged ourselves in front of the platform whereon stood our beloved brother and leader, Conrad Beissel, erect, austere; and so far as we could judge from his immovable features, wholly undisturbed by our unexpected arrival, though well we knew that this seeming indifference was but one of discipline and self-control and that the heart within the sturdy frame was beating warmly for each and every one of us.

The invocation in our behalf being ended there was for a few moments as we stood before our leader a silence so profound as to be almost painful. Then suddenly the powerful voice of Brother Weiser rang throughout the hall in that magnificent, soul-stirring war-hymn of the Vaterland and the Reformation, a hymn as strong and rugged as the mighty warrior who wrote it, "Eine Feste Burg ist Unser Gott."

The first line had not yet been completed when it was taken up by all present until the strains of the full-voiced battle cry sounded and resounded throughout the hall. For the time our Brethren had forgotten all the repressing influences of our Kloster life and poured forth their flood of praise and thanksgiving from their very hearts; for such singing had never before shaken the walls of the Saal.

After the hymn was ended thanks were duly offered and the night watch closed with a powerful address by Brother Beissel on the power of the beast upon earth, and while I feel not at this late day like stating aught that might savor of malice or revenge, I find in looking over our old records this note made with reference to our recent experience, namely, "Upon those neighbors, however, who had gloated over the misfortunes of the Brethren there fell the terror of the Lord so that they hurriedly left these regions"; and thus the beast received his reward.

After the services were over and the Brethren were wending their ways toward their Kammers for their much-needed rest I asked our superintendent about Sonnlein; for though I had said naught of him during these occurrences, yet he was in my heart and in my anxiety most of the time. I can still see and hear our leader, almost shocking me by laughing, a thing he was most rarely guilty of, as he said, "Thy Sonnlein is safe enough in thy Kammer, but I assure thee not only did I pray and hope for thy deliverance for thine own sake and the sake of our Kloster, but I do confess in all love for thee and thy boy that hadst thou not soon returned to take care of him I had either been compelled to give up my life here or give up thy boy."

I fear I did not even take time to thank him, but hastened to my cell where I found my boy soundly sleeping.

It was no doubt thoughtless for me to waken him, but I could not help it, and when he did awake to throw his arms about my neck and hold me tight, I felt that, perhaps, it was no great sin after all to rouse him from his sleep. After very many questions as to where I had been and why the bad men had taken me, and all such questions as only an eager, trusting child can ask, I finally told him it was time to go to sleep, which he did without any great difficulty.

As he lay there sleeping in all the sweet innocence of childhood and health, I looked first at him and then out through the little window at the perfect beauty of God's handiwork in his heavens, and then I went to my rest, proud to be a son of him who created me in his image and who had put me into a world which, though full of dark and evil deeds, yet held in it, if we only looked aright, so much of beauty and joy and peace and love.

CHAPTER VIII

OUR FIRST LOSS

Let nothing make thee sad or fretful,
Or too regretful;
Be still;
What God hath ordered must be right,
Then find in it thine own delight,
My will.

—Paul Fleming.

The year 1738 is deeply graven on my memory, because it marked the first death among the Solitary, our Brother Martin Brämer. Secondly, because his death followed so swift upon the appearance of that strange being, woman, witch, or devil, who, time and again, thrust herself so violently into our lives.

In the first month of the new year, and on a day when the sun was shining clear and bright, there being no snow on the ground, I was on my way to the Brother woods for an armful of firewood for the hall. Close upon where the Brother woods merged into the Sister woods stood a mighty oak within a little clearing on the Brothers' side, a favorite haunt of the Solitary for their rare moments of rest from their daily work.

I had about reached the clearing under the shelter of the wide-reaching arms of the old oak when suddenly, for I was in my customary fashion of deep meditation with mine eyes toward the ground, I walked into Brother Martin, almost overthrowing him, for that our tailor was so small and slight. However, we gravely saluted each other as though naught had happened; for each knew it had been a mere accident, and were about to pass on when I caught sight of his face, and saw from his more than usual pallid features and the twitching lips that he was suffering from some great shock. Never of robust health he had not been well lately, and I thought he was suffering more than usual from his infirmity.

I hailed him with brotherly solicitude, "Thou art not well, Brother Martin! I fear the Solitary press upon thee too sorely for thy keeping of them clad as becomes their orders."

"Nay, nay, Brother Jabez," he replied gently; but I could hear the trembling and the fear in his voice, "It is not my labors, which though toilsome, lie pleasantly on me, because I love my work, and those for whom I labor and strive to please seem to love me for what I do for them"; and indeed this was true, for his gentle, unaffected devotion to us and Him we served made our Brother Martin universally loved.

"But surely," I insisted, "thou'rt not well; thou'rt disturbed and suffering, that I see plainly. I beseech thee tell me what so sorely weighs on thee."

He looked up at me, his pale, bloodless lips quivering, and whispered into mine ear, clutching mine arm and leaning on it as though he needed my protection, "I have seen the Evil One in woman's form," and then he gasped, "I shall surely die."

"Nay, nay, my brother," I replied, as though laughing at his foolish fears, "'tis true the Evil One comes to us at times in woman's form to lure us, as Solomon sayeth, 'to the gates of hell'; but when the fiend comes as such it is not in horrid, repulsive shape, but like those beautiful beings who came to Saint Anthony with such artful, seductive enchantments that none but saint could say them nay. Surely if this Evil One hath appeared to thee thou needst not look for thy immediate dissolution, but mayst expect some grace from the fair devourer."

But my poor brother would not be comforted, and merely stood shaking his head, saying mournfully, "This was no beautiful enchantress; no seductive siren, as thou sayest; 'twas the foul fiend in his foulest, most awful form, long, tangled hair falling every way over a face through which there gleamed eyes on fire with the hatred of hell. I saw the eternal enmity of the Evil One in those piercing eyes."

"Where was all this, Brother Martin?" for I saw he could not be laughed out of his terror.

"Just beyond the oak," he replied; "she was standing in a thicket covered with tangled vines as foul and poisonous as herself. I had all unthinking almost walked into her when suddenly I heard a snarl like some ravenous beast; I saw her horrible claws uplifted as though she were about to spring on me and tear me limb from limb. I jumped back, my heart almost standing still, thinking naught but that my end had come. She came no farther, but contented herself with crouching there and glaring at me with those awful eyes of hate that seemed to burn into my very soul."

"Canst thou go with me where thou hast seen this witch or devil?" I said boldly, although I had not overly much stomach for the venture.

As I said this he drew back and trembled violently as he cried out, "Nay, not even for the very hope of a safe hereafter would I go to that accursed place."

"Then remain there, thou gentle coward, whilst I go," commanded I.

Again he clutched me by the arm and cried out, "Nay, go not, Brother Jabez; even if she touch thee not her look will blast thee like lightning."

"I fear her not," bragged I, and strode away, leaving him shuddering with the terror that had not yet grown cold, and with apprehensions for me.

I had no trouble in finding the thick bush and entangling vines Brother Martin had pointed out to me. As I approached its dark, forbidding front, I trembled like a leaf, and then grew angry at my weakness. Then I went on, resolutely forcing my way into the vile vines that caught me all about my face and body and limbs so that I was ready to affirm naught human could penetrate such a wilderness; but though I looked carefully for any signs that would show that some one or something had thrust itself into these exasperating vines I could find nothing, even though I had in all these years learned much of the ways of the woods and its signs.

In great bewilderment I was about to turn back to chide Brother Martin with having seen nothing but a creature of his own imagining when I saw in a small gully at the farther boundary of the thicket a footprint, small, a woman's surely, in the soft, clayey soil. Had the imprint been that of a cloven foot I could not have been more startled; for I knew that the Sisterhood seldom, if ever, came to the Brother woods, and the good wives and daughters of the near-by settlers were too timid and honest to trespass on our lands. Much perturbed, for I knew this thing boded evil to our community, I walked slowly back to my waiting brother, vague remembrances strangely flitting through my mind, but making no impression at the time, of how Sonnlein had come to me, and the midnight beating of our Brother Beissel.

I found Brother Martin, still pale and fearful, anxiously wanting to know what I had learned. "Nothing," I said, "of witch or devil, but the substantial print of a woman's foot."

"Was there no smell of brimstone? No cloven footprint?" he persisted.

"Nay, thou simple one, else I had told thee. Say thou naught of this; for they who would not believe thee would only laugh at thee, and if any believe what could that avail?"

"Nothing, dear Brother Jabez, nothing," he said mournfully, a strange, fixed look in his wild eyes. "A woman with an evil eye once looked upon my little brother as he lay laughing in the cradle my father had hewn out of a log. Until then the child was strong and healthy, never having been sick; but from that day he wasted away, with naught that could help or cure him, and within a month we laid him down in his little resting-place in the orchard nigh our cabin. They whom the evil eye look upon live not long." And then, as one who goes forth to certain death, he looked up at me smiling bravely through all his fears and said, "If my time hath come, let it come quickly, His servant waiteth."

I found it impossible to free him from this melancholy mood, and so we walked back slowly and sadly to our Kammers, saying nothing more.

A week passed, Brother Martin quietly, with resignation, doing his lowly duties each day; but we all could see he was in failing health. Only he and I knew, however, that the tortures of mind he was enduring far outweighed the lesser pains of the flesh; for I hesitate not to say of saint as well as sinner, that until death be actually at hand, they fear alike the inevitable end.