Pictures of German Life in the XVIIIth and XIXth Centuries Volume I Part 7

But it was not the "State system" alone which loosened the connection of the burgher cla.s.s, and turned the German into an isolated individual: the powers which usually confirm and strengthen the united life of individuals, faith and science, worked to the same effect.

CHAPTER V.

"DIE STILLEN IM LANDE," OR PIETISTS.

(1600-1700.)

The contrast between the epic time of the Middle Ages, and the new period which has already been often called the lyrical, is very perceptible in every sphere of human life, and not least in the realm of faith.

The Roman Catholic Church of the Middle Ages had consecrated the life of every individual by a mult.i.tude of pious usages, and shut it up in an aristocratic spiritual state, in which the spirit of the individual was fast bound in rigid captivity, with little spontaneous action. The Reformation destroyed in the greater part of Germany these fetters of the popular mind; it set freedom of decision and mental activity in opposition to the outward constraint and splendid mechanism of the old Church. But Protestantism gave a system of doctrine, as well as freedom and depth, to the German mind. In the great soul of Luther, both these tendencies of the new faith were in equilibrium; the more pa.s.sionately he struggled for his explanation of holy writ and the dogmas of his school, the stronger and more original was the mental process through which, after his own way, he sought his G.o.d in free prayer. It is, nevertheless, clear that the great progress which accrued to the human race from his teaching, could not fail to result in forming two opposite tendencies in Protestantism. The two poles of every religion, knowledge and the emotions of the soul, the intellectual boundaries of religious knowledge and the fervid resignation of self to the Divine, must prevail in the soul with varying power, according to the wants of the individual and the cultivation of the period; now one, now the other will preponderate, and the time might arrive when both tendencies would come into strife and opposition. At first Protestantism waged war against the old Church, and against the parties that arose within itself,--a necessary consequence of greater freedom and independence of judgment.

It is difficult to judge how far this liberal tendency of Protestantism would have led the nation, if adversity had not come upon them. The great war, however, gave rise to a peculiar apathy even in the best.

Each party engaged bore a token of their faith upon their banners, each brought endless misfortune upon the people, and in all, it was apparent how little baptism and the Lord's Supper availed to make the professors of any confession good men. When the flames of war were dying away, men were much inclined to attribute a great portion of their own misery and that of the country to the strife of the contending persuasions. It naturally followed that the colder children of the world attached little value to any religion, and turned from it with a shrug of the shoulder when the old ecclesiastical disputes, which even during the war had never been entirely silenced, began to rage with loud bl.u.s.ter in the pulpit and the market-place. In many districts the ma.s.s of the people had been compelled, by dragonades and the most, extreme methods of coercion, to change their persuasion three and four times, and the formulas of belief were not more valued by them, from their having learnt them by rote. Thus waste and empty had become the inward life of the Church, which, together with the coa.r.s.eness and vices introduced among men by the long war, gave to the ten years after it an aspect so peculiarly hopeless. There was little to love, very little to honour upon earth.

Yet it was just at this period, when each individual felt himself in constant fear of death, that a kind Providence often interposed to save them from destruction. Sudden and fearful were the dangers, and equally sudden and wonderful the rescue. That the strength of man was as nothing in this terrible game of overwhelming events, was deeply imprinted on the soul of every one. When the mother with her children hid herself trembling in the high corn whilst a troop of hors.e.m.e.n were pa.s.sing by, and in that moment of danger murmured a prayer with blanched lips, she naturally ascribed her preservation to the special protection of a merciful G.o.d. If the hara.s.sed citizen, in his hiding-place in the woods, folded his hands and prayed fervently that the Croats who were plundering the town might not find his concealed treasure, and afterwards, upon raking up the cinders of his burnt house, found his silver pieces untouched, he could not help believing that a special Providence had blinded the greedy eyes of the enemy.

When terrible strokes of fate overtake individuals in rapid succession, a belief in omens, forebodings, and supernatural warnings is inevitably fostered. Whilst the superst.i.tion of the mult.i.tude fixes itself on the northern lights and falling stars, on ghosts and the cry of the screech-owl, more polished minds seek to discover the will of the Lord from dreams and heavenly revelations. The long war had, it is true, hardened the hearts of men against the miseries of others; it had also deprived them of all equability of mind; and the vacant gaze into a desolated world, and cold indifference, were in most only interrupted by fits of sudden weakness, which perhaps were produced by insignificant causes, and a reckless sinner was suddenly plunged into sorrow and contrition. Life was undoubtedly poor in love and elevation, but the necessity of loving and honouring which lies so deep in the German nature, after the peace, sought painfully for something high and steadfast, in order to give an aim and an interest to his poor wavering life. Thus the mind clung to the holy conceptions of faith, which it again with quiet reverence endeavoured to realise heartily, affectionately, and confidingly.

From such longings in the hearts of the people, a new life was developed in the Christian Church. It was not only among the followers of Luther, but equally in the Calvinistic persuasion, and almost as much in the Roman Catholic Church; it was also not only in Germany and the countries which then partook of German cultivation, Denmark, Sweden, Eastern Sclavonia, and Hungary, but almost at the same time in England, and even earlier in France and Holland, where religious schism and political faction have rent asunder the souls of men in bitter controversy for centuries. Nay, even among the Jesuits we may find the working of this same craving after a new ideal in a cheerless life. In the history of the Christian Church, this Pietism--as the new tendency has been called by its opponents since 1674--has been a transitory impulse, which blossomed and withered in little more than a century.

The effect it has exercised on the culture, morals, and spirit of the German people may still be perceived. In some respects it has been an acquisition to the nation, and a short account of it shall now be given.

As this Pietism was no new doctrine proclaimed by some great reformer, but only a tendency of the spirit which burst forth among many thousands at the same time, the greater number of its professors remained firm at first in the dogmas of their church. In fact, in the beginning it only expressed wide-spread convictions, to which the best natures had already, before the Thirty Years' War, given utterance; that the points of union of religions parties, and not the deviations of doctrinal opinions, were the main objects of faith; that personal communion with G.o.d was independent of dogmas; that it availed little to hear sermons and take the sacrament, to confess that one was a great sinner and relied on the merits of Christ only and not on our own works, nor to refrain from great sins and to say a few lifeless prayers at appointed hours. And yet this was the usual Christianity of both ecclesiastics and laity: a dead faith, a mere outward form of G.o.dliness, the letter without the spirit. Little did the baptism of children signify without conversion on arriving at maturity, little also did communionship with the church avail, by which the laity only received pa.s.sively the gifts of salvation: each individual ought to establish the priesthood of the Lamb in his own heart. Such was the feeling of thousands. Of the many in Germany that followed this tendency of the heart, none exercised for many years so great an influence as Jacob Spener, between 1635 and 1705. Born in Alsace, where for more than a century the doctrines of Luther and of the Swiss reformers flourished conjointly and contended together, where the learning of the Netherlands and even the pious books of England were harboured, his pious heart early imbibed a steadfast faith through the earnest teaching of schools, and under the protection accorded to him by ladies of distinction in difficult times. Even as a boy he had been severe upon himself and when he had once ventured to a dance he felt obliged to leave it from qualms of conscience. He had been a tutor at a prince's court, and also studied at Basle. At Geneva he saw with astonishment how Jean de Labadie, by his sermons on repentance, had emptied the wine-houses, caused gamblers to give back their gains, and stamped upon the hearts of the children of Calvin the doctrines of inward sanctification and of following after Christ with entire self-renunciation. From thence Spener went to Frankfort-on-the-Maine as pastor, and by his labours there produced a rich harvest of blessing, which a.s.sumed ever-increasing proportions, and soon procured him followers throughout Germany. Happily married, in prosperous circ.u.mstances, peace-loving and prudent, with calm equanimity and tender feelings, a loving, modest nature, he was specially adapted to become the counsellor and confidant of oppressed hearts. Over women especially this refined, kind-hearted, dignified man had great influence. He established meetings of pious Christians in a private dwelling; they were the far-famed _Collegia pietatis_, in which the books of the holy Scriptures were explained and commented upon by the men, whilst the women listened silently in a s.p.a.ce set apart for them.

When later he had to deliver these discourses in the church, they lost, for the zealous, the attractive power which in the calm exclusiveness of the select society they had exercised; parties arose, and a portion of his scholars separated from the church. He himself, after twenty years of active exertion, was called from Frankfort to Dresden, and from thence soon after to Berlin.

Spener himself was disinclined to sectarianism, the mysticism of Arndt, and still more of Jacob Bohme, was repulsive to him, and he disapproved when some of his friends abandoned the church; he struggled incessantly against the enemies who wished to drive him out of it, and during the last half of his life maintained a quiet struggle against his own followers, who publicly showed their disrespect to the dogmas of the church. He was decidedly no enthusiast; that the Christian religion was one of love, that in one's own life one was to imitate that of Christ, and value little the transitory pleasures of the world, that, after his example, one was to show love to one's fellow-creatures: this was always the n.o.ble keystone of his teaching. And yet there was something in his nature, without his wishing it, which was favourable to the isolation and seclusion in which, in the following century, the religious life of the Pietists wore away. The stress which he laid upon private devotion, and the solitary striving of the soul after G.o.d, and, above all, the critical distrust with which he regarded worldly life, could not fail to bring his followers soon into opposition with it. The insignificance and shallowness of many pretenders to sanct.i.ty who clung yearningly to him, made it inevitable that a similar mode of feeling and of judging life would shortly become mere mannerism, which would show itself in language, demeanour, and dress.

G.o.d was still the loving Father who was to be stormed by the power of prayer, and might be moved to listen. But this generation had learnt resignation, and a gentle whisper to G.o.d took the place of the urgent prayer in which Luther had "brought the matter home to his Lord G.o.d."

The inscrutable ways of Providence had been imprinted by fearful lessons on the soul, and the progress of science gave such presage of the grandeur of the world's system, that the weakness and insignificance of man had to be more loudly proclaimed. The sinner had become more in awe of his G.o.d, the _nave_ ingenuousness of the Reformation was lost. The craving for marvels had therefore increased--increased in this generation--and zealously did they endeavour in indirect ways to fathom the will of the Lord. Dreams were interpreted, prognostics discerned; every beautiful feeling of the soul, every sudden discovery made by the combinations of the mind, were considered as direct inspirations from G.o.d. It was an old popular belief, that accidental words which were impressed on the mind from outward sources were to be considered as significant, and this belief had now become a system. As the Jutlander Steno--the Roman Catholic Bishop of Hanover, and acquaintance of Leibnitz--suddenly became a fanatic, because a lady had spoken out of the window some indifferent words, which he in pa.s.sing by conceived to be a command from Heaven, so did accidental words sway the minds of the Pietists. It was a favourite custom in cases of doubt to open suddenly upon some verse in the Bible or hymn book, and from the tenor of the words to decide these doubts--the sentence on which the right-hand thumb was set was the significant one--a custom which to this day remains among the people, and the opponents of which, as early as 1700, called deridingly "thumbing." If any one had a call from the external world, the system was to refuse the first time, but, if repeated, then it was the call of the Lord. It may easily be conceived that the believing soul might, even in the first refusal, unconsciously follow a quiet inclination of the heart which had secretly said yes or no.

That in a period of unbridled pa.s.sions, the reaction against the common lawlessness should overstep moderation is natural. After the war, a crazy luxury in dress had begun; the women loved to make a shameless display of their charms, the dances were frivolous, the drinking carousals coa.r.s.e, and the plays and novels often only a collection of impurities. Thus it was natural that those who were indignant at all this should choose to wear high dresses, simple in style and dark in colour, and that the women should withdraw from dances and other amus.e.m.e.nts; the drinking wine was in bad repute, the play not visited, and dances esteemed a dangerous frivolity. But zeal went still further.

Mere cheerful society also appeared doubtful to them--men should always show that they valued little the transitory pleasures of the world; even the most harmless, offered by nature to men's outward senses, its smiling blossoms and the singing of birds, were only to be admired with caution, and it was considered inadmissible, at least on Sunday, to pluck flowers or to put them in the hair or bosom. That praiseworthy works of art should not find favour with the holders of such opinions was natural. Painting and profane music were as little esteemed as the works of the poets by whom the anxieties of earthly love are portrayed.

The world was not to be put on an equality with the Redeemer. Those who follow not the ways of "piety," live in conformity with the world.

He who thus withdraws himself from the greater portion of his fellow-men, may daily say to himself that he lives with his G.o.d in humility and resignation, but he will seldom preserve himself from spiritual pride. It was natural that the "Stillen im lande," as they early called themselves, should consider their life the best and most excellent, but it was equally natural that a secret conceit and self-sufficiency of character should be fostered by it. They had so often withstood the temptations of the world, so often made great and small sacrifices; and as they had the illumination of G.o.d's grace, they were his elect. Their faith taught them to practise Christian duties in a spirit of benevolence to man, to do good to others, like the Samaritan to the traveller, in the wilderness of life. But it was also natural that their sympathy and benevolence to others should be chiefly engrossed by those who had the same religious tendencies. Thus their mutual union became, from many circ.u.mstances, peculiarly firm and remarkable. It was not, in the first instance, particularly learned ecclesiastics who were Pietists; on the contrary, the greater portion of the clergy in 1700 stood firm to the orthodox point of view in opposition to them. But they lived more by the Gospel than the law; they sought carefully to avoid the appearance of exercising, as preachers, dominion over the consciences of the community. This captivated the laity--the strong minds and warm hearts of all cla.s.ses, scholars, officials, not a few belonging to the higher n.o.bility, and, above all, women.

For the first time since the ancient days of Germany--with the exception of a short period of chivalrous devotion to the female s.e.x--were German women elevated above the mere circle of family and household duties; for the first time did they take an active share as members of a great society in the highest interests of humankind.

Gladly was it acknowledged by the theologians of the Pietists, that there were more women than men in their congregations, and how a.s.siduously and zealously they performed all the devotional exercises, like the women who remained by the cross when the Apostles had fled.

Their inward life, their struggle with the world, their striving after the love of Christ and light from above, were watched with hearty sympathy by all in their intimacy, and they found trusty advisers and loving friends among refined and honourable men. The new conception of faith which laid less stress on book-learning than on a pure heart, acted on them like a charm. The calm, the seclusion, and the aristocratic tendency of the system, attracted them powerfully; even their greater softness, the energy of their impulsive feelings, and their excitable, nervous nature, made them more especially subjects for emotions, enthusiasm, and the wonderful workings of the G.o.dhead.

Already had the gifted Anna Maria von Schurmann, at Utrecht--the most learned of all maidens and long the admiration of travellers--been separated from the church through Jean de Labadie; and the pious and amiable lady had, in 1670, in her holy zeal, withdrawn all her works, though they contained nothing unchristian. Like her, many other women endeavoured to be the representatives of their priesthood to the people; many of these pious theologians could boast of strong-minded women, who prayed with and comforted them, ever strengthening them amid the difficulties of faith, and partaking of their light. Thus it came to pa.s.s that women of all cla.s.ses became the most zealous partisans of the Pietists. There was scarcely a n.o.ble or rich family which did not count among its ladies one that was pious, nor who, though they might at first be angered, were not gradually influenced by their intrinsic worth and moral exhortations. To such n.o.ble ladies there was a great charm in being able to protect persons of talent in their community.

They became zealous patronesses, unwearied proselytisers, and trustworthy confidants, and helpers in the distresses of others. But whilst they laboured for the interests of their faith, their own life was subject to many influences. They came into contact with men of different cla.s.ses, they were accustomed to correspond with those who were absent, and they learnt to give vent to the secrets of the heart, and to the tender feelings of their souls. Although this was often done in the canting expressions of the community, yet it produced in many a deepening of the inner life. There was, indeed, something new added to the spirit of the people.

The habit of reflecting on their own condition, of judging themselves under strong inward emotions, was quite new to the German mind. It is very touching to observe the child-like pleasure with which these pious people watched the processes of their mental activity, and the emotions of their hearts. Much was strange and surprising to them which we, from greater practice in the observation of our own inward life and that of others, only find common. Every train of conceptions which rapidly formed themselves into an image, a thought, or an idea, every sudden flash of feeling, the mainspring of which they could not discover, appeared to them wonderful. The language of the Bible, which, after long groping, they began to understand, was unfolded to them. Their visions, which, owing to their a.s.siduous application to the Scriptures, a.s.sumed frequently the form of Bible figures, were carefully, after their awakening, brought into rational coherence, and, unconscious of the additions of their imagination, were polished into a small poem.

Their lyrical tendencies gave a new form to their diaries, which hitherto had been only a register of casual occurrences; the confidential pages became now clumsy attempts to express in grand words, impa.s.sioned feelings, and were filled with observations on their own hearts. When a Pietist, shortly after 1700, writes: "There were so many deep thoughts in my heart, that I could not give expression to them," or, "I had a strong feeling about these thoughts," this sounds to us like the utterance of a later time, in the style of Bettine Arnim, who undoubtedly was, in many respects, an echo of the excited women who once prayed, under the guidance of Spener, on the banks of the Maine. This same facility of self-contemplation found its way into poetry, and later into novels.

Together with Pietism there began also in Germany a new style of social intercourse. Seldom was a quiet life the lot of the heads of the pious communities; they were transplanted, driven away, and moved about hither and thither. The disciples, therefore, who sought for instruction, comfort, and enlightenment, were often obliged to travel into distant countries. Everywhere they found souls in unison, patrons and acquaintances, and often a good reception and protection from strangers. Those who did not travel themselves, loved to write to kindred spirits concerning their dispositions, temptations, and enlightenment. Such letters were carried about, copied, and sent far and wide. Thus arose a quiet communion of pious souls throughout Germany, a new human tie, which first broke through the prejudices of cla.s.ses, made women important members of a spiritual society, and established a social intercourse, the highest interest of which was the inward life of the individual. And this social tendency of the pious, determined the form and method of intercourse of the finer minds for a hundred years later than the time of Spener; indeed, the social relations between our great poets and German princesses and ladies of rank, was only rendered possible because the "_Stillen im lande_" had lived at courts in a similar way. The whole system was the same: the visits of travellers, the letters, and the quiet community of refined souls. The sentimentality of the Werther period was only the stepdaughter of the emotional mania of the old Pietism.

The beneficial influence, also, exercised by the Pietists on the manners and morals of the people should not be under-rated, although much of this influence was undoubtedly lost by their p.r.o.neness to separate from the mult.i.tude. But, wherever the labours of Spener, as shepherd of souls, had found imitators, especially where Pietism had been recognised by the church of the State, the practical Christianity of the new teaching was perceptible. Like Spener, his followers felt the importance of religious instruction for the young, and gladly availed themselves of the opportunities when the youthful souls of the parish and the parents opened themselves to them, to counsel them on the more important occurrences of the day, and give a practical turn to their teaching. It was they who, with warm hearts, first, after the devastating war, provided schools for the people; and to them must be attributed the first regular supervision of the poor in the large cities. It is known that the German orphan-houses were established through them; the example of Franke, in Halle, was followed in many other cities--these great inst.i.tutions were looked upon as a wonder by contemporaries. Throughout all ages these foundations of our pious ancestors ought to be regarded with special interest by our nation; for they are the first undertakings for the public welfare which have been formed _by the voluntary contributions of individuals from the whole of Germany_. For the first time did the people become conscious how great may be the results of many with small means working together. It is not surprising that this experience seemed then to the people like a fabulous tale, when one considers that in the ten years before and after 1700, the "_Stillen_" must have collected in the countries where the German tongue is spoken, far more than a million of thalers for orphan-houses and other similar benevolent inst.i.tutions; this was, undoubtedly, not from private sources alone, but in that poor and depopulated country such sums are significant.

Thus did Pietism prepare men for rapid progress in many directions, and its best offering to its votaries, a more elevated sense of duty, and a greater depth of feeling, pa.s.sed from the "_Stillen im lande_" into the souls of many thousands of the children of the world; it contributed scarcely less than science to the beginning of that period of enlightenment, by mitigating the wild and rough practices which everywhere prevailed in the second half of the seventeenth century, and by giving to the family life of Germans, at least in the cities, greater simplicity, order and morality. The families from whom our greatest scholars and poets have sprung, the parental houses of Goethe and Schiller, show the influence which the Pietism of the last generation exercised on their forefathers.

That many of the Pietists might lose themselves in extravagancies and dangerous by-ways, is easily comprehensible.

It was natural that with those who, after inward struggles and long strivings, had obtained strength for a G.o.dly life, the delivery of man from sin should become the main point; and as they were yearning, above all, for the direct working of G.o.d on their own life, it followed that they ascribed this awakening to the special grace of G.o.d; that they sought earnestly in prayer for the moment when this special illumination and sanctification should take place by a manifestation of the divinity; and that when, after severe tension of the soul, they reached a state of exaltation, they considered this as the beginning of a new life to which the grace of G.o.d was a.s.sured. Luther, also, had striven for this illumination; he also had experienced the transports of exaltation, inward peace, repose, certainty, and a feeling of superiority to the world; but it had been with him, as with the strong-minded among his contemporaries, an ever-enduring struggle, a frequently-repeated victory, a powerful mental process which appeared sometimes, indeed, wonderful to himself, but in which with his sound, strong nature, there was nothing morbid, and of which the special form, the struggles with the devil, were the natural consequences of the _nave_, simple-hearted popular faith, which had changed the old household spirits and hobgoblins of our heathen ancestors into Christian angels and the devil. The Pietists, on the other hand, lived in a time when the life both of nature and man was more rationally viewed as to cause and effect, when a mult.i.tude of scientific conceptions were popular, when a practical worldly mind prevailed which made itself few illusions; and when the hearts of men were seldom elevated by enthusiasm and great ideas. Already we begin to trace the beginnings of rationalism. In such a time this regeneration, this moment of awakening, was not a frame of mind easily produced--not a condition in which, with a sound mental const.i.tution, one could place oneself without a certain degree of violence. It was necessary to wait for it--to prepare oneself strenuously, and constrain body and soul to it, by a self-contemplation, in which there was something unsound; one must watch anxiously one's own soul, to discover when the moment of awakening was nigh. And this moment of awakening itself was to be entirely different from every other frame of mind. In order to arrive at the conviction of its presence, that was not sufficient for them, which, after severe struggles, had given a happiness to the great reformers that rested on their countenances like a reflection of the G.o.dhead; the peace and serenity which come after the victorious end of a struggle betwixt duty and inclination. This outpouring of grace with the Pietists was frequently accompanied by ecstasies, visions, and similar pathological phenomena, which at no period have been wanting, but which were then sought after as the highest moments of human life and recounted with admiration. It will shortly be shown that this was the rock on which Pietism struck.

With such tendencies, even the reading of the Scriptures was fraught with special danger. When they explained the holy Scriptures, being under the conviction that G.o.d favoured them with a direct influence, they were in the unfortunate position of considering every accidental incident that presented itself to them in any part, as an unerring manifestation. Now, the yearning of a weak age for a better condition, and the inclination of the pious for special illumination, rendered the prophetic books of the Old and New Testament particularly attractive.

Thus it came to pa.s.s that the Pietists drew from them a mult.i.tude of revelations and prophecies. It is of no importance at what results they arrived; but this engrossing attention to the dark pa.s.sages of the prophets, and especially the Revelation of St John, did not contribute to render their judgment clearer, nor their scientific culture more solid: for in their time the key to the better understanding these records had not been found. Moreover, the knowledge of languages even among scholars was generally unsatisfactory, although, after the example of Schurmann, there was already here and there a pious maiden who began to learn Hebrew. It was not long before all worldly knowledge appeared, to most of them, useless and detrimental.

Thus, Pietism was threatened with great dangers immediately after its rise; but the life of the early Pietists, who from Frankfort spread themselves all over Germany, was more simple and harmless than the later proceedings at Halle, under the separatists of the eighteenth century.

Two autobiographies of pious individuals of Spener's school have been preserved to us, which throw light on other phases of German life. It is a husband and wife who have bequeathed them to us,--kind-hearted people, with warm feelings, some learning and no particular powers of mind,--the theologian, Johann Wilhelm Petersen, and his wife, Johanna Eleanor, born von Merlau. After they were united in marriage, they led together a spiritual life, in perfect unanimity, and, like a pair of birds, flitted through the temptations and troubles of this earthly valley. Heavenly consolation and manifestation came to them alike. The world considered them as enthusiasts, but they were held in honour to the close of their life by the best among the Pietists, undoubtedly because of the goodness of their hearts, which were not choked up with spiritual pride. The husband was industrious and faithful to his duties, a man with poetical feeling and some philosophical culture; but he needed another to lean on, and was evidently much influenced by his more decided wife, whose worldly position, as being n.o.ble, gave her consideration even among the pious. It was soon after his marriage that a restless excitement, and sometimes an immoderate zeal, became visible in him. His wife, who was some years older than himself, had attained to a rigid piety, whilst struggling against the worldly life of the small prince's court, where she had lived. One may conclude from her biography, that she was not free from ambition and love of power, with a slight touch of asperity. Her long, quiet struggle had made her over-zealous, and she and the pious _Frau_ Bauer von Eyseneck, with whom she lived later at Frankfort, both belonged to the enthusiastic members of the community, who were inclined to conventicles, and caused great sorrow on that account to their pastor, Spener. It may therefore be a.s.sumed that it was chiefly the influence of the wife that drove her husband on in the course which at last removed him from his office, and gave him the repute of being an enthusiast and millennarian. But the hatred of the orthodox party has done injustice to both; they were honest even when predicting marvels. We will first give the youthful years of the wife, then some characteristic traits from the life of the husband, related in their own words. Johanna Eleonora Petersen, by birth von Merlau, was born at Merlau the 25th of April, 1644. She narrates as follows[79]:--

"The fear of the Lord has guarded me, and His goodness and truth have led me.

"I have felt the quieting of his good Spirit from childhood, but have resisted it from ignorance. My high position in the world has been a great hindrance to his working; because I loved the world equally with Him, till I came to a right understanding, and till the saving Word wrought powerfully in me to conviction. For when I was about four years old it came to pa.s.s that my dear parents, who had lived at Frankfort on account of the troubles of war, returned into the country, as peace was established. They brought many things into the country, and my now deceased mother lived with me and both my sisters on a property at Hettersheim, called Philippseck, where she believed herself to be out of harm's way. Then came the servants and told her that a troop of hors.e.m.e.n were coming, whereupon every one quickly put away what belonged to them and left; my now deceased mother, with three little children, alone, of whom the eldest was seven and I four years old, and the third at the breast. Then did my deceased mother take the youngest in her arms, and both of us by the hand, and went without a maid-servant to Frankfort, which was distant a long half-league. But it was summer, the corn was standing in the fields, and one could hear the noise of the soldiers, who were marching about a pistol's shot from us.

Then did my deceased mother become much alarmed, and bade us pray. But when we came to the outermost gate of the city, where we were in security, my deceased mother sat herself down with us, and exhorted us to thank the Most High G.o.d who had protected us. Then said my eldest sister, who was three years older than I, 'Why should we pray now? now they cannot come to us.' Then was I grieved to the heart at this speech, that she would not thank G.o.d, or thought that it was no longer necessary. I rebuked her for this, having fervent love for the Lord, whom I thanked with my whole heart--Item, as I was persuaded that the midwife had brought the children from heaven, I had a great desire to talk to her; I charged her to greet heartily the Lord Jesus, and desired to learn from her whether the dear Saviour loved me. These were the first childish emotions that I can distinctly remember.

"When I was nine years old we became motherless orphans, and matters went ill with us; for our father dwelt at a farm five miles from our property, and brought the widow of a school-master into the house to take care of us. She had her own children to help on, and spent upon them what should have been ours, leaving us in want, so that we often gladly took what others would not have. It happened too through her artifices that she left us alone in the house in the evening. Then came certain people, dressed in white shirts, and their faces rubbed with honey and sprinkled with flour; they went about the house with lights, broke open chests and coffers, and took from out of them what they wished. This gave us such a fright that we huddled together behind the stove, and perspired with fear. This went on till the whole house was emptied. As our father was very severe with us, we had not the heart to complain, but were only glad when he left us; so we bore with this annoyance till von Praunheim, who is now married to my sister, visited us,--he was then very young. To him we complained of our distress, and he undertook to remain concealed in the house till evening, to see whether the spirits would come again. When they did come, and one went straight to the cupboard to break it open, then he sprang out, and found that they were people from the country town--sons of a wheelwright, who were intimate with the widow who had charge of us.

But, as he was alone, they rushed away and would not allow that it was them; but the spirits did not return, and we recovered much that they had left on the floor of the kitchen.

"This widow was discharged by my deceased father, and it was proposed to him to take a captain's wife, who was in repute for her housekeeping and cleverness in other ways; then my deceased father thought he had provided well for us. But she was an unchristian woman, and did not forget her soldier tricks. For once, when she saw some strange turkeys on the road, she had them driven to the house; seized the best, and drove the others away. To cook this stolen roast she wished to have some dry wood, and in order to obtain this sent me to a square tower, five stories high. There had been a pigeon-house under the roof, where loose dry boards were lying, some of which I was to fetch. When I had thrown down some, and was trying to tear away one that was still firm, I was thrown back and fell down two stories on to a flight of steps, and had I turned myself round I should have fallen two stories more. I lay there about half an hour in a swoon, and when I came to myself did not, at once, know how I came there; I stood up and felt that I was very faint. I went down the staircase, and laid myself on a bed that stood in a room in this same tower, on which my deceased father used to sleep when he was at home. There I slept some hours, and when I got up was quite fresh and sound. But during the whole of this time there were no inquiries made after me; and when I said that I had fallen I was only scolded for not having been more prudent. I sat apart, for I would not eat of the stolen roast; it appeared to me truly disgraceful, and yet I had not courage to say so.

"When I was in my eleventh year my deceased sister, who was three years older than me, was sent to the pastor to be instructed for her confirmation. Then a strong desire came over me to go with her, but my deceased father would not allow me, as I was only ten years old. I persisted, however, till my father gave his consent, if his reverence the pastor should consider me fit for it. This latter had me brought to him, questioning me not only as to the words, but also concerning the sense of what I read. But G.o.d gave me such grace in answering that his reverence the pastor was well content, and admitted me.

"Some time afterwards my sister went to Stuttgart, and I had to take upon me the housekeeping, and to render an account of everything, which was very difficult for me; because my deceased father, whenever he came home, treated me with great severity, and called me to account for all that was broken, or in any way not to his mind, and I was often severely punished when I was innocent.

"Owing to this, such servile fear took possession of me, that I shuddered whenever I heard a voice that resembled that of my father.

Concerning this I breathed forth many sighs to my G.o.d; but, when he was away again, I became in good spirits, and sang and danced in gladness of heart. I had at the same time a thorough aversion to everything that was unseemly or childish, and would not have anything to do with the games of marriages and christenings, and the like, of other girls, for I was ashamed of them.

"When twelve years old I was taken to court to the Countess von Solms-Rodelheim. She was about to be confined, and was sometimes not right in her mind; when I went, however, she was tolerably well. But soon after, she was confined and had two children, a young gentleman and a lady, and became worse from day to day, so that she often took me for her dog, which was a little lion-dog, called me by his name, and beat me like him. It happened frequently that we drove in the water, for in the winter time the meadows between Frankfort and Rodelheim were quite overflowed with water, so that it entered the carriages; then the carriages were driven empty, but we went in a boat and got in again when we came to the end of the water. When we thus drove she often pushed me into the water; I was to swim as her little dog, but the Most High preserved me. Once I discovered that she had taken a knife with a sheath out of her cupboard, and put it in her pocket. I mentioned it to the maidservant, who was rather elderly, but she would not listen to me; and thought the countess had no knife, and it was childishness in me. There was a door from the bedroom of the countess into our room, and another into that of the count. Now when night came I would not lie down for thinking of the knife; but the maid was angry with me, and threatened to tell the count how childishly I behaved; but I would only lie down on the bed with my clothes on. In the night, hearing a great disturbance, I woke up every one and rose from bed. Then the count was heard running out of the room; and forth came the countess, with a night-light and the bare knife in her hand. When she saw us all awake, she became terrified and let the knife fall; then I sprang towards her as if I wished to reach her the knife, but I ran with it out of the door and down the stairs in the dark. When I was on the stairs I heard the count call out, 'Where is my wife?'--to whom I answered that I had got the knife; but I was so frightened that I would not trust myself to turn back again, but went into a hall, which is called the giant hall and is very gloomy, and there I remained. But the maid, who was a serf of the countess's mother, from Bohemia, went off and did not return. So I was left some weeks alone with the countess, and had to dress and undress her, which was very hard upon me.

"But my deceased father happened to hear from others that I was in such danger, and took me away. After this I went at about fifteen years old to the d.u.c.h.ess of Holstein, born Landgravine of Hesse, who had married Duke Philipp Ludwig, of the Suderburg family. The duke had by a first marriage a daughter, who had just married the Count von Zinzendorf, president of the Imperial chamber. I was taken as maid of honour to this royal bride; her woman of the bedchamber was a von Steinling, who was thirty years of age. Immediately after my arrival, the journey to Lintz, where the marriage was to take place, was begun. We went by the Danube, and very jovial it was; the drums and trumpets sounded beautiful on the water, and everywhere throughout the journey we were splendidly received; the preparations having been made by those who had been sent to fetch the bride. It was very joyful to me after my former terror, and I had no anxieties except the thought that my soul might suffer, because I was going to a popish place. Whenever we came to a resting-place, I looked out for a chamber where there was no one else, fell on my knees and prayed that G.o.d would prevent everything that might be injurious to my salvation. The chamber-maid of the bride remarked how I retired apart, and slipt after me once to see what I did alone, for she still looked upon me as very childish, because I was small. When, however, she found me praying on my knees, she went quietly back without my knowing that she had seen me. But once, when the royal bride inquired whether I ever prayed, the woman of the bedchamber answered that they need have no anxiety about me. Now when we came to Lintz, the marriage took place at the Imperial castle, and everything went off grandly. The following day the royal bride went to the chapel of the castle, and there a blessing was p.r.o.nounced upon her, and a goblet full of wine was given; this was called the Johannis blessing, and of this she and the count were to partake. Now, after the marriage was celebrated, when every one was to settle down in their proper places, there arose a dispute among the authorities concerning me. The Count von Zinzendorf said that he would only admit the lady of the bedchamber (as the n.o.ble maidens were then called) to his table; that the others must have their meals with the '_hoffmeisterin_.' This the duke would not consent to, as he said that she was only from the burgher cla.s.s, whereas I was of an old family, and not inferior to the others, and he could not permit that such a distinction should be made between us, especially as I was his wife's G.o.ddaughter.

"As this, however, was of no avail, it was determined that I should return with the d.u.c.h.ess, and when the reason was explained to me, it appeared to me quite wonderful, for it was my wish to have my meals along with the '_hoffmeisterin_,' rather than at the prince's table.

But I did not know that G.o.d had so ordained it in his mercy, and that my poor prayers had been so graciously listened to; for after the course of some years the princess and all the persons who had accompanied her, fell away to the Popish religion. But at the time I was much troubled to be obliged to return; I thought they might imagine I had not comported myself right, and I also feared to be brought again under the severe discipline of my father.

"But the Duke of Holstein had obtained Wiesenburg from Saxony, which was about ten miles from Leipzig and one from Zwickau, and dwelt there, so it pleased the d.u.c.h.ess to keep me with her. I practised myself in all kinds of accomplishments, so that I was much liked; in dancing, too, I excelled others, so that these vanities were dear and pleasing to me; I had also a real liking for splendid dress and the like trifles, because it became me well, and I was much commended by every one. Never did any one tell me that it was not right, but, on the contrary, praised me for these vanities, and considered me G.o.dly because I liked to read and pray, and went to church and was often able to give a good account of all the main points of the sermon; I even knew what had been preached upon the same text the preceding year. I was looked upon as a G.o.dly maiden both by spiritual and worldly persons, yet I pursued my course with worldly thoughts, and was not really a true follower of Christ.

"Then it was ordained by G.o.d's mercy that the son of a lieutenant-colonel, of the family of Brettwitz, fell in love with me; and when, through the medium of his father, he asked me in marriage of my royal master and mistress, and of my deceased father, they all replied yes; but that he must first serve a year as a cornet, and then have his father's company, who was lieutenant-colonel under the Elector of Saxony. Now when he went forth to the war, I heard from others that he did not lead a G.o.dly, but a worldly life; then I was secretly troubled and threw myself on my face before G.o.d, and prayed that either his spirit or our engagement might be changed. But I did not know that the Most High had brought this to pa.s.s, that I might be preserved from other n.o.ble marriages, for I was then still very young, and had many opportunities of marrying, all of which I escaped through this betrothal, though on his side he had thought of many others, and engaged himself here and there in that foreign country. This lasted several years, during which I experienced much secret sorrow, which threw a damp over the pleasures of the world. In the course of these years, Brettwitz was always changing his mind, fixing his thoughts upon others, and when nothing came of it, he turned again to me, and wrote about constancy, all which I committed to the Most High, and sought to unite myself closer to G.o.d. Hence much refreshment from the Holy Scriptures was imparted to me, sometimes in sleep through holy dreams, in which I powerfully spoke out the words of Scripture, and thereupon awoke, so that my companion, who had a G.o.dly heart, was often sore troubled that she could not experience the like. I always comforted her by saying that she should regard me as a child that required to be enticed by her father, but that she was so confirmed in faith she would have no need of such enticement. And this came from my heart, for I saw well that my joyous spirit drew me to the world, but my G.o.d drew me again to Him by his love.

"At last he who had been so changeable came home and visited our Court.

But my spiritual condition did not please him, because he thought so much Bible reading would not befit a soldier's wife: he would have been glad if I would have renounced him, as his father knew of a rich marriage for him in Dresden, if he could with decency free himself from me; but he did not like to be called faithless, so he would fain have thrown the blame upon me. I remained quiet, however, and did not mind him, but trusted to my Heavenly Father, who would order all aright. Now there was one, named von Fresen, who would fain have warned me, thinking I did not observe that the said Brettwitz was not acting uprightly; so he wrote me a letter, for he had no opportunity of speaking to me, as I was always with my d.u.c.h.ess in her room. This letter fell into the hands of the said Brettwitz, who thought to find therein great evidence upon which to accuse me, either of having an affection for another, or of courting others. His father, who was then present, also thought that it would be a good opportunity, and that they might with a good grace enter upon the rich marriage; so he went to the duke and showed him the letter as proof that others were wooing me, and therefore his son neither could nor would entertain any further hopes of me, but would seek happiness elsewhere. It vexed the duke much to hear such things of me, who had hitherto, to their great astonishment, repelled all advances. It grieved me much that my royal master and mistress should thus think of me. But when I went to my room weeping, the words came into my mind, 'What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter;' from these I derived consolation. When on the following day the letter was read correctly, it appeared that in it the writer complained that he had never been able to gain an opportunity of speaking with me, and declaring his honourable love, and that I kept myself in reserve for a person who was false, rejecting the love of others. Thus it became known that I was innocent, and the Brettwitzes could not get out of it in that way. The duke and d.u.c.h.ess then asked me what my wishes were, as it must now be decided. Then I begged that Brettwitz might not be driven to marry me. Thereupon the said von Brettwitz sent two cavaliers to me in order to learn how I was minded towards him, and whether he was still to wait some time for his happiness. But I gave him liberty, as far as I was concerned, to seek his happiness where he liked; for I felt no longer bound to retain my affection for one so faithless, who, if possible, would have made me out guilty of want of fidelity. Thereupon he paid me the false compliment of saying that he regretted the misunderstanding: and it was then settled that he was to make no further pretensions to me. The rich marriage, however, did not take place, and later he became paralytic.

"Thus I was relieved from this burden, and I had become so strong in spirit that I did not entertain any further thoughts of marriage. I always felt that amongst the n.o.bility there were many evil habits which were quite contrary to Christianity--first, because they had more opportunities of drinking; and secondly, that for every thoughtless word they must endanger body and soul, if they would not be disgraced.

I reflected deeply on this, that they should dare to imagine themselves Christians, and yet live quite contrary to the doctrines of Christ; and that it never occurred to them once to abstain from such proceedings.

This took away from me all disposition to marry; for although I knew some fine natures that had a horror of all these vices, yet I thought that one's descendants would be exposed to the same dangers. Still I felt I ought not to take a husband from another cla.s.s, as my deceased father thought much of his ancient family.