"After this the chancellor reached down a box of brown powder, and desired his son-in-law to guess what it was. 'It is eye-powder or dust,' said the old man, 'which rulers sprinkle in the eyes of their subjects. It is one of the principal tricks to keep the populace quiet; for when there arise among them turbulent spirits, who open the eyes of subjects by certain political doctrines, and lead them to inquire into the secrets of government, to read the hearts of princes, bring together their grievances, and attach themselves to lynx-eyed agitators, then insurrection and war are at the door.' After this a vessel of court-peas was produced. The old man stated that this was one of the most noxious expedients employed at court, not indeed used by the rulers, but by their false courtiers. 'How so?' said the son. 'I regret that I must explain it to you,' answered the father, 'for I fear, if I teach it you too well, you may sometime try the art upon myself; where gain is to be made one puts even a father's nose out of joint. The peas are strewed in the council-room and chancery, on the stairs, here and there, in the hope of tripping up those whom you cannot otherwise get rid of, especially if they are conscientious, and think they can make their way by good intentions.
"'As most of the potentates know little themselves of these political tricks, unless Machiavellian councillors make them acquainted with them, who can blame the councillors if they make use of their secret to enrich and elevate themselves? Then follows the state policy of private persons, for where God builds a church the devil will have a chapel also; thus I have, by the side of my sovereign's principality, made myself a small one, and as I am now becoming old I will reveal to you, my son-in-law, these tricks, that you may be able to follow in my steps. But to the point I have never soiled myself with peasants and their dung-carts, but preferred great assemblages. Imperial, electoral, and princes' diets; for the larger the pond, the better it is to fish in. Yet have I so far acted with moderation that I have never intermeddled too far nor tied myself to one party alone; but have always remained a free man. Like the sleek fox, I adapted myself to every one's humour and business, and turned to the best account my jests. I led the various parties by the nose, so that they always had recourse to me, followed and trusted me; and, moreover, allowed themselves to be fooled. Thus I did from the beginning. When my prince discovered these qualities in me, he made me his councillor and then chancellor. Now the nobles must bring with them whole cartloads of wine, whole waggons full of corn, and the like gifts, if they would obtain a favourable decision in chancery, or wish to procure a bill of feoffment or decree of court. All the citizens and peasants, too, must make presents, or their causes lie in a heap undecided. But especially the following trick brought me good luck: When a rich man, having committed an evil deed, has been ill spoken of by the prince, &c., then I gave him to understand how great was the anger of the prince against him, and that it might cost him his life if he did not employ me in the business. If he agreed, I concealed his guilt; or, at least, helped him out of it. But if he did not, I would institute a suit against him, and he was exposed to danger and death. If he endeavoured to succeed, through the means of attorneys, in spite of me, I would make use of all my cunning to prevail against and ruin him. When the fox's skin did not answer, I assumed that of the lion; what I could not acquire by wiles and cunning, I usurped de facto, and discovered how I could obtain by violence. If any one complained of the old chancellor, and wished to bring a suit against him at court, I offered to submit myself to a judicial action, for the councillors, as colleagues, were on my side. I displaced in village and field the boundary stone, made other ditches and frontier lines, squeezed out of my neighbours some hundred morgens of arable land, meadows, and woods. In like manner I laid hands on the property of rich widows, orphans, and wards; bought rents and perpetual leases, and lent out money which, in three years, was doubled. It would be tedious to relate the gains I made by assignments, bills of exchange, wine, corn, and salt traffic.'
"All this the son-in-law listened to with great attention, and said, 'Noble father, you have well administered for your family, and brought it into prosperity; but the question is whether your descendants will prosper so as to inherit it in the third or fourth generation; for "ill-gotten gains seldom prosper."'
"'That signifies as little to me as a midge on the wall. Let any one say what he will, I, on the other hand, have what I will. He who would gain something must venture something, and not mind what people say. I have revealed and confided to you more than to my own wife and children. Now come home with me to supper.'"
Such is the purport of the sad irony of the flying sheet, which is peculiarly appropriate here, as it evidently gives expression to the common sentiments of the time. At the conclusion of it one particular intrigue of a small German court is more alluded to than related.
Even after 1700, this cold, bitter way of speaking of the political condition of Germany continued generally; for the "aufklärungs" literature, which sprang up at this period, altered the style more than the spirit. Indeed, from the end of the War of Succession till 1740, during the longest period of peace which Germany had experienced for a century, a diminution of political interest is discernible in the small literature. It is always the extraordinary destinies of individuals which more specially interest the public--the prophecies of a Pietist, the trial of a woman for child murder, the execution of an alchymist, and such like. When on Christmas night, 1715, two poor peasants were suffocated by coal vapours in a vineyard-hut at Jena, whilst they, together with a student and a torn copy of Faust's book of necromancy, were endeavouring to raise a great treasure, this misfortune gave rise to full a dozen flying sheets--clerical, medical, and philosophical--which fiercely contended as to whether the claw of the devil or the coals had been the cause of death. All the battles that had been fought, from that of Hochstädt to Malplaquet, had not made a greater sensation. Even in the "Dialogues from the Kingdom of the Dead,"--a clumsy imitation of Lucian, in which opinions were given of the public characters of the day,--it is evident that it is more particularly the anecdotes and the private scandal which attracted the people. Once more an interest was powerfully excited by the expulsion of the Protestant Salzburger; but in the year 1740 a great political character impressed itself on the soul of Germany, and announced by the thunder of his cannon the beginning of a new time.
But it was not the "State system" alone which loosened the connection of the burgher class, 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.
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 multitude 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 passionately 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 God 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 bluster in the pulpit and the market-place. In many districts the mass 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 coarseness 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 horsemen were passing 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 God. If the harassed 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 superstition of the multitude 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 God 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 godliness, 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 passively 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 assumed ever-increasing proportions, and soon procured him followers throughout Germany. Happily married, in prosperous circumstances, 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 space 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 Böhme, 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 noble 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 God, 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 sanctity 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.
God 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 God took the place of the urgent prayer in which Luther had "brought the matter home to his Lord God." 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 God, the naïve 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 God. 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 passing 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 passions, 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 coarse, 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 amusements; 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 God 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 God'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 circumstances, 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 classes, scholars, officials, not a few belonging to the higher nobility, 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 sex--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 assiduously 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 Godhead. 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 pass that women of all classes became the most zealous partisans of the Pietists. There was scarcely a noble 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 noble 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 classes, 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 assiduous application to the Scriptures, assumed 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, impassioned 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 classes, 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 proneness to separate from the multitude. 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 institutions 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 institutions; 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, passed 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 godly life, the delivery of man from sin should become the main point; and as they were yearning, above all, for the direct working of God on their own life, it followed that they ascribed this awakening to the special grace of God; 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 God was assured. 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 naïve, 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 multitude 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 constitution, 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 Godhead; 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 God 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 pass that the Pietists drew from them a multitude of revelations and prophecies. It is of no importance at what results they arrived; but this engrossing attention to the dark passages 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 noble, 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 assumed 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 pass 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 horsemen 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 God 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 God, 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 God 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 God; 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-Rödelheim. 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 Rödelheim 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 Duchess 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 God 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 pronounced 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 noble 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 class, 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 goddaughter.
"As this, however, was of no avail, it was determined that I should return with the duchess, 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 God 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 duchess 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 godly 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 godly 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 God'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 godly, but a worldly life; then I was secretly troubled and threw myself on my face before God, 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 pass, that I might be preserved from other noble 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 God. 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 godly 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 God 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 duchess 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 duchess 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 nobility 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 class, as my deceased father thought much of his ancient family.
"But God continued to impart more grace to me; and I became acquainted in Frankfort with a truly godly man. For when my noble master and mistress were travelling to the baths at Emser, a stranger was on board the vessel in which we went. By God's special providence he seated himself next me, and we fell into a spiritual discourse which lasted some hours, so that the four miles from Frankfort to Mayence, where he disembarked, appeared to me only a quarter of an hour. We talked without ceasing, and it seemed just as if he read my heart. Then I gave vent to all, concerning which I had hitherto lived in doubt. Indeed I found in this friend what I had despaired of ever finding in any man in the world. Long had I looked around me to discover whether there might be any true doers of the Word, and it had been a stumbling-block to me that I could find none. But when I perceived in this man such great penetration, that he could see into the very recesses of my heart, also such humility, gentleness, holy love, and earnestness to teach the way of truth, then I was truly comforted and much strengthened.[80] Then was my heart filled with godly convictions, and I felt an ever-increasing distaste to the world: and I said to myself, 'Shall I defraud my spiritual nature for the sake of contemptible transitory pleasures? No; I will by God's help prevail, let it cost what it may.' I wrote thereupon to the friend who had imparted to me so many godly gifts, that I loved him as a father, and that I purposed to loosen myself from all worldly ties. He was, moreover, fearful that I should not have strength enough to bear all that I should meet with. But the parable of the five foolish virgins and other similar salutary passages of Holy Writ were ever in my heart, and they impelled me to give up the pleasures of the world; yet I felt a fear of my master and mistress which I could not conquer. Then I frequently danced with tears in my eyes, and knew not how to help myself. 'Ah,' thought I frequently, 'if I were but the daughter of a herdsman, I should not be blamed for living in the simplicity of Christ's teaching. No one would mind me.' But when I became conscious that no position could excuse me, I determined that nothing should be a hindrance to me either in life or death. I therefore went to my duchess, and begged for my dismissal. This was refused; but, as she wished to know what had moved me to this, I told her openly, that the life I was obliged to lead at court was against my conscience. Then did my dear duchess try to divert my mind from this, looked upon it as a fit of melancholy, and said, 'You always live like a virtuous maiden, and read and pray assiduously; you see also that others who are good Christians do the like things; they are not forbidden if the heart is not set upon them.' But I pointed out to her the example of Christ and his word; I did not judge other men, but could not be content to follow their example. As now my dear duchess saw that she could not change my mind, she promised to excuse me everything that I felt to be contrary to my conscience, only she would have me remain with her and perform my duties in all other respects as before. But I represented that she would be deprived of much service by this, especially when strangers came, when it might easily happen that the other maiden should fall sick, then she would be without attendance, because I would not be present at appointed gaieties, and that would give occasion for ridicule. She would not, however, be deterred from her object, but promised me faithfully that I should be relieved from all attendance at mere amusements. Then she mentioned it to the duke, who contended with me sharply, and said it was the suggestion of the devil, that I, who was a young lady, beloved by high and low, should expose myself to so much contempt, that I should be considered a fool; besides, what would my relatives say? Now, when all this persuasion was of no avail, they sent several clergymen to me, who tried to persuade me that I did not rightly understand the words of Scripture. But I put it to their consciences which of these two ways was safest: to follow after the footsteps of Christ in all simplicity, or, while enjoying worldly pleasures, merely to talk of it and treat it with respect, yet doing otherwise. Then they said that the first would certainly be the best; but who could so live?--we were all sinful men. Then I replied, 'It is commanded me to choose the better way, and as to the power of doing it, I left that to my God,' Then they left me in peace.
"They now tried to move me in another way, by ridicule. For at the royal table they often looked at one another, and then at me, laughing amongst themselves; they often said also that it was not becoming a woman of the bedchamber to read the Bible so much, she would become too clever. But I let them jeer. When this had gone on almost a year, during which I was treated with contempt by even the most insignificant at the court, excepting some pious souls, whilst I thought little of suffering for Christ's sake, there was a sudden change. The great and glorious God brought such fear into all hearts, the highest as well as the lowest, that they did not venture to say or do anything wrong in my presence; although they did not fear the court preachers, yet before me they were quiet, and the otherwise wild young people controlled themselves when they saw me coming. Then did tears come into my eyes, whilst I thought within myself, 'Oh, wonderful God, with what power have I been enabled to bring it to pass, that both great and small fear to do wrong in my presence!' This thought did not puff up my heart, but led me to humility; I poured out my soul before God, as I had experienced his power, and saw that He could turn the hearts of princes like the waters of a rivulet. In this condition of things I continued yet three years at court, and I can truly say that I experienced much kindness, not alone from my dear master and mistress, but from every one: but by God's grace I did not accept many favours from the great, nor employ them upon temporal things.
"Having then for three years lived at court in all simplicity, and rejected all transitory pleasures, whereby the body, and not the spirit, is recreated, it came to pass that my deceased father required me to keep his house, as my stepmother had died in childbed, and the child was still alive, and so I was called from court. It was, however, very difficult for me to obtain my dismissal, as my dear duchess loved me as if I were her child, and lamented my departure with many tears: she even sent after me to beg I might return, and did not desist till I promised that if I ever returned to court I should consider myself bound to them before all others. But when I came home I found that the child had meanwhile died, and my father had determined to become high steward of the Princess von Philippseck. Thus I was free to settle myself with a noble and godly widow, Baurin von Eyseneck--her maiden name was Hinsbergen--whose manner of life was known to every one in Frankfort, and whose end was blessed. With her I was six years, and we loved one another as though of one heart and soul.
"About this period, being in danger of shipwreck, the Lord so mightily strengthened me, that I was joyful while others trembled and desponded. It happened that I was on the passage-boat from Frankfort to Hanau going to visit my sister; there were divers people on board, among them some soldiers, who were carrying on very coarse and improper jokes with poor women. I was sorrowful that these people were so entirely unmindful of their souls, and, leaning against the side of the vessel, endeavoured to sleep that I might not hear such talk. In my sleep I dreamt of the sentence in Psalm xiv., 'The Lord looked down from heaven upon the children of men.' Upon this I awoke, and in waking it appeared to me as if a great storm of wind turned the ship round; then was I terrified and thought within myself, 'Art thou really awake? What is thy state of mind?' Not a quarter of an hour afterwards there came a mighty whirlwind which took hold of the ship. We were in very great danger, so that all cried out with anguish, and called upon the name of Jesus for help--He whom they had so often before named carelessly in their frivolous jesting. Then did God open my mouth, to make them feel how good it is to walk in the fear of the Lord, and that He is a refuge in the time of trouble. When now the Most High mercifully laid the unexpected storm, one of the women was so impudent as to say jestingly, that our ship would have been overwhelmed by the waves, 'but, as there is a saint on board, we have been saved;' so saying she laughed loud, whereupon I became much excited, and said, 'You impudent woman, think you that the hand of the Lord could not reach us?' And scarcely had I closed my mouth, when the former wind rose again, a leak appeared in the boat, and all gave up hope of life; but I felt an unusual joy, and thought, 'Shall I now see my Jesus? What will now remain in the water? Nothing but the mortal--that which has so often hindered me. That which has been life in me will never die,' &c., &c. The ship was already filling with water; all the caulking and pumping was of no avail; the storm also held on, so that it was impossible to turn to the land, either on the right or left hand, and we thought that the ship would sink; but all at once the wind was lulled, and the ship reached the shore. Then did all spring out of the ship, and the wild soldiers who had been moved by my words, looked after me with great care, so that I came well to land, and thanked God that I had been able to speak to their hearts.
"When I had been about a year with the widow Baurin, my dear master and mistress heard that my father no longer needed me, so my dear mistress wrote, herself, to me to return and resume my service; she would send the carriage for me and give me double salary, and I was to be called mistress of the robes; but I excused myself by saying that I must take charge of my father's property, and therefore be often present there. But when I had passed six years with dear Frau Baurin, it was ordained by the Most High God that my dear husband, who had seen me some years before at Frankfort, began to think of marrying me; he gave at Lübeck a commission to a certain person to speak to me concerning it, who did it, but after some time had passed, for want of an opportunity. But when I first heard it, I could not think of marrying, and after offering up my prayers to God, I sat down and wrote to this effect, and suggested to him another very excellent person. But my dear husband would not be deterred, and wrote to my dear friend, also to sundry distinguished ecclesiastics, and to my deceased father. This letter I at first retained, till my conscience constrained me to deliver it to my father, as it had no other aim than to serve to the glory of God. Then I wrote and sent him the letter, and at the same time remained as calm as if it were nothing concerning myself. All the contents of the letter to my father were unknown to me, and I did not think that my deceased father would give his consent. But when his answer came--wherein he wrote that he had many reasons for not wishing me so far from him in his old age, and had never yet made up his mind to allow his child to marry below her station, yet he could not withstand the will of God,--it went to my heart, and I thought it must be of God, because my father's heart had been touched beyond all expectation. He left the matter to my disposal, which I did not, however, agree to, but submitted it entirely to his will. My brother-in-law, von Dorfield, high steward at the court of Hanau, was much against it, but my deceased father answered him in a most Christian spirit,[81] that it was not good for us, of the evangelical faith, to esteem the clergy so little, as the Papists held their priests so high; further, that his daughter was not suited to a worldly man; that she would not marry inconsiderately out of her class, as was known to every one. But God had called me to this vocation. They were therefore obliged to be quiet, and my father gave his consent.
"Thereupon my dear husband came to Frankfort, and we were married on the 7th September, 1680, by D. Spener, in the presence of her Highness the Princess von Philippseck, my father, and some noble persons of distinction; there were about thirty, and everything went off in such a quiet and Christian manner, that every one was pleased. But the demon of calumny could not refrain from his malice; it vexed his tools that the marriage was not accompanied by eating and drinking and wild doings, after the manner of the world. Then they invented this lie, that the Holy Spirit had appeared in the chamber in which we were married, in a form of fire, and that we had interpreted the Revelation of St. John. Such lies were also reported to the Rev. Dr. Heiler, who had been himself at our wedding. But when he contradicted them, and stated that he had been present, that nothing had passed but what was truly Christian, they were ashamed of their lies."
Thus far the wife. The narration of the husband forms a supplement to hers. But first we will give his account of his youth, and of his experiences as shepherd of souls. Dr. Johann Wilhelm Petersen begins thus:--
"I was born in the renowned city of Osnabrück, on the 1st of June, 1649, after the conclusion of the peace of Westphalia, where my father, George Petersen, had been sent from Lubeck on business concerning the peace. When I grew older, my parents sent me to the Latin school at Lubeck. They never had to force me to study, for I paid attention to all my lessons, and concealed candles, in order that I might thus study whilst others slept. I then also copied divers small books, as I could not obtain printed copies. But I more especially applied myself to prayer, as I had seen my mother do, after I had heard from her that one could obtain everything from God through prayer, on which account I always, before I began my studies, called upon God to bless them. And once, when I was in want of money to buy a certain book, I went to St. Mary's Church, placed myself on the long stools before the altar, and prayed to God to grant me wherewith to buy the desired book. Now when I had knelt down and finished my prayer, behold there lay a heap of money on the bench before which I had knelt; this strengthened me much. But when, in consequence, I wished to make a custom of it, and again sought to obtain money by prayer, through the wise guidance of God I found nothing, for He only hears us when in childlike simplicity we appear before Him without any after-thought. But yet once, when about to be punished, I turned to God in prayer, and punishment was averted.
"Now when I came to the third class, I had been very diligent; therefore the Herr Conrector put the others to shame by my example, and said that I had surpassed them all and gained the crown, and, as he expressed himself, would throw sand into their eyes. This vexed the scholars much, and excited their envy; they painted a crown in my book, and strewed it thick with sand, with this inscription: 'This is Petersen's crown, and the sand he would cast in our eyes.' At last I was afraid to repeat my lesson too readily, though I had learnt it thoroughly, lest I should be beaten by the other scholars. When I was removed into the first class, I found there excellent preceptors. At this period I put many verses in print, especially on the death of my dearly beloved mother. I also delivered two orations on the restoration of peace at Lubeck; and the Choice of Hercules. In 1669 I went to the University of Giessen.
"When I had become master of arts at Giessen, I was much loved by the professors, and also was, as far as lay in my power, on terms of friendship with every one. Then was Dr. Spener, of Frankfort, strongly recommended to me; therefore I resolved to go to Frankfort to visit him, in order to see whether the reality came up to the praise. I found him far superior to what I had heard; his was quite a different life and character to what I had seen in general I had indeed, after my fashion, feared God and loved the Holy Scriptures; but by the light of my merely worldly learning these were very obscure to me, so that when I presided at a disputation I feared many passages of Scripture which were brought against me by others. Now I became aware how important it was to understand rightly the spiritual meaning of the Holy Scriptures, and that the learning was not worth much which could be obtained by mere human industry.
"There came at that time to Frankfort, for the purpose of enjoying the friendship and intercourse with the Rev. Dr. Spener, a noble lady, who had formerly been maid of honour at a court; and as I desired much to have, if only for once, some talk with her, I begged the reverend doctor to give me her address in a note. This he did, and I went to her, and presented her with my last disputation, under the impression that it would not be disagreeable to her, as she had learnt Hebrew and had much acquaintance with the Holy Scriptures. But she told me that I had therein glorified 'the god Petersen,' and that, for a true knowledge of God in Christ, far more was required than such worldly learning, which produced generally a boastful spirit, and whereby one could hardly attain to the godly simplicity of heavenly things. This speech sank deep into my heart, and I was at once convinced of the truth of it. After that I began to write a little book, wherein I noted down what I heard from pious people concerning the way to true godliness; and I began to practise what I had thus learnt, for without this effectual working all else would be fruitless.