Hirschberg—The Officers' Tomb—A Night Journey—Spiller—Greifenberg—Changing Horses—A Royal Reply—A Griffin's Nest—Lauban—The Potato Jubilee—Görlitz—Peter and Paul Church—View from the Tower—The Landskrone—Jacob Böhme—The Hidden Gold—A Theosophist's Writings—The Tombs—The Underground Chapel—A Church copied from Jerusalem—The Public Library—Loebau—Herrnhut.
It was so dark when the omnibus from Warmbrunn arrived at Hirschberg—about five miles—that I lost the sight of its pretty environment, watered by the Bober and Zacken, and of its old picturesque houses, the gables of which were dimly visible against the sky. The town has more than seven thousand inhabitants, and for trade ranks next to Breslau. Its history is that of most towns along this side of Silesia: so much suffering by war, that you wonder how they ever survived. A memorial of the latest scourge is to be seen in the Hospital churchyard—a cast-iron monument in memory of three Prussians, who, wounded at Lützen in 1813, died here on the same day. Under their names runs the inscription: They died in an Iron time for a Golden.
Not being able to see anything, I booked a place by Stellwagen for Görlitz, and supped in preparation for a night of travel. We started at eleven, a company numerous enough to fill three vehicles, those lowest on the list taking their seats in the hindmost. As these hindmost carriages are changed at every stopping-place with the horses, I and other unfortunates had to turn out at unseasonable hours, and to find, in two instances, that we had not changed for the better—soft seats and cleanliness for hard seats and fustiness. So at Spiller: so at Greifenberg.
It adds somewhat to one's experiences to be roused from uneasy slumber at midnight with notice to alight. You feel for umbrella and knapsack, and step down into the chill gloom of a summer night; and while the leisurely work of changing goes on, stroll a little way up or down the roughly-paved street, looking at the strange old houses, all so still and lifeless, as if they were fast asleep as well as their inmates. Why should you be awake and shivering when honest folk are a-bed? and you feel an inclination to envy the sleepers. If you turn a corner and get out of sight of the Posthouse, the houses look still more lonely and unprotected: not a glimmer to be seen, and it seems unfair that every one should be comfortable but you. Or from the outside of a house you picture to yourself those who inhabit it; or, perhaps, you get a peep into the churchyard, or venture through a dark arch to what looks like an ancient cloister, and your drowsy thought gives way to strange imaginings.
But the night is chilly. Let us go into the Posthouse. There is comfort by the stove in the inner room, and the woman who has sat up to await our arrival brings an acceptable refreshment of coffee and cakes. Steaming coffee, with the true flavour; and not sixpence a cup, but six kreutzers. Then the driver blows his horn, and each one takes his allotted seat, to slumber if he can through another jolting stage.
Greifenberg, a town of three thousand inhabitants, on the Queiss, is proud of four things: manufacture of fine linen and damask, a griffin in its coat-of-arms, and a right royal word of the Great Frederick. Certain deputies having appeared before the monarch to thank him for his prompt and generous aid in restoring the town after a great fire in 1783—"For that am I here!" was his kingly reply.
About two miles distant is the Greifenstein, a basaltic hill, so named from a nest of young griffins found on the top of it at a date which no one can remember. It is now crowned by the ruins of a castle which was given by the Emperor Charles IV., in the fourteenth century, as a reward for service to the brave Silesian knight Schaffgotsch. Were it daylight we might see in the Romish church a vault which has been the burial-place of the Schaffgotsch family since 1546.
It was early morning when we came to Lauban, and changed carriages by the side of the grass-grown moat at a break in the old round-towered wall. The view from the adjacent Steinberg is described as equal in beauty to any other scene in Prussia. Unfortunately I had not time to judge for myself; but hope to go and see some future day. Perhaps, while waiting here, you will be reminded that Lauban was one of the Silesian towns which, on the 19th of August, 1836, held a jubilee to celebrate the three hundredth anniversary of the introduction of the potato into Europe by the famous circumnavigator Drake—as the promoters said. Of course potatoes cooked in many ways appeared plentifully at every table over half the province.
We reached Görlitz at eight, and for some reason, perhaps known to the driver, went through the streets in and out, up and down, across the Neisse to the Postamt in the new quarter, at a slow walking pace. I had three hours to wait for a train, and to improve the time, after comforting myself at the Goldenen Strauss, mounted to the top of the Peter and Paul church tower. Erected on a rocky eminence, rising steeply from the river, it commands a wide prospect. The town itself, a busy place of more than 18,000 inhabitants, closely packed, as in the olden time, around the church; spreading out beyond into broad, straight streets and squares, well-planted avenues, and pretty pleasure-grounds; and in this roomy border you see bleaching-greens, the barracks, the gymnasium, and observatory. From thence your eye wanders over the hills of Lusatia to the distant mountains—a fair region, showing a thousand slopes to the sun. About two miles distant the Landskrone rises from the valley of the Neisse—a conspicuous rocky hill bristling with trees. We got a glimpse of it from Schneekoppe; and now you will perhaps fancy it a watch-tower, midway between the Giant Mountains and the romantic highlands of Saxony.
The sight of that hill recalls the name of the "Teutonic philosopher"—Jacob Böhme. He was born at Alt-Seidenberg, about a mile from Görlitz, in 1575; and he relates that one day when employing himself as herdboy, to relieve the monotony of shoemaking, he discovered a cool bosky crevice on the Landskrone, and crept in for shelter from the heat of the sun. Inside, to his great surprise, he saw a wooden bowl, or vase, full of money, which he feared to touch, and went presently and told certain of his playmates of the discovery. With them he returned to the hill; but though they searched and searched again, they could never find the cleft, nor the wonderful hoard. A few years later, however, there came a cunning diviner, who, exploring with his rod, discovered the money and carried it off; and soon after perished miserably, for a curse had been declared on whomsoever should touch the gold.
Fate had other things in store for Jacob, and allured him from his last to write voluminous works on theosophy, wherein he discusses the most mysterious questions about the soul, its relations to God and the universe, and such like; and great became the poor shoemaker's repute among the learned. Some travelled from far to confer with him; some translated his books into French and English; some studied German that they might read them in the original; and even Isaac Newton used at times to divert his mind from laborious search after the laws of gravitation by perusal of Böhme's speculations. That Jacob was not a dreamer on all points is clear from what he used to pen for those who begged a scrap of his writing:
There is something to be seen in the church itself as well as from the top of the tower. It is a singularly beautiful specimen of Gothic architecture of the fifteenth century. The great height of the nave, with the light and graceful form of the columns and arches, produce an admirable effect, to which the high altar, the carved stone pulpit, and the large organ do no violence. It is one of those buildings you could linger in for hours, contemplating now its fair proportions, now the old tombs and monuments, and quaint devices of the sculptor's art. Below the floor at the eastern end is an underground chapel, a century older than the church itself, hewn out of the solid rock. Preaching is held in it once a year. The attendant will make you aware in the dim light of a spring that simmers gently up and fills a basin scooped in the solid stone of the floor.
The church of the Holy Cross in the Nicolai suburb is remarkable as having been built, and with a sepulchre, after the original at Jerusalem by a burgomaster of Görlitz, who travelled twice to Jerusalem, in 1465 and in 1476, to procure the necessary plans and measurements for the work. There is a singularity about the sepulchre: it is always either too long or too short for any corpse that may be brought to it, and yet appears large enough for a Hercules.
The town possesses two good libraries, each containing about twenty thousand volumes. In the Rathsbibliothek you may see rare manuscripts, among them the Sachsenspiegel; and a book which purports to have been printed before the invention of printing, bearing date 1400! The other library belongs to the Society for the Promotion of Science, who have besides a good collection of maps, fossils, minerals, and philosophical instruments. Perhaps here in England writers and scholars in provincial towns will some day be able to resort to libraries and museums as easily as in the small towns of Germany. Many an English student would be thankful to find in his native town even one such library as those at Görlitz.
The train from Breslau kept good time. It dropped me at Loebau, where there is a church in which service is performed in the Wendish tongue. From hence a branch line runs to Zittau. I stopped half way at Herrnhut, the head-quarters of the Moravians: a place I had long wished to see.
Head-Quarters of the Moravians—Good Buildings—Quiet, Cleanliness, and Order—A Gottesdienst—The Church—Simplicity—The Ribbons—A Requiem—The Service—God's-Field—The Tombs—Suggestive Inscriptions—Tombs of the Zinzendorfs—The Pavilion—The Panorama—The Herrnhuters' Work—An Informing Guide—No Merry Voices—The Heinrichsberg—Pretty Grounds—The First Tree—An Old Wife's Gossip—Evening Service—A Contrast—The Sisters' House—A Stroll at Sunset—The Night Watch.
I had seen the Moravian colony at Zeist near Utrecht, and was prepared for a similar order of things at Herrnhut. A short distance from the station along the high road to Zittau, and you come to a well-built, quiet street, rising up a gentle ascent, where, strange sight in Saxony, the footways are paved with broad stone slabs. Farther on you come to a broad opening, where two other main streets run off, and here the inn, Gemeinlogis, and the principal buildings are situate, all substantially built of brick. Everywhere the same quietness, neatness, and cleanliness, the same good paving, set off in places by rows and groups of trees, and hornbeam hedges.
The innkeeper—or steward as he may be called, for he is a paid servant of the brotherhood—told me there would be a Gottesdienst (God's service) at three o'clock, and suggested my occupying the interval with the newspapers that lay on the table. There was the Görlitzer Anzeiger, published three times a week, Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday, four good quarto pages, for fifteen pence a quarter; and equally cheap the Zittauische Wochentliche Nachrichten. But I preferred a stroll through the village and into the spacious gardens, which, teeming with fruit, flowers, and vegetables, stretch away to the south, and unite with the pleasure-walks in the bordering wood.
At three I went to the church. Outside no pains have been taken to give it an ecclesiastical look; inside it contains a spacious hall, large enough to contain the whole community, with a gallery at each end, and on the floor two divisions of open seats made of unpainted fir placed opposite a dais along the wall. Whatever is painted is white—white walls, white panelling, white curtains to the windows, and a white organ. Something Quaker-like in appearance and arrangement. But when a number of women came in together wearing coloured cap-ribbons, passing broad and full under the chin, a lively contrast was opposed to the prevailing sobriety of aspect. The colours denote age and condition. The unmarried sisters put on cherry-red at sixteen, and change it after eighteen for pink. The married wear dark blue, and the widows white. Many a pretty, beaming face was there among them, yet sedate withal.
The choir assembled on each side of a piano placed in the opening between the benches, for the organ was undergoing a course of repair. No practical jokes among them, as in the cathedral on the Hradschin; but all sedate too. Presently came in from the door on the left five dignified-looking sisters, and took their seats on one half of the dais; then seven brethren, among whom a bishop or two, from the door on the right, to the other half; and their leader, a tall man of handsome, intelligent countenance, to the central seat at the desk.
The service was in commemoration of a sister whom in the morning the congregation had followed to her resting-place in the Gottesacker (God's acre). The choir stood up, all besides remaining seated, and sang a requiem, and sang it well; for the Moravians, wiser than the Quakers, do not cheat their hearts and souls of music. A hymn followed, in which the whole assembly joined, the several voices according to their part, till one great solemn harmony filled the building. Then the preacher at the desk, still sitting, began an exhortation, in which a testimony concerning the deceased was interwoven with simple Gospel truth. His word and manner were alike impressive; no passion, no whining. Rarely have I heard such ready, graceful eloquence, combined with a clear and ringing voice. He ended suddenly: a hymn was sung, at the last two lines of which every one stood up, and with a few words of prayer the service was closed. It had lasted an hour. The congregation, which numbered about three hundred, dispersed quietly, the children walking as sedately as their parents.
All the roads leading out of Herrnhut are pleasant avenues of trees—limes, oaks, beech, and birch. A short distance along the one leading to Berthelsdorf you come to a wooden arch bearing the inscription, "Christ is risen from the dead." It is the entrance to God's field; and if you turn on entering, you will see written on the inside of the arch, "And become the firstling of them that slept." The ground slopes gently upwards to the brow of the Hutberg, divided into square compartments by broad paths and clipped limes. Within these compartments are the graves; no mounds; nothing but rows of thick stone slabs, each about two feet in length, by one and a half in width, lying on the grass. All alike; no one honoured above the rest, except in some instances by a brief phrase in addition to the name, age, and birthplace. The first at the corner has been renewed, that a record of an interesting incident in the history of the place may not be lost. The inscription reads: Christian David, the Lord's servant, born the 31st December, 1690, at Senftleben in Moravia. Went home the 3rd February, 1751.
A carpenter: he felled the first tree for the building of Herrnhut, the 17th June, 1722.
Went home and fell asleep are favourite expressions occurring on many of the stones. A member of the Conference of Elders is a frequent memorial on the oldest slabs, numbers of which are blackened, and spotted with moss by age. There are two counts and not a few bishops among the departed, but the same plain slab suffices for all. The separation of the sexes is preserved even after death, some of the compartments being reserved exclusively for women. As you read the names of birthplaces, in lands remote, from all parts of Europe and oversea, the West Indies and Labrador, you will perhaps think that weary pilgrims have journeyed from far to find rest for their souls in peaceful Herrnhut.
There is, however, one marked exception to the rule of uniformity as regards the slabs. It is in favour of Count Zinzendorf and his wife and immediate relatives—a family deservedly held in high respect by the Brethren. Eight monumental tombs, placed side by side across the central path, perpetuate the names of the noble benefactors. Of the count himself it is recorded: He was appointed to bear fruit, and a fruit that yet remains.
On the summit of the hill, beyond the hedge of the burial-ground, a wooden pavilion is built with a circular gallery, from whence you get a fine panoramic view of the surrounding country. The innkeeper had given me the key, and I loitered away an hour looking out on the prospect. Now you see the Gottesacker, with its fifteen formal clipped squares, some yet untenanted, and room for enlargement; the red roofs and white walls of the village; and beyond, the fir-topped Heinrichsberg, and planted slopes which beautify the farther end of the place. Berthelsdorf, the seat of the Unität, stands pleasantly embowered at the foot of the eastern slope. You see miles of road, two or three windmills, and umbrageous green lines thinning off in the distance, the trees all planted by the Herrnhuters; and the fields, orchards, and plantations that fill all the space between, testify to the diligent husbandry of the Brethren.
Every place and prominent object within sight is indicated by a red line notched into the top rail of the balustrade, so that, while sauntering slowly round, you can read the name of any spire or distant peak that catches your eye. The summits are numerous, for hills rise on every side; among them you discover the Landskrone by Görlitz, and the crown of the Tafelfichte in the Isergebirge, the only one of the mountains within sight. It is a view that will give you a cheerful impression of Saxony.
The doorkeeper of the church had noticed a stranger, and came up for a talk. I asked him how much of what lay beneath our eyes belonged to the Brethren. "About two hundred acres," he answered, pointing all round, and to an isolated estate away in the direction of Zittau; "enough for comfort and prosperity." Once started, he proved himself no niggard of information. To give the substance of his words: "I like the place very well," he said, "and don't know of any discontent; though we have at times to lament that a brother falls away from us back into the worldly ways. Each fulfils his duty. We are none of us idle. We have weavers, shoemakers, harness-makers, coppersmiths, goldsmiths, workers in iron, lithographers, and artists; indeed, all useful trades; and our workmanship and manufactures are held in good repute. I am a cabinet-maker, and keep eight journeymen always at work. Each one from the age of eighteen to sixty takes his turn in the night-watch; and, night and day, the place is always as quiet as you see it now. You don't hear the voices of children at play, because children are never left to themselves. Whether playing or walking, they are always under the eye of an adult, as when in school. We do not think it right to leave them unwatched. We have service three times every Sunday, and at seven o'clock every evening; besides certain festivals, and a memorial service like that of this afternoon. The preacher you heard is considered a good one: his salary is four hundred dollars a year."
He interrupted his talk by an invitation to go and see the grounds of the Heinrichsberg. As we walked along the street, I could not fail again to remark the absence of sounds which generally inspire pleasure. No merry laughter, accompanied by hearty shouts and quick foot-tramp of boys at play. No running hither and thither at hide-and-seek; no trundling of hoops; no laughing girls with battledore and shuttlecock. I saw but two children, apparently brother and sister, and they were walking as soberly as bishops. I should like to know whether such a repressive system does really answer the purpose intended; for I could not help questioning, in Goldsmith's words, whether the virtue that requires so constant a guard be worth the expense of the sentinel.
The Heinrichsberg is behind the Bruderhaus and the street leading to Zittau. Here the fir forest, which once covered the whole hill, has been cut down, and replaced by plantations of beech, birch, hazel, and other leafy trees, and paths are led in many directions along the precipitous slopes, by which you approach a pavilion erected on the commanding point, as at the Gottesacker. The situation is romantic, overhanging the brown cliffs of a stone quarry, with a view into a deep wooded valley, spanned by the lofty railway viaduct. Here the Brethren have shown themselves wise in their generation, and, working with skilful hand, and eye of taste, have made the most of natural resources, and fashioned a resort especially delightful in the sultry days of summer.
When my communicative guide left me to attend to his duties, I strolled up the Zittau road to the place where, in a small opening by the wayside, stands a square stone monument, on which an inscription records an interesting historical incident:
On the 17th June, 1772, was
on this place for the building
of Herrnhut the first tree felled.
Ps. lxxxiv. 4.
It was cool there in the shade; and sitting down on a seat overhung by the trees, I fell into a reverie about things that had befallen since Christian David's axe wrought here to such good purpose. At that time all was dreary forest; no house nearer than Berthelsdorf, and little could the poverty-stricken refugees have foreseen such a result of their struggle as Herrnhut in its present condition. All at once I was interrupted by an elderly woman, who, returning to her village, sought a rest on the plinth of the monument, and proved herself singularly talkative. Perhaps she owed the Brethren a grudge, for she wound up with: "Nice people, them, sir, in Herrnhut; but they know how to get the money, sir."
About two hundred persons, mostly youthful, were present at the evening service. The dais was occupied as before, but by a lesser number. The preacher, the same eloquent man, gave an exposition of a portion of the Epistle to the Romans, elucidating the Apostle's meaning in obscure passages, which lasted half an hour. He then pronounced a brief benediction, and delivered the first line of a hymn, which was sung by all present, and, as in the afternoon, only at the last two lines did any one stand up.
I was deeply impressed by the contrast between the two services here in the unadorned edifice, and what I witnessed at Prague. Here no ancient prejudice, or ancient dirt, or slovenly ritual, as in the synagogue; but the outpouring of hope and faith from devout and cheerful hearts. Here no showy ceremonial; no swinging of censers, or kissing of pictures, or endless bowings and kneelings, or any of those mechanical observances in which the worshipper too often forgets that it has been given to him to be his own priest, and with full and solemn responsibility for neglect of duty.
The service over, I went and asked permission to look over the Sisters' House: I had seen the Brothers' House at Zeist. It was past the hour for the admission of strangers; but the stewardess, as a special favour, conducted me from floor to floor, where long passages give access on either side to small sitting-rooms, workrooms, and one great bedroom; all scrupulously clean and comfortably furnished. The walls are white; but any sister is at liberty to have her own room papered at her own cost. I saw the chapel in which the inmates assemble for morning and evening thanksgiving;—the refectory where they all eat together;—the kitchen, pervaded by a savoury smell of supper;—and the ware-room in which are kept the gloves, caps, cuffs, and all sorts of devices in needlework produced by the diligent fingers of the sisters. There were some neither too bulky nor too heavy for my knapsack, and of these I bought a few for sedate friends in England.
The unmarried sisters, as the unmarried brothers, dwell in a house apart; and as they eat together, and purchase all articles of consumption in gross, the cost to each is but small. Two persons are placed in authority over each house; one to care for the spiritual, the other for the economical welfare of the inmates. There are, besides, separate houses for widowers and widows.
As the sun went down I strolled once more to the Gottesacker and dreamt away a twilight hour on the gallery of the pavilion. As the golden radiance vanished from off the face of the landscape, and the stillness became yet more profound, I thought that many a heart weary of battling with the world might find in the Work and Worship of Herrnhut a relief from despair, and a new ground for hopefulness.
When I went back to the inn I found half a dozen grave-looking Brethren smoking a quiet pipe over a tankard of beer. We had some genial talk together while I ate my supper; but as ten o'clock approached they all withdrew. The doors were then fastened; and not a sound disturbed the stillness of the night. The watchers began their nightly duty; but they utter no cry as they go their rounds, leading a fierce dog by a thong, while three or four other dogs run at liberty. Should their aid be required in any house from sickness or other causes, a signal is given by candles placed in the window.
About Herrnhut—Persecutions in Moravia—A Wandering Carpenter—Good Tidings—Fugitives—Squatters on the Hutberg—Count Zinzendorf's Steward—The First Tree—The First House—Scoffers—Origin of the Name—More Fugitives—Foundation of the Union—Struggles and Encouragements—Buildings—Social Regulations—Growth of Trade—War and Visitors—Dürninger's Enterprise—Population—Schools—Settlements—Missions—Life at Herrnhut—Recreations—Festivals—Incidents of War—March of Troops—Praise and Thank-Feasts.
While I sat by the monument of the first tree, and lingered in the glow of sunset at the pavilion, a desire came upon me to know something more of the history of Herrnhut. I partly gratify it in the present chapter.
When the sanguinary Hussite wars ended in the triumph of the Jesuits, there remained in Bohemia and Moravia numbers of godly-minded Protestants, who, as the oppressor grew in strength, were forbidden the free exercise of their religion. They worshipped by stealth, hiding in caves and thickets, and suffered frightful persecution; but remained steadfast, and formed a union among themselves for mutual succour, and became the United Brethren. Their chief settlements were at Fulnek, in Moravia, and Lititz, in Bohemia. Though professing the principles of the earliest Christian church, many of them embraced the doctrines of Luther and Calvin, whereby they subjected themselves to aggravated persecutions; and cruelly were they smitten by the calamities of the Thirty Years' War.
About 1710 a Roman Catholic carpenter set out from the little Moravian village, Senftleben, to fulfil his three "wander-years," and gain experience in his trade. While working at Berlin, he frequented the Evangelical Lutheran church; and afterwards at Görlitz the impression made on his mind by a Lutheran preacher was such that he went back to his home a Protestant. He was a bringer of good tidings to some of his relatives who were among the persecuted. He could tell them of a kingdom beyond the frontier where they might worship unmolested; of a youthful Count Zinzendorf, who had large estates in the hill-country of Saxony, and was already known as a benefactor to such as suffered for conscience' sake.
It was on Whit-Monday, 1722, that Christian David—so the carpenter was named—brought the news. Three days later, two families, numbering ten persons, abandoned their homes, and under David's guidance came safely to Görlitz, after a nine days' journey. On the 8th of June the four men travelled to Hennersdorf, the residence of Zinzendorf's grandmother, who placed them under charge of the land-steward, with instructions that houses should be built for them. But as the steward wrote to his master, "the good people seek for the present a place only under which they may creep with wife and children, until houses be set up." After much consideration, it was resolved to build on the Hutberg, a hill traversed by the road from Loebau to Zittau—then a miserable track, in which vehicles sank to their axles. "God will help," replied the steward to one of his friends, who doubted the finding of water on the spot; and on the two following mornings he rose before the sun and went upon the hill to observe the mists. What he saw led him to believe in the existence of a spring; whereupon he took courage, and, as he tells the Count, "I laid the miseries and desires of these people before the Lord with hot tears, and besought Him that His hand might be with me, and prevent wherein my intentions were unpleasing to Him. Further I said, On this place will I build the first house for them in thy name."
A temporary residence was found for the fugitives; the benevolent grandmother gave a cow that the children might have milk; and on June 17th, as already mentioned, the first tree was felled by Christian David. On the 11th of August the house was erected; the preacher at Berthelsdorf took occasion to refer to it as "a light set on the hill to enlighten the whole land;" and in October it was taken possession of with prayer and thanksgiving, the exiles singing from their hearts—
"Jerusalem! God's city thou."
The steward, writing about this time to inform the Count of his proceedings, says: "May God bless the work according to His goodness, and procure that your excellency may build on the hill called the Hutberg a city which not only may stand under the Herrn Hut (Lord's protection), but all dwellers upon the Lord's watch, so that day and night there be no silence among them." Here we have the origin of the name of the place.
Meanwhile, the neighbourhood laughed and joked about the building of a house in so lonely a spot, where it must soon perish; and still more when the digging for the spring was commenced. The land-steward had much ado to keep the labourers to their work. Fourteen days did they dig in vain; but in the third week they came to moist gravel, and soon water streamed forth in superabundance.
On December 21st the Count arrived with his newly-married wife, and was surprised at sight of a house in a place which he had left a forest. He went in; spoke words of comfort to the inmates, and falling on his knees, prayed earnestly for protection.
In the next year, Christian David journeyed twice into Moravia. The priests, angered at the departure of the first party, had worried their relatives, and forbade them to emigrate under penalty of imprisonment. Would not let them live in peace at home, nor let them go. Aided, however, by the messenger, twenty-six persons forsook their little possessions, their all, and stole away by night. "Goods left behind," says the historian, "but faith in their Father in the heart." They reached the asylum, where, by the spring of 1724, five new houses were ready to receive them.
In this year came other fugitives, experienced in the church discipline of the old Moravian Brethren; and as the number yet increased, they besought the Count to institute the same constitution and discipline in Herrnhut. But differences of opinion arose, and for three years the harmony and permanence of the colony were seriously endangered. The Count, however, was not a man to shrink from a good work; he was remarkable for his power of influencing minds; and on the 12th of May, 1727, after a three hours' discourse, he succeeded in reconciling all differences, and the Reformed Evangelical United Brotherhood of the Augsburg Confession was established. This day, as well as the 13th of August of the same year, when the whole community renewed and confirmed their union in the church at Berthelsdorf, are days never to be forgotten by the Brethren.
The success of Herrnhut was now secure. The number of residents had increased to three hundred, of whom one half were fugitives from Moravia. But they had still to endure privation; for they had abandoned all their worldly substance, and trade and tillage advanced but slowly: in the first six months, all that the two cutlers took from the passers-by was but two groschen: a lean twopence. Friedrich von Watteville, however, a much-beloved friend of the Count's, took a room in one of the houses that he might live among the struggling people, and help them in their endeavours.
Of the thirty-four small wooden houses which then stood on both sides of the Zittau road not one now remains. In their place large and handsome houses of brick have risen, which, though the place be but a village, give it the appearance of a city. Besides those which have been mentioned, there are the Herrschaftshaus, the Vogtshof—a somewhat palatial edifice—the Gemeinhaus, the Apotheke, the Pilgerhaus, and others. An ample supply of water is brought in by wooden pipes, and two engines and eight cisterns in different quarters are always ready against fire. There are covered stalls for the sale of meat and vegetables; a common wash-house and wood-yard, and a dead-house, all under the charge and inspection of a Platzaufseher—an overseer who most undoubtedly does his duty. If ædiles in other places would only take a lesson from him, their constituents would have reason to be proud and grateful. An almoner is appointed to succour indigent strangers. In 1852 he relieved 3668 tramping journeymen.
Year by year the Herrnhuters improved in circumstances, though often at hard strife with penury. However, they preferred hunger, with freedom of conscience, to the tender mercies of the Jesuits at Olmutz. The weavers of Bernstadt sent them wool to spin. In 1742 an order for shoes for the army was regarded as a special favour of Providence. The Seven Years' War, that brought misery to so many places, worked favourably for Herrnhut. In one day a hundred officers visited the place. Prince Henry of Prussia came and made large purchases, for the work of the shoemakers and tailors, not being made merely to sell, was much prized; and it sometimes happened that from 1500 to 2000 dollars were taken in one day. Austrians and Prussians—fierce foes—rode in alternately to buy; and while Herrnhut flourished, many erroneous notions which had prevailed concerning it were removed by what the visitors saw of the simple life and manners of the Brethren.
To Abraham Dürninger, who established a manufacture of linen cloths, and whose skill and enterprise as a merchant were only matched by his ceaseless activity, the colony owed the mainstay of its commercial prosperity. Brother Dürninger's linen and woven goods were largely exported, particularly to Spain, South America, and the West Indies, and esteemed above all others in the market for the excellence of their quality. The trade has since fallen off, but not the reputation, as gold and silver medals awarded to the Herrnhuters by the governments of Prussia and Saxony for honest workmanship amply testify.
In 1760, notwithstanding that many colonies and missions had been sent out, the population numbered 1200. This was the highest. The number remained stationary until the end of the century; since then it has slowly decreased, owing, as is said, to the decline of trade. In 1852 it was 925. No new buildings have been erected since 1805, so that Herrnhut has the appearance of a place completely finished. The streets were paved, and flagged footways laid down, eighty years ago; and since 1810 all the roads leading from the village have been planted and kept in good condition.
Well-managed elementary schools supply all that is needful for ordinary education. Pupils who exhibit capabilities for higher training are sent to the Pedagogium at Nisky, a village built by Bohemian refugees near Görlitz. Theological students are trained at the seminary in Gnadenfeld, in the principality of Oppeln; and those for the missions at Klein Welke, a village near Budissin, established as a dwelling-place for converts from among the Wends.
Fifty-seven Moravian settlements and societies in different parts of the continent of Europe—Russia, Sweden, Holland, Germany, some founded by emigrants from Herrnhut, and all taking it for their pattern, mark the growth of the principles advocated by the Brethren. In England they have eleven settlements, among which Fulneck, in Yorkshire, renews the name of the old Moravian village; and Ockbrook, in Derbyshire, is the seat of the conference which directs the affairs of the British settlements, but always with responsibility to the Conference of Elders at Berthelsdorf. Scotland has one community—at Ayr; and Ireland seven. At the last reckoning, in 1848, the number of real members, exclusive of the societies, was 16,000.
Besides these, there are seventy foreign mission-stations, the duties of which are fulfilled by 297 Brethren. The number of persons belonging to the several missions is 70,000. That in North America was commenced in 1734; Greenland, 1733; Labrador, 1770. The others are in the West Indies, Musquito territory, Surinam, South Africa, and Australia. At the instance of Dr. Gutzlaff, who visited Herrnhut in 1850, two missionaries have been sent to Mongolia.[J]
Although life at Herrnhut may appear tame and joyless to an ordinary observer, it is not so to the Herrnhuters. A lasting source of pleasure to them are the cheerful situation of the place itself, and the delightful walks fashioned and planted by their own hands. Lectures, the study of foreign languages, and of natural history, and music, are among their permanent recreations. They excel in harmony, and find, as their celebrations partake more or less of a religious character, in the singing of oratorios, choruses, and hymns, an animating and elevating resource. They observe the anniversary of the foundation of Herrnhut, and of all other important incidents of its history, and thus have numerous festival days. In some instances, instrumental music, decorations of fir-branches, and an illumination, heighten the effect.
Betrothals are times of gladness; baptism and marriage of solemn joy. Weddings always take place in the evening; and in the evening also are held, once in four weeks, the celebrations of the Lord's Supper. On these occasions the whole community are present. Three or four brothers who have received ordination, wearing white gowns, break the thin cakes of unleavened bread and distribute to the assembly, and when the last is served all eat together. The cup is then blessed and passed in order from seat to seat.
On certain festive occasions love-feasts are held, after the manner of the Agapæ of the earliest Christian churches. At these gatherings, which are intended to show the family ties which unite the members of the community with the spiritual head of the church, suitable discourse is held, hymns are sung; and cakes and tea—with at times wine and coffee—are partaken of.
The Easter-morning celebration is especially remarkable. On that morning the whole brotherhood assemble before sunrise in the church, should the weather prove unfavourable; if fine, in the open air. Then they walk two by two, the trumpets sounding before them, to the hill of the Gottesacker, to watch from thence the rising of the sun. Arrived on the height, they form into a great square: the prayers and praises of the Easter-morning liturgy are then prayed and sung; meanwhile the sun appears above the dim and distant horizon; a spectacle in which the beholders see a foretoken of that glorious resurrection where, in the words of a brother, "the grave is not, nor death." Then the names of those who died during the past year are read, and with affectionate remembrances of them the celebration closes.
The service on New Year's Eve is so numerously attended from all the neighbourhood round, that the church will hardly contain the throng. At half-past eleven a discourse is begun, in which the events of the year about to close are passed in review, with other subjects appropriate to the time, until, as the clock strikes twelve, the trumpet choir sound hail! to the new year. Then the verse
"Now all give thanks to God"
is sung, and with a prayer the service ends.
Burials are characterized by a simplicity worthy of all imitation; in striking contrast to the vain and oft-times ludicrous proceedings, by which folk in some other places think they do honour to the dead. The Brethren assemble—wearing no kind of mourning except in their hearts—in the church, where a short discourse is delivered, and a narrative of the deceased's life is read. The procession is then formed, preceded by the trumpet-band, who blow sacred melodies; and the corpse is carried on a bright-coloured bier, covered with a striped pall, by four brothers, dressed in their usual clothes. The nearest relatives follow, and behind them the community, according to kin. They form a circle round the grave and sing a hymn, accompanied by the trumpets, during which the coffin is lowered. The burial service is then read, and the simple rite concludes with a benediction.
Not least interesting among the annals of Herrnhut are incidents arising out of the wars which have afflicted Germany since the place was founded. All day the Brethren heard the roar of cannon when Frederick won his great victory at Lowositz; and a few days later, forty-eight of them had to keep watch against an apprehended foray of Trenck's wild Pandours. In 1757, General Zastrow quartered suddenly four thousand men upon them spitefully, and in defiance of a royal order to the contrary, keeping the peaceful folk in alarm all night; but the troops were withdrawn in the morning, and an indemnity was paid for the mischief they had committed. At times, long trains of men, horses, and artillery would pass through without intermission for a whole day—now Prussians, now Austrians, now heathen Croats. In the same year three thousand officers visited the place, among whom, during three weeks of the summer, were thirty-four princes, seventy-eight counts, and one hundred and forty-six nobles of other degree. Numbers of them attended the religious services of the Brethren. The Abbé Victor was one of the visitors, and on his return to Russia he said so much in praise of the Herrnhuters, that the emperor gave him permission to establish the colony of Sarepta in Southern Russia, which still exists.
In 1766 came the Emperor Joseph II., and by his pleasing manners and friendly inquiries made a "lasting impression" on the minds of the Brethren. In October, 1804, Francis I.—the Franzl of the Tyrolese—with his wife. In 1810, Gustaf Adolf IV. of Sweden, who expressed a wish to become a member. In 1813 the Emperor Alexander came as a visitor, and examined all things carefully; and it is recorded of him that while the children sang he stood among them bareheaded. He was followed by three of the famous marshals—Kellermann, Victor, and Macdonald.
This was a terrible year. With the retreat from Moscow came train on train of wounded Saxons on the way to Dresden. Requisition on requisition was made for linen and provisions; and one day, when no more wagons were left, the Brethren had to supply two hundred wheelbarrow-loads of rations. Night after night they saw the lurid glow of fires, for seventy-one places were burnt in the circles of Bautzen and Görlitz. Then came Cossacks, Calmucks, and squadrons of savage Bashkirs, armed with bows and arrows. Then Poniatowsky with his Poles, and Saxon Uhlans; and a review was held in a meadow behind the Schwesternhaus, and the sisters made hundreds of little pennons for the Polish lances.
In August, Napoleon was at Zittau. Daily skirmishes took place among Prussians, Poles, and Russians, for possession of the Hutberg—the best look-out for miles around. In September, Blucher came with Gneisenau and Prince Wilhelm, and had the Prussian head-quarters here for five days.
On the whole, Herrnhut suffered but little in comparison with other places; yet the Brethren were not slow to rejoice for the evacuation of Germany by the enemy, and the restoration of peace. "Praise and Thank-feasts" were held, with illuminations and fireworks; some of the fires being green and white, to represent the national colours of Saxony.
A Word with the Reader—From Herrnhut to Dresden—A Gloomy City—The Summer Theatre—Trip to the Saxon Switzerland—Wehlen—Uttewalde Grund—The Bastei—Hochstein—The Devil's Kettle—The Wolfschlucht—The Polenzthal—Schandau—The Kuhstall—Great Winterberg—The Prebischthor—Herniskretschen—Return to Dresden—To Berlin—English and German Railways—The Royal Marriage Question—Speaking English—A Dreary City—Sunday in Berlin—Kroll's Garden—Magdeburg—Wittenberg—Hamburg—A-top of St. Michael's—A Walk to Altona—A Ride to Horn—A North Sea Voyage—Narrow Escape—Harness and Holidays.
I fear, good-natured reader, that you will find this chapter too much like a catalogue. I am, however, admonished by the number of my pages that a swift conclusion is desirable. Moreover, my publisher—an amiable man in most respects—is apt to be dogmatic on questions of paper and print, fancying that he knows best, so I have no alternative but to humour him; and, after all, you will perhaps say that it is well to get over the ground as fast as possible when one comes again upon much-beaten tracks.
From Herrnhut I travelled by rail to Dresden—Pianopolis as some residents call it. Taken as a whole, it is a singularly heavy-looking and gloomy city: some of the principal streets reminded me of back-streets in Oxford. I saw the picture-gallery and the great library; and desirous to see what our forefathers used to see at the Globe—a play acted by daylight in a roofless play-house—I went to the summer theatre in the Grossen Garten. It is an agreeable pastime in fine weather, for you can see green tree-tops all round above the walls, and feel the breeze, and enjoy your tankard of Waldschloess—that excellent Dresden beer—while looking at the performance. A clever actress from Berlin made her first appearance; she played in the two pieces, and by her vivacity made amends for the miserable music, which was unworthy of Pianopolis, and of the leader's intense laboriousness in beating time.
I should like to take you with me in my walk through the Saxon Switzerland; but can only glance thereat for reasons already shown. If you have read Sir John Forbes's picturesque description of that romantic country published last year in his Sight-Seeing in Germany, you will not want another. I may, however, tell you, that you may visit all the most remarkable places in two days. Leave Dresden by steamer at six in the morning; disembark at Wehlen, walk from thence through the Uttewalde Grund to the Bastei, where, from the summit of a bastion rock springing from the Elbe, you have a magnificent view, with enough of water in it. You will see numerous specimens of those flat-topped hills, resembling the bases of mighty columns, such as we saw from the Milleschauer, and crag on crag, ridge on ridge, the gray stone shaded by forest for miles around. You will perceive Adersbach on a great scale; the same sort of sandstone split up in all directions, but the precipitous masses wide apart, isolated, and with glens and vales between all, glad with foliage and running water, instead of crevices and alleys.
From the Bastei you plunge down the zigzags among the crags to the Amselgrund, past the waterfall, and by wild ways to the Teufelsbruch and the Hochstein, an isolated crag, from which you look down into the Devil's Kettle, 350 feet deep. Then down through the Wolfschlucht, a crevice in the cliff, which, where you descend by ladders, looks very much like a wolf's-gully. It brings you into the Polenzthal, where on the grassy margin of a trout stream, beneath the shade of birches, precipitous cliffs towering high aloft, something grand and beautiful at every bend, you will believe it the loveliest scene of all. Then up the Brand—another out-look, and from thence down to Schandau, where you pass the night.
On the second day, walk up the Kirnitschthal to the Kuhstall, a broad arch in a honeycombed rock on the top of a hill; from thence to the Little Winterberg and Great Winterberg, the latter more than 1700 feet high—the highest point of the district, commanding a grand prospect over hill and hollow, crag and forest. While gazing around in admiration, you will perhaps wish that the old name—Meissner Highlands—had not been changed, for there is but little of the real Switzerland in the view.
Then on to the Prebischthor, crossing the frontier on the way into Bohemia at a lonely spot, uninfested as yet by guards or barrier. The Prebischthor is a huge arch, more than a hundred feet high, also on a hill-top, 1300 feet above the sea. Two mighty columns support a massive block, a hundred feet in length, forming a marvellous specimen of natural architecture. You can walk under and around its base, and look at the landscape through the opening, or mount to the summit and look down sheer eight hundred feet into the Prebischgrund. Here, as everywhere else, you find an inn, good beer, and musicians, a throng of tourists, and an album filled with names, and rhyming attempts at wit and sentiment.
From the Prebischthor you descend by the valley of the Kamnitz to Herniskretschen, a village built on a narrow level between tall frowning cliffs and the Elbe. I arrived here in time for the steamer at two o'clock, by which I returned to Dresden. I had seen the Saxon Switzerland from all the best points of view, and saw all the romantic course of the river, except the eight miles from Tetschen to Herniskretschen. A pleasanter two days' trip could not well be imagined. Once at Wehlen, the places to be visited are but from three to four miles apart; the way from one to the other is easy to find, and there is constant diversity of scenery, to say nothing of the talkative groups of Germans with whom you may join fellowship. But, in truth, it is a region to loiter in, and you will wish that weeks were yours instead of scanty days.
Soon after noon of the next day I was in Berlin. Travel the same route, and you will no longer wonder at the rapturous excitement of the Germans in the Riesengebirge. The country is one great plain—little fields, marshes, sluggish streams, ponds covered with water-lilies, windmills and sandy wastes sprinkled with a few trees that look miserable at having to grow in such a dreary land. Here and there a winding road—a mere deep-rutted track—winds across the landscape, making it look, if possible, still more melancholy. Look out when you will, you see the same monotonous features.
In our own happy country you would have the additional sorrow of an uncomfortable carriage. To know what outrageous inflictions can be perpetrated by railway monopoly, and endured by your long-suffering countrymen, just ride for once from London to Lowestofft in an Eastern Counties third-class carriage—you will have more than enough of North German scenery and of English discomfort, but without the compensations of German beer and German coffee. Or vary your experiences by a journey to Winchester in a second-class on the South-Western line, and try to enjoy the landscape through the wooden shutter which the Company give you for a window. Go to Euston-square—anywhere in fact—and you find that the passenger with most money in his pocket is the one most cared for. Even the Great Western and South-Eastern Companies, who have outgrown the short-sighted habit of building dungeons and calling them carriages—even these mighty monopolists condemn their second-class passengers to a wooden seat.
But on the line from Dresden to Berlin the third-class carriages are far more commodious than any second-class I have ever seen in England—except two or three at the Great Exhibition, which, perhaps, were meant only for show. The seats are broad, hollowed, and not flat, and with space enough between for the comfortable placing of your legs. The roof is lofty. You can stand upright with your hat on. At either end a broad shelf is fixed for small packages and light luggage; and more than all, the same civility and attention are extended by all the functionaries to third-class passengers as to the first. We brag of our liberty, and not without reason; but let us remember that the foreigner, though afflicted with passports, travels at less cost and with more comfort than we do.
Here, too, my fellow-passengers made merry over the "Palmerston gehänget" story; and many questions had I to answer concerning the coming marriage of the Prussian Prince and English Princess. I gave the same reply as to the Dresdener in the palace at Fischbach. One of the company, who told us he was a professor of literature at Berlin, inclined to be saucy. It was all a mistake to suppose that there was one jot more liberty in England than in Prussia. He could speak English, and knew all about it. Unluckily, by way of proving how well he could speak English, he said we should arrive at "Twelve past half;" whereupon I set the others laughing to take the conceit out of him. He relapsed into German, and looked so unhappy, that, by way of consolation, I told him of a countryman of his in England who went to keep an appointment at "clock five."
Berlin is a dreary, malodorous city, or rather an enormous village beginning to try to be a city; and fortunate in being the residence of men of taste and real artists who know what architecture and sculpture ought to be, as demonstrated by the improvements and embellishments around the palace and in the approach to that fine street Unter den Linden. You can hire a droschky to take you anywhere within the walls for fivepence; but be patient, for whether droschky or omnibus, the pace is as slow as if the drivers had to work for nothing. Pour le roi de Prusse, as the French say.
Many a portrait of the English Princess Royal, along with that of her future consort, did I see in the print-sellers' windows; and on the morrow I saw how the Berliners pass their Sunday: not with shops open all the day as in Paris, but with much beer, music, and tobacco in the environs. I was simple enough to walk out to the Zoological Garden—a few pens very widely scattered in a neglected forest plantation, containing specimens of swine, poultry, goats, and kine, all made as much of as if they were in Little Pedlington. From thence I walked out to Charlottenburg, notwithstanding the offensive drains which border the road the whole distance, and saw the tasteful mausoleum in the palace grounds, and the lazy carp in the big pond. The Opera House was open in the evening with Satanella, a "fantastic ballet," in three acts; and crowds made their way out to Kroll's Garden—the Cremorne of Berlin—where a play was acted in the theatre, and two orchestras outside kept up a constant succession of lively music: one striking up as the other ended. The number of tall people among the throng was remarkable, and not less so the rapidity with which beer and coffee, cakes and cutlets, were consumed. The numerous troop of waiters had not an idle moment.
I wished to see the place where the most terrible tragedy of the Thirty Years' War had been acted—where Tilly and Pappenheim—Bloodthirsty and Ferocious—sacked a flourishing city just as the foremost of the Swedish horse, commanded by Gustavus the Avenger, came within sight of its walls. So I journeyed to Magdeburg: always the same great plain on either side; but hereabouts fertile, and among the best of the corn-land of Europe. The early train travels quickly: it accomplished the distance in a little more than three hours.
I went directly to the cathedral, and, after a view of its noble interior, mounted to the gallery, which runs all round the top without a break. I stayed up there two hours pacing slowly round, surveying the busy town, the bustle of boats and barges on the Elbe, the citadel, the long line of fortification, and thinking over the history of the terrible siege. Besides the cathedral, the town contains but little to repay an exploration, and the people generally have a shabby look, as I proved by experiment, so I walked up the river bank to one of the suburban pleasure-gardens till the hour of departure approached. At five in the afternoon—away by train for Hamburg. Always the same great plain, heaved here and there into gentle swells. We slept at Wittenberg, and were off again the next morning long before the dew was dry. The plain abates somewhat of its monotony in Mecklenburg, and breaks into low hills with green valleys and pleasant woods between; and here, instead of groschen and dollars, we found schillings and marks—schillings worth a penny apiece. Shortly before eleven our long journey ended.
I went to the steam-boat office; took a place for London; asked one of the clerks which was the tallest church in Hamburg; left my knapsack under his desk, and made my way through the maze of picturesque old streets to St. Michael's. The tower is 460 feet in height, and you have to mount hundreds of stairs, the last flight, quite open to the sky, running in a spiral round the pillars of the belfry. Some weak heads turn back here; but if you continue, the view from the little chamber at the top will reward you. A vast panorama meets the eye. Miles away into Hanover and Holstein, all the territory of Hamburg, across Mecklenburg, and down the broad river well-nigh to the sea, sixty miles distant. The city itself is an interesting sight: the contrast between the old and new so great; the bustle on the Elbe and in the streets; the numerous canals, basins, dams, and havens; the planted walks, all enclosed by green and undulating environs, make up a picture that you will be reluctant to leave. Some of the windows of the little chamber are fitted with glass of different colours, so that at pleasure you may look out on a fairy scene below. The charge for the ascent is one mark.
Afterwards, when perambulating the streets, you will discover that Hamburg is a city not less interesting when viewed from the ground. The narrow streets, the old architecture, the variety of costumes, the curious ways of the traders, will arrest your attention at every step. And you will find much to commend in the building of the new quarter, and in the well-kept grounds and walks by the Exchange and around the Alster.
Seeing all this, I regretted that my stay would be but for a few hours: however, I improved those hours as diligently as possible. I walked out to Altona, and lived for an hour under the sovereignty of Denmark while looking at the old council-house and some other quaint specimens of architecture. Then turning in the opposite direction I rode out to Horn by omnibus; walked from thence across the heath and through the groves to Wansbeck, and rode back by a different road—a little trip in which I saw much to admire in the pretty wayside residences of the Hamburgers, situate so pleasantly among gardens and trees, and the inmates taking their evening meal on the grass-plot in front.[K]
I kept up my explorations till the approach of midnight warned me that it was time to embark. The watch at the city-gate let me out on payment of the accustomed toll—twopence at ten o'clock, a shilling at eleven—and I groped my way along the quay to the steamer Countess of Lonsdale. When I woke the next morning the pilot was being landed at Glückstadt; and we steamed across the North Sea with no other incident than that of nearly running down a Flemish fishing-boat in broad daylight; and yet we had a man on the look-out. But for the quick eye of the captain—who was telling amusing stories about the German fleet to a party of us lounging around him on the quarter-deck—and his sudden "hard a-port!" the little vessel would have been cut in two. As it was, she escaped but by a few inches.
During the lazy leisure of a day at sea, I reckoned the sum of my journeyings and outlay. I had walked three hundred and fifty miles, and expended—up to Hamburg—fourteen pounds. The passage to London, with etceteras, including an unconscionable steward's-fee, amounted to nearly three pounds more.
A voyage of forty-eight hours brought us to London; and at four in the morning of the 1st of August we stepped on shore at St. Katherine's Wharf. It was a lovely morning: even London looked picturesque in the clear rosy light. The opportunity was favourable, and I took it for an hour's study of the busiest phenomena of Billingsgate. Then I walked awhile, and sat on a certain doorstep reading Goldsmith's Traveller till the maid came down, very early, at a quarter-past seven. Then I exchanged thick boots and a comfortable coat for the garb of Cockneydom. And then—sensations of liberty tingling yet in every limb, and swarming with happy recollections through my brain—I went and crept once more into the old official harness.