Amish until 1871, and have now joined the Tunkers (Dunkers), or those
who immerse. The Tunkers do not go to war. If they are forced to do so,
they go to America. They do go into garrison, but they will not bear
arms. They are then taken before a military judge, and sometimes he sends
them to prison. When allowed to come out they can work in barracks in
bread-baking, the care of horses, etc., but will not take arms, even
possibly if they should be threatened with death.
But they are not always sent to prison. When the matter is understood by
the authorities other labor than military service is often assigned to
them. It was in this family of Oesch that I saw the two volumes which I
had before seen in Lancaster County. One was the Martyr-book, which was
published in Dutch, turned into German by the brotherhood at Ephrata,
and by them printed in 1748;[42] printed anew by the united brotherhood
in Europe. The date, I think, was 1780. The other volume was the old
Hymn-Book, still in use among the Amish in my own country. This copy was
published at Basle in 1809.
I have before spoken of the congregation that I visited not far from
Kaiserslautern, and of its preacher, who received a salary of about
one hundred and eighty dollars. I met the preacher there and at his own
dwelling, and he gave me a list, published in 1881, of the Mennonite
congregations in Germany, Galicia, Poland, and Russia. Why those in
Holland are not included I do not understand. Others are omitted, for the
preface says, “We are sorry that we have not received any information
concerning the small congregations found in Switzerland, as well as those
in Alsace and Lorraine.” As far as my own observation goes, the number
of Mennonites in Germany is not large. In Holland the number given in
Appleton’s Cyclopædia is over forty-four thousand in the year 1869. Of
those in Russia, the number mentioned in the list which was presented to
me (published in 1881) is about forty thousand. But a private letter from
a Mennonite editor estimates that fifteen thousand Russian Mennonites
have come to this country, and that, as there were about forty thousand
in Russia in 1870, only about twenty-five thousand are left there. The
editor mentions that they have settled here in Kansas, Nebraska, Dakota,
Minnesota, and Manitoba.
THE DUNKER LOVE-FEAST.
On the morning of the 25th of September, 1871, I took the cars of the
Pennsylvania Central Railroad for the borough of Mount Joy, in the
northwest part of this county of Lancaster. Finding no public conveyance
thence to the village of C., I obtained from my landlord a horse and
buggy and an obliging driver, who took me four or five miles, for two
dollars. We took a drive round by the new Dunker meeting-house, which is
a neat frame building,—brown, picked out with white window-frames. Behind
it is a wood, upon which the church-doors open, instead of upon the
highway.
We heard here that the meeting would not begin till one o’clock on the
next day. Some of the brethren were at the church, however, with their
teams, having brought provisions, straw, and bedding. We went into the
neat meeting-room, and above into the garret, where straw was being
laid down. A partition ran down the middle, and upon the women’s side a
small room had also been divided from the rest, wherein were one or two
bedsteads and the inevitable cradle. The basement had a hard earthen
floor, and was divided into dining-room, kitchen, and cellar. Upon
spacious shelves in the cellar a brother and sister were placing food.
Many large loaves of bread were there. The sister was taking pies from a
great basket, and bright coffee-pots stood upon the kitchen-table.
All here seemed to speak “Dutch,” but several talked English with me.
They seemed surprised that I had come so far as twenty-three miles in
order to attend the meeting. One remarked that it was no member that had
put the notice of the meeting which I had seen into the paper. Others,
however, seemed interested, although by my dress it was very plain that I
was not of the brotherhood.
I found C. a neat place of about a dozen houses, and we drove to the only
tavern. The landlady was young and pleasant, but she could speak little
English. She was quite sociable, however, and thought that she could
teach me “Dutch” and I her English. By means of some German on my part,
we got along tolerably together. She took me to a good chamber, and began
removing from it some of their best clothing. Showing me two sun-bonnets,
one of them made of black silk, she said, “It is the fashion.” “The
fashion?” said I. “Yes; the fashion for married women.” This was,
doubtless, the Dunker influence even among those not members.
Being at leisure in the afternoon, I walked to an ancient Moravian church
in the neighborhood, with the landlady’s little daughter,—a pretty child.
Her mother said, “Geh mit der aunty:” so she went with her adopted
relative.
“Do you speak English?” I said to the little one.
“Na!” she answered.
“Hast du ein Brüder?” (Have you a brother?) I continued.
“Na!” she replied, in the dialect.
“Wie alt bist du?” (How old are you?) I said afterward.[43]
“Vaze es net.” (I don’t know.)
Conversation flagged.
I found the church a small log building that had been covered with
boards. Many of the tombstones were in the Moravian fashion, such as I
had seen at Litiz,—small square slabs, lying flat in the grass; and some
were numbered at the top of the inscription. One of these is said to be
one hundred and twenty years old. But the Herrnhüter (as my landlady
said) are all gone, and another society now holds meetings in the lowly
church.
Although my little guide of six years could not speak English, she was
not wanting in good sense. As I was trying to secure the graveyard gate,
holding it with one hand, and stooping to roll up the stone that served
to keep it fast, the little one, too, put out her hand, unbidden, to hold
the gate. I thought that there were some English children that would not
have been so helpful, and reflected, as I walked along, upon _unspoken
language_, if I may use the expression.
The landlady had a plentiful supper after we returned. I was the only
guest, and, as is usual here, the maid sat down with us. We had fried
beef, sweet potatoes, pie, very nice apple-butter, canned peaches,
barley-coffee, brown sugar, etc. The charge for board was at the rate of
one dollar per day.
In the evening I heard my hostess up-stairs preparing my bed, as I
supposed. My surprise was therefore considerable, on turning down the
woollen coverlet, to find no sheets upon the feather bed. On lifting this
light and downy bed, which was neatly covered with white, I found one
sheet, a straw bed, and then a bed-cord in the place of a sacking-bottom.
I at once perceived that the feather bed was a feather cover, of which I
had often heard, but had never met with one before during my sojourn in
Pennsylvania “Dutchland.” I should think that this downy covering might
be pleasant in cold weather, but now I rolled it off upon the floor, and,
with the help of a spare comfortable, was soon at rest. The pillow-cases,
which were trimmed with edging, were marked with black silk, in a large
running-hand, in this manner: “Henry G. Kreider, 1864.”
As I sat the next morning a while with the landlady in her basement
kitchen, she remarked, “Here is it as Dutch as Dutchlant.” But she said
that my Dutch was not like theirs. The neighborhood, however, is not
nearly so German as Germany. I was told by an intelligent young man
that half the grown men did not speak English; I understand by this,
not that they do not speak our language at all, but not habitually and
with fluency. Many speak English very well, but the “Dutch” accent is
universal. For several years the school-books in the township have all
been English. I laughed with the landlady, who herself seemed somewhat
amused, at the children having English books and speaking Dutch, or, as
she would say, “Die Kinner lerne Englisch und schwetze Deitsch.” However,
at the Dunker church a pretty girl told me afterward that she had had
no difficulty at school the preceding winter, although “we always talk
German at home.”
At breakfast this morning, among other dishes, we had raisin-pie. Not a
great while after this meal was over, the morning having proved wet, a
neighbor took me over to the church in his buggy for twenty-five cents.
Although the hour was so early, and meeting was fixed to begin at one, I
found a considerable number here, which did not surprise me, as I knew
the early habits of our “Dutch” people. Taking a seat, I began to read a
number of the _Living Age_, when a black-eyed maid before me, in Dunker
dress, handed me her neatly-bound hymn-book in English and German. I told
her that I could read German, and when I read a verse in that language
she said, “But you don’t know what it means.” Reading German is with us a
much rarer accomplishment than speaking the dialect.
Ere long, a stranger came and sat down behind me, and entered into
conversation. He was a preacher from a distance, named L., and spoke very
good English. We soon found that we had mutual acquaintances in another
county, and when dinner was ready he invited me down to partake.
Here the men sat upon one side, and the women on the other, of one of
the long tables, upon which was laid a strip of white muslin. We had
bowls without spoons, into which was poured by attending brethren very
hot coffee, containing milk or cream, but no sugar. We had the fine
Lancaster County bread, good and abundant butter, apple-butter, pickles,
and pies. The provisions for these meals are contributed by the members
at a previous meeting, where each tells what he intends to furnish, how
many loaves of bread, etc., while some prefer to give money. To furnish
provisions, however, is natural to a people of whom about seventy-five in
a hundred are farmers, as is the case with the Dunkers. Whatever food is
left over after the four meals are finished is given to the poor, without
distinction of sect; “whoever needs it most,” as a sister said.
At this dinner, before eating, my new acquaintance, L., gave out, by two
lines at a time, the verse,—
“Eternal are thy mercies, Lord.”
But few joined in the singing. They would doubtless have preferred
German. In that language thanks were returned after eating.
When we went up into the meeting-room again, a young man of an
interesting countenance, a preacher, named Z., asked me if I was not
the one who had written an article which had lately appeared in one of
our county papers. It was very gratifying to be thus recognized among
strangers.
An elderly sister, who sat down by me and began to talk, was named
Murphy. The name surprised me much, but it was not the only Irish one
here. It is probable that some such persons were taken into Dunker
families, when young, to be brought up, and thus had been led to join the
society.
Having observed that there was a good deal of labor to be performed here
in waiting upon so many people, I asked Mrs. Murphy whether there were
women hired. She told me, “There’s a couple of women that’s hired; but
the members does a heap, too.”
On another occasion, I made a remark to a friendly sister about the
brethren’s waiting upon the table, as they did. She answered that it was
according to the Testament to help each other; the women cooked, and the
men waited upon the table. She did not seem able to give the text. It may
be, “Bear ye one another’s burdens.” I was amused that it should be so
kindly applied to the brethren’s helping the sisters.
Before meeting began in the afternoon, a lovely aged brother, with
silvery hair and beard, and wearing a woollen coat nearly white, showed
me how the seats were made, so that, by turning down the backs of some,
tables could be formed for the Love-Feast. He told me that the Dunkers
number about one hundred thousand,—that they have increased much in the
West, but not in the Eastern States. To which I rejoined, smiling, “You
Dutch folks do not like poor land, like much of that at the East.”
“This is not good land,” he said, “we have improved it;” for I had left
the rich limestone soil and had come to the gravelly land in the northern
part of the county.
When meeting began, as brethren came in, I saw some of these bearded men
kissing each other. These holy kisses, as will be seen hereafter, are
frequent among the Dunkers, and, as the men shave only the upper lip, it
seems strange to us who are unaccustomed to the sight and the sound. The
oft-repeated kissing was to me, perhaps, the least agreeable part of the
ceremonial.
The afternoon meeting became very crowded, and, as is usual among our
“Dutch” people, a number of babies were in attendance. During the
sessions their voices sometimes rose high, but the noise did not seem to
affect those who were preaching or praying. They felt it perhaps like
the wailing and sighing of the wind, which they regard not, and would
rather bear the inconvenience of the children than to have the mothers
stay away from meeting. This afternoon, during prayer, a little fellow
behind me kept saying, “Want to go to pappy;” but if his father was among
the brethren, he was on the other side of the house.
My new acquaintance, L., was the only preacher here who spoke in English.
All the other exercises, except a little singing, were in German or in
our Pennsylvania dialect. This afternoon L. said, among many remarks
more sectarian, or less broad, “Faith is swallowed up in sight; hope, in
possession; but charity, or love, is eternal. It came from God, for God
is love.” The allusion here is to Paul’s celebrated panegyric on charity;
but how much more charming it is in the German version, “Faith, hope,
love; but the greatest of these is love. Love suffereth long and is kind,
is not puffed up,” etc.
About the middle of the afternoon I perceived a speaker giving some
directions, and I asked the women near me what he had said. One answered
and said something about “_Wahl halten für prediger_,” by which I
perceived that the election for a preacher was now to take place. Both
brethren and sisters were to vote; not to select from a certain set of
candidates, however; but at random, among the congregation,—or _family_,
as it is sometimes called, “for all ye are brethren.”
In the room above-stairs were the bishop or elder and an assistant, to
receive the votes. This bishop we might call the father of this family,
which has four preachers and as many meeting-houses. The bishop is always
that preacher who is oldest in the ministry. Meeting is held by turns
in the different houses, occurring only once in six weeks in the large
new house which we then occupied. These particulars, which I gathered in
conversation, are, I believe, substantially correct.
During the interval of the election I sat and read, or looked out from
my window at the young people, the gayly-dressed girls mostly grouped
together. Some of these were, probably, relatives of the members,
while others may have come for the ride and the fun, to see and to be
seen,—meetings of this kind being great occasions in the country-side.
The young men stood around on the outside of these groups of girls, some
holding their whips and twirling them, with the butts resting upon the
ground. Of course the young girls were not conscious of the presence of
the beaux.
On the back of the house, or rather the front,—for, as I have said, the
main doors open upon the wood instead of upon the roadside,—were more
young girls, and plain sisters and brethren.
I asked a nice-looking woman about the election, but she could not tell
me, although she wore the plain cap. “Most of the women do around here,”
she said, and added that Dunker women in meeting had offered to kiss her.
“You know they greet each other with a kiss.”
After the brethren, the sisters were called up to vote. I laughed,
in talking with some of the members, at the women’s being allowed to
vote, in contrast to the usual custom. Mrs. Murphy reckoned it would
be different if the women should undertake to vote for Governor or
President.
I said to some of the sisters, “Who do you think will be chosen?” But
they pleasantly informed me that to talk upon this point was against
their rules,—it was a matter for internal reflection.
After meeting was over next day, as the bishop was talking with a
sister, I ventured to ask him whether a majority was necessary to elect
a preacher, or only a plurality. He seemed quite willing to talk,
displaying no clerical pride, and answered, “A majority,” adding, “Do
you speak German?” I feared that I could not readily understand him on
such a subject, and put the case to him thus in English: “Suppose one
man has twenty votes, another fifteen, and another ten?” Then the bishop
said that the one having twenty would be elected; whence it seems that
a plurality only is required. On this occasion the vote was doubtless
much divided, for I afterward heard that the bishop had said to the
congregation that it seemed there were a good many there that were
thought fit for preachers.
As sunset approached, some of the members began to form tables from the
benches for the Love-Feast, which made me wonder when supper was to be
ready. I soon found, however, that my ignorance of the language had
prevented my observing that while the “family” voted the rest of the
congregation were to sup. I was told, however, that if I would go down
I could still get something to eat. These meals were free to every one
that came. All were received, in the hope that they would obtain some
spiritual good.
In the basement I found a number of men sitting at the end of one of the
tables, waiting for food, and I also sat down near them. I was invited,
however, by a sister to step into the kitchen, where I stood and partook
of hot coffee, bread and butter, etc. As we went along through the
dining-room, I thought that the sister cast a reproachful glance at a
disorderly man seated at the table with his whip, and who was perhaps
intoxicated. I wondered that she should have taken me from the table to
stand in the kitchen, till I remembered that that was _a men’s table_.
In the kitchen, brethren were busily occupied cutting large loaves of
bread into quarters for the coming Love-Feast; and when I returned to
the room above, active preparations were still going on, which consumed
much time. The improvised tables were neatly covered with white cloths,
and hanging lamps shed down light upon the scene. Piles of tin pans
were placed upon the table, knives, forks, and spoons, and sometimes
a bowl. The tables, with their seats, occupied nearly the whole floor
of the church, leaving but little room for spectators. I was myself
crowded into a corner, where the stairs came up from the basement and
went up to the loft; but, though at times I was much pressed for room,
I had an excellent place to observe, for I stood at the end of the main
table. Here stood, too, a bright and social sister from a neighboring
congregation, who did not partake of the feast, and was able and willing
to explain the ceremonial to me, in English,—Mrs. R., as I will call her.
Near by at the table, among the older sisters, sat a pair who attracted a
great deal of my attention—a young mother and her babe—herself so quiet,
and such a quiet babe! They might have been photographed. Once or twice
the little six-weeks’ child gave a feeble young wail, and I saw the
youthful mother modestly give it that nourishment which nature provides.
The brethren came up carrying tubs of meat, which smelt savory, for I had
fasted from flesh since the morning. Then came great vessels of soup,—one
of them a very large tin wash-boiler. The soup was taken out into the tin
pans before mentioned, and the plates of meat were set upon the top, as
if to keep both hot. And, now that “at long last” the Love-Feast tables
were spread, the fasting family was ready to begin, not the supper, but
the feet-washing! This was the more remarkable, because the Testament,
their rule of action, relates that “supper being ended,” Jesus washed the
disciples’ feet.
The bishop arose in his place at the table, and, lamp in one hand and
book in the other, read in German the account of the feet-washing in
John’s gospel.
Four men who stood in front of him, watching his words, started when
he said “legte seine Kleider ab” (“laid aside his garments”), and, in
imitation of Jesus, took off their coats; and, as the Scripture says, “He
took a towel and girded himself,” they, or two of them, put on long white
aprons tied around the waist. Two washed feet and two wiped, and then he
who was thus ministered unto was kissed by one or both of the ministering
brethren. I was a little surprised that two should perform that office,
which Jesus is said to have performed alone: but Mrs. R. told me that, as
the church was one body, it was considered that it made no difference to
have two persons.
The four who had ministered took their seats, and were served in their
turn, four others taking their places, and so on. Upon the sisters’ side
of the house, on a front bench, the sisters were, in a similar manner,
performing the same ordinance.
While the religious services of the evening were going on within, from
without there came the sound of voices and laughter,—from where the
young people _of the world_ were enjoying themselves in the clear, cool
moonlight. I doubt not that, by this time, the girls had recognized the
presence of the young men.
Once there was a shriek or a yell, and Mrs. R. said, “Oh, the drunken
rowdies! there’s always some of them here!”
Having heard of the non-resistant or _wehrlos_ tenets of the Dunkers, I
wondered what they would do should the disturbance without become very
great and unpleasant. Mrs. Murphy thought that the other people would
interfere in such a case,—that is, that those not members would interest
themselves to maintain order. But on this point I afterward received
information from a brother, as I shall mention. The services were so
long that I told Mrs. R. I thought that the soup would be cold. “Oh,
no!” she said, “that won’t get cold so soon.” So I ventured to put my
finger against a pan near me, and it was yet warm. She asked me, during
feet-washing, whether I did not think that I should feel happy to be
there, partaking of that exercise.
I answered, in a non-committal manner, that if I had been brought up to
such things, as she had been, I might feel so, but that all my friends
and acquaintances were of a different mind. She rejoined, “But we must
follow Christ, and serve God, in spite of the world.” Even after the feet
were all washed, the fasting family could not yet eat, on account of the
protracted exhortations.
At length they broke their fast. From two to four persons, each with a
spoon, ate together from one pan of soup, very quietly, fifty feeding
like one, so to speak; the absence of sound proceeding in part perhaps
from the absence of earthen plates. Then they cut from the meat and from
the quarter-loaves, and partook of the butter, this being all the food.
There was no salt nor any other condiment. The occasional bowl was for
water. I suppose that most persons would think that there had been enough
kissing of the kind; but about this time a young bishop, an assistant,
stood up at the centre of the main table, and after some remarks shook
hands with the sister upon his left and kissed the brother upon his
right, and from brother to brother, and from sister to sister, the kiss
went around the congregation.
The bishop, and this assistant, went around upon ours, the women’s side,
superintending this ceremony, as if to see that none failed in this
expression of unity, and that it was conducted in an orderly manner. The
last sister, who has no one to kiss, goes forward and kisses the first
one, with whom the bishop had shaken hands, thus completing the chain
of unity. This was doubtless done before the Communion, and showed that
brotherly love existed among these brethren, fitting them to partake of
the sacrament. I was also told that the latter half of the afternoon
meeting had been for self-examination on the same subject.
About this time of the evening Mrs. R. told me that if I would go down
I could get some of the soup, as there was plenty left. I was willing
to partake, not having had a regular supper, and I got a bowl of good
mutton-broth, containing rice or barley, etc.