CHAPTER XVI. -- COMENIUS AND THE HIDDEN SEED, 1627-1672.

But the cause of the Brethren's Church was not yet lost. As the Brethren

fled before the blast, it befell, in the wonderful providence of God,

that all their best and noblest qualities--their broadness of view,

their care for the young, their patience in suffering, their undaunted

faith--shone forth in undying splendour in the life and character of one

great man; and that man was the famous John Amos Comenius, the pioneer

of modern education and the last Bishop of the Bohemian Brethren. He was

born on March 18th, 1592, at Trivnitz, a little market town in Moravia.

He was only six years old when he lost his parents through the plague.

He was taken in hand by his sister, and was educated at the Brethren's

School at Ungarisch-Brod. As he soon resolved to become a minister,

he was sent by the Brethren to study theology, first at the Calvinist

University of Herborn in Nassau, and then at the Calvinist University

of Heidelberg. For two years (1614-1616) he then acted as master in

the Brethren's Higher School at Prerau, and then became minister of

the congregation at Fulneck. There, too, the Brethren had a school; and

there, both as minister and teacher, Comenius, with his young wife and

family, was as happy as the livelong day. But his happiness was speedily

turned to misery. The Thirty Years' War broke out. What part he took

in the Bohemian Revolution we have no means of knowing. He certainly

favoured the election of Frederick, and helped his cause in some way. "I

contributed a nail or two," he says,[54] "to strengthen the new throne."

What sort of nail he means we do not know. The new throne did not stand

very long. The troops of Ferdinand appeared at Fulneck. The village was

sacked. Comenius reeled with horror. He saw the weapons for stabbing,

for chopping, for cutting, for pricking, for hacking, for tearing and

for burning. He saw the savage hacking of limbs, the spurting of blood,

the flash of fire.

"Almighty God," he wrote in one of his books, "what is happening? Must

the whole world perish?"

His house was pillaged and gutted; his books and his manuscripts were

burned; and he himself, with his wife and children, had now to flee in

hot haste from Fulneck and to take refuge for a while on the estate

of Baron Charles von Zerotin at Brandeis-on-the-Adler. To the Brethren

Brandeis had long been a sacred spot. There Gregory the Patriarch

had breathed his last, and there his bones lay buried; there many an

historic Brethren's Synod had been held; and there Comenius took up his

abode in a little wood cottage outside the town which tradition said

had been built by Gregory himself. He had lost his wife and one of his

children on the way from Fulneck; he had lost his post as teacher and

minister; and now, for the sake of his suffering Brethren, he wrote

his beautiful classical allegory, "The Labyrinth of the World and

the Paradise of the Heart."[55] For historical purposes this book is

of surpassing value. It is a revelation. It is a picture both of the

horrors of the time and of the deep religious life of the Brethren. As

Comenius fled from Fulneck to Brandeis he saw sights that harrowed his

soul, and now in his cottage at the foot of the hills he described

what he had seen. The whole land, said Comenius, was now in a state

of disorder. The reign of justice had ended. The reign of pillage had

begun. The plot of the book is simple. From scene to scene the pilgrim

goes, and everything fills him with disgust. The pilgrim, of course, is

Comenius himself; the "Labyrinth" is Bohemia; and the time is the early

years of the Thirty Years' War. He had studied the social conditions of

Bohemia; he had seen men of all ranks and all occupations; and now, in

witty, satirical language, he held the mirror up to nature. What sort

of men were employed by Ferdinand to administer justice in Bohemia?

Comenius gave them fine sarcastic names. He called the judges Nogod,

Lovestrife, Hearsay, Partial, Loveself, Lovegold, Takegift, Ignorant,

Knowlittle, Hasty and Slovenly; he called the witnesses Calumny, Lie and

Suspicion; and, in obvious allusion to Ferdinand's seizure of property,

he named the statute-book "The Rapacious Defraudment of the Land." He

saw the lords oppressing the poor, sitting long at table, and discussing

lewd and obscene matters. He saw the rich idlers with bloated faces,

with bleary eyes, with swollen limbs, with bodies covered with sores.

He saw the moral world turned upside down. No longer, said Comenius,

did men in Bohemia call things by their right names. They called

drunkenness, merriment; greed, economy; usury, interest; lust, love;

pride, dignity; cruelty, severity; and laziness, good nature. He saw his

Brethren maltreated in the vilest fashion. Some were cast into the fire;

some were hanged, beheaded, crucified;[56] some were pierced, chopped,

tortured with pincers, and roasted to death on grid-irons. He studied

the lives of professing Christians, and found that those who claimed the

greatest piety were the sorriest scoundrels in the land. "They drink

and vomit," he said, "quarrel and fight, rob and pillage one another

by cunning and by violence, neigh and skip from wantonness, shout and

whistle, and commit fornication and adultery worse than any of the

others." He watched the priests, and found them no better than the

people. Some snored, wallowing in feather beds; some feasted till they

became speechless; some performed dances and leaps; some passed their

time in love-making and wantonness.

For these evils Comenius saw one remedy only, and that remedy was the

cultivation of the simple and beautiful religion of the Brethren. The

last part of his book, "The Paradise of the Heart," is delightful.

Comenius was a marvellous writer. He combined the biting satire of Swift

with the devotional tenderness of Thomas à Kempis. As we linger over

the closing sections of his book, we can see that he then regarded the

Brethren as almost ideal Christians. Among them he found no priests

in gaudy attire, no flaunting wealth, no grinding poverty; and passing

their time in peace and quietness, they cherished Christ in their

hearts. "All," he says, "were in simple attire, and their ways were

gentle and kind. I approached one of their preachers, wishing to speak

to him. When, as is our custom, I wished to address him according to his

rank, he permitted it not, calling such things worldly fooling." To them

ceremonies were matters of little importance. "Thy religion," said the

Master to the Pilgrim--i.e., to the Brethren's Church--"shall be to

serve me in quiet, and not to bind thyself to any ceremonies, for I do

not bind thee by them."

But Comenius did not stay long at Brandeis-on-the-Adler {1628.}. As

Zerotin had sided with the House of Hapsburg, he had been allowed, for a

few years, to give shelter to about forty Brethren's ministers; but

now commissioners appeared at his Castle, and ordered him to send these

ministers away. The last band of exiles now set out for Poland. The

leader was Comenius himself. As they bade farewell to their native land

they did so in the firm conviction that they themselves should see

the day when the Church of the Brethren should stand once more in her

ancient home; and as they stood on a spur of the Giant Mountains, and

saw the old loved hills and dales, the towns and hamlets, the nestling

churches, Comenius raised his eyes to heaven and uttered that historic

prayer which was to have so marvellous an answer. He prayed that in the

old home God would preserve a "Hidden Seed," which would one day grow to

a tree; and then the whole band struck up a hymn and set out for Poland.

Pathetic was the marching song they sang:--

Nought have we taken with us,

All to destruction is hurled,

We have only our Kralitz Bibles,

And our Labyrinth of the World.

Comenius led the Brethren to Lissa, in Poland, and Lissa became the

metropolis of the exiles.

What happened to many of the exiles no tongue can tell. We know that

some Brethren went to Hungary and held together for thirty or forty

years; that some were welcomed by the Elector of Saxony and became

Lutherans; that some found their way to Holland and became Reformed

Protestants; that some settled in Lusatia, Saxony; that a few, such as

the Cennicks, crossed the silver streak and found a home in England; and

that, finally, a number remained in Bohemia and Moravia, and gathered in

the neighbourhood of Landskron, Leitomischl, Kunewalde and Fulneck. What

became of these last, the "Hidden Seed," we shall see before very long.

For the present they buried their Bibles in their gardens, held midnight

meetings in garrets and stables, preserved their records in dovecotes

and in the thatched roofs of their cottages, and, feasting on the

glorious promises of the Book of Revelation--a book which many of them

knew by heart--awaited the time when their troubles should blow by and

the call to arise should sound.

Meanwhile Comenius had never abandoned hope. He was sure that the

Brethren's Church would revive, and equally sure of the means of her

revival. For some years there had flourished in the town of Lissa a

famous Grammar School. It was founded by Count Raphael IV. Leszczynski;

it had recently become a Higher School, or what Germans call a

gymnasium, and now it was entirely in the hands of the Brethren. The

patron, Count Raphael V. Leszczynski, was a Brother;[57] the director

was John Rybinski, a Brethren's minister; the co-director was another

Brethren's minister, Michael Henrici; and Comenius accepted the post

of teacher, and entered on the greatest task of his life. He had two

objects before him. He designed to revive the Church of the Brethren

and to uplift the whole human race; and for each of these purposes

he employed the very same method. The method was education. If the

Brethren, said Comenius, were to flourish again, they must pay more

attention to the training of the young than ever they had done in days

gone by. He issued detailed instructions to his Brethren. They must

begin, he said, by teaching the children the pure word of God in their

homes. They must bring their children up in habits of piety. They must

maintain the ancient discipline of the Brethren. They must live in

peace with other Christians, and avoid theological bickerings. They must

publish good books in the Bohemian language. They must build new schools

wherever possible, and endeavour to obtain the assistance of godly

nobles. We have here the key to the whole of Comenius's career. It is

the fashion now with many scholars to divide his life into two distinct

parts. On the one hand, they say, he was a Bishop of the Brethren's

Church; on the other hand he was an educational reformer. The

distinction is false and artificial. His whole life was of a piece.

He never distinguished between his work as a Bishop and his work as

an educational reformer. He drew no line between the secular and the

sacred. He loved the Brethren's Church to the end of his days; he

regarded her teaching as ideal; he laboured and longed for her revival;

and he believed with all the sincerity of his noble and beautiful soul

that God would surely enable him to revive that Church by means of

education and uplift the world by means of that regenerated Church.

And now for thirteen years, in the Grammar School at Lissa, Comenius

devoted the powers of his mind to this tremendous task. What was it,

he asked, that had caused the downfall of the Brethren in Bohemia and

Moravia? It was their cruel and senseless system of education. He had

been to a Brethren's School himself, and had come to the conclusion that

in point of method the schools of the Brethren were no better than the

other schools of Europe. "They are," he declared, "the terror of boys

and the slaughter-houses of minds; places where a hatred of literature

and books is contracted, where two or more years are spent in learning

what might be acquired in one, where what ought to be poured in gently

is violently forced and beaten in, and where what ought to be put

clearly is presented in a confused and intricate way as if it were

a collection of puzzles." The poor boys, he declared, were almost

frightened to death. They needed skins of tin; they were beaten with

fists, with canes and with birch-rods till the blood streamed forth;

they were covered with scars, stripes, spots and weals; and thus they

had learned to hate the schools and all that was taught therein.

He had already tried to introduce a reform. He had learned his new

ideas about education, not from the Brethren, but at the University of

Herborn. He had studied there the theories of Wolfgang Ratich; he had

tried to carry out these theories in the Brethren's schools at Prerau

and Fulneck; and now at Lissa, where he soon became director, he

introduced reforms which spread his fame throughout the civilized world.

His scheme was grand and comprehensive. He held that if only right

methods were employed all things might be taught to all men. "There is,"

he said, "nothing in heaven or earth or in the waters, nothing in the

abyss under the earth, nothing in the human body, nothing in the soul,

nothing in Holy Writ, nothing in the arts, nothing in politics, nothing

in the Church, of which the little candidates for wisdom shall be wholly

ignorant." His faith in the power of education was enormous. It was the

road, he said, to knowledge, to character, to fellowship with God, to

eternal life. He divided the educational course into four stages--the

"mother school," the popular school, the Latin school and the

University; and on each of these stages he had something original to

say.

For mothers Comenius wrote a book, entitled the "School of Infancy." In

England this book is scarcely known at all: in Bohemia it is a household

treasure. Comenius regarded it as a work of first-rate importance. What

use, he asked, were schemes of education if a good foundation were not

first laid by the mother? For the first six years of his life, said

Comenius, the child must be taught by his mother. If she did her work

properly she could teach him many marvellous things. He would learn some

physics by handling things; some optics by naming colours, light and

darkness; some astronomy by studying the twinkling stars; some geography

by trudging the neighbouring streets and hills; some chronology by

learning the hours, the days and the months; some history by a chat

on local events; some geometry by measuring things for himself; some

statics by trying to balance his top; some mechanics by building his

little toy-house; some dialectics by asking questions; some economics by

observing his mother's skill as a housekeeper; and some music and

poetry by singing psalms and hymns. As Comenius penned these ideal

instructions, he must surely have known that nine mothers out of ten

had neither the patience nor the skill to follow his method; and yet he

insisted that, in some things, the mother had a clear course before her.

His advice was remarkably sound. At what age, ask mothers, should the

education of a child begin? It should begin, said Comenius, before the

child is born. At that period in her life the expectant mother must be

busy and cheerful, be moderate in her food, avoid all worry, and keep in

constant touch with God by prayer; and thus the child will come into the

world well equipped for the battle of life. She must, of course, nurse

the child herself. She must feed him, when weaned, on plain and simple

food. She must provide him with picture books; and, above all, she

must teach him to be clean in his habits, to obey his superiors, to be

truthful and polite, to bend the knee and fold his hands in prayer, and

to remember that the God revealed in Christ was ever near at hand.

Again, Comenius has been justly called the "Father of the Elementary

School." It was here that his ideas had the greatest practical value.

His first fundamental principle was that in all elementary schools

the scholars must learn in their native language only. He called these

schools "Mother tongue schools." For six or eight years, said Comenius,

the scholar must hear no language but his own; and his whole attention

must be concentrated, not on learning words like a parrot, but on

the direct study of nature. Comenius has been called the great

Sense-Realist. He had no belief in learning second-hand. He illustrated

his books with pictures. He gave his scholars object lessons. He taught

them, not about words, but about things. "The foundation of all learning

consists," he said, "in representing clearly to the senses sensible

objects." He insisted that no boy or girl should ever have to learn

by heart anything which he did not understand. He insisted that nature

should be studied, not out of books, but by direct contact with nature

herself. "Do we not dwell in the garden of nature," he asked, "as well

as the ancients? Why should we not use our eyes, ears and noses as

well as they? Why should we not lay open the living book of nature?" He

applied these ideas to the teaching of religion and morals. In order

to show his scholars the meaning of faith, he wrote a play entitled

"Abraham the Patriarch," and then taught them to act it; and, in order

to warn them against shallow views of life, he wrote a comedy, "Diogenes

the Cynic, Revived." He was no vulgar materialist. His whole object was

moral and religious. If Comenius had lived in the twentieth century, he

would certainly have been disgusted and shocked by the modern demand for

a purely secular education. He would have regarded the suggestion as an

insult to human nature. All men, he said, were made in the image of God;

all men had in them the roots of eternal wisdom; all men were capable of

understanding something of the nature of God; and, therefore, the

whole object of education was to develop, not only the physical and

intellectual, but also the moral and spiritual powers, and thus fit men

and women to be, first, useful citizens in the State, and then saints in

the Kingdom of Heaven beyond the tomb. From court to court he would lead

the students onward, from the first court dealing with nature to the

last court dealing with God. "It is," he said, "our bounden duty to

consider the means whereby the whole body of Christian youth may be

stirred to vigour of mind and the love of heavenly things." He believed

in caring for the body, because the body was the temple of the Holy

Ghost; and, in order to keep the body fit, he laid down the rule that

four hours of study a day was as much as any boy or girl could stand.

For the same reason he objected to corporal punishment; it was a

degrading insult to God's fair abode. For the same reason he held that

at all severe punishment should be reserved for moral offences only.

"The whole object of discipline," he said, "is to form in those

committed to our charge a disposition worthy of the children of God."

He believed, in a word, in the teaching of religion in day-schools; he

believed in opening school with morning prayers, and he held that all

scholars should be taught to say passages of Scripture by heart, to sing

psalms, to learn a Catechism and to place their trust in the salvation

offered through Jesus Christ. And yet Comenius did not insist on the

teaching of any definite religious creed. He belonged himself to a

Church that had no creed; he took a broader view of religion than either

the Lutherans or the Calvinists; he believed that Christianity could be

taught without a formal dogmatic statement; and thus, if I understand

him aright, he suggested a solution of a difficult problem which baffles

our cleverest politicians to-day.

Again Comenius introduced a new way of learning languages. His great

work on this subject was entitled "Janua Linguarum Reserata"--i.e., The

Gate of Languages Unlocked. Of all his works this was the most popular.

It spread his fame all over Europe. It was translated into fifteen

different languages. It became, next to the Bible, the most widely

known book on the Continent. For one person who read his delightful

"Labyrinth," there were thousands who nearly knew the "Janua" by heart.

The reason was obvious. The "Labyrinth" was a religious book, and was

suppressed as dangerous by Catholic authorities; but the "Janua" was

only a harmless grammar, and could be admitted with safety anywhere. It

is not the works of richest genius that have the largest sale; it is

the books that enable men to get on in life; and the "Janua" was popular

because, in truth, "it supplied a long-felt want." It was a Latin

grammar of a novel and original kind. For all boys desiring to enter a

profession a thorough knowledge of Latin was then an absolute necessity.

It was the language in which the learned conversed, the language spoken

at all Universities, the language of diplomatists and statesmen, the

language of scientific treatises. If a man could make the learning of

Latin easier, he was adored as a public benefactor. Comenius's Grammar

was hailed with delight, as a boon and a blessing to men. For years

all patient students of Latin had writhed in agonies untold. They

had learned long lists of Latin words, with their meanings; they had

wrestled in their teens with gerunds, supines, ablative absolutes and

distracting rules about the subjunctive mood, and they had tried in vain

to take an interest in stately authors far above their understanding.

Comenius reversed the whole process. What is the use, he asked, of

learning lists of words that have no connection with each other? What is

the use of teaching a lad grammar before he has a working knowledge of

the language? What is the use of expecting a boy to take an interest in

the political arguments of Cicero or the dinner table wisdom of

Horace? His method was the conversational. For beginners he prepared an

elementary Latin Grammar, containing, besides a few necessary rules, a

number of sentences dealing with events and scenes of everyday life.

It was divided into seven parts. In the first were nouns and adjectives

together; in the second nouns and verbs; in the third adverbs, pronouns,

numerals and prepositions; in the fourth remarks about things in the

school; in the fifth about things in the house; in the sixth about

things in the town; in the seventh some moral maxims. And the scholar

went through this book ten times before he passed on to the "Janua"

proper. The result can be imagined. At the end of a year the boy's

knowledge of Latin would be of a peculiar kind. Of grammar he would know

but little; of words and phrases he would have a goodly store; and thus

he was learning to talk the language before he had even heard of its

perplexing rules. One example must suffice to illustrate the method. The

beginner did not even learn the names of the cases. In a modern English

Latin Grammar, the charming sight that meets our gaze is as follows:--

Nom. Mensa.--A table.

Voc. Mensa.--Oh, table!

Acc. Mensam.--A table.

Gen. Mensæ.--Of a table.

Dat. Mensæ.--To or for a table.

Abl. Mensa.--By, with or from a table.

The method of Comenius was different. Instead of mentioning the names of

the cases, he showed how the cases were actually used, as follows:--

Ecce, tabula nigra.--Look there, a black board.

O tu tabula nigra.--Oh, you black board!

Video tabulam nigram.--I see a black board.

Pars tabulæ nigræ.--Part of a black board.

Addo partem tabulæ nigræ.--I add a part to a black board.

Vides aliquid in tabula nigra.--I see something on a black board.

With us the method is theory first, practice afterwards; with Comenius

the method was practice first, theory afterwards; and the method of

Comenius, with modifications, is likely to be the method of the future.

But Comenius's greatest educational work was undoubtedly his "Great

Didactic," or the "Art of Teaching All Things to All Men." It was a

thorough and comprehensive treatise on the whole science, method, scope

and purpose of universal education. As this book has been recently

translated into English, I need not here attempt the task of giving an

outline of its contents. His ideas were far too grand and noble to put

in summary form. For us the point of interest is the fact that while the

Thirty Years' War was raging, and warriors like Wallenstein and Gustavus

Adolphus were turning Europe into a desert, this scholar, banished from

his native land, was devising sublime and broad-minded schemes for the

elevation of the whole human race. It is this that makes Comenius great.

He played no part in the disgraceful quarrels of the age; he breathed no

complaint against his persecutors. "Comenius," said the Jesuit historian

Balbin, "wrote many works, but none that were directed against the

Catholic Church." As he looked around upon the learned world he saw the

great monster Confusion still unslain, and intended to found a Grand

Universal College, which would consist of all the learned in Europe,

would devote its attention to the pursuit of knowledge in every

conceivable branch, and would arrange that knowledge in beautiful order

and make the garden of wisdom a trim parterre. He was so sure that his

system was right that he compared it to a great clock or mill, which had

only to be set going to bring about the desired result. If his scheme

could only be carried out, what a change there would be in this dreary

earth! What a speedy end to wars and rumours of wars! What a blessed

cessation of religious disputes! What a glorious union of all men of all

nations about the feet of God!

At last Comenius became so famous that his friend, Samuel Hartlib,

invited him to England; and Comenius found upon his arrival that our

English Parliament was interested in his scheme {1641.}. His hopes now

rose higher than ever. At last, he thought, he had found a spot where

he could actually carry out his grand designs. He had a high opinion of

English piety. "The ardour," he wrote, "with which the people crowd to

the Churches is incredible. Almost all bring a copy of the Bible with

them. Of the youths and men a large number take down the sermons word by

word with their pens. Their thirst for the word of God is so great that

many of the nobles, citizens also, and matrons study Greek and Hebrew

to be able more safely and more sweetly to drink from the very spring

of life." Of all countries England seemed to him the best suited for the

accomplishment of his designs. He discussed the project with John Dury,

with Samuel Hartlib, with John Evelyn, with the Bishop of Lincoln,

and probably with John Milton. He wanted to establish an "Academy of

Pansophy" at Chelsea; and there all the wisest men in the world would

meet, draw up a new universal language, like the framers of Esperanto

to-day, and devise a scheme to keep all the nations at peace. His castle

in the air collapsed. At the very time when Comenius was resident in

London this country was on the eve of a revolution. The Irish Rebellion

broke out, the Civil War trod on its heels, and Comenius left England

for ever.

From this moment his life was a series of bitter and cruel

disappointments. As the Thirty Years' War flickered out to its close,

Comenius began to look forward to the day when the Brethren would be

allowed to return to Bohemia and Moravia {1648.}. But the Peace of

Westphalia broke his heart. What provision was made in that famous Peace

for the poor exiled Brethren? Absolutely none. Comenius was angry and

disgusted. He had spent his life in the service of humanity; he had

spent six years preparing school books for the Swedish Government; and

now he complained-- perhaps unjustly--that Oxenstierna, the Swedish

Chancellor, had never lifted a finger on behalf of the Brethren.

And yet Comenius continued to hope against hope. The more basely the

Brethren were deserted by men, the more certain he was that they would

be defended by God. He wrote to Oxenstierna on the subject. "If there is

no help from man," he said, "there will be from God, whose aid is wont

to commence when that of man ceases."

For eight years the Brethren, undaunted still, held on together as best

they could at Lissa; and Comenius, now their chosen leader, made a brave

attempt to revive their schools in Hungary. And then came the final,

awful crash. The flames of war burst out afresh. When Charles X. became

King of Sweden, John Casimir, King of Poland, set up a claim to the

Swedish throne. The two monarchs went to war. Charles X. invaded Poland;

John Casimir fled from Lissa; Charles X. occupied the town. What part,

it may be asked, did the Brethren play in this war? We do not know. As

Charles X. was, of course, a Protestant, it is natural to assume that

the Brethren sympathised with his cause and hailed him as a deliverer

sent by God; but it is one of the strangest features of their history

that we never can tell what part they took in these political conflicts.

Comenius was now in Lissa. It is said that he openly sided with Charles

X., and urged the Brethren to hold out to the bitter end. I doubt it.

For a while the Swedish army triumphed. In that army was an old Bohemian

general, who swore to avenge the "Day of Blood"; and the churches and

convents were plundered, and monks and priests were murdered. For a

moment the Day of Blood was avenged, but for a moment only. As the arm

of flesh had failed the Brethren in the days of Budowa, so the arm of

flesh failed them now.

The Polish army surrounded the walls of Lissa {1656.}. A panic broke out

among the citizens. The Swedish garrison gave way. The Polish soldiers

pressed in. Again Comenius's library was burned, and the grammar school

where he had taught was reduced to ashes. The whole town was soon in

flames. The fire spread for miles in the surrounding country. As the

Brethren fled from their last fond home, with the women and children

huddled in waggons, they saw barns and windmills flaring around them,

and heard the tramp of the Polish army in hot pursuit. As Pastor John

Jacobides and two Acoluths were on their way to Karmin, they were

seized, cut down with spades and thrown into a pit to perish. For Samuel

Kardus, the last martyr of the fluttering fragment, a more ingenious

torture was reserved. He was placed with his head between a door and the

door-post, and as the door was gently but firmly closed, his head was

slowly crushed to pieces.

And so the hopes of Comenius were blasted. As the aged Bishop drew near

to his end, he witnessed the failure of all his schemes. Where now was

his beloved Church of the Brethren? It was scattered like autumn leaves

before the blast. And yet Comenius hoped on to the bitter end. The news

of his sufferings reached the ears of Oliver Cromwell. He offered to

find a home for the Brethren in Ireland. If Comenius had only accepted

that offer it is certain that Oliver would have been as good as his

word. He longed to make Ireland a Protestant country; and the whole

modern history of Ireland might have been altered. But Comenius had

now become an unpractical dreamer. For all his learning he was

very simple-minded; and for all his piety he had a weak side to his

character. He had listened in his youth to the prophecies of Christopher

Kotter; he had listened also to the ravings of Christina Poniatowski;

and now he fell completely under the influence of the vile impostor,

Drabik, who pretended to have a revelation from heaven, and predicted

that before very long the House of Austria would be destroyed and the

Brethren be enabled to return to their native home. Instead, therefore,

of accepting Cromwell's offer, Comenius spent his last few years in

collecting money for the Brethren; and pleasant it is to record the

fact that much of that money came from England. Some was sent by Prince

Rupert, and some by officials of the Church of England; and Comenius was

able to spend the money in printing helpful, devotional works for the

Brethren. His loyalty now to the Brethren was beautiful. It is easy to

be faithful to a prosperous Church; Comenius was faithful when the whirl

was at the worst. Faster than ever the ship was sinking, but still

the brave old white-haired Captain held to his post on the bridge.

Few things are more pathetic in history than the way in which Comenius

commended the Brethren to the care of the Church of England. "To you,

dear friends," he wrote in hope, "we commit our dear mother, the Church

herself. Even in her death, which seems approaching, you ought to love

her, because in her life she has gone before you for more than two

centuries with examples of faith and patience." Of all the links between

the old Church of the Brethren and the new, Comenius was the strongest.

He handed on the Brethren's Episcopal Orders. He consecrated his

son-in-law, Peter Jablonsky; this Peter consecrated his own son, Daniel

Ernest; and this Daniel Ernest Jablonsky consecrated David Nitschmann,

the first Bishop of the Renewed Church of the Brethren.

He handed on, secondly, the Brethren's system of discipline. He

published an edition of the "Ratio Disciplinæ," and this it was that

fired Zinzendorf's soul with love for the Brethren's Church.

But, thirdly, and most important of all, Comenius kept the old faith

burning in the hearts of the "Hidden Seed." For the benefit of those

still worshipping in secret in Bohemia and Moravia, he prepared a

Catechism, entitled "The Old Catholic Christian Religion in Short

Questions and Answers"; and by this Catholic Religion he meant the

broad and simple faith of the Bohemian Brethren. "Perish sects," said

Comenius; "perish the founders of sects. I have consecrated myself to

Christ alone." But the purpose of the Catechism had to be kept a secret.

"It is meant," said Comenius, in the preface, "for all the pious and

scattered sheep of Christ, especially those at F., G., G., K., K., S.,

S. and Z." These letters can be easily explained. They stood for

the villages of Fulneck, Gersdorf, Gestersdorf, Kunewalde, Klandorf,

Stechwalde, Seitendorf and Zauchtenthal; and these are the places from

which the first exiles came to renew the Brethren's Church at Herrnhut.

Fifty years before his prayers were answered, Comenius lay silent in

the grave (1672). Yet never did bread cast upon the waters more richly

return.

SUPPLEMENTARY NOTE.

THE BOHEMIAN BRETHREN AND THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND.

As the relations of the Brethren with England were only of a very

occasional nature, it is not easy to weave them into the narrative. But

the following particulars will be of special interest; they show the

opinion held of the Brethren by officials of the Church of England:--

1. The case of John Bernard.--At some period in the reign of Queen

Elizabeth a number of scholarships were founded at Oxford for the

benefit of Bohemian students; and in 1583 John Bernard, a Moravian

student, took his B.D. degree at Oxford. The record in the University

Register is as follows: "Bernardus, John, a Moravian, was allowed

to supply B.D. He had studied theology for ten years at German

Universities, and was now going to the Universities of Scotland." This

proves that the University of Oxford recognised Bernard as a man in holy

orders; for none but men in holy orders could take the B.D. degree.

2. The case of Paul Hartmann.--In 1652 (October 15th) Paul Hartmann was

ordained a Deacon at a Synod of the Moravian Church at Lissa. In 1657 he

came to England, along with his brother, Adam Samuel Hartmann, to raise

funds for the exiles. In 1660 he was ordained a Presbyter by Bishop

Robert Skinner, of Oxford, in Christ Church; in 1671 he was admitted

Chaplain or Petty Canon of Oxford Cathedral; and in 1676 he became

Rector of Shillingford, Berkshire. This proves that Bishop Skinner,

of Oxford, recognised Paul Hartmann's status as a Deacon; and that

recognition, so far as we know, was never questioned by any Anglican

authorities. But that is not the end of the story. At this period

a considerable number of Brethren had found a home in England; the

Continental Brethren wished to provide for their spiritual needs,

and, therefore, in 1675 they wrote a letter to the Anglican Bishops

requesting them to consecrate Hartmann a Bishop. Of that letter a

copy has been preserved in the Johannis-Kirche at Lissa. "It is no

superstition," they wrote, "that fills us with this desire. It is simply

our love of order and piety; and the Church of England is the only

Protestant Church beside our own that possesses this treasure, and can,

therefore, come to our help." For some reason, however, this pathetic

request was not carried out. What answer did the Anglican Bishops give?

We do not know; no answer has been discovered; and Hartmann remained a

Presbyter to the end.

3. The case of Adam Samuel Hartmann.--He was first a minister of the

Moravian Church at Lissa (1652-56). In 1657 he came to England to

collect money; in 1673 he was consecrated a Moravian Bishop at Lissa;

and in 1680 he received the degree of D.D. at Oxford. His diploma refers

to him as a Bishop. This suggests, if it does not actually prove, that

the University of Oxford recognised him as a valid Bishop.

4. The case of Bishop Amos Comenius.--Of all the Bishops of the Bohemian

Brethren Comenius did most to stir up sympathy on their behalf in

England. In 1657 he sent the two Hartmanns and Paul Cyrill to the

Archbishop of Canterbury with a MS. entitled, "Ultimus in Protestantes

Bohemiæ confessionis ecclesias Antichristi furor"; in 1660 he dedicated

his "Ratio Disciplinæ" to the Church of England; and in 1661 he

published his "Exhortation of the Churches of Bohemia to the Church of

England." In this book Comenius took a remarkable stand. He declared

that the Slavonian Churches had been planted by the Apostles; that

these Churches had "run up to a head and ripened" in the Unity of the

Brethren; and that he himself was now the only surviving Bishop of the

remnants of these Churches. In other words, he represented himself

as the Bishop of a Church of Apostolic origin. In what way, it may be

asked, was this claim received by Anglican authorities? The next case

will supply the answer.

5. The case of Archbishop Sancroft.--In 1683 King Charles II. issued a

Cabinet Order on behalf of the Brethren; the order was accompanied by

an account of their distresses; the account was "recommended under the

hands" of William Sancroft, Archbishop of Canterbury, and Henry Compton,

Bishop of London; and in that account the statement was deliberately

made that the Brethren deserved the assistance of Anglicans, not only

because they had "renounced the growing errors of Popery," but also

because they had "preserved the Succession of Episcopal Orders." The

last words can only bear one meaning; and that meaning obviously is that

both the Primate and the Bishop of London regarded Moravian Episcopal

Orders as valid. The next case tells a similar story.

6. The case of Archbishop Wake.--We have now to step over a period

of thirty-three years. As soon as James II. came to the throne, the

interest of English Churchmen in the Brethren appears to have waned, and

neither William III. nor Queen Anne took any steps on their behalf. And

yet the connection of the Brethren with England was not entirely broken.

The bond of union was Daniel Ernest Jablonsky. He was Amos Comenius's

grandson. In 1680 he came to England; he studied three years at Oxford,

and finally received the degree of D.D. In 1693 he was appointed Court

Preacher at Berlin; in 1699 he was consecrated a Moravian Bishop; and in

1709 he was elected corresponding secretary of the S.P.C.K. Meanwhile,

however, fresh disasters had overtaken the Brethren. As the sun was

rising on July 29th, 1707, a troop of Russians rode into the town of

Lissa, and threw around them balls of burning pitch. The town went up

in flames; the last home of the Brethren was destroyed, and the Brethren

were in greater distress than ever. At this point Jablonsky nobly came

to their aid. He began by publishing an account of their distresses; he

tried to raise a fund on their behalf; and finally (1715) he sent

his friend, Bishop Sitkovius, to England, to lay their case before

Archbishop Wake. Again, as in the case of Archbishop Sancroft, this

appeal to the Church of England was successful. The Archbishop brought

the case before George I., the King consulted the Privy Council, the

Privy Council gave consent; the King issued Letters Patent to all

the Archbishops and Bishops of England and Wales, and Wake and John

Robinson, Bishop of London, issued a special appeal, which was read in

all the London churches. The result was twofold. On the one hand money

was collected for the Brethren; on the other, some person or persons

unknown denounced them as Hussites, declared that their Bishops

could not be distinguished from Presbyters, and contended that, being

followers of Wycliffe, they must surely, like Wycliffe, be enemies of

all episcopal government. Again Jablonsky came to the Brethren's rescue.

He believed, himself, in the Brethren's Episcopal Orders; he prepared a

treatise on the subject, entitled, "De Ordine et Successione Episcopali

in Unitate Fratrum Bohemorum conservato"; he sent a copy of that

treatise to Wake, and Wake, in reply, declared himself perfectly

satisfied.

To what conclusion do the foregoing details point? It is needful here

to speak with caution and precision. As the claims of the Brethren were

never brought before Convocation, we cannot say that the Anglican Church

as a body officially recognised the Brethren as a sister Episcopal

Church. But, on the other hand, we can also say that the Brethren's

orders were never doubted by any Anglican authorities. They were

recognised by two Archbishops of Canterbury; they were recognised by

Bishop Skinner, of Oxford; they were recognised by the University of

Oxford. They were recognised, in a word, by every Anglican authority

before whose notice they happened to be brought.

BOOK TWO. -- THE REVIVAL UNDER ZINZENDORF.

CHAPTER I. -- THE YOUTH OF COUNT ZINZENDORF, 1700-1722.

If the kindly reader will take the trouble to consult a map of Europe he

will see that that part of the Kingdom of Saxony known as Upper Lusatia

runs down to the Bohemian frontier. About ten miles from the frontier

line there stand to-day the mouldering remains of the old castle of

Gross-Hennersdorf. The grey old walls are streaked with slime. The

wooden floors are rotten, shaky and unsafe. The rafters are worm-eaten.

The windows are broken. The damp wall-papers are running to a sickly

green. Of roof there is almost none. For the lover of beauty or the

landscape painter these ruins have little charm. But to us these

tottering walls are of matchless interest, for within these walls Count

Zinzendorf, the Renewer of the Brethren's Church, spent the years of his

childhood.

He was born at six o'clock in the evening, Wednesday, May 26th, 1700, in

the picturesque city of Dresden {1700.}; the house is pointed out to the

visitor; and "Zinzendorf Street" reminds us still of the noble family

that has now died out. He was only six weeks old when his father burst

a blood-vessel and died; he was only four years when his mother married

again; and the young Count--Nicholas Lewis, Count of Zinzendorf and

Pottendorf--was handed over to the tender care of his grandmother,

Catherine von Gersdorf, who lived at Gross-Hennersdorf Castle. And now,

even in childhood's days, little Lutz, as his grandmother loved to call

him, began to show signs of his coming greatness. As his father lay on

his dying bed, he had taken the child in his feeble arm, and consecrated

him to the service of Christ; and now in his grandmother's noble home he

sat at the feet of the learned, the pious, and the refined. Never was a

child less petted and pampered; never was a child more strictly trained;

never was a child made more familiar with the person and teaching of

Jesus Christ. Dr. Spener,[58] the famous Pietist leader, watched his

growth with fatherly interest. The old lady was a leader in Pietist

circles, was a writer of beautiful religious poetry, and guarded him as

the apple of her eye. He read the Bible every day. He doted on Luther's

Catechism. He had the Gospel story at his finger-ends. His aunt

Henrietta, who was rather an oddity, prayed with him morning and night.

His tutor, Edeling, was an earnest young Pietist from Franke's school at

Halle; and the story of Zinzendorf's early days reads like a mediaeval

tale. "Already in my childhood," he says, {1704.} "I loved the Saviour,

and had abundant communion with Him. In my fourth year I began to seek

God earnestly, and determined to become a true servant of Jesus Christ."

At the age of six he regarded Christ as his Brother, would talk with Him

for hours together as with a familiar friend and was often found rapt in

thought {1706.}, like Socrates in the market-place at Athens. As other

children love and trust their parents, so this bright lad with the

golden hair loved and trusted Christ. "A thousand times," he said, "I

heard Him speak in my heart, and saw Him with the eye of faith." Already

the keynote of his life was struck; already the fire of zeal burned in

his bosom. "Of all the qualities of Christ," said He, "the greatest is

His nobility; and of all the noble ideas in the world, the noblest is

the idea that the Creator should die for His children. If the Lord were

forsaken by all the world, I still would cling to Him and love Him."

He held prayer-meetings in his private room. He was sure that Christ

Himself was present there. He preached sermons to companies of friends.

If hearers failed, he arranged the chairs as an audience; and still is

shown the little window from which he threw letters addressed to Christ,

not doubting that Christ would receive them. As the child was engaged

one day in prayer, the rude soldiers of Charles XII. burst into his

room. Forthwith the lad began to speak of Christ; and away the soldiers

fled in awe and terror. At the age of eight he lay awake at night

tormented with atheistic doubts {1708.}. But the doubts did not last

long. However much he doubted with the head he never doubted with the

heart; and the charm that drove the doubts away was the figure of the

living Christ.

And here we touch the springs of the boy's religion. It is easy to call

all this a hot-house process; it is easy to dub the child a precocious

prig. But at bottom his religion was healthy and sound. It was not

morbid; it was joyful. It was not based on dreamy imagination; it was

based on the historic person of Christ. It was not the result of mystic

exaltation; it was the result of a study of the Gospels. It was not,

above all, self-centred; it led him to seek for fellowship with others.

As the boy devoured the Gospel story, he was impressed first by the

drama of the Crucifixion; and often pondered on the words of Gerhardt's

hymn:--

O Head so full of bruises,

So full of pain and scorn,

'Midst other sore abuses,

Mocked with a crown of thorn.

For this his tutor, Edeling, was partly responsible. "He spoke to me,"

says Zinzendorf, "of Jesus and His wounds."

But the boy did not linger in Holy Week for ever. He began by laying

stress on the suffering Christ; he went on to lay stress on the whole

life of Christ; and on that life, from the cradle to the grave, his own

strong faith was based. "I was," he said, "as certain that the Son of

God was my Lord as of the existence of my five fingers." To him the

existence of Jesus was a proof of the existence of God; and he felt all

his limbs ablaze, to use his own expression, with the desire to preach

the eternal Godhead of Christ. "If it were possible," he said, "that

there should be another God than Christ I would rather be damned

with Christ than happy with another. I have," he exclaimed, "but one

passion--'tis He, 'tis only He."

But the next stage in his journey was not so pleasing {1710.}. At the

age of ten he was taken by his mother to Professor Franke's school at

Halle; and by mistake he overheard a conversation between her and the

pious professor. She described him as a lad of parts, but full of pride,

and in need of the curbing rein. He was soon to find how much these

words implied. If a boy has been trained by gentle ladies he is

hardly well equipped, as a rule, to stand the rough horseplay of a

boarding-school; and if, in addition, he boasts blue blood, he is sure

to come in for blows. And the Count was a delicate aristocrat, with

weak legs and a cough. He was proud of his noble birth; he was rather

officious in his manner; he had his meals at Franke's private table; he

had private lodgings a few minutes' walk from the school; he had plenty

of money in his purse; and, therefore, on the whole, he was as well

detested as the son of a lord can be. "With a few exceptions," he sadly

says, "my schoolfellows hated me throughout."

But this was not the bitterest part of the pill. If there was any

wholesome feeling missing in his heart hitherto, it was what theologians

call the sense of sin. He had no sense of sin whatever, and no sense of

any need of pardon. His masters soon proceeded to humble his pride.

He was introduced as a smug little Pharisee, and they treated him as a

viper. Of all systems of school discipline, the most revolting is the

system of employing spies; and that was the system used by the staff

at Halle. They placed the young Count under boyish police supervision,

encouraged the lads to tell tales about him, rebuked him for his

misconduct in the measles, lectured him before the whole school on his

rank disgusting offences, and treated him as half a rogue and half an

idiot. If he pleaded not guilty, they called him a liar, and gave him

an extra thrashing. The thrashing was a public school entertainment, and

was advertised on the school notice-board. "Next week," ran the notice

on one occasion, "the Count is to have the stick." For two years he

lived in a moral purgatory. The masters gave him the fire of their

wrath, and the boys the cold shoulder of contempt. The masters called

him a malicious rebel, and the boys called him a snob. As the little

fellow set off for morning school, with his pile of books upon his arm,

the others waylaid him, jostled him to and fro, knocked him into the

gutter, scattered his books on the street, and then officiously reported

him late for school. He was clever, and, therefore, the masters called

him idle; and when he did not know his lesson they made him stand in the

street, with a pair of ass's ears on his head, and a placard on his back

proclaiming to the public that the culprit was a "lazy donkey."

His private tutor, Daniel Crisenius, was a bully, who had made his

way into Franke's school by varnishing himself with a shiny coating of

piety. If the Count's relations came to see him, Crisenius made him beg

for money, and then took the money himself. If his grandmother sent

him a ducat Crisenius pocketed a florin. If he wrote a letter home,

Crisenius read it. If he drank a cup of coffee, Crisenius would

say, "You have me to thank for that, let me hear you sing a song of

thanksgiving." If he tried to pour out his soul in prayer, Crisenius

mocked him, interrupted him, and introduced disgusting topics of

conversation. He even made the lad appear a sneak. "My tutor," says

Zinzendorf, "often persuaded me to write letters to my guardian

complaining of my hard treatment, and then showed the letters to the

inspector."

In vain little Lutz laid his case before his mother. Crisenius thrashed

him to such good purpose that he never dared to complain again; and his

mother still held that he needed drastic medicine. "I beseech you," she

wrote to Franke, "be severe with the lad; if talking will not cure him

of lying, then let him feel it."

At last the muddy lane broadened into a highway. One day Crisenius

pestered Franke with one of his whining complaints. The headmaster

snapped him short.

"I am sick," he said, "of your growlings; you must manage the matter

yourself."

As the months rolled on, the Count breathed purer air. He became more

manly and bold. He astonished the masters by his progress. He was

learning Greek, could speak in French and dash off letters in Latin.

He was confirmed, attended the Communion, and wrote a beautiful hymn[59] recording his feelings; and already in his modest way he launched out on

that ocean of evangelical toil on which he was to sail all the days of

his life.

As the child grew up in Hennersdorf Castle he saw and heard a good

deal of those drawing-room meetings[60] which Philip Spener, the Pietist

leader, had established in the houses of several noble Lutheran

families, and which came in time to be known in Germany as "Churches

within the Church."[61] He knew that Spener had been his father's friend.

He had met the great leader at the Castle. He sympathised with the

purpose of his meetings. He had often longed for fellowship himself, and

had chatted freely on religious topics with his Aunt Henrietta. He had

always maintained his private habit of personal communion with Christ;

and now he wished to share his religion with others. The time was ripe.

The moral state of Franke's school was low; the boys were given to

vicious habits, and tried to corrupt his soul; and the Count, who was a

healthy minded boy, and shrank with disgust from fleshly sins, retorted

by forming a number of religious clubs for mutual encouragement and

help. "I established little societies," he says, "in which we spoke of

the grace of Christ, and encouraged each other in diligence and good

works." He became a healthy moral force in the school. He rescued his

friend, Count Frederick de Watteville, from the hands of fifty seducers;

he persuaded three others to join in the work of rescue; and the five

lads established a club which became a "Church within the Church" for

boys. They called themselves first "The Slaves of Virtue," next the

"Confessors of Christ," and finally the "Honourable Order of the Mustard

Seed"; and they took a pledge to be true to Christ, to be upright and

moral, and to do good to their fellow-men. Of all the school clubs

established by Zinzendorf this "Order of the Mustard Seed" was the most

famous and the most enduring. As the boys grew up to man's estate they

invited others to join their ranks; the doctrinal basis was broad;

and among the members in later years were John Potter, Archbishop of

Canterbury, Thomas Wilson, Bishop of Sodor and Man, Cardinal Noailles,

the broad-minded Catholic, and General Oglethorpe, Governor of Georgia.

For an emblem they had a small shield, with an "Ecce Homo," and the

motto, "His wounds our healing"; and each member of the Order wore a

gold ring, inscribed with the words, "No man liveth unto himself."

The Grand Master of the Order was Zinzendorf himself. He wore a golden

cross; the cross had an oval green front; and on that front was painted

a mustard tree, with the words beneath, "Quod fuit ante nihil," i.e.,

what was formerly nothing.[62]

But already the boy had wider conceptions still. As he sat at Franke's

dinner table, he listened one day to the conversation of the Danish

missionary, Ziegenbalg, who was now home on furlough, and he even

saw some dusky converts whom the missionary had brought from Malabar

{1715.}. His missionary zeal was aroused. As his guardian had already

settled that Zinzendorf should enter the service of the State, he had,

of course, no idea of becoming a missionary himself;[63] but, as that was

out of the question, he formed a solemn league and covenant with his

young friend Watteville that when God would show them suitable men they

would send them out to heathen tribes for whom no one else seemed to

care. Nor was this mere playing at religion. As the Count looked back

on his Halle days he saw in these early clubs and covenants the germs

of his later work; and when he left for the University the delighted

Professor Franke said, "This youth will some day become a great light in

the world."

As the Count, however, in his uncle's opinion was growing rather too

Pietistic, he was now sent to the University at Wittenberg, to study

the science of jurisprudence, and prepare for high service in the State

{April, 1716.}. His father had been a Secretary of State, and the son

was to follow in his footsteps. His uncle had a contempt for Pietist

religion; and sent the lad to Wittenberg "to drive the nonsense out of

him." He had certainly chosen the right place. For two hundred years

the great University had been regarded as the stronghold of the orthodox

Lutheran faith; the bi-centenary Luther Jubilee was fast approaching;

the theological professors were models of orthodox belief; and the Count

was enjoined to be regular at church, and to listen with due attention

and reverence to the sermons of those infallible divines. It was like

sending a boy to Oxford to cure him of a taste for dissent. His tutor,

Crisenius, went with him, to guard his morals, read his letters, and rob

him of money at cards. He had also to master the useful arts of riding,

fencing, and dancing. The cards gave him twinges of conscience. If he

took a hand, he laid down the condition that any money he might win

should be given to the poor. He prayed for skill in his dancing lessons,

because he wanted to have more time for more serious studies. He was

more devout in his daily life than ever, prayed to Christ with the foil

in his hand, studied the Bible in Hebrew and Greek, spent whole nights

in prayer, fasted the livelong day on Sundays, and was, in a word, so

Methodistic in his habits that he could truly describe himself as a

"rigid Pietist." He interfered in many a duel, and rebuked his fellow

students for drinking hard; and for this he was not beloved. As he

had come to Wittenberg to study law, he was not, of course, allowed to

attend the regular theological lectures; but, all the same, he spent his

leisure in studying the works of Luther and Spener, and cultivated the

personal friendship of many of the theological professors. And here he

made a most delightful discovery. As he came to know these professors

better, he found that a man could be orthodox without being

narrow-minded; and they, for their part, also found that a man could be

a rigid Pietist without being a sectarian prig. It was time, he thought,

to put an end to the quarrel. He would make peace between Wittenberg and

Halle. He would reconcile the Lutherans and Pietists. He consulted with

leading professors on both sides; he convinced them of the need for

peace; and the rival teachers actually agreed to accept this student of

nineteen summers as the agent of the longed-for truce. But here Count

Zinzendorf's mother intervened. "You must not meddle," she wrote,

"in such weighty matters; they are above your understanding and your

powers." And Zinzendorf, being a dutiful son, obeyed. "I think," he

said, "a visit to Halle might have been of use, but, of course, I must

obey the fourth commandment."[64]

And now, as befitted a nobleman born, he was sent on the grand tour, to

give the final polish to his education {1719.}. He regarded the prospect

with horror. He had heard of more than one fine lord whose virtues had

been polished away. For him the dazzling sights of Utrecht and Paris had

no bewitching charm. He feared the glitter, the glamour, and the glare.

The one passion, love to Christ, still ruled his heart. "Ah!" he wrote

to a friend, "What a poor, miserable thing is the grandeur of the

great ones of the earth! What splendid misery!" As John Milton, on

his continental tour, had sought the company of musicians and men of

letters, so this young budding Christian poet, with the figure of the

Divine Redeemer ever present to his mind, sought out the company of men

and women who, whatever their sect or creed, maintained communion with

the living Son of God. He went first to Frankfurt-on-the-Main, where

Spener had toiled so long, came down the Rhine to Düsseldorf, spent half

a year at Utrecht, was introduced to William, Prince of Orange, paid

flying calls at Brussels, Antwerp, Amsterdam and Rotterdam, and ended

the tour by a six months' stay amid the gaieties of Paris. At Düsseldorf

a famous incident occurred. There, in the picture gallery, he saw and

admired the beautiful Ecce Homo of Domenico Feti; there, beneath the

picture he read the thrilling appeal: "All this I did for thee; what

doest thou for Me?"; and there, in response to that appeal, he resolved

anew to live for Him who had worn the cruel crown of thorns for all.[65]

At Paris he attended the Court levée, and was presented to the Duke of

Orleans, the Regent, and his mother, the Dowager Duchess.

"Sir Count," said the Duchess, "have you been to the opera to-day?"

"Your Highness," he replied, "I have no time for the opera." He would

not spend a golden moment except for the golden crown.

"I hear," said the Duchess, "that you know the Bible by heart."

"Ah," said he, "I only wish I did."

At Paris, too, he made the acquaintance of the Catholic Archbishop,

Cardinal Noailles. It is marvellous how broad in his views the young man

was. As he discussed the nature of true religion with the Cardinal,

who tried in vain to win him for the Church of Rome, he came to the

conclusion that the true Church of Jesus Christ consisted of many sects

and many forms of belief. He held that the Church was still an invisible

body; he held that it transcended the bounds of all denominations; he

had found good Christians among Protestants and Catholics alike; and he

believed, with all his heart and soul, that God had called him to

the holy task of enlisting the faithful in all the sects in one grand

Christian army, and thus realizing, in visible form, the promise of

Christ that all His disciples should be one. He was no bigoted Lutheran.

For him the cloak of creed or sect was only of minor moment. He desired

to break down all sectarian barriers. He desired to draw men from

all the churches into one grand fellowship with Christ. He saw, and

lamented, the bigotry of all the sects. "We Protestants," he said, "are

very fond of the word liberty; but in practice we often try to throttle

the conscience." He was asked if he thought a Catholic could be saved.

"Yes," he replied, "and the man who doubts that, cannot have looked far

beyond his own small cottage."

"What, then," asked the Duchess of Luynes, "is the real difference

between a Lutheran and a Catholic?"

"It is," he replied, "the false idea that the Bible is so hard to

understand that only the Church can explain it." He had, in a word,

discovered his vocation.

His religion purified his love. As he made his way home, at the close

of the tour, he called to see his aunt, the Countess of Castell, and her

daughter Theodora {1720.}; and during his stay he fell ill of a fever,

and so remained much longer than he had at first intended. He helped the

Countess to put in order the affairs of her estate, took a leading part

in the religious services of the castle, and was soon regarded as almost

one of the family. At first, according to his usual custom, he would

talk about nothing but religion. But gradually his manner changed. He

opened out, grew less reserved, and would gossip and chat like a woman.

He asked himself the reason of this alteration. He discovered it. He was

in love with his young cousin, Theodora. For a while the gentle stream

of love ran smooth. His mother and the Countess Castell smiled approval;

Theodora, though rather icy in manner, presented him with her portrait;

and the Count, who accepted the dainty gift as a pledge of blossoming

love, was rejoicing at finding so sweet a wife and so charming a helper

in his work, when an unforeseen event turned the current of the stream.

Being belated one evening on a journey, he paid a visit to his friend

Count Reuss, and during conversation made the disquieting discovery that

his friend wished to marry Theodora. A beautiful contest followed. Each

of the claimants to the hand of Theodora expressed his desire to retire

in favour of the other; and, not being able to settle the dispute, the

two young men set out for Castell to see what Theodora herself would

say. Young Zinzendorf's mode of reasoning was certainly original. If his

own love for Theodora was pure--i.e., if it was a pure desire to do

her good, and not a vulgar sensual passion like that with which many

love-sick swains were afflicted--he could, he said, fulfil his purpose

just as well by handing her over to the care of his Christian friend.

"Even if it cost me my life to surrender her," he said, "if it is more

acceptable to my Saviour, I ought to sacrifice the dearest object in the

world." The two friends arrived at Castell and soon saw which way the

wind was blowing; and Zinzendorf found, to his great relief, that what

had been a painful struggle to him was as easy as changing a dress

to Theodora. The young lady gave Count Reuss her heart and hand. The

rejected suitor bore the blow like a stoic. He would conquer, he said,

such disturbing earthly emotions; why should they be a thicket in the

way of his work for Christ? The betrothal was sealed in a religious

ceremony. Young Zinzendorf composed a cantata for the occasion {March

9th, 1721.}; the cantata was sung, with orchestral accompaniment, in

the presence of the whole house of Castell; and at the conclusion of

the festive scene the young composer offered up on behalf of the happy

couple a prayer so tender that all were moved to tears. His self-denial

was well rewarded. If the Count had married Theodora, he would only

have had a graceful drawing-room queen. About eighteen months later he

married Count Reuss's sister, Erdmuth Dorothea {Sept. 7th, 1722.}; and

in her he found a friend so true that the good folk at Herrnhut called

her a princess of God, and the "foster-mother of the Brethren's Church

in the eighteenth century."[66]

If the Count could now have had his way he would have entered the

service of the State Church; but in those days the clerical calling was

considered to be beneath the dignity of a noble, and his grandmother,

pious though she was, insisted that he should stick to jurisprudence. He

yielded, and took a post as King's Councillor at Dresden, at the Court

of Augustus the Strong, King of Saxony. But no man can fly from his

shadow, and Zinzendorf could not fly from his hopes of becoming a

preacher of the Gospel. If he could not preach in the orthodox pulpit,

he would teach in some other way; and, therefore, he invited the public

to a weekly meeting in his own rooms on Sunday afternoons from three to

seven. He had no desire to found a sect, and no desire to interfere

with the regular work of the Church. He was acting, he said, in strict

accordance with ecclesiastical law; and he justified his bold conduct by

appealing to a clause in Luther's Smalkald Articles.[67] He contended that

there provision was made for the kind of meeting that he was conducting;

and, therefore, he invited men of all classes to meet him on Sunday

afternoons, read a passage of Scripture together, and talk in a

free-and-easy fashion on spiritual topics. He became known as rather

a curiosity; and Valentine Löscher, the popular Lutheran preacher,

mentioned him by name in his sermons, and held him up before the people

as an example they would all do well to follow.

But Zinzendorf had not yet reached his goal. He was not content with the

work accomplished by Spener, Franke, and other leading Pietists. He was

not content with drawing-room meetings for people of rank and money.

If fellowship, said he, was good for lords, it must also be good for

peasants. He wished to apply the ideas of Spener to folk in humbler

life. For this purpose he now bought from his grandmother the little

estate of Berthelsdorf, which lay about three miles from Hennersdorf

{April, 1722.}; installed his friend, John Andrew Rothe, as pastor of

the village church; and resolved that he and the pastor together would

endeavour to convert the village into a pleasant garden of God. "I

bought this estate," he said, "because I wanted to spend my life among

peasants, and win their souls for Christ."

"Go, Rothe," he said, "to the vineyard of the Lord. You will find in me

a brother and helper rather than a patron."

And here let us note precisely the aim this pious Count had in view. He

was a loyal and devoted member of the national Lutheran Church; he was

well versed in Luther's theology and in Luther's practical schemes;

and now at Berthelsdorf he was making an effort to carry into practical

effect the fondest dreams of Luther himself. For this, the fellowship

of true believers, the great Reformer had sighed in vain;[68] and to this

great purpose the Count would now devote his money and his life.

He introduced the new pastor to the people; the induction sermon was

preached by Schäfer, the Pietist pastor at Görlitz; and the preacher

used the prophetic words, "God will light a candle on these hills which

will illuminate the whole land."

We have now to see how far these words came true. We have now to see

how the Lutheran Count applied his ideas to the needs of exiles from a

foreign land, and learned to take a vital interest in a Church of which

as yet he had never heard.

CHAPTER II. -- CHRISTIAN DAVID, 1690-1722.

It is recorded in John Wesley's "Journal,"[69] that when he paid his

memorable visit to Herrnhut he was much impressed by the powerful

sermons of a certain godly carpenter, who had preached in his day to the

Eskimos in Greenland, and who showed a remarkable knowledge of divinity.

It was Christian David, known to his friends as the "Servant of the

Lord."

He was born on December 31st, 1690, at Senftleben, in Moravia; he was

brought up in that old home of the Brethren; and yet, as far as records

tell, he never heard in his youthful days of the Brethren who still held

the fort in the old home of their fathers. He came of a Roman Catholic

family, and was brought up in the Roman Catholic faith. He sat at the

feet of the parish priest, was devout at Mass, invoked his patron saint,

St. Anthony, knelt down in awe before every image and picture of the

Virgin, regarded Protestants as children of the devil, and grew up to

man's estate burning with Romish zeal, as he says, "like a baking oven."

He began life as a shepherd; and his religion was tender and deep. As he

tended his sheep in the lonesome fields, and rescued one from the jaws

of a wolf, he thought how Christ, the Good Shepherd, had given His life

for men; and as he sought his wandering sheep in the woods by night he

thought how Christ sought sinners till he found them. And yet somehow

he was not quite easy in his mind. For all his zeal and all his piety

he was not sure that he himself had escaped the snare of the fowler.

He turned first for guidance to some quiet Protestants, and was told by

them, to his horror, that the Pope was Antichrist, that the worship of

saints was a delusion, and that only through faith in Christ could his

sins be forgiven. He was puzzled. As these Protestants were ready to

suffer for their faith, he felt they must be sincere; and when some of

them were cast into prison, he crept to the window of their cell and

heard them sing in the gloaming. He read Lutheran books against the

Papists, and Papist books against the Lutherans. He was now dissatisfied

with both. He could see, he said, that the Papists were wrong, but that

did not prove that the Lutherans were right; he could not understand

what the Lutherans meant when they said that a man was justified

by faith alone; and at last he lost his way so far in this famous

theological fog that he hated and loathed the very name of Christ.

He turned next for instruction to some Jews; and the Jews, of course,

confirmed his doubts, threw scorn upon the whole New Testament, and

endeavoured to convince him that they alone were the true Israel of God.

He turned next to the Bible, and the fog lifted a little {1710.}. He

read the Old Testament carefully through, to see if the prophecies there

had been fulfilled; and, thereby, he arrived at the firm belief that

Jesus was the promised Messiah. He then mastered the New Testament, and

came to the equally firm conclusion that the Bible was the Word of God.

And even yet he was not content. As long as he stayed in Catholic

Moravia he would have to keep his new convictions a secret; and, longing

to renounce the Church of Rome in public, he left Moravia, passed

through Hungary and Silesia, and finally became a member of a Lutheran

congregation at Berlin.

But the Lutherans seemed to him very stiff and cold. He was seeking

for a pearl of great price, and so far he had failed to find it. He

had failed to find it in the Church of Rome, failed to find it in the

Scriptures, and failed to find it in the orthodox Protestants of Berlin.

He had hoped to find himself in a goodly land, where men were godly and

true; and he found that even the orthodox Protestants made mock of

his pious endeavours. He left Berlin in disgust, and enlisted in the

Prussian Army. He did not find much piety there. He served in the war

against Charles XII. of Sweden {1715.}, was present at the siege of

Stralsund, thought soldiers no better than civilians, accepted his

discharge with joy, and wandered around from town to town, like the old

philosopher seeking an honest man. At last, however, he made his way to

the town of Görlitz, in Silesia {1717.}; and there he came into personal

contact with two Pietist clergymen, Schäfer and Schwedler. For the first

time in his weary pilgrimage he met a pastor who was also a man. He fell

ill of a dangerous disease; he could not stir hand or foot for twenty

weeks; he was visited by Schwedler every day; and thus, through the

gateway of human sympathy, he entered the kingdom of peace, and

felt assured that all his sins were forgiven. He married a member of

Schwedler's Church, was admitted to the Church himself, and thus found,

in Pietist circles, that very spirit of fellowship and help which

Zinzendorf himself regarded as the greatest need of the Church.

But now Christian David must show to others the treasure he had found

for himself. For the next five years he made his home at Görlitz; but,

every now and then, at the risk of his life, he would take a trip to

Moravia, and there tell his old Protestant friends the story of his

new-found joy. He preached in a homely style; he had a great command of

Scriptural language; he was addressing men who for many years had conned

their Bibles in secret; and thus his preaching was like unto oil on

a smouldering fire, and stirred to vigorous life once more what had

slumbered for a hundred years since the fatal Day of Blood. He tramped

the valleys of Moravia; he was known as the Bush Preacher, and was

talked of in every market-place; the shepherds sang old Brethren's hymns

on the mountains; a new spirit breathed upon the old dead bones; and

thus, through the message of this simple man, there began in Moravia

a hot revival of Protestant zeal and hope. It was soon to lead to

marvellous results.

For the last three hundred and forty years there had been established

in the neighbourhood of Fulneck, in Moravia, a colony of Germans.[70] They

still spoke the German language; they lived in places bearing German

names and bore German names themselves; they had used a German version

of the Bible and a German edition of the Brethren's Hymns; and thus,

when David's trumpet sounded, they were able to quit their long-loved

homes and settle down in comfort on German soil. At Kunewalde[71] dwelt the Schneiders and Nitschmanns; at Zauchtenthal the Stachs and

Zeisbergers; at Sehlen the Jaeschkes and Neissers; and at Senftleben,

David's old home, the Grassmanns. For such men there was now no peace in

their ancient home. Some were imprisoned; some were loaded with chains;

some were yoked to the plough and made to work like horses; and some

had to stand in wells of water until nearly frozen to death. And yet the

star of hope still shone upon them. As the grand old patriarch, George

Jaeschke, saw the angel of death draw near, he gathered his son and

grandsons round his bed, and spoke in thrilling, prophetic words of the

remnant that should yet be saved.

"It is true," said he, "that our liberties are gone, and that our

descendants are giving way to a worldly spirit, so that the Papacy is

devouring them. It may seem as though the final end of the Brethren's

Church had come. But, my beloved children, you will see a great

deliverance. The remnant will be saved. How, I cannot say; but something

tells me that an exodus will take place; and that a refuge will be

offered in a country and on a spot where you will be able, without fear,

to serve the Lord according to His holy Word."

The time of deliverance had come. As Christian David heard of the

sufferings which these men had now to endure, his blood boiled with

anger. He resolved to go to their rescue. The path lay open. He had

made many friends in Saxony. His friend Schäfer introduced him to Rothe;

Rothe introduced him to Zinzendorf; and Christian David asked the Count

for permission to bring some persecuted Protestants from Moravia to find

a refuge in Berthelsdorf. The conversation was momentous. The heart of

the Count was touched. If these men, said he, were genuine martyrs, he

would do his best to help them; and he promised David that if they came

he would find them a place of abode. The joyful carpenter returned to

Moravia, and told the news to the Neisser family at Sehlen. "This," said

they, "is God's doing; this is a call from the Lord."

And so, at ten o'clock one night, there met at the house of Jacob

Neisser, in Sehlen, a small band of emigrants {May 27th, 1722.}. At the

head of the band was Christian David; and the rest of the little group

consisted of Augustin and Jacob Neisser, their wives and children,

Martha Neisser, and Michael Jaeschke, a cousin of the family.[72] We know

but little about these humble folk; and we cannot be sure that they were

all descendants of the old Church of the Brethren. Across the mountains

they came, by winding and unknown paths. For the sake of their faith

they left their goods and chattels behind; long and weary was the march;

and at length, worn out and footsore, they arrived, with Christian David

at their head, at Zinzendorf's estate at Berthelsdorf {June 8th, 1722.}.

The streams had met: the new river was formed; and thus the course of

Renewed Brethren's History had begun.

CHAPTER III. -- THE FOUNDING OF HERRNHUT, 1722-1727.

As these wanderers from a foreign land had not been able to bring

in their pockets certificates of orthodoxy, and might, after all, be

dangerous heretics, it occurred to Zinzendorf's canny steward, Heitz,

that on the whole it would be more fitting if they settled, not in the

village itself, but at a safe and convenient distance. The Count was

away; the steward was in charge; and the orthodox parish must not be

exposed to infection. As the Neissers, further, were cutlers by trade,

there was no need for them in the quiet village. If they wished to earn

an honest living they could do it better upon the broad high road.

For these reasons, therefore, he led the exiles to a dismal, swampy

stretch of ground about a mile from the village; and told them for the

present to rest their bones in an old unfinished farmhouse {June 8th,

1722.}. The spot itself was dreary and bleak, but the neighbouring woods

of pines and beeches relieved the bareness of the scene. It was part of

Zinzendorf's estate, and lay at the top of a gentle slope, up which a

long avenue now leads. It was a piece of common pasture ground, and was

therefore known as the Hutberg,[73] or Watch-Hill. It was on the high road

from Löbau to Zittau; it was often used as a camping ground by gypsies

and other pedlars; and the road was in such a disgusting state that

wagons sometimes sank axle deep in the mud. For the moment the refugees

were sick at heart.

"Where," said Mrs. Augustin Neisser, "shall we find bread in this

wilderness?"

"If you believe," said Godfrey Marche, tutor to Lady Gersdorf's

granddaughters, "you shall see the glory of God."

The steward was quite concerned for the refugees. As he strolled around

inspecting the land he noticed one particular spot where a thick mist

was rising; and concluding that there a spring was sure to be found, he

offered a prayer on their behalf, and registered the solemn vow, "Upon

this spot, in Thy name, I will build for them the first house." He laid

their needs before Lady Gersdorf, and the good old poetess kindly sent

them a cow; he inspected the site with Christian David, and marked the

trees he might fell; and thus encouraged, Christian David seized his

axe, struck it into a tree, and, as he did so, exclaimed, "Yea, the

sparrow hath found a house, and the swallow a nest for herself."[74] {June

17th, 1722.}

The first step in the building of Herrnhut had been taken. For some

weeks the settlers had still to eat the bread of bitterness and scorn.

It was long before they could find a spring of water. The food was poor,

the children fell ill; the folk in the neighbourhood laughed; and

even when the first house was built they remarked that it would not be

standing long.

But already Christian David had wider plans. Already in vivid

imagination he saw a goodly city rise, mapped out the courts and streets

in his mind, and explained his glowing schemes to the friendly Heitz.

The steward himself was carried away with zeal. The very name of the

hill was hailed as a promising omen. "May God grant," wrote Heitz to the

Count, "that your excellency may be able to build on the hill called the

Hutberg a town which may not only itself abide under the Lord's Watch

(Herrnhut), but all the inhabitants of which may also continue on the

Lord's Watch, so that no silence may be there by day or night." It was

thus that Herrnhut received the name which was soon to be famous in

the land; and thus that the exiles, cheered anew, resolved to build a

glorious City of God.

"We fear," they wrote to the Count himself, "that our settling here may

be a burden to you; and therefore we most humbly entreat you to grant

us your protection, to continue to help us further still, and to show

kindness and love to us poor distressed and simple-minded petitioners."

As the building of the first house proceeded the pious Heitz grew more

and more excited. He drove in the first nail; he helped to fix the first

pillar; and, finally, when the house was ready, he opened it in solemn

religious style, and preached a sort of prophetic sermon about the holy

city, the new Jerusalem coming down from God out of heaven. The Count

himself soon blessed the undertaking. As he drove along, one winter

night, on the road from Strahwalde to Hennersdorf, he saw a strange

light shining through the trees {Dec. 2nd.}. He asked what the light

could mean. There, he was told, the Moravian refugees had built the

first house on his estate. He stopped the carriage, entered the house,

assured the inmates of his hearty goodwill, fell down on his knees, and

commended the enterprise to the care of God.

Again the restless David was on the move. As he knelt one day to fix

a plank in the new manor-house which Zinzendorf was building in the

village, it suddenly flashed on his busy brain that he ought to do

something out of the common to show his gratitude to God {1723.}. His

wife had just passed through a dangerous illness; he had vowed to God

that if she recovered he would go to Moravia again; and, throwing down

his tools on the spot, he darted off in his working clothes, and without

a hat on his head, and made his way once more to Sehlen, the old home

of the Neissers. He brought a letter from the Neissers in his pocket;

he urged the rest of the family to cross the border; and the result was

that before many days were gone a band of eighteen more emigrants were

on their way to Herrnhut.

His next step had still more momentous results. As he made his way from

town to town, and urged his friends to come to "David's City," he had

no further aim than to find a home where Protestants could live in peace

and comfort. He knew but little, if anything at all, of the old Church

of the Brethren; he had never been a member of that Church himself; he

had no special interest in her welfare; and the emigrants whom he had

brought to Herrnhut were mostly evangelical folk who had been awakened

by the preaching of the Pietist pastor, Steinmetz, of Teschen. But now,

in the village of Zauchtenthal, he found a band of five young men

whose bosoms glowed with zeal for the ancient Church. They were David

Nitschmann I., the Martyr; David Nitschmann II., the first Bishop of the

Renewed Church; David Nitschmann III., the Syndic; Melchior Zeisberger,

the father of the apostle to the Indians; and John Toeltschig, one of

the first Moravian preachers in Yorkshire. They were genuine sons of the

Brethren; they used the Catechism of Comenius; they sang the Brethren's

hymns in their homes; and now they were looking wistfully forward to the

time when the Church would renew her strength like the eagle's. For some

months they had made their native village the centre of an evangelical

revival. At last events in the village came to a crisis; the young men

were summoned before the village judge; and the judge, no other than

Toeltschig's father, commanded them to close their meetings, and to take

their share, like decent fellows, in the drunken jollifications at the

public-house. For the brave "Five Churchmen" there was now no way

but one. Forthwith they resolved to quit Moravia, and seek for other

Brethren at Lissa, in Poland {May 2nd, 1724.}; and the very next night

they set out on their journey, singing the Moravian Emigrants' song:--

Blessed be the day when I must roam,

Far from my country, friends and home,

An exile poor and mean;

My father's God will be my guide,

Will angel guards for me provide,

My soul in dangers screen.

Himself will lead me to a spot

Where, all my cares and griefs forgot,

I shall enjoy sweet rest.

As pants for cooling streams the hart,

I languish for my heavenly part,

For God, my refuge blest.

For them the chosen haven of rest was Lissa. There the great Comenius

had taught; and there, they imagined, Brethren lingered still. As they

had, however, heard a good deal from David of the "town" being built

at Herrnhut, they resolved to pay a passing call on their way. At Lower

Wiese they called on Pastor Schwedler. He renewed their zeal for the

Church in glowing terms.

"My children," he said, "do you know whose descendants you are? It is a

hundred years since the persecutions began against your fathers. You are

now to enjoy among us that liberty of conscience for the sake of which

they shed their blood. We shall see you blossom and flourish in our

midst."

It was a memorable day when they arrived at Herrnhut {May 12th, 1724.}.

The first sight of the holy city did not impress them. The excited David

had painted a rosy picture. They expected to find a flourishing town,

and all they saw was three small houses, of which only one was finished.

"If three houses make a city," said David Nitschmann, "there are worse

places than Herrnhut."

And yet there was something to look at after all. At a little distance

from the three small houses, sat Friedrich de Watteville on a log of

wood; Christian David was working away at another building; in the

afternoon the Count and Countess appeared; and the Count then laid the

foundation stone of a college for noblemen's sons. They stayed to see

the ceremony. They heard the Count deliver an impressive speech. They

heard de Watteville offer a touching prayer. They saw him place his

jewels under the stone. They were touched; they stayed; and became the

firmest pillars of the rising temple.

And now the stream from Moravia increased in force and volume. Again and

again, ten times in all, did the roving David journey to the Moravian

dales; and again and again did the loud blast of the trombones in the

square announce that yet another band of refugees had arrived. Full

many a stirring and thrilling tale had the refugees to tell; how another

David Nitschmann, imprisoned in a castle, found a rope at his window and

escaped; how David Schneider and another David Nitschmann found their

prison doors open; how David Hickel, who had been nearly starved in a

dungeon, walked out between his guards in broad daylight, when their

backs were turned; how Andrew Beier and David Fritsch had stumbled

against their prison door and found that the bolt was loose; how Hans

Nitschmann, concealed in a ditch, heard his pursuers, a foot off, say,

"This is the place, here he must be," and yet was not discovered after

all. No wonder these wanderers felt that angels had screened them on

their way. For the sake of their faith they had been imprisoned, beaten,

thrust into filthy dungeons. For the sake of their faith they had left

behind their goods, their friends, their worldly prospects, had tramped

the unknown mountain paths, had slept under hedges, had been attacked

by robbers. And now, for the sake of this same faith, these men, though

sons of well-to-do people, settled down to lives of manual toil in

Herrnhut. And the numbers swelled; the houses rose; and Herrnhut assumed

the shape of a hollow square.

At this point, however, a difficulty arose. As the rumour spread in the

surrounding country that the Count had offered his estate as an asylum

for persecuted Protestants all sorts of religious malcontents came to

make Herrnhut their home. Some had a touch of Calvinism, and were fond

of discussing free will and predestination; some were disciples of the

sixteenth century Anabaptist mystic, Casper Schwenkfeld; some were vague

evangelicals from Swabia; some were Lutheran Pietists from near at

hand; and some, such as the "Five Churchmen," were descendants of the

Brethren's Church, and wished to see her revived on German soil. The

result was dissension in the camp. As the settlement grew larger things

grew worse. As the settlers learned to know each other better they

learned to love each other less. As poverty crept in at the door love

flew out of the window. Instead of trying to help each other, men

actually tried to cut each other out in business, just like the rest

of the world. As the first flush of joy died away, men pointed out each

other's motes, and sarcasm pushed charity from her throne; and, worse

than all, there now appeared that demon of discord, theological dispute.

The chief leader was a religious crank, named Krüger. He was, of

course, no descendant of the Brethren's Church. He had quarrelled with a

Lutheran minister at Ebersdorf, had been promptly excluded from the Holy

Communion, and now came whimpering to Herrnhut, and lifted up his

voice against the Lutheran Church. He did not possess the garment of

righteousness, he decked himself out with sham excitement and rhetoric;

and, as these are cheap ribbons and make a fine show, he soon gained a

reputation as a saint. He announced that he had been commissioned by God

with the special task of reforming Count Zinzendorf; described Rothe as

the "False Prophet" and Zinzendorf as "The Beast"; denounced the whole

Lutheran Church as a Babylon, and summoned all in Herrnhut to leave it;

and altogether made such a show of piety and holy devotion to God that

his freaks and crotchets and fancies and vagaries were welcomed by the

best of men, and poisoned the purest blood. His success was marvellous.

As the simple settlers listened to his rapt orations they became

convinced that the Lutheran Church was no better than a den of thieves;

and the greater number now refused to attend the Parish Church, and

prepared to form a new sect. Christian David himself was led away. He

walked about like a shadow; he was sure that Krüger had a special Divine

revelation; he dug a private well for himself, and built himself a new

house a few yards from the settlement, so that he might not be smirched

by the pitch of Lutheran Christianity. Worse and ever worse waxed the

confusion. More "horrible"[75] became the new notions. The eloquent Krüger

went out of his mind; and was removed to the lunatic asylum at Berlin.

But the evil that he had done lived after him. The whole city on the

hill was now a nest of fanatics. It was time for the Count himself to

interfere.

For the last five years, while Herrnhut was growing, the Count had

almost ignored the refugees; and had quietly devoted his leisure time to

his darling scheme of establishing a village "Church within the Church"

at Berthelsdorf. He had still his official State duties to perform. He

was still a King's Councillor at Dresden. He spent the winter months in

the city and the summer at his country-seat; and as long as the settlers

behaved themselves as loyal sons of the Lutheran Church he saw no

reason to meddle in their affairs. He had, moreover, taken two wise

precautions. He had first issued a public notice that no refugee should

settle at Herrnhut unless compelled by persecution; and secondly, he

had called a meeting of the refugees themselves, and persuaded them

to promise that in all their gatherings they would remain loyal to the

Augsburg Confession.

Meanwhile, in the village itself, he had pushed his scheme with vigour.

He named his house Bethel; his estate was his parish; and his tenants

were his congregation. He had never forgotten his boyish vow to do all

in his power to extend the Kingdom of Christ; and now he formed another

society like the old Order of the Mustard Seed. It was called the

"League of the Four Brethren"; it consisted of Zinzendorf, Friedrich

de Watteville, and Pastors Rothe and Schäfer; and its object was to

proclaim to the world, by means of a league of men devoted to

Christ, "that mystery and charm of the Incarnation which was not yet

sufficiently recognized in the Church." He had several methods of work.

As he wished to reach the young folk of noble rank, he had a school

for noblemen's sons built on the Hutberg, and a school for noblemen's

daughters down in the village; and the members of the League all signed

an agreement to subscribe the needful funds for the undertaking. As he

wished, further, to appeal to men in various parts of the country, he

established a printing-office at Ebersdorf, and from that office sent

books, pamphlets, letters, and cheap editions of the Bible in all

directions. As he longed, thirdly, for personal contact with leading

men in the Church, he instituted a system of journeys to Halle and

other centres of learning and piety. But his best work was done in

Berthelsdorf. His steward, Heitz, gave the rustics Bible lessons; Pastor

Rothe preached awakening sermons in the parish church, and his preaching

was, as the Count declared, "as though it rained flames from heaven";

and he himself, in the summer season, held daily singing meetings and

prayer meetings in his own house. Hand in hand did he and Rothe work

hard for the flock at Berthelsdorf. On a Sunday morning the pastor would

preach a telling sermon in a crowded church; in the afternoon the squire

would gather his tenants in his house and expound to them the morning's

discourse. The whole village was stirred; the Church was enlarged; and

the Count himself was so in earnest that if the slightest hitch occurred

in a service he would burst into tears. While things in Herrnhut were

growing worse things in Berthelsdorf were growing better; while stormy

winds blew on the hill there was peace and fellowship down in the

valley. How closely the Count and the pastor were linked may be seen

from the following fact. The Count's family pew in the Church was a

small gallery or raised box over the vestry; the box had a trap-door

in the floor; the pastor, according to Lutheran custom, retired to the

vestry at certain points in the service; and the Count, by opening the

aforesaid door, could communicate his wishes to the pastor.

He had now to apply his principles to Herrnhut. As long as the settlers

had behaved themselves well, and kept their promise to be loyal to the

National Church, he had left them alone to follow their own devices;

and even if they sang old Brethren's hymns at their meetings, he had no

insuperable objection. But now the time had come to take stern measures.

He had taken them in out of charity; he had invited them to the meetings

in his house; and now they had turned the place into a nest of scheming

dissenters. There was war in the camp. On the one hand, Christian

David called Rothe a narrow-minded churchman. On the other hand, Rothe

thundered from his pulpit against the "mad fanatics" on the hill. As Jew

and Samaritan in days of old, so now were Berthelsdorf and Herrnhut.

At this critical point the Count intervened, and changed the duel into

a duet {1727.}. He would have no makers of sects on his estate. With all

their faults, he believed that the settlers were at bottom broad-minded

people. Only clear away the rubbish and the gold would be found

underneath.

"Although our dear Christian David," he said, "was calling me the

Beast and Mr. Rothe the False Prophet, we could see his honest heart

nevertheless, and knew we could lead him right. It is not a bad maxim,"

he added, "when honest men are going wrong to put them into office,

and they will learn from experience what they will never learn from

speculation."

He acted on that maxim now. He would teach the exiles to obey the law of

the land, to bow to his authority as lord of the manor, and to live in

Christian fellowship with each other. For this purpose, he summoned them

all to a mass meeting in the Great House on the Hutberg {May 12th.},

lectured them for over three hours on the sin of schism, read out the

"Manorial Injunctions and Prohibitions,"[76] which all inhabitants of

Herrnhut must promise to obey, and then submitted a number of "Statutes"

as the basis of a voluntary religious society. The effect was sudden

and swift. At one bound the settlers changed from a group of quarrelling

schismatics to an organized body of orderly Christian tenants; and

forthwith the assembled settlers shook hands, and promised to obey the

Injunctions and Prohibitions.

As soon as the Count had secured good law and order he obtained leave of

absence from Dresden, took up his residence at Herrnhut, and proceeded

to organize all who wished into a systematic Church within the Church.

For this purpose he prepared another agreement {July 4th.}, entitled

the "Brotherly Union and Compact," signed the agreement first himself,

persuaded Christian David, Pastor Schäfer and another neighbouring

clergyman to do the same, and then invited all the rest to follow suit.

Again, the goodwill was practically universal. As the settlers had

promised on May 12th to obey the Manorial Injunctions and Prohibitions,

so now, of their own free will, they signed a promise to end their

sectarian quarrels, to obey the "Statutes," and to live in fellowship

with Christians of all beliefs and denominations. Thus had the Count

accomplished a double purpose. As lord of the manor he had crushed

the design to form a separate sect; and as Spener's disciple he had

persuaded the descendants of the Bohemian Brethren to form another

"Church within the Church."

Nor was this all. As the Brethren looked back in later years to those

memorable days in Herrnhut, they came to regard the summer months of

1727 as a holy, calm, sabbatic season, when one and all were quickened

and stirred by the power of the Spirit Divine. "The whole place," said

Zinzendorf himself, "represented a visible tabernacle of God among men."

For the next four months the city on the hill was the home of ineffable

joy; and the very men who had lately quarrelled with each other now

formed little groups for prayer and praise. As the evening shadows

lengthened across the square the whole settlement met to pray and

praise, and talk with each other, like brothers and sisters of one home.

The fancies and vagaries fled. The Count held meetings every day. The

Church at Berthelsdorf was crowded out. The good David, now appointed

Chief Elder, persuaded all to study the art of love Divine by going

through the First Epistle of St. John. The very children were stirred

and awakened. The whole movement was calm, strong, deep and abiding.

Of vulgar excitement there was none; no noisy meetings, no extravagant

babble, no religious tricks to work on the emotions. For mawkish,

sentimental religion the Count had an honest contempt. "It is," he said,

"as easy to create religious excitement as it is to stir up the sensual

passions; and the former often leads to the latter." As the Brethren met

in each other's homes, or on the Hutberg when the stars were shining,

they listened, with reverence and holy awe, to the still voice of that

Good Shepherd who was leading them gently, step by step, to the green

pastures of peace.

Amid the fervour the Count made an announcement which caused every cheek

to flush with new delight. He had made a strange discovery. At Zittau,

not far away, was a reference library; and there, one day, he found

a copy of Comenius's Latin version of the old Brethren's "Account of

Discipline." {July.} His eyes were opened at last. For the first time in

his busy life he read authentic information about the old Church of the

Brethren; and discovered, to his amazement and joy, that so far from

being disturbers of the peace, with a Unitarian taint in their blood,

they were pure upholders of the very faith so dear to his own heart.

His soul was stirred to its depths. "I could not," he said, "read

the lamentations of old Comenius, addressed to the Church of England,

lamentations called forth by the idea that the Church of the Brethren

had come to an end, and that he was locking its door--I could not read

his mournful prayer, 'Turn Thou us unto Thee, O Lord, and we shall be

turned; renew our days as of old,' without resolving there and then:

I, as far as I can, will help to bring about this renewal. And though

I have to sacrifice my earthly possessions, my honours and my life, as

long as I live I will do my utmost to see to it that this little flock

of the Lord shall be preserved for Him until He come."

And even this was not the strangest part of the story. As the Count

devoured the ancient treatise, he noticed that the rules laid down

therein were almost the same as the rules which he had just drawn up for

the refugees at Herrnhut. He returned to Herrnhut, reported his find,

and read the good people extracts from the book {Aug. 4th.}. The

sensation was profound. If this was like new milk to the Count it was

like old wine to the Brethren; and again the fire of their fathers

burned in their veins.

And now the coping stone was set on the temple {Aug. 13th.}. As the

Brethren were learning, step by step, to love each other in true

sincerity, Pastor Rothe now invited them all to set the seal to the work

by coming in a body to Berthelsdorf Church, and there joining, with one

accord, in the celebration of the Holy Communion. The Brethren accepted

the invitation with joy. The date fixed was Monday, August 13th. The

sense of awe was overpowering. As the Brethren walked down the slope to

the church all felt that the supreme occasion had arrived; and all who

had quarrelled in the days gone by made a covenant of loyalty and love.

At the door of the church the strange sense of awe was thrilling. They

entered the building; the service began; the "Confession" was offered

by the Count; and then, at one and the same moment, all present, rapt

in deep devotion, were stirred by the mystic wondrous touch of a power

which none could define or understand. There, in Berthelsdorf Parish

Church, they attained at last the firm conviction that they were one in

Christ; and there, above all, they believed and felt that on them, as on

the twelve disciples on the Day of Pentecost, had rested the purifying

fire of the Holy Ghost.

"We learned," said the Brethren, "to love." "From that time onward,"

said David Nitschmann, "Herrnhut was a living Church of Jesus Christ. We

thank the Lord that we ever came to Herrnhut, instead of pressing on, as

we intended, to Poland."

And there the humble Brother spoke the truth. As the Brethren returned

that evening to Herrnhut, they felt within them a strength and joy they

had never known before. They had realised their calling in Christ. They

had won the Divine gift of Christian union. They had won that spirit of

brotherly love which only the great Good Spirit could give. They had won

that sense of fellowship with Christ, and fellowship with one another,

which had been the costliest gem in the days of their fathers; and

therefore, in future, they honoured the day as the true spiritual

birthday of the Renewed Church of the Brethren. It is useless trying to

express their feelings in prose. Let us listen to the moving words of

the Moravian poet, James Montgomery:--

They walked with God in peace and love,

But failed with one another;

While sternly for the faith they strove,

Brother fell out with brother;

But He in Whom they put their trust,

Who knew their frames, that they were dust,

Pitied and healed their weakness.

He found them in His house of prayer,

With one accord assembled,

And so revealed His presence there,

They wept for joy and trembled;

One cup they drank, one bread they brake,

One baptism shared, one language spake,

Forgiving and forgiven.

Then forth they went, with tongues of flame,

In one blest theme delighting,

The love of Jesus and His Name,

God's children all uniting!

That love, our theme and watchword still;

That law of love may we fulfil,

And love as we are loved.

The next step was to see that the blessing was not lost {Aug. 27th.}.

For this purpose the Brethren, a few days later, arranged a system of

Hourly Intercession. As the fire on the altar in the Jewish Temple

was never allowed to go out, so the Brethren resolved that in this

new temple of the Lord the incense of intercessory prayer should rise

continually day and night. Henceforth, Herrnhut in very truth should

be the "Watch of the Lord." The whole day was carefully mapped out, and

each Brother or Sister took his or her turn. Of all the prayer unions

ever organized surely this was one of the most remarkable. It is said to

have lasted without interruption for over a hundred years.

CHAPTER IV. -- LIFE AT HERRNHUT.

As we study the social and religious system which now developed at

Herrnhut, it is well to bear in mind the fact that when the Count, as

lord of the manor, first issued his "Injunctions and Prohibitions," he

was not aware that, in so doing, he was calling back to life once more

the discipline of the old Bohemian Brethren. He had not yet read the

history of the Brethren, and he had not yet studied Comenius's "Account

of Discipline." He knew but little of the Brethren's past, and the

little that he knew was wrong; and, having no other plan to guide him,

he took as his model the constitution lying ready to hand in the average

German village of the day, and adapted that simple constitution to

the special needs of the exiles.[77] He had no desire to make Herrnhut

independent. It was still to be a part of his estate, and conform to

the laws of the land; and still to be the home of a "Church within the

Church," as planned by Luther long ago in his famous German Mass.

First, then the Count laid down the rule that all male adults in

Herrnhut, no matter to what sect they might belong, should have a voice

in the election of twelve Elders; and henceforward these twelve Elders,

like those in the neighbouring estates of Silesia, had control over

every department of life, and enforced the Injunctions and Prohibitions

with an iron hand. They levied the usual rates and taxes to keep the

streets and wells in order. They undertook the care of widows and

orphans. They watched the relations of single young men and women. They

kept a sharp eye on the doings at the inn. They called to order the

tellers of evil tales; and they banished from Herrnhut all who disobeyed

the laws, or conducted themselves in an unbecoming, frivolous or

offensive manner.

The power of the Elders was enormous. If a new refugee desired to settle

in Herrnhut, he must first obtain permission from the Elders. If a

settler desired to go on a journey, he must first obtain permission from

the Elders. If a man desired to build a house; if a trader desired to

change his calling; if an apprentice desired to leave his master; if a

visitor desired to stay the night, he must first obtain permission from

the Elders. If a man fell in love and desired to marry, he must first

obtain the approval of the Elders; and until that approval had been

obtained, he was not allowed to propose to the choice of his heart. Let

us see the reason for this remarkable strictness.

As the Brethren settled down in Herrnhut, they endeavoured, under the

Count's direction, to realize the dignity of labour. For rich and poor,

for Catholic and Protestant, for all able-bodied men and women, the same

stern rule held good. If a man desired to settle at Herrnhut, the one

supreme condition was that he earned his bread by honest toil, and lived

a godly, righteous and sober life. For industrious Catholics there was a

hearty welcome; for vagabonds, tramps and whining beggars there was

not a bed to spare. If a man would work he might stay, and worship God

according to his conscience; but if he was lazy, he was ordered off the

premises. As the Brethren met on Sunday morning for early worship in the

public hall, they joined with one accord in the prayer, "Bless the sweat

of the brow and faithfulness in business"; and the only business they

allowed was business which they could ask the Lord to bless. To them

work was a sacred duty, a delight and a means for the common good. If

a man is blessed who has found his work, then blessed were the folk at

Herrnhut. "We do not work to live," said the Count; "we live to work."

The whole aim was the good of each and the good of all. As the grocer

stood behind his counter, or the weaver plied his flying shuttle, he was

toiling, not for himself alone, but for all his Brethren and Sisters.

If a man desired to set up in business, he had first to obtain the

permission of the Elders; and the Elders refused to grant the permission

unless they thought that the business in question was needed by the rest

of the people. "No brother," ran the law at Herrnhut, "shall compete

with his brother in trade." No man was allowed to lend money on interest

without the consent of the Elders. If two men had any dispute in

business, they must come to terms within a week; and if they did not,

or went to law, they were expelled. If a man could buy an article in

Herrnhut, he was not allowed to buy it anywhere else.

It is easy to see the purpose of these regulations. They were an

attempt to solve the social problem, to banish competition, and to put

co-operation in its place. For some years the scheme was crowned with

glorious success. The settlement grew; the trade flourished; the great

firm of Dürninger obtained a world-wide reputation; the women were

skilled in weaving and spinning; and the whole system worked so well

that in 1747 the Saxon Government besought the Count to establish a

similar settlement at Barby. At Herrnhut, in a word, if nowhere else,

the social problem was solved. There, at least, the aged and ill could

live in peace and comfort; there grim poverty was unknown; there the

widow and orphan were free from carking care; and there men and women of

humble rank had learned the truth that when men toil for the common good

there is a perennial nobleness in work.[78]

For pleasure the Brethren had neither time nor taste. They worked, on

the average, sixteen hours a day, allowed only five hours for sleep,

and spent the remaining three at meals and meetings. The Count was as

Puritanic as Oliver Cromwell himself. For some reason he had come to the

conclusion that the less the settlers knew of pleasure the better, and

therefore he laid down the law that all strolling popular entertainers

should be forbidden to enter the holy city. No public buffoon ever

cracked his jokes at Herrnhut. No tight-rope dancer poised on giddy

height. No barrel-dancer rolled his empty barrel. No tout for lotteries

swindled the simple. No juggler mystified the children. No cheap-jack

cheated the innocent maidens. No quack-doctor sold his nasty pills. No

melancholy bear made his feeble attempt to dance. For the social joys

of private life the laws were stricter still. At Herrnhut, ran one

comprehensive clause, there were to be no dances whatever, no wedding

breakfasts, no christening bumpers, no drinking parties, no funeral

feasts, and no games like those played in the surrounding villages. No

bride at Herrnhut ever carried a bouquet. No sponsor ever gave the new

arrival a mug or a silver spoon.

For sins of the coarse and vulgar kind there was no mercy. If a man got

drunk, or cursed, or stole, or used his fists, or committed adultery or

fornication, he was expelled, and not permitted to return till he

had given infallible proofs of true repentance. No guilty couple were

allowed to "cheat the parson." No man was allowed to strike his wife,

and no wife was allowed to henpeck her husband; and any woman found

guilty of the latter crime was summoned before the board of Elders and

reprimanded in public.

Again, the Count insisted on civil order. He appointed a number of other

officials. Some, called servants, had to clean the wells, to sweep the

streets, to repair the houses, and to trim the gardens. For the sick

there was a board of sick waiters; for the poor a board of almoners;

for the wicked a board of monitors; for the ignorant a board of

schoolmasters; and each board held a conference every week. Once a week,

on Saturday nights, the Elders met in Council; once a week, on Monday

mornings, they announced any new decrees; and all inhabitants vowed

obedience to them as Elders, to the Count as Warden, and finally to the

law of the land. Thus had the Count, as lord of the manor, drawn up a

code of civil laws to be binding on all. We have finished the Manorial

Injunctions and Prohibitions. We come to the free religious life of the

community.

Let us first clear a difficulty out of the way. As the Count was a loyal

son of the Lutheran Church, and regarded the Augsburg Confession as

inspired,[79] it seems, at first sight, a marvellous fact that here at

Herrnhut he allowed the Brethren to take steps which led ere long to the

renewal of their Church. He allowed them to sing Brethren's Hymns; he

allowed them to revive old Brethren's customs; he allowed them to hold

independent meetings; and he even resolved to do his best to revive the

old Church himself. His conduct certainly looked very inconsistent. If

a man in England were to call himself a loyal member of the Anglican

Church, and yet at the same time do his very best to found an

independent denomination, he would soon be denounced as a traitor to the

Church and a breeder of schism and dissent. But the Count's conduct can

be easily explained. It was all due to his ignorance of history. He had

no idea that the Bohemian Brethren had ever been an independent Church.

He regarded them as a branch of the Reformed persuasion. He regarded

them as a "Church within the Church," of the kind for which Luther had

longed, and which Spener had already established. He held his delusion

down to the end of his days; and, therefore, as Lutheran and Pietist

alike, he felt at liberty to help the Brethren in all their religious

endeavours.

For this purpose, therefore, he asked the settlers at Herrnhut to sign

their names to a voluntary "Brotherly Union"; and the chief condition of

the "Union" was that all the members agreed to live in friendship with

Christians of other denominations, and also to regard themselves as

members of the Lutheran Church. They attended the regular service at the

Parish Church. There they took the Holy Communion; there they had their

children baptized; and there the young people were confirmed.

Meanwhile the movement at Herrnhut was growing fast. The great point was

to guard against religious poison. As the Count had a healthy horror of

works of darkness, he insisted that no meetings should be held without

a light; and the Brethren set their faces against superstition. They

forbade ghost-stories; they condemned the popular old-wives' tales about

tokens, omens and death-birds; they insisted that, in case of illness,

no meddling busybody should interfere with the doctor; and thus, as

homely, practical folk, they aimed at health of body and of mind.

But the chief object of their ambition was health of soul. As the

revival deepened, the number of meetings increased. Not a day passed

without three meetings for the whole congregation. At five in the

morning they met in the hall, and joined in a chorus of praise. At the

dinner hour they met again, and then, about nine o'clock, after supper,

they sang themselves to rest. At an early period the whole congregation

was divided into ninety unions for prayer, and each band met two

or three times a week. The night was as sacred as the day. As the

night-watchman went his rounds, he sang a verse at the hour, as

follows:--

The clock is eight! to Herrnhut all is told,

How Noah and his seven were saved of old,

Hear, Brethren, hear! the hour of nine is come!

Keep pure each heart, and chasten every home!

Hear, Brethren, hear! now ten the hour-hand shows;

They only rest who long for night's repose.

The clock's eleven, and ye have heard it all,

How in that hour the mighty God did call.

It's midnight now, and at that hour you know,

With lamp to meet the bridegroom we must go.

The hour is one; through darkness steals the day;

Shines in your hearts the morning star's first ray?

The clock is two! who comes to meet the day,

And to the Lord of days his homage pay?

The clock is three! the Three in One above

Let body, soul and spirit truly love.

The clock is four! where'er on earth are three,

The Lord has promised He the fourth will be.

The clock is five! while five away were sent,

Five other virgins to the marriage went!

The clock is six, and from the watch I'm free,

And every one may his own watchman be!

At this task all male inhabitants, over sixteen and under sixty, took

their turn. The watchman, in the intervals between the hours, sang other

snatches of sacred song; and thus anyone who happened to be lying awake

was continually reminded of the presence of God.