Part 7

In addition to the above from the _New York Tribune_, I have found an extract concerning the Mennonites of South Russia, from _The Friend_ (London), in which it is stated that a deputation was sent to St. Petersburg in hopes of changing the purpose of the government, but only obtained a delay of ten years, which expired in 1881, and also the option of hospital and other non-fighting military service in place of actual soldiership. Many deputations have since followed. The last attempt was by a company of “eldest persons” to the emperor, while he was staying at his country palace in the Crimea. We learn “the emperor did not accept an audience, but kind words by others were spoken plenty.” Extracts follow from an original letter, preserving the quaint English: “We greatly see the need of leaving Russia, not only because of military service, but also of the curtailing of religious and other liberties, which clearly shows an intention on the part of the government to take this and our language from us. Formerly, the administration of all laws connected with the colonies was in the hands of the colonists themselves; now they are mixed up with the Russian peasants. The Russ language, hitherto not, or little, wanted, is introduced into the schools, and Russian teachers are given to those schools. Prisons, like as in the Russian villages, are by law commanded to build; before, not at all wanted.”

But while the Russian Mennonites are thus preparing to emigrate, it is stated that in Prussia there are only a few churches that are not willing to submit to the new military law.

The editor of the _Herald of Truth_, a Mennonite paper (Elkhart, Indiana), speaks to the Russians nearly as follows: “I believe I understand the sad dilemma in which you are placed. You have homes, the result of honest toil; you love and cherish them; there is a long journey to make into a strange land; it will cost you a great many anxieties and trials; all these things seem almost impossible for you to accomplish, and yet you cherish the principles of your church, you want to abide in the faith of your fathers.

“In the country where you now are you are called to do that which we believe Jesus, the Prince of Peace, forbids. Now here is a dilemma. It will be for you to choose. Shall we stay,—and yield the principles of our religion? or shall we do as the Saviour said, ‘If they persecute you in one city, flee into another’?”

* * * * *

In 1881 I visited a few Mennonite communities in Germany; the first being in the city of Crefeld, in Rhenish Prussia. I sought this town especially from what I had learned of it in my own country. Crefeld seems to have been a place of refuge in former times for persecuted religionists. Here, in the seventeenth century, Huguenot refugees introduced the manufacture of silk, for which the town is still distinguished. Here William Penn and others gained adherents to the Quaker doctrine.[41] And when the Dunkers were persecuted, some of them took refuge in Crefeld, in the duchy of Cleves.

Although Crefeld was so liberal, and although it now belongs to Prussia, it is greatly Catholic. The population is thus estimated: Catholics, 56,000; Evangelicals or United Lutherans and Reformed, 18,000; Jews, 1500; Mennonites, 1000. But the attendance at the Mennonite church which I visited did not indicate so great a number. I cannot express more fully to our own people of Lancaster County how much this church differs from their own simple meetings at home than to tell them that the preacher is paid, that he spoke from a pulpit, wore a black robe, and read a prayer from a book. Yet it is simple compared with the display of Catholic churches.

But what my neighbors will probably consider as a more vital difference between them and the Mennonites of Crefeld is that the latter bear arms. Since 1868 they have not been exempted from military service. They can, however, if they desire, take peaceful positions, such as nurses in military hospitals, or clerks; but while some of their fellow-believers in Prussia avail themselves of this permission, those in Crefeld do not. One not a Mennonite said to me that the positions in the army are more honorable.

Why, then, do they not join the Evangelicals? Two of the chief differences between them are that Mennonites only baptize those of mature years and refuse to swear in a court of justice, making instead nearly the following declaration, “My yes is yes, my no is no, and in testimony thereto I offer my right hand,”—the _handschlag_.

* * * * *

The next Mennonite settlement which I visited was that at Kuhbörnchenhof, not far from Kaiserslautern, in the Rhenish Palatinate. Going among these people with no letters of introduction, I was received with much hospitality in the small rural settlement. Their ancestors came from Switzerland in 1715. The first who came to this place seems to have built himself a log house; the country being nearly covered with wood, with wild animals therein. Others joined him, until the little settlement numbered eight families. Counting all in the country round belonging to this church (or congregation), it is said to number ninety-four baptized persons. They baptize at the age of thirteen. Until lately this settlement had an unpaid ministry; but a few years ago they concluded to employ a minister. However, he is not heavily paid. He preaches by turns in three different settlements, and receives a salary of about one hundred and eighty dollars (having a wife and infant). There are larger communities, which pay as much as two hundred and fifty to four hundred and fifty dollars.

The Rhenish Palatinate belongs to Bavaria. The Mennonites here are no longer allowed to purchase exemption from military service; all who are drawn must serve.

One more effort I made in Germany to visit the Mennonites. I heard in the city of Speyer that some were living near Zweibrücken, and by perseverance I found an Amish family not far from the town. It proved to be that of a wealthy farmer, living in some respects more plainly than our people here. This farmer, Mr. Stalter, told me that all the Mennonites in the Palatinate came from Switzerland. When they came many of them were weavers, but now they have earned money, and all, or almost all, are farmers. The manner in which the sons of this family avoid protracted military service seems to be by obtaining a higher degree of education. I was told that since 1871 every young man in Germany must perform military service at the age of twenty. If he prefer, he may begin at sixteen. They usually go into barracks for three years. But the three years’ service can be shortened to one year, and otherwise lightened, thus: First, the young man must be three years in a common public school,—_Volks-schule_. Then he must go six years to a school of higher grade, a _Real-schule_, where he studies a foreign language (either French or English), chemistry, physics, mathematics, history, and natural history. (At the end of six years, if he cannot pass his examination, he may go back and study another year.) After this he is ready to enter upon the mitigated military service for one year only. If he does not wish to live in garrison, he can take a room elsewhere and board himself, but go through all the military exercises with the other soldiers. In this case he must furnish himself his uniform and other trappings. Of this manner of escaping the three years’ service I think that two sons of the Stalter family had already availed themselves.

Close by Mr. Stalter lived another family named Oesch. They had been Amish until 1871, and have now joined the Tunkers (Dunkers), or those who immerse. The Tunkers do not go to war. If they are forced to do so, they go to America. They do go into garrison, but they will not bear arms. They are then taken before a military judge, and sometimes he sends them to prison. When allowed to come out they can work in barracks in bread-baking, the care of horses, etc., but will not take arms, even possibly if they should be threatened with death.

But they are not always sent to prison. When the matter is understood by the authorities other labor than military service is often assigned to them. It was in this family of Oesch that I saw the two volumes which I had before seen in Lancaster County. One was the Martyr-book, which was published in Dutch, turned into German by the brotherhood at Ephrata, and by them printed in 1748;[42] printed anew by the united brotherhood in Europe. The date, I think, was 1780. The other volume was the old Hymn-Book, still in use among the Amish in my own country. This copy was published at Basle in 1809.

I have before spoken of the congregation that I visited not far from Kaiserslautern, and of its preacher, who received a salary of about one hundred and eighty dollars. I met the preacher there and at his own dwelling, and he gave me a list, published in 1881, of the Mennonite congregations in Germany, Galicia, Poland, and Russia. Why those in Holland are not included I do not understand. Others are omitted, for the preface says, “We are sorry that we have not received any information concerning the small congregations found in Switzerland, as well as those in Alsace and Lorraine.” As far as my own observation goes, the number of Mennonites in Germany is not large. In Holland the number given in Appleton’s Cyclopædia is over forty-four thousand in the year 1869. Of those in Russia, the number mentioned in the list which was presented to me (published in 1881) is about forty thousand. But a private letter from a Mennonite editor estimates that fifteen thousand Russian Mennonites have come to this country, and that, as there were about forty thousand in Russia in 1870, only about twenty-five thousand are left there. The editor mentions that they have settled here in Kansas, Nebraska, Dakota, Minnesota, and Manitoba.

THE DUNKER LOVE-FEAST.

On the morning of the 25th of September, 1871, I took the cars of the Pennsylvania Central Railroad for the borough of Mount Joy, in the northwest part of this county of Lancaster. Finding no public conveyance thence to the village of C., I obtained from my landlord a horse and buggy and an obliging driver, who took me four or five miles, for two dollars. We took a drive round by the new Dunker meeting-house, which is a neat frame building,—brown, picked out with white window-frames. Behind it is a wood, upon which the church-doors open, instead of upon the highway.

We heard here that the meeting would not begin till one o’clock on the next day. Some of the brethren were at the church, however, with their teams, having brought provisions, straw, and bedding. We went into the neat meeting-room, and above into the garret, where straw was being laid down. A partition ran down the middle, and upon the women’s side a small room had also been divided from the rest, wherein were one or two bedsteads and the inevitable cradle. The basement had a hard earthen floor, and was divided into dining-room, kitchen, and cellar. Upon spacious shelves in the cellar a brother and sister were placing food. Many large loaves of bread were there. The sister was taking pies from a great basket, and bright coffee-pots stood upon the kitchen-table.

All here seemed to speak “Dutch,” but several talked English with me. They seemed surprised that I had come so far as twenty-three miles in order to attend the meeting. One remarked that it was no member that had put the notice of the meeting which I had seen into the paper. Others, however, seemed interested, although by my dress it was very plain that I was not of the brotherhood.

I found C. a neat place of about a dozen houses, and we drove to the only tavern. The landlady was young and pleasant, but she could speak little English. She was quite sociable, however, and thought that she could teach me “Dutch” and I her English. By means of some German on my part, we got along tolerably together. She took me to a good chamber, and began removing from it some of their best clothing. Showing me two sun-bonnets, one of them made of black silk, she said, “It is the fashion.” “The fashion?” said I. “Yes; the fashion for married women.” This was, doubtless, the Dunker influence even among those not members.

Being at leisure in the afternoon, I walked to an ancient Moravian church in the neighborhood, with the landlady’s little daughter,—a pretty child.

Her mother said, “Geh mit der aunty:” so she went with her adopted relative.

“Do you speak English?” I said to the little one.

“Na!” she answered.

“Hast du ein Brüder?” (Have you a brother?) I continued.

“Na!” she replied, in the dialect.

“Wie alt bist du?” (How old are you?) I said afterward.[43]

“Vaze es net.” (I don’t know.)

Conversation flagged.

I found the church a small log building that had been covered with boards. Many of the tombstones were in the Moravian fashion, such as I had seen at Litiz,—small square slabs, lying flat in the grass; and some were numbered at the top of the inscription. One of these is said to be one hundred and twenty years old. But the Herrnhüter (as my landlady said) are all gone, and another society now holds meetings in the lowly church.

Although my little guide of six years could not speak English, she was not wanting in good sense. As I was trying to secure the graveyard gate, holding it with one hand, and stooping to roll up the stone that served to keep it fast, the little one, too, put out her hand, unbidden, to hold the gate. I thought that there were some English children that would not have been so helpful, and reflected, as I walked along, upon _unspoken language_, if I may use the expression.

The landlady had a plentiful supper after we returned. I was the only guest, and, as is usual here, the maid sat down with us. We had fried beef, sweet potatoes, pie, very nice apple-butter, canned peaches, barley-coffee, brown sugar, etc. The charge for board was at the rate of one dollar per day.

In the evening I heard my hostess up-stairs preparing my bed, as I supposed. My surprise was therefore considerable, on turning down the woollen coverlet, to find no sheets upon the feather bed. On lifting this light and downy bed, which was neatly covered with white, I found one sheet, a straw bed, and then a bed-cord in the place of a sacking-bottom. I at once perceived that the feather bed was a feather cover, of which I had often heard, but had never met with one before during my sojourn in Pennsylvania “Dutchland.” I should think that this downy covering might be pleasant in cold weather, but now I rolled it off upon the floor, and, with the help of a spare comfortable, was soon at rest. The pillow-cases, which were trimmed with edging, were marked with black silk, in a large running-hand, in this manner: “Henry G. Kreider, 1864.”

As I sat the next morning a while with the landlady in her basement kitchen, she remarked, “Here is it as Dutch as Dutchlant.” But she said that my Dutch was not like theirs. The neighborhood, however, is not nearly so German as Germany. I was told by an intelligent young man that half the grown men did not speak English; I understand by this, not that they do not speak our language at all, but not habitually and with fluency. Many speak English very well, but the “Dutch” accent is universal. For several years the school-books in the township have all been English. I laughed with the landlady, who herself seemed somewhat amused, at the children having English books and speaking Dutch, or, as she would say, “Die Kinner lerne Englisch und schwetze Deitsch.” However, at the Dunker church a pretty girl told me afterward that she had had no difficulty at school the preceding winter, although “we always talk German at home.”

At breakfast this morning, among other dishes, we had raisin-pie. Not a great while after this meal was over, the morning having proved wet, a neighbor took me over to the church in his buggy for twenty-five cents. Although the hour was so early, and meeting was fixed to begin at one, I found a considerable number here, which did not surprise me, as I knew the early habits of our “Dutch” people. Taking a seat, I began to read a number of the _Living Age_, when a black-eyed maid before me, in Dunker dress, handed me her neatly-bound hymn-book in English and German. I told her that I could read German, and when I read a verse in that language she said, “But you don’t know what it means.” Reading German is with us a much rarer accomplishment than speaking the dialect.

Ere long, a stranger came and sat down behind me, and entered into conversation. He was a preacher from a distance, named L., and spoke very good English. We soon found that we had mutual acquaintances in another county, and when dinner was ready he invited me down to partake.

Here the men sat upon one side, and the women on the other, of one of the long tables, upon which was laid a strip of white muslin. We had bowls without spoons, into which was poured by attending brethren very hot coffee, containing milk or cream, but no sugar. We had the fine Lancaster County bread, good and abundant butter, apple-butter, pickles, and pies. The provisions for these meals are contributed by the members at a previous meeting, where each tells what he intends to furnish, how many loaves of bread, etc., while some prefer to give money. To furnish provisions, however, is natural to a people of whom about seventy-five in a hundred are farmers, as is the case with the Dunkers. Whatever food is left over after the four meals are finished is given to the poor, without distinction of sect; “whoever needs it most,” as a sister said.

At this dinner, before eating, my new acquaintance, L., gave out, by two lines at a time, the verse,—

“Eternal are thy mercies, Lord.”

But few joined in the singing. They would doubtless have preferred German. In that language thanks were returned after eating.

When we went up into the meeting-room again, a young man of an interesting countenance, a preacher, named Z., asked me if I was not the one who had written an article which had lately appeared in one of our county papers. It was very gratifying to be thus recognized among strangers.

An elderly sister, who sat down by me and began to talk, was named Murphy. The name surprised me much, but it was not the only Irish one here. It is probable that some such persons were taken into Dunker families, when young, to be brought up, and thus had been led to join the society.

Having observed that there was a good deal of labor to be performed here in waiting upon so many people, I asked Mrs. Murphy whether there were women hired. She told me, “There’s a couple of women that’s hired; but the members does a heap, too.”

On another occasion, I made a remark to a friendly sister about the brethren’s waiting upon the table, as they did. She answered that it was according to the Testament to help each other; the women cooked, and the men waited upon the table. She did not seem able to give the text. It may be, “Bear ye one another’s burdens.” I was amused that it should be so kindly applied to the brethren’s helping the sisters.

Before meeting began in the afternoon, a lovely aged brother, with silvery hair and beard, and wearing a woollen coat nearly white, showed me how the seats were made, so that, by turning down the backs of some, tables could be formed for the Love-Feast. He told me that the Dunkers number about one hundred thousand,—that they have increased much in the West, but not in the Eastern States. To which I rejoined, smiling, “You Dutch folks do not like poor land, like much of that at the East.”

“This is not good land,” he said, “we have improved it;” for I had left the rich limestone soil and had come to the gravelly land in the northern part of the county.

When meeting began, as brethren came in, I saw some of these bearded men kissing each other. These holy kisses, as will be seen hereafter, are frequent among the Dunkers, and, as the men shave only the upper lip, it seems strange to us who are unaccustomed to the sight and the sound. The oft-repeated kissing was to me, perhaps, the least agreeable part of the ceremonial.

The afternoon meeting became very crowded, and, as is usual among our “Dutch” people, a number of babies were in attendance. During the sessions their voices sometimes rose high, but the noise did not seem to affect those who were preaching or praying. They felt it perhaps like the wailing and sighing of the wind, which they regard not, and would rather bear the inconvenience of the children than to have the mothers stay away from meeting. This afternoon, during prayer, a little fellow behind me kept saying, “Want to go to pappy;” but if his father was among the brethren, he was on the other side of the house.

My new acquaintance, L., was the only preacher here who spoke in English. All the other exercises, except a little singing, were in German or in our Pennsylvania dialect. This afternoon L. said, among many remarks more sectarian, or less broad, “Faith is swallowed up in sight; hope, in possession; but charity, or love, is eternal. It came from God, for God is love.” The allusion here is to Paul’s celebrated panegyric on charity; but how much more charming it is in the German version, “Faith, hope, love; but the greatest of these is love. Love suffereth long and is kind, is not puffed up,” etc.

About the middle of the afternoon I perceived a speaker giving some directions, and I asked the women near me what he had said. One answered and said something about “_Wahl halten für prediger_,” by which I perceived that the election for a preacher was now to take place. Both brethren and sisters were to vote; not to select from a certain set of candidates, however; but at random, among the congregation,—or _family_, as it is sometimes called, “for all ye are brethren.”

In the room above-stairs were the bishop or elder and an assistant, to receive the votes. This bishop we might call the father of this family, which has four preachers and as many meeting-houses. The bishop is always that preacher who is oldest in the ministry. Meeting is held by turns in the different houses, occurring only once in six weeks in the large new house which we then occupied. These particulars, which I gathered in conversation, are, I believe, substantially correct.

During the interval of the election I sat and read, or looked out from my window at the young people, the gayly-dressed girls mostly grouped together. Some of these were, probably, relatives of the members, while others may have come for the ride and the fun, to see and to be seen,—meetings of this kind being great occasions in the country-side.

The young men stood around on the outside of these groups of girls, some holding their whips and twirling them, with the butts resting upon the ground. Of course the young girls were not conscious of the presence of the beaux.

On the back of the house, or rather the front,—for, as I have said, the main doors open upon the wood instead of upon the roadside,—were more young girls, and plain sisters and brethren.

I asked a nice-looking woman about the election, but she could not tell me, although she wore the plain cap. “Most of the women do around here,” she said, and added that Dunker women in meeting had offered to kiss her. “You know they greet each other with a kiss.”

After the brethren, the sisters were called up to vote. I laughed, in talking with some of the members, at the women’s being allowed to vote, in contrast to the usual custom. Mrs. Murphy reckoned it would be different if the women should undertake to vote for Governor or President.

I said to some of the sisters, “Who do you think will be chosen?” But they pleasantly informed me that to talk upon this point was against their rules,—it was a matter for internal reflection.