A FAR JOURNEY
With God—over the sea;
Without him—not over the threshold.
—Russian Proverb.
At the time of which I write this, the fall of 1744, Prior Onesimus and his three brothers were in the ascendency, and for a time it seemed as though Brother Beissel would be completely overthrown in his rule by these designing Eckerlings; but they who thought our superintendent easy to overcome reckoned without their host, for while to the worldly minded he had not the graces and attractiveness that marked our prior, our superintendent, though harmless as a dove, had the wisdom and subtilty of the serpent, and thus at this time, when the strain between these two had increased from day to day, Prior Onesimus, no doubt for purposes of his own, conceived the idea that we make a pilgrimage to the Sabbatarian communities in Connecticut and Rhode Island. I recollect full well that when he made his desire known to our superintendent, suggesting possibly a short absence would tend to heal their differences, Brother Beissel at once gave his consent.
But if our prior had thought to surround himself with his own followers and thus make this enterprise redound solely to his credit he was greatly mistaken, for the superintendent quietly suggested the prior take with him his own brother, Jephune, and Brother Timotheus (Alexander Mack), and myself as traveling companions, the prior being promised by our superintendent that in the meantime he would attend to the prior's duties at the meetings. This was not exactly to our prior's liking, but Brother Beissel pointed out that these brethren were selected in order to insure the success of the expedition as well as the welfare and comfort of the party. Thus the prior would represent the Zionitic Brethren and the Theosophists of the community; Brother Timotheus, the secular congregation and the Baptists in general; Jephune, our mystic and astrologer, would serve as the physician of the party; while I was to be the theologian and interpreter.
Thus it was arranged and we at once began our brief preparations for the journey: extra soles for our wooden sandals, the points of our pilgrim staffs sharpened, a day's provisions for the inner man, a copy of the "Weyrauch's Hügel," and a few of Brother Beissel's "Theosophische Episteln" for the spiritual man. I have it on my records that this occurred on the Friday of September 21, 1744, almost a year since our dear sister had left us, on the night of which an unusually solemn love feast was held in the Saal, at Zion, in our honor. The services lasted far into the night, even the hours between the midnight prayers and the dawn being passed in prayer. The next morning being our Sabbath we all were present at the meeting of the congregation, where every one bade us a most loving God-speed.
But in all these simple preparations and pious services I confess I had nigh forgotten my Sonnlein, and when the thought of him came to me on that Sabbath Day as to what he would do in my absence, I feared I should have to seek my release from the superintendent, for I am proud to say, never did boy hang to his mother's skirts more closely than did Sonnlein follow upon my heels, so much so it became a byword in our little camp that it could be depended on when one of us appeared, it would not be long until you saw the other, and indeed we were inseparable. During the day he would trot after me wherever my duties took me, whether in the fields or in the printing room, or rambling in the woods for wild flowers, and as he grew older he insisted upon attending the midnight devotions, just as the grown-up Brothers and Sisters. With the exception of my brief sojourn in Lancaster in the matter of the levies, we had never been separated for more than a few hours at a time, and I knew if I left him now for this long journey the poor boy would be utterly disconsolate. I also knew full well that our Brother Beissel, though not a hater of children, still had little patience with them, and I doubted much whether he and Sonnlein could stand the trial of my long absence. I called Sonnlein to me and told him I was about to go away for a great many weeks. At once he danced and jumped about me in a most uncloistral manner, apparently never doubting for a moment that, as in the past, he would be with me; but when I said to him, "'Tis a far journey, Sonnlein, too far for thee," I saw the tears in his eyes, though he tried to keep them down as he asked:
"Am I not to go with thee, Vaterchen?"
"Nay, I fear not, Sonnlein; 'tis a long way over rough roads and through tangled paths, through great, lonely forests, where there are wild beasts, and then the wild sea to make thee sick. We know not what hardships we may have to endure."
"But I can walk, Vaterchen; I am not afraid of the lonely woods, not if I am with thee."
"But how about the sea?"
"Thou canst give me physic," he replied so innocently I could not refrain from laughing, whereat he pouted and grumbled, "I'm not afraid of the sea, and on land I can walk as well as 'Old Air-smeller.'"
"What!" I cried in amazement. "Whom dost mean by such irreverent name?" I demanded.
"Brother Jephune," he confessed; "he sticketh his nose into the air when he walketh about, so he falleth over everything."
"Is't needful you call him such name?"
"So the neighbors call him."
"Must do what foolish ones do?"
"Nay;" and then, looking up with repentance writ all over him, he said, "May I go? I can walk and I won't mind the water. Thou knowest I am fond of water," which was the truth, for when he was not with me he was swimming or fishing in the Cocalico, or hunting in the woods when the Cocalico was too cold.
Indeed, I doubted not he could endure the journey as well as most of us, for he was a hardy, active boy, and with our healthful life had never known a day of sickness. I liked no better to be separated from him than did he, and had he quietly taken my suggestion to remain I had been greatly disappointed; but when I broached the matter to my brother pilgrims they at first demurred, and yet they loved my boy, for with all his mischievousness he was always ready and willing to do the bidding of any of them. Finally, upon my persuasions, they acknowledged it would be safe for him to make the journey. Accordingly I prepared a little pilgrim's staff for him and saw that he had a stout pair of sandals, and with a little bag of provisions for him we started out at six o'clock of that Sabbath evening on our journey, the assembled Brotherhood and Sisterhood watching us from Mount Zion until we were out of sight.
But once fairly upon our way, we walked, as was our custom, bareheaded and silently, in single file, Prior Onesimus at the head and myself at the rear, all except Sonnlein, who neither kept silence nor in file, almost exhausting me with his innumerable questions; at one moment he would be ahead of us and the next in the rear, now stopping to gather a handful of nuts that had dropped from the trees along our way or else to pluck the wild grapes that hung in royal purple from the luxuriant vines, and then rushing after me, tempting me to share his feast.
At first our course led us through the settlements of our German brethren in the eastern part of Lancaster County; thence among our English brethren in Nantmill, where we stopped for a few days and held several missionary meetings. From the Falls of French Creek we took the road among the German families; thence across the Schuylkill to the German settlements along the roadside leading to Germantown. A somewhat prolonged stop was made with our brother mystics on the Wissahickon, among whom we found much solace and comfort; thence a short visit to the brethren of the faith in the city of Philadelphia; thence our missionary tour took us to the Pennepack.
Thus far our pilgrimage had taken us mainly among the brethren of our own belief, and yet wherever we went our bare, cropped heads, long beards, white cloaks and cowls, our silence and manner of traveling, attracted considerable attention and even ridicule and grossest insults. Sonnlein, however, being never late in informing the curious ones who we were; and while I admonished him frequently against his too great freedom with strangers, there is no doubt that by his frankness he saved us much annoyance, for I have long ago learned that one will be forgiven much if he only be open and candid, no matter how wicked he be; but if, like a turtle, he keep within his shell and mind his own business like a good, honest turtle, every idler and good-for-naught must hurl stones at him to crack his shell.
After crossing the Neshaminy Creek at the falls we were ferried across the Delaware—a wonderful sight to Sonnlein—and entered our sister province of New Jersey. Arriving at Amwell, we were greatly rejoiced to find the converts baptized some six years before by some of our brethren still keeping up their organization and considering themselves a branch of the parent community at Ephrata.
We remained here for some time and then parted from our dear brethren in mutual sadness, for we knew not whether we should ever see each other again.
And now our journey took us through long stretches of forest and for miles and miles our way was but a narrow path among tall, solemn pines so thickly grown and so crowded with brush and vines underneath as to have a most gloomy and depressing effect even upon the most cheerful of us. Now and then we came upon some little stream or pond that looked almost black under the shadows of the bordering pines. These streams and ponds were the only changes in the landscape excepting the occasional sand hills, and the only sound to break the monotony would be the note of some bird. Houses we saw not for hours and even for days, and many a night we slept within the folds of these dark and gloomy forests, our roof the thick, heavy branches of the pines, through which, on clear nights, the stars smiled down cheerily.
But though the nights were already cold and frosty and I feared exceedingly Sonnlein would suffer from the exposure, still with a fire burning all night to keep us warm and to frighten away wild beasts we minded not the hard, rough earth with the thin carpet of pine twigs and needles any more than our hard benches in our Kammers. Sonnlein invariably slept between me and Brother Timotheus, thus being sheltered somewhat from the winds that even the thick forest could not entirely keep from us.
After some days' travel in this wise we finally came to the region between the Shark and Squan Rivers, where we found a little community of about fifteen adult members, Sabbatarians, who had migrated from Stonington, Connecticut, and Westerly, Rhode Island, and who had signed a covenant binding themselves to live and walk together as Christian people, although they had no church or pastor. A number of meetings were arranged in our honor, and at these I preached and admonished them to remain steadfast in their faith, so that I was gratified to note our efforts resulted in a church's being organized, Brother William Davis, the elder, although in his eighty-first year, being chosen pastor.
Leaving Shrewsbury, as this church is referred to in our records, we wended our way southward until we came to a place on the west shore of Barnegat Bay, almost directly opposite the outlet of this beautiful bay into the ocean. Here was another settlement of New England Sabbatarians, who were known as "Rogerines," a band of about twenty-one persons. They received us with open arms and we were most hospitably entertained by Brother John Culver—the most prominent among the Rogerines—who had made several visits to Amwell and to Ephrata and upon whose earnest invitation we had come to Barnegat. These good people looked upon us as holy men, so that they brought their sick to us in the hope that they might be healed by the very laying on of hands and prayer, as our Rogerine brethren used no medicines nor would they employ physicians, relying upon strictly scriptural means for relief from illness. While we agreed not on all doctrinal points, still in so much of our manner of life and belief we were in such perfect accord that our stay was exceedingly refreshing to our souls, and it was through these good people as much as anything else we extended our visit to New England, stopping on our way to visit one John Lovell, an old Pythagorean, who lived as a hermit in the dense woods about four miles from Burlington, throughout the seasons, without fire, in a cell made by the side of an old log, in the form of an oven, not high enough or long enough to stand upright in or lie extended.
I mean not to be harsh or unjust to this surly hermit, who lived more like a beast than man, but in his boyish straightness of speech Sonnlein spoke out full well what was in my mind and I doubt not in my brethren's also when he said, "Brother Lovell hath his soul from a pig or else would he not be so dirty," for we did not believe that our Lord any more than mortal man cared to look upon dirty, sour faces. We held that a contented mind showed itself in a bright, cheerful face, and thus it was our habit at Ephrata, with both Brother and Sister, always to be satisfied and to bear ever a glad countenance, even though the bitterness of death were upon us, and for this we have the Scriptures.