Within a few weeks after the events already narrated, Brother Beissel made another visit to Dulpehackin with the intention of forming the converts into a new congregation, with myself as leader. When this proposal was made to me, I requested over night for reflection and prayer. In my zeal I had thought my recent baptism had cleansed and purified me from all fleshly lusts and from all such heaven-separating vanities as pride and ambition; but that night witnessed within me such a struggle between evil ambition on the one hand, and the desire to surrender myself completely to my Maker on the other, as I shall never forget.
To be elder of the as yet little band of followers of Brother Beissel, what might it not lead to? For I doubted not at the time but that the little band would eventually grow into a large congregation whose influence should be far-reaching. Like the mustard seed it might grow and increase until the whole world were living as one grand, consecrated sisterhood and brotherhood.
Some such splendid temptation the Evil One dangled before my eyes during that long night, but with the dawning my mind became clearer and the last star had just closed its eyes when I felt stealing over me a feeling of sureness that I would do what was right, and with that I felt myself pervaded with a sense of ineffable peace.
When Brother Beissel saw me in the morning, anxious for my reply, I told him I must decline his offer as I intended to withdraw into the solitudes and live unmolested from the frailties and follies of the world.
He acquiesced with a cheerfulness which I confess hurt the remnant of pride in me and which, I fear, hath ever been imperfectly suppressed, for I had hoped he would show his appreciation of me and what I was able to do by expressing at least some regret. But that pride is ever the forerunner of a fall is, indeed, true, and my chagrin was not relieved any upon Brother Beissel's calmly announcing, as if it had all been prearranged, that he would appoint as teacher, or elder, of the congregation, Bro. Michael Wohlforth, whom I knew and respected for his sturdy love of our cause, but who, by reason of the infirmity of a harsh tongue and violent temper—and I regret to say it, though in charity—was not too well fitted for an office that requireth a gentle tongue, there being, as human flesh is made up, a limit even to Christian forbearance.
At that time, in May, 1735, the Solitary Brethren and Sisters had dispersed in the wilderness of Conestogas, each for himself, as hermits, and I, following that same way, did set up my hermitage in Dulpehackin, at the foot of a mountain, on a limpid stream; and that they who in these days live in their large, comfortable houses may know what the hermits' homes were like, I shall set forth how my own little hut, or cabin, was built, as a great many cabins of the first settlers were after the same pattern.
These be the dimensions of the proper model, which I set down in all particularity, so that if there be of my readers who ever take themselves to a life of solitude they may know how the true hermit should be housed, for I know there be many that have not this knowledge and thus are in exceeding danger of running after some vulgar variation of the ideal model: Length, twenty-five feet; breadth, twenty feet; height under joist, eight feet six inches. The measurements must be no more, no less. The door should open toward the south to catch the sun, and above the doorway must be a small overhead piece, or porch, six feet from floor to ceiling. As I was fully six feet, if not more, my head and my pride received at first many a hard knock whenever I forgot that a hermit, at least if he be tall, must not walk with too haughty a stride. For the foundation we, my faithful adherents and myself, took four large stones, as flat and even as we could find, about a foot thick, and laid them for the corners, so that the floors of our huts would be clear from the damp ground; but, and this was not so desirable, not only the smaller wild animals would creep underneath, but occasionally some straying serpent would stick its repulsive head out at me and make me regret that a hermit's hut must needs offer such attractions to these monsters.
Upon the stone foundations the ground logs were laid. These were notched at the ends and fastened with hickory pins. Smaller logs inserted into these longer ones formed the floor joists, though in most cases a solid log floor was laid. The cabin was then raised upon the ground joists, the logs being run upon skids by the help of wooden forks, the corners of the logs being notched so as to bring them as close together as possible. In this work I could not give much help, for this notching and fitting together was done by experienced ones, called the axe, or cornermen. The less experienced of us carried the logs and ran them up into place, the doors and windows not being cut until all the logs were resting snug and secure in their places. But with all the care in fitting the logs closely, there were cracks and crevices that had to be filled with a mixture of loam and dry grass, so that the cabin might be proof against rain or snow and not give too draughty ventilation. For the rafters we took chestnut saplings, hewn flat on the top, and these were usually covered with shingles of flat oak, although it sometimes occurred that a temporary thatch or sod roof had to serve until the oak shingles were prepared. Last of all came the fireplaces and chimneys. Both of these were built of loam and stones outside, at one end of the cabin. Thus from the simple materials that lay at our hands and feet—the trees, the stones, and the earth—our cabins were built, and though small and insignificant as the worldly-wise consider things, were not too small to hold heads and hearts that thought and throbbed greatly for God and man. No iron was used, for as at Ephrata, when it came to be organized into a community, we ever regarded iron as an evil metal. The temple of Solomon was built wholly without iron, and according to the Rosicrucians, from whom we had learned much concerning the mysteries of the Infinite, we were taught that no dwelling or building consecrated to the Almighty could have iron in it, as that metal was the emblem of darkness and destruction—nay, of the Evil One himself.
My little hut, so securely built, is still there, as are the old trees in the orchard I planted in those early days. Sometimes in later life, when even the Kloster wore upon me, I have resorted to this sequestered spot, quietly and unbeknown to the others, there to renew my faith and strength by undisturbed communion with God, reading and pondering with never lessening delight upon this little page out of his wonderful book of nature, for it was a lovely nook, an ideal retreat. The little Mühlbach, clear and cold and sparkling and pure as the water of life, came dancing joyously down the dale, kissing many a wild flower looking at its mirrored sweetness as it hung over the bushy brink. Many a time have I wandered along its wooded sides, drinking in, in all its fullness and completeness, the solemnity, the holy stillness of the long aisles of stately pine and heavy fir and balsam, with their fragrant odors rising from this woodland temple like incense toward heaven.
The only sounds that broke the stillness were the murmurous song of the stream, the chirp of insects, and now and then the choiring of the feathered songsters of these delightful glades. Such was the incomparable spot selected by me, now a recluse, for my probation and retirement, and here I fondly imagined I might live in beatific and solitary communion with Him; but I see now that this blissful idleness was not to be mine; for his service means more than a mere folding of the hands and pious meditation and contemplation of his beauty, his goodness, and his mercy.