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I sing the Pilgrim of a softer clime
     And milder speech than those brave men's who brought
To the ice and iron of our winter time
     A will as firm, a creed as stern, and wrought
With one mailed hand, and with the other fought.
     Simply, as fits my theme, in homely rhyme
I sing the blue-eyed German Spener taught,
     Through whose veiled, mystic faith the Inward Light,
Steady and still, an easy brightness, shone,
     Transfiguring all things in its radiance white.
The garland which his meekness never sought
     I bring him; over fields of harvest sown
With seeds of blessing, now to ripeness grown,
     I bid the sower pass before the reapers' sight.

Never in tenderer quiet lapsed the day
     From Pennsylvania's vales of spring away,
Where, forest-walled, the scattered hamlets lay

Along the wedded rivers. One long bar
     Of purple cloud, on which the evening star
Shone like a jewel on a scimitar,

Held the sky's golden gateway. Through the deep
     Hush of the woods a murmur seemed to creep,
The Schuylkill whispering in a voice of sleep.

[323] All else was still. The oxen from their ploughs
     Rested at last, and from their long day's browse
Came the dun files of Krisheim's home-bound cows.

And the young city, round whose virgin zone
     The rivers like two mighty arms were thrown,
Marked by the smoke of evening fires alone,

Lay in the distance, lovely even then
     With its fair women and its stately men
Gracing the forest court of William Penn,

Urban yet sylvan; in its rough-hewn frames
     Of oak and pine the dryads held their claims,
And lent its streets their pleasant woodland names.

Anna Pastorius down the leafy lane
     Looked city-ward, then stooped to prune again
Her vines and simples, with a sigh of pain.

For fast the streaks of ruddy sunset paled
     In the oak clearing, and, as daylight failed,
Slow, overhead, the dusky night-birds sailed.

Again she looked: between green walls of shade.
     With low-bent head as if with sorrow weighed,
Daniel Pastorius slowly came and said,

‘God's peace be with thee, Anna!’ Then he stood
     Silent before her, wrestling with the mood
Of one who sees the evil and not good.

[324] ‘What is it, my Pastorius?’ As she spoke,
     A slow, faint smile across his features broke,
Sadder than tears. ‘Dear heart,’ he said, “our folk

“Are even as others. Yea, our goodliest Friends
     Are frail; our elders have their selfish ends,
And few dare trust the Lord to make amends

“For duty's loss. So even our feeble word
     For the dumb slaves the startled meeting heard
As if a stone its quiet waters stirred;

“And, as the clerk ceased reading, there began
     A ripple of dissent which downward ran
In widening circles, as from man to man.

“Somewhat was said of running before sent,
     Of tender fear that some their guide outwent,
Troublers of Israel. I was scarce intent

“On hearing, for behind the reverend row
     Of gallery Friends, in dumb and piteous show,
I saw, methought, dark faces full of woe.

“And, in the spirit, I was taken where
     They toiled and suffered; I was made aware
Of shame and wrath and anguish and despair!

“And while the meeting smothered our poor plea
     With cautious phrase, a Voice there seemed to be,
‘As ye have done to these ye do to me!’

[325] “So it all passed; and the old tithe went on
     Of anise, mint, and cumin, till the sun
Set, leaving still the weightier work undone.

“Help, for the good man faileth! Who is strong,
     If these be weak? Who shall rebuke the wrong,
If these consent? How long, O Lord! how long!”

He ceased; and, bound in spirit with the bound,
     With folded arms, and eyes that sought the ground,
Walked musingly his little garden round.

About him, beaded with the falling dew,
     Rare plants of power and herbs of healing grew,
Such as Van Helmont and Agrippa knew.

For, by the lore of Gorlitz' gentle sage,
     With the mild mystics of his dreamy age
He read the herbal signs of nature's page,

As once he heard in sweet Von Merlau's1 bowers
     Fair as herself, in boyhood's happy hours,
The pious Spener read his creed in flowers.

‘The dear Lord give us patience!’ said his wife,
     Touching with finger-tip an aloe, rife
With leaves sharp-pointed like an Aztec knife

Or Carib spear, a gift to William Penn
     From the rare gardens of John Evelyn,
Brought from the Spanish Main by merchantmen.

[326] “See this strange plant its steady purpose hold,
     And, year by year, its patient leaves unfold,
Till the young eyes that watched it first are old.

“But some time, thou hast told me, there shall come
     A sudden beauty, brightness, and perfume,
The century-moulded bud shall burst in bloom.

“So may the seed which hath been sown to-day
     Grow with the years, and, after long delay,
Break into bloom, and God's eternal Yea

“Answer at last the patient prayers of them
     Who now, by faith alone, behold its stem
Crowned with the flowers of Freedom's diadem.

“Meanwhile, to feel and suffer, work and wait,
     Remains for us. The wrong indeed is great,
But love and patience conquer soon or late.”

‘Well hast thou said, my Anna!’ Tenderer
     Than youth's caress upon the head of her
Pastorius laid his hand. “Shall we demur

“Because the vision tarrieth? In an hour
     We dream not of, the slow-grown bud may flower,
And what was sown in weakness rise in power!”

Then through the vine-draped door whose legend read,
     ‘Procul este profani!’ Anna led
To where their child upon his little bed

[327] Looked up and smiled. ‘Dear heart,’ she said, “if we
     Must bearers of a heavy burden be,
Our boy, God willing, yet the day shall see

“When from the gallery to the farthest seat,
     Slave and slave-owner shall no longer meet,
But all sit equal at the Master's feet.”

On the stone hearth the blazing walnut block
     Set the low walls a-glimmer, showed the cock
Rebuking Peter on the Van Wyck clock,

Shone on old tomes of law and physic, side
     By side with Fox and Behmen, played at hide
And seek with Anna, midst her household pride

Of flaxen webs, and on the table, bare
     Of costly cloth or silver cup, but where,
Tasting the fat shads of the Delaware,

The courtly Penn had praised the goodwife's cheer,
     And quoted Horace o'er her home-brewed beer,
Till even grave Pastorius smiled to hear.

In such a home, beside the Schuylkill's wave,
     He dwelt in peace with God and man, and gave
Food to the poor and shelter to the slave.

For all too soon the New World's scandal shamed
     The righteous code by Penn and Sidney framed,
And men withheld the human rights they claimed.

[328] And slowly wealth and station sanction lent,
     And hardened avarice, on its gains intent,
Stifled the inward whisper of dissent.

Yet all the while the burden rested sore
     On tender hearts. At last Pastorius bore
Their warning message to the Church's door

In God's name; and the leaven of the word
     Wrought ever after in the souls who heard,
And a dead conscience in its grave-clothes stirred

To troubled life, and urged the vain excuse
     Of Hebrew custom, patriarchal use,
Good in itself if evil in abuse.

Gravely Pastorius listened, not the less
     Discerning through the decent fig-leaf dress
Of the poor plea its shame of selfishness.

One Scripture rule, at least, was unforgot;
     He hid the outcast, and bewrayed him not;
And, when his prey the human hunter sought,

He scrupled not, while Anna's wise delay
     And proffered cheer prolonged the master's stay,
To speed the black guest safely on his way.

Yet, who shall guess his bitter grief who lends
     His life to some great cause, and finds his friends
Shame or betray it for their private ends?

[329] How felt the Master when his chosen strove
     In childish folly for their seats above;
And that fond mother, blinded by her love,

Besought him that her sons, beside his throne,
     Might sit on either hand? Amidst his own
A stranger oft, companionless and lone,

God's priest and prophet stands. The martyr's pain
     Is not alone from scourge and cell and chain;
Sharper the pang when, shouting in his train,

His weak disciples by their lives deny
     The loud hosannas of their daily cry,
And make their echo of his truth a lie.

His forest home no hermit's cell he found,
     Guests, motley-minded, drew his hearth around,
And held armed truce upon its neutral ground.

There Indian chiefs with battle-bows unstrung,
     Strong, hero-limbed, like those whom Homer sung,
Pastorius fancied, when the world was young,

Came with their tawny women, lithe and tall,
     Like bronzes in his friend Von Rodeck's hall,
Comely, if black, and not unpleasing all.

There hungry folk in homespun drab and gray
     Drew round his board on Monthly Meeting day,
Genial, half merry in their friendly way.

[330] Or, haply, pilgrims from the Fatherland,
     Weak, timid, homesick, slow to understand
The New World's promise, sought his helping hand.

Or painful Kelpius,2 from his hermit den
     By Wissahickon, maddest of good men,
Dreamed o'er the Chiliast dreams of Petersen.

Deep in the woods, where the small river slid
     Snake-like in shade, the Helmstadt Mystic hid,
Weird as a wizard, over arts forbid,

Reading the books of Daniel and of John,
     And Behmen's Morninig-Redness, through the Stone
Of Wisdom, vouchsafed to his eyes alone,

Whereby he read what man ne'er read before,
     And saw the visions man shall see no more,
Till the great angel, striding sea and shore,

Shall bid all flesh await, on land or ships,
     The warning trump of the Apocalypse,
Shattering the heavens before the dread eclipse.

Or meek-eyed Mennonist his bearded chin
     Leaned o'er the gate; or Ranter, pure within,
Aired his perfection in a world of sin.

Or, talking of old home scenes, Op der Graaf
     Teased the low back-log with his shodden staff,
Till the red embers broke into a laugh

[331] And dance of flame, as if they fain would cheer
     The rugged face, half tender, half austere,
Touched with the pathos of a homesick tear!

Or Sluyter,3 saintly familist, whose word
     As law the Brethren of the Manor heard,
Announced the speedy terrors of the Lord,

And turned, like Lot at Sodom, from his race,
     Above a wrecked world with complacent face
Riding secure upon his plank of grace!

Haply, from Finland's birchen groves exiled,
     Manly in thought, in simple ways a child,
His white hair floating round his visage mild,

The Swedish pastor sought the Quaker's door,
     Pleased from his neighbor's lips to hear once more
His long-disused and half-forgotten lore.

For both could baffle Babel's lingual curse,
     And speak in Bion's Doric, and rehearse
Cleanthes' hymn or Virgil's sounding verse.

And oft Pastorius and the meek old man
     Argued as Quaker and as Lutheran,
Ending in Christian love, as they began.

With lettered Lloyd on pleasant morns he strayed
     Where Sommerhausen over vales of shade
Looked miles away, by every flower delayed,

[332] Or song of bird, happy and free with one
     Who loved, like him, to let his memory run
Over old fields of learning, and to sun

Himself in Plato's wise philosophies,
     And dream with Philo over mysteries
Whereof the dreamer never finds the keys;

To touch all themes of thought, nor weakly stop
     For doubt of truth, but let the buckets drop
Deep down and bring the hidden waters up.4

For there was freedom in that wakening time
     Of tender souls; to differ was not crime;
The varying bells made up the perfect chime.

On lips unlike was laid the altar's coal,
     The white, clear light, tradition-colored, stole
Through the stained oriel of each human soul.

Gathered from many sects, the Quaker brought
     His old beliefs, adjusting to the thought
That moved his soul the creed his fathers taught.

One faith alone, so broad that all mankind
     Within themselves its secret witness find,
The soul's communion with the Eternal Mind,

The Spirit's law, the Inward Rule and Guide,
     Scholar and peasant, lord and serf, allied,
The polished Penn and Cromwell's Ironside.

[333] As still in Hemskerck's Quaker Meeting,5 face
     By face in Flemish detail, we may trace
How loose-mouthed boor and fine ancestral grace

Sat in close contrast,—the clipt-headed churl,
     Broad market-dame, and simple serving-girl
By skirt of silk and periwig in curl!

For soul touched soul; the spiritual treasuretrove
     Made all men equal, none could rise above
Nor sink below that level of God's love.

So, with his rustic neighbors sitting down,
     The homespun frock beside the scholar's gown,
Pastorius to the manners of the town

Added the freedom of the woods, and sought
     The bookless wisdom by experience taught,
And learned to love his new-found home, while not

Forgetful of the old; the seasons went
     Their rounds, and somewhat to his spirit lent
Of their own calm and measureless content.

Glad even to tears, he heard the robin sing
     His song of welcome to the Western spring,
And bluebird borrowing from the sky his wing.

And when the miracle of autumn came,
     And all the woods with many-colored flame
Of splendor, making summer's greenness tame,

[334] Burned, unconsumed, a voice without a sound
     Spake to him from each kindled bush around,
And made the strange, new landscape holy ground!

And when the bitter north-wind, keen and swift,
     Swept the white street and piled the dooryard drift,
He exercised, as Friends might say, his gift

Of verse, Dutch, English, Latin, like the hash
     Of corn and beans in Indian succotash;
Dull, doubtless, but with here and there a flash

Of wit and fine conceit,—the good man's play
     Of quiet fancies, meet to while away
The slow hours measuring off an idle day.

At evening, while his wife put on her look
     Of love's endurance, from its niche he took
The written pages of his ponderous book.

And read, in half the languages of man,
     His ‘Rusca Apium,’ which with bees began,
And through the gamut of creation ran.

Or, now and then, the missive of some friend
     In gray Altorf or storied Niirnberg penned
Dropped in upon him like a guest to spend

The night beneath his roof-tree. Mystical
     The fair Von Merlau spake as waters fall
And voices sound in dreams, and yet withal

[335] Human and sweet, as if each far, low tone,
     Over the roses of her gardens blown
Brought the warm sense of beauty all her own.

Wise Spener questioned what his friend could trace
     Of spiritual influx or of saving grace
In the wild natures of the Indian race.

And learned Schurmberg, fain, at times, to look
     From Talmud, Koran, Veds, and Pentateuch,
Sought out his pupil in his far-off nook,

To query with him of climatic change,
     Of bird, beast, reptile, in his forest range,
Of flowers and fruits and simples new and strange.

And thus the Old and New World reached their hands
     Across the water, and the friendly lands
Talked with each other from their severed strands.

Pastorius answered all: while seed and root
     Sent from his new home grew to flower and fruit
Along the Rhine and at the Spessart's foot;

And, in return, the flowers his boyhood knew
     Smiled at his door, the same in form and hue,
And on his vines the Rhenish clusters grew.

No idler he; whoever else might shirk,
     He set his hand to every honest work,—
Farmer and teacher, court and meeting clerk.

[336] Still on the town seal his device is found,
     Grapes, flax, and thread-spool on a trefoil ground,
With ‘Vinum, Linum et Textrinum’ wound.

One house sufficed for gospel and for law,
     Where Paul and Grotius, Scripture text and saw,
Assured the good, and held the rest in awe.

Whatever legal maze he wandered through,
     He kept the Sermon on the Mount in view,
And justice always into mercy grew.

No whipping-post he needed, stocks, nor jail,
     Nor ducking-stool; the orchard-thief grew pale
At his rebuke, the vixen ceased to rail,

The usurer's grasp released the forfeit land;
     The slanderer faltered at the witness-stand,
And all men took his counsel for command.

Was it caressing air, the brooding love
     Of tenderer skies than German land knew of,
Green calm below, blue quietness above,

Still flow of water, deep repose of wood
     That, with a sense of loving Fatherhood
And childlike trust in the Eternal Good,

Softened all hearts, and dulled the edge of hate,
     Hushed strife, and taught impatient zeal to wait
The slow assurance of the better state?

[337] Who knows what goadings in their sterner way
     O'er jagged ice, relieved by granite gray,
Blew round the men of Massachusetts Bay?

What hate of heresy the east-wind woke?
     What hints of pitiless power and terror spoke
In waves that on their iron coast-line broke?

Be it as it may: within the Land of Penn
     The sectary yielded to the citizen,
And peaceful dwelt the many-creeded men.

Peace brooded over all. No trumpet stung
     The air to madness, and no steeple flung
Alarums down from bells at midnight rung.

The land slept well. The Indian from his face
     Washed all his war-paint off, and in the place
Of battle-marches sped the peaceful chase,

Or wrought for wages at the white man's side,—
     Giving to kindness what his native pride
And lazy freedom to all else denied.

And well the curious scholar loved the old
     Traditions that his swarthy neighbors told
By wigwam-fires when nights were growing cold,

Discerned the fact round which their fancy drew
     Its dreams, and held their childish faith more true
To God and man than half the creeds he knew.6

[338] The desert blossomed round him; wheat-fields rolled
     Beneath the warm wind waves of green and gold;
The planted ear returned its hundred-fold.

Great clusters ripened in a warmer sun
     Than that which by the Rhine stream shines upon
The purpling hillsides with low vines o'errun.

About each rustic porch the humming-bird
     Tried with light bill, that scarce a petal stirred,
The Old World flowers to virgin soil transferred;

And the first-fruits of pear and apple, bending
     The young boughs down, their gold and russet blending,
Made glad his heart, familiar odors lending

To the fresh fragrance of the birch and pine,
     Life-everlasting, bay, and eglantine,
And all the subtle scents the woods combine.

Fair First-Day mornings, steeped in summer calm,
     Warm, tender, restful, sweet with woodland balm,
Came to him, like some mother-hallowed psalm

To the tired grinder at the noisy wheel
     Of labor, winding off from memory's reel
A golden thread of music. With no peal

Of bells to call them to the house of praise,
     The scattered settlers through green forest-ways
Walked meeting-ward. In reverent amaze

[339] The Indian trapper saw them, from the dim
     Shade of the alders on the rivulet's rim,
Seek the Great Spirit's house to talk with Him.

There, through the gathered stillness multiplied
     And made intense by sympathy, outside
The sparrows sang, and the gold-robin cried,

A-swing upon his elm. A faint perfume
     Breathed through the open windows of the room
From locust-trees, heavy with clustered bloom.

Thither, perchance, sore-tried confessors came,
     Whose fervor jail nor pillory could tame,
Proud of the cropped ears meant to be their shame,

Men who had eaten slavery's bitter bread
     In Indian isles; pale women who had bled
Under the hangman's lash, and bravely said

God's message through their prison's iron bars;
     And gray old soldier-converts, seamed with scars
From every stricken field of England's wars.

Lowly before the Unseen Presence knelt
     Each waiting heart, till haply some one felt
On his moved lips the seal of silence melt.

Or, without spoken words, low breathings stole
     Of a diviner life from soul to soul,
Baptizing in one tender thought the whole.

[340] When shaken hands announced the meeting o'er,
     The friendly group still lingered at the door,
Greeting, inquiring, sharing all the store

Of weekly tidings. Meanwhile youth and maid
     Down the green vistas of the woodland strayed,
Whispered and smiled and oft their feet delayed.

Did the boy's whistle answer back the thrushes?
     Did light girl laughter ripple through the bushes,
As brooks make merry over roots and rushes?

Unvexed the sweet air seemed. Without a wound
     The ear of silence heard, and every sound
Its place in nature's fine accordance found.

And solemn meeting, summer sky and wood,
     Old kindly faces, youth and maidenhood
Seemed, like God's new creation, very good!

And, greeting all with quiet smile and word,
     Pastorius went his way. The unscared bird
Sang at his side; scarcely the squirrel stirred

At his hushed footstep on the mossy sod;
     And, wheresoe'er the good man looked or trod,
He felt the peace of nature and of God.

His social life wore no ascetic form,
     He loved all beauty, without fear of harm,
And in his veins his Teuton blood ran warm.

[341] Strict to himself, of other men no spy,
     He made his own no circuit-judge to try
The freer conscience of his neighbors by.

With love rebuking, by his life alone,
     Gracious and sweet, the better way was shown,
The joy of one, who, seeking not his own,

And faithful to all scruples, finds at last
     The thorns and shards of duty overpast,
And daily life, beyond his hope's forecast,

Pleasant and beautiful with sight and sound,
     And flowers upspringing in its narrow round,
And all his days with quiet gladness crowned.

He sang not; but, if sometimes tempted strong,
     He hummed what seemed like Altorf's Burschensong;
His good wife smiled, and did not count it wrong.

For well he loved his boyhood's brother band;
     His Memory, while he trod the New World's strand,
A double-ganger walked the Fatherland!

If, when on frosty Christmas eves the light
     Shone on his quiet hearth, he missed the sight
Of Yule-log, Tree, and Christ-child all in white;

And closed his eyes, and listened to the sweet
     Old wait-songs sounding down his native street,
And watched again the dancers' mingling feet;

[342] Yet not the less, when once the vision passed,
     He held the plain and sober maxims fast
Of the dear Friends with whom his lot was cast.

Still all attuned to nature's melodies,
     He loved the bird's song in his dooryard trees,
And the low hum of home-returning bees;

The blossomed flax, the tulip-trees in bloom
     Down the long street, the beauty and perfume
Of apple-boughs, the mingling light and gloom

Of Sommerhausen's woodlands, woven through
     With sun—threads; and the music the wind drew,
Mournful and sweet, from leaves it overblew.

And evermore, beneath this outward sense,
     And through the common sequence of events,
He felt the guiding hand of Providence

Reach out of space. A Voice spake in his ear,
     And lo! all other voices far and near
Died at that whisper, full of meanings clear.

The Light of Life shone round him; one by one
     The wandering lights, that all-misleading run,
Went out like candles paling in the sun.

That Light he followed, step by step, where'er
     It led, as in the vision of the seer
The wheels moved as the spirit in the clear

[343] And terrible crystal moved, with all their eyes
     Watching the living splendor sink or rise,
Its will their will, knowing no otherwise.

Within himself he found the law of right,
     He walked by faith and not the letter's sight,
And read his Bible by the Inward Light.

And if sometimes the slaves of form and rule,
     Frozen in their creeds like fish in winter's pool,
Tried the large tolerance of his liberal school,

His door was free to men of every name,
     He welcomed all the seeking souls who came,
And no man's faith he made a cause of blame.

But best he loved in leisure hours to see
     His own dear Friends sit by him knee to knee,
In social converse, genial, frank, and free.

There sometimes silence (it were hard to tell
     Who owned it first) upon the circle fell,
Hushed Anna's busy wheel, and laid its spell

On the black boy who grimaced by the hearth,
     To solemnize his shining face of mirth;
Only the old clock ticked amidst the dearth

Of sound; nor eye was raised nor hand was stirred
     In that soul-sabbath, till at last some word
Of tender counsel or low prayer was heard.

[344] Then guests, who lingered but farewell to say
     And take love's message, went their homeward way;
So passed in peace the guileless Quaker's day.

His was the Christian's unsung Age of Gold,
     A truer idyl than the bards have told
Of Arno's banks or Arcady of old.

Where still the Friends their place of burial keep,
     And century-rooted mosses o'er it creep,
The Niirnberg scholar and his helpmeet sleep.

And Anna's aloe? If it flowered at last
     In Bartram's garden, did John Woolman cast
A glance upon it as he meekly passed?

And did a secret sympathy possess
     That tender soul, and for the slave's redress
Lend hope, strength, patience? It were vain to guess.

Nay, were the plant itself but mythical,
     Set in the fresco of tradition's wall
Like Jotham's bramble, mattereth not at all.

Enough to know that, through the winter's frost
     And summer's heat, no seed of truth is lost,
And every duty pays at last its cost.

For, ere Pastorius left the sun and air,
     God sent the answer to his life-long prayer;
The child was born beside the Delaware,

[345] Who, in the power a holy purpose lends,
     Guided his people unto nobler ends,
And left them worthier of the name of Friends.

And lo! the fulness of the time has come,
     And over all the exile's Western home,
From sea to sea the flowers of freedom bloom!

And joy-bells ring, and silver trumpets blow;
     But not for thee, Pastorius! Even so
The world forgets, but the wise angels know.

1 Eleonora Johanna Von Merlau, or, as Sewall the Quaker Historian gives it, Von Merlane, a noble young lady of Frankfort, seems to have held among the Mystics of that city very much such a position as Anna Maria Schurmaus did among the Labadists of Holland. William Penn appears to have shared the admiration of her own immediate circle for this accomplished and gifted lady.

2 Magister Johann Kelpius, a graduate of the University of Helmstadt, came to Pennsylvania in 1694, with a company of German Mystics. They made their home in the woods on the Wissahickon, a little west of the Quaker settlement of Germantown. Kelpius was a believer in the near approach of the Millennium, and was adevout student of the Book of Revelation, and the Morgen-Rothe of Jacob Behmen. He called his settlement ‘The Woman in the Wilderness’ (Das Weib in der Wueste). He was only twenty-four years of age when he came to America, but his gravity, learning, and devotion placed him at the head of the settlement. He disliked the Quakers, because he thought they were too exclusive in the matter of ministers. He was, like most of the Mystics, opposed to the severe doctrinal views of Calvin and even Luther, declaring ‘that he could as little agree with the Damnamus of the Augsburg Confession as with the Anathema of the Council of Trent.’

He died in 1704, sitting in his little garden surrounded by his grieving disciples. Previous to his death it is said that he cast his famous ‘Stone of Wisdom’ into the river, where that mystic souvenir of the times of Van Helmont, Paracelsus, and Agrippa has lain ever since, undisturbed.

3 Peter Sluyter, or Schluter, a native of Wesel, united himself with the sect of Labadists, who believed in the Divine commission of John De Labadie, a Roman Catholic priest converted to Protestantism, enthusiastic, eloquent, and evidently sincere in his special calling and election to separate the true and living members of the Church of Christ from the formalism and hypocrisy of the ruling sects. George Keith and Robert Barclay visited him at Amsterdam, and afterward at the communities of Herford and Wieward; and, according to Gerard Croes, found him so near to them on some points, that they offered to take him into the Society of Friends. This offer, if it was really made, which is certainly doubtful, was, happily for the Friends at least, declined. Invited to Herford in Westphalia by Elizabeth, daughter of the Elector Palatine, De Labadie and his followers preached incessantly, and succeeded in arousing a wild enthusiasm among the people, who neglected their business and gave way to excitements and strange practices. Men and women, it was said, at the Communion drank and danced together, and private marriages, or spiritual unions, were formed. Labadie died in 1674 at Altona, in Denmark, maintaining his testimonies to the last. ‘Nothing remains for me,’ he said, ‘except to go to my God. Death is merely ascending from a lowerand narrower chamber to one higher and holier.’

In 1679, Peter Sluyter and Jasper Dankers were sent to America by the community at the Castle of Wieward. Their journal, translated from the Dutch and edited by Henry C. Murphy, has been recently published by the Long Island Historical Society. They made some converts,and among them was the eldest son of Hermanns, the proprietor of a rich tract of land at the head of Chesapeake Bay, known as Bohemia Manor. Sluyter obtained a grant of this tract, and established upon it a community numbering at one time a hundred souls. Very contradictory statements are on record regarding his headship of this spiritual family, the discipline of which seems to have been of more than monastic manifested more interest in the world's goods than became a believer in the near Millennium. He evinces in his journal an overweening spiritual pride, and speaks contemptuously of other professors, especially the Quakers whom he met in his travels. The latter, on the contrary, seem to have looked favorably upon the Labadists, and uniformly speak of them courteously and kindly. His journal shows him to have been destitute of common gratitude and Christian charity. He threw himself upon the generous hospitality of the Friends wherever he went, and repaid their kindness by the coarsest abuse and misrepresentation.

4 Among the pioneer Friends were many men of learning and broad and liberal views. Penn was conversant with every department of literature and philosophy. Thomas Lloyd was a ripe and rare scholar. The great Loganian Library of Philadelphia bears witness to the varied learning and classical taste of its donor, James Logan. Thomas Story, member of the Council of State, Master of the Rolls, and Commissioner of Claims under William Penn, and an able minister of his Society, took a deep interest in scientific questions, and in a letter to his friend Logan, written while on a religious visit to Great Britain, seems to have anticipated the conclusion of modern geologists. ‘I spent,’ he says, ‘some months, especially at Scarborough, during the season attending meetings, at whose high cliffs and the variety of strata therein and their several positions I further learned and was confirmed in some things,—that the earth is of much older date as to the beginning of it than the time assigned in the Holy Scriptures as commonly understood, which is suited to the common capacities of mankind, as to six days of progressive work, by which I understand certain long and competent periods of time, and not natural days.’ It was sometimes made a matter of reproach by the Anabaptists and other sects, that the Quakers read profane writings and philosophies, and that they quoted heathen moralists in support of their views. Sluyter and Dankers, in their journal of American travels, visiting a Quaker preacher's house at Burlington, on the Delaware, found ‘a volume of Virgil lying on the window, as if it were a common hand-book; also Helmont's book on Medicine (Ortus Mledicince, id est Initia Physica inaudita progressus medicine novus in morborum ultionam ad vitam longam), whom, in an introduction they have made to it, they make to pass for one of their own sect, although in his lifetime he did not know anything about Quakers.’ It would appear from this that the half-mystical, halfscientific writings of the alchemist and philosopher of Vilverde had not escaped the notice of Friends, and that they had included him in their broad eclecticism.

5 ‘The Quaker's Meeting,’ a painting by E. Hemskerck (supposed to be Egbert Hemskerck the younger, son of Egbert Hemskerck the old), in which William Penn and others—among them Charles II., or the Duke of York—are represented along with the rudest and most stolid class of the British rural population at that period. Hemskerck came to London from Holland with King William in 1689. He delighted in wild, grotesque subjects, such as the nocturnal intercourse of witches and the temptation of St. Anthony. Whatever was strange and uncommon attracted his free pencil. Judging from the portrait of Penn, he must have drawn his faces, figures, and costumes from life, although there may be something of caricature in the convulsed attitudes of two or three of the figures.

6 In one of his letters addressed to German friends, Pastorius says: ‘These wild men, who never in their life heard Christ's teachings about temperance and contentment, herein far surpass the Christians. They live far more contented and unconcerned for the morrow. They do not overreach in trade. They know nothing of our everlasting pomp and stylishness. They neither curse nor swear, are temperate in food and drink, and if any of them get drunk, the mouth-Christians are at fault, who, for the sake of accursed lucre, sell them strong drink.’

Again he wrote in 1698 to his father that he finds the Indians reasonable people, willing to accept good teaching and manners, evincing an inward piety toward God, and more eager, in fact, to understand things divine than many among you who in the pulpit teach Christ in word, but by ungodly life deny him.

‘It is evident,’ says Professor Seidensticker, ‘Pastorius holds up the Indian as Nature's unspoiled child to the eyes of the “ European Babel,” somewhat after the same manner in which Tacitus used the barbarian Germani to shame his degenerate countrymen.’

As believers in the universality of the Saving Light, the outlook of early Friends upon the heathen was a very cheerful and hopeful one. God was as near to them as to Jew or Anglo-Saxon; as accessible at Timbuctoo as at Rome or Geneva. Not the letter of Scripture, but the spirit which dictated it, was of saving efficacy. Robert Barclay is nowhere more powerful than in his argument for the salvation of the heathen, who live according to their light, without knowing even the name of Christ. William Penn thought Socrates as good a Christian as Richard Baxter. Early Fathers of the Church, as Origen and Justin Martyr, held broader views on this point than modern Evangelicals. Even Augustine, from whom Calvin borrowed his theology, admits that he has no controversy with the admirable philosophers Plato and Plotinus. ‘Nor do I think,’ he says in De CIV. Dei, lib. XVIII., cap. 47, ‘that the Jews dare affirm that none belonged unto God but the Israelites.’

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