One autumn morning, a few years ago, being somewhat
weary of the Alster-Bassin and the Neuerwall and the Bourse and the
crowded streets of Hamburg—albeit picturesque enough with their shifting
life and contrast, and their quaint, pretty Vierlanderinnen, and those
tripping maids who wear their basket and shawl slung with such a
graceful coquetry over the left arm, and the long vistas of gloomy water
running between tall-storeyed houses and broken by the plash of oars and
the gleam of the red-bloused watermen and the dark bridges that echo far
away to the steady roar of the thoroughfare—somewhat weary of this, I
went with a friend through the Stein-Thor to the suburb of St George,
and leaving that dreary district as soon as possible on the left,
loitered on along a high footpath overshadowed by noble trees, and that
ran beside one of the principal roads leading out of the town. The red
leaves were beginning to drop softly through the autumn air, the sun
gleamed brightly over the broad reaches of the Elbe, the gay-looking
villas—one almost for every roadside tree—displayed the last of their
dahlias and scarlet geraniums, and presently the city tumult lay so far
behind that the birds could hear their own voices, and sang merrily up
into the blue sky. And just as one felt this was really the country, and
a tempting little sidepath drew one up from the highway under its thick
chestnuts, and even the soft sand, in which the foot sunk at every step,
was grateful for its very quiet, at the top of a little rising ground
there shewed a low wooden spire and one or two high roofs, and then a
whole cluster of houses, with gardens and shaded alleys between, until a
wide opening revealed a park, belted round for the, most part with dark
woods, and studded with buildings of every shape—cottages, and offices,
and some handsome and imposing structures, all grouped round the low
wooden spire but with apparently no other principle of arrangement, the
walks leading freely out and no gate swung across them, some boys moving
briskly here and there, and others scattered at work through the distant
fields — altogether a singular and puzzling sight. It was the
Reformatory called the Rauhes Haus, world-famous now, and to be found
with honourable record in all reports of Social Science and the like.
Neither porter nor porter's lodge barred our entrance, and we were
presently walking through the grounds to a pleasant, bright-looking
house, with a gay light veranda running round the front; and passing in
through one or two rooms where the clerks' pens were making a wonderful
noise, found ourselves closeted with Dr Wichern. There was much to be
learnt of the working of the system—much to be learnt afterwards among
the boys, and the hours slipped quickly by till our steps were
reluctantly turned back to the city, though soon to be bent again up
that quiet sandy path, and to that busy Christian colony in the parish
of Horn, by the Elbe. For there is a fascination in the work and the
workers, and in the pervading atmosphere of the place, that draws one to
it with an ever-fresh interest. But there is a still deeper interest in
the story of the Rauhes Haus itself—the story of its origin and its
growth through these thirty years. There is no other Reformatory like
it, none penetrated by such a noble, simple, Christian spirit. And it is
as singular in its beginning and in the principle of its existence. It
was begun and carried on in faith: it is still made dependent upon
prayer : and from prayer and faith the entire work proceeds. The great
world knows it as an admirable institution for rescuing the young from
crime, the organisation of a thoughtful, practical, earnest, loving man,
and from which other thoughtful and practical and loving men have been
thankful to copy. There is another world in which it is known also as an
illustration of certain clear and eternal but overlooked laws, such
as—"Ask and ye shall receive: if we ask anything according to His will
He heareth us: all things whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing,
ye shall receive: whatsoever ye shall ask in my name that will I do,
that the Father may be glorified in the Son." It is surely worth while
looking at it in this aspect, and obtaining any light we can on the
working of such laws in our modern life. It may be found they are not so
antiquated as our prevalent religious beliefs assume; nor so burdened
with prohibitory restrictions as to be of no practical use. And before
accompanying any patient readers through the Rauhes Haus of I860, I must
beg them first to consider how there came to be a Rauhes Haus at all.
The cholera was still lingering in Hamburg, breaking
out in those fitful, irregular cases that mark its subsidence, when, on
an October evening in 1832, a few men were assembled in the room of the
schoolmaster H------. The room evidently did not belong to the upper ten
thousand, nor did the people. Both were plain and simple; and the men,
some of whom were artisans, and some in business or in the professions,
wore earnest and grave faces. It was an unknown but very energetic and
working society, recently organised for visiting the poor; and any one
who is acquainted with Hamburg will conceive the seriousness and weary
effort of such a purpose. Hamburg has an unholy pre-eminence among
continental seaports: its vice is more open, its materialism is grosser;
and whatever life there is in the Church is confined to a few
individuals scattered through the city, and thus powerless. What the
poor would be under such circumstances—how hard to rescue them, or
overtake a tithe of their need—how helplessly the visitor would pass
from lane to lane, and grope through the horrible and mysterious
cellars, is easily conceivable. Moreover, in a time of pestilence all
licence seems withdrawn from evil, the whole social state is confused,
and the power of reform possessed by a handful of isolated and
uninfluential workers is imperceptibly small.. It was just this matter
that these men were discussing,
and how best to face the discouragements of their
position. The most eager was Immanuel Wichern, a young candidat
[A clergyman not yet in orders.
] of twenty-four, thorough and clear in his
speech, and with firm lines in his face, which, together with his
deep-set, steady eyes, betokened an energy and resolve that would
grapple hard with most problems that he met. As a visitor he had mixed
greatly with the poorest day-labourers —with porters, crossing-sweepers,
costermongers of every species—just that side of the population which is
the great feeder of the criminal class, and which swallows up individual
effort with as little impression as an Irish bog will receive anything
from Pat's old shoes to a railway embankment. He saw there was hope with
the children before poverty and wicked homes drove them into crime: to
visit, them was useless so long as they remained exposed to every evil
influence : to train them at a school, while they lived in their old
haunts, was only to roll the stone uphill all day and let it roll back
at night. And it had struck him that for any real good they must be
separated from their previous life, and kept entirely out of the way of
their old associations and companions.
This was not a novel conception. Falk had established
his Reformatory at Weimar in 1814. In 1819 the Counts von Volmerstein,
father and son, dedicated their property and life to a similar object at
Dusselthal; Zeller began one in 1820 at Castle Beuggen, in Baden; in
1823 there sprang up one in Kornthal, in Wurtemberg, and in 1825 another
at Berlin. But there was none nearer Hamburg than Berlin—none for the
need of the whole North. No doubt there was a prison-school opened in
1828 for young criminals, and which in 1.833 had multiplied its inmates
from nineteen to fifty, while many were sent away from want of room; but
there was a radical objection to the qualification for entrance—viz.,
juvenile criminality. It was clear that this would not do. And so the
young candidat continued his reflections, not neglecting to
gather such statistics as might help him; such as that in Prussia at
that time there were one hundred thousand criminals; that, in 1828, the
Newgate chaplain returned fifteen thousand boys, from eight to twelve
years of age, who lived in London by theft; that, while in the United
States the proportion of juvenile to adult criminals was one to seven,
in Prussia it was one to thirty-four, in Holland one to thirty-five, but
in Schleswig-Holstein, which touched him closer, one to sixteen. Along
with these statistics however, certain clear ideas were shaping in his
mind. Separation was necessary, and a home for the children. Was that
enough? The other reformatories sought no more; but it struck him that a
household of a hundred children was unnatural and unhomelike. The nearer
he kept to existing relations, he felt the surer of success. The family
was God's own order, and the natural place for a child. The family life
was the circle within which the purest and strongest influences were to
be sought. He knew there was little of it among the poor. A child
of ten years could tell him that its father was drunk, and often
deserted them; that he was brought back by the police. It was a sorry
house; and yet the mother was a tie to the children, though what kind of
a mother she was is plain from a gleeful recollection of this very
child, when once she had armed all the children with household utensils,
and led the charge against the poor drunken man on his return. At last
the mother died; and, if that can be called a home, it was broken up.
The children were divided among other pauper families. "What shall I
do?" said the little fellow soon after to a sister in another family.
"Go and drown yourself, and I'll soon follow." He waited till it was
dark—it was a Sunday—then went to the water and put off his clothes. . .
. God saved him. Weeping, he said, ''Mother was dead, and there was no
pleasure in living, any more." Scant family life in that picture; but
what there was was moulding the, child : if the atmosphere had been
purer, who can trace the influence? So Wichern felt, meditating upon
this and many a story like it, his plans slowly maturing. He would have
no more children together than would make one household; they would have
a household head and household ways; and if their number increased,
there might be many separate households, each independent, and yet all
bound in one large household, of which he would be the general father.
But was not any improvement of the children chimerical? Was there any
likelihood of success? He had studied this also. Elsewhere three out of
four children were reformed; in one place only one out of ten seemed
lost; in Wurtemberg the proportion was even less. And therefore, feeling
he might have some confidence, he made his proposal to the meeting. He
was warm and enthusiastic about it; the need of his city was pressing
him on. "About this time," he says, "a little, unknown child came to me
in the open street, and, with outstretched hands, and begging face, and
many tears, tried to kiss the hand that had never done it a benefit, and
cried, 'Come with me, come with me, and see for yourself.'" That child
was for ever in his thoughts; there could be no rest for him till he had
answered it. He spoke as only men of deep feeling and purpose can: it
appealed to them all; their experience was the same as his ; it was
needful to do something; and when the meeting broke up, they had
determined, in God's name, to establish a Reformatory.
The friends dispersed with new thoughts and a sudden
responsibility for the future. They were men of very moderate means,
unable to give any considerable money contributions, unlikely to
influence others. It was a subject on which no interest was felt in the
city; even in their own circle it could be broached only with some
timidity and caution. And yet it was a large and comprehensive scheme,
one requiring capital and generous support; and if adopted by a few
enthusiastic men, was it at all likely to find a response among quiet,
easy, common-sense people? Would it not be pooh-poohed by them as a
visionary notion? Would not this "visiting society" be ignored
in that careless, matter-of-course fashion by which the great
world puts down the small? Likely enough; and probably these men never
felt themselves poorer or more powerless, than when they went
thoughtfully back to their homes, and saw the poverty and crime of their
city by the glare of its lamps, and knew that no man cared. But the
sense of weakness is by no means a sense of failure. It is just in their
weakness that men who believe in a spiritual world outlying and ruling
this of ours are cast utterly upon its force, and find themselves girded
with a superhuman strength—"out of weakness are made strong." "We had
only one treasure," they said, "the promise of our gracious Lord."
Realising that, they felt no need of any other. They talked little about
the matter; but if they met in the street, the question was—"Are you
praying earnestly?" The question soon answered itself. A gentleman, who
knew nothing of their plan, gave them a hundred thalers (L. 15) for the
poor, and especially to help in raising up an institution for reclaiming
criminals. They thought: this a considerable sum, and sought for some
public man in whose name they could invest it. One of the senators was
suggested. He accepted the trust, and then mentioned that he was
executor of the will of a Christian merchant who had bequeathed large
sums to pious objects, and, among others, L. 1600 for a Reformatory. He
mentioned, also, that this stun would be at their disposal. It was now
time for the November meeting. Four weeks previous they had nothing but
prayer, and the promise, and faith; now they had upwards of L. 1600. Nor
did their encouragement rest here. In January some of them started a
periodical which was to spread reformatory intelligence. On the very day
of its first publication, a lady left a large donation; in a few weeks
it crept out that some servant girls were collecting their mites; a
journeyman shoemaker emptied out his saving-box with both silver and
gold; many similar gifts flowed in, some of them wrapped up in
encouraging texts of' Scripture; it was felt that God was strangely
working for them; the sympathies and sacrifice of the poor gave them
hopefulness and strength; and at. length they began to look for some
suitable building, unsuccessfully as it turned out.
There was then in Hamburg the Syndic Sieve-king, and
there, is still near Hamburg the pretty village of Wandsbeck; and to
those who have read the very touching and noble memoir of the bookseller
Perthes, neither of these names will be unfamiliar—the one the name of a
family loved and honoured through many generations and now worthily
represented in our own London; the other belonging to the chosen home of
Matthias Claudius. Sieveking had a considerable estate lying round the
town, and on that part of it which verged upon Wandsbeck, he presented
ground for the purpose. It was one of the most charming spots in the
neighbourhood, a most choice and picturesque site, and promised to be
every way suitable and convenient. Very late on a winter's evening,
Wichern hurried into town with the good news, but, late as it was, he
assembled his friends for a thanksgiving; for had they not been simply
waiting for what God would give them? and now, in three months, they had
friends, and money, and land! In a day or two, however, tidings came
that the will already mentioned was disputed; a few days later, it was
found that the site was useless for building on. This was no light blow;
and men less firm might have lost faith, and let their purpose slip
through their wavering,
unsteady hold. But they were perfectly clear about
their way, that it was the right way to reach their object, and that God
would not disappoint their trust. They might have been hasty and
over-confident; they might be trusting in their success; they might need
a warning; and they read the lesson truly—"That we should never build on
anything but Him, no, not even on His gifts." And so they went on
precisely as before, in prayer and calmness, and as hopeful as when they
began. The issue deserves special heed. Mr Sieveking bethought him one
morning of a little place he had in Horn, between Wandsbeck and the
Elbe. Unfortunately it was leased, and the lease had some time to run;
and as he went over to try what could be done with the tenants, he felt
by no means sanguine. Singularly enough, they were anxious to leave. The
ground was not extensive, yet admirably adapted to the purpose; and
there was a house upon it, noway remarkable certainly, for it was a
little cottage half in ruins; but the rooms could be easily improved,
the thatch was pretty good, there was a deep well close by, the finest
chestnut of the neighbourhood flung its shadow over the roof, there was
a garden, and even a fish-pond, and the name of this spot from time
immemorial had been, "Das Rauhe
Haus." ["The
Rough House." The origin of this name is uncertain, but it is totally
unconnected with the Reformatory, to which it has since been attached
merely by local association. The tradition, indeed, runs in the family
of Claudius that it was built by one called Ruge, that it got the name
of Ruge's Haus, and that this was popularly corrupted into
Rauhes Haus.] Improvements were
immediately begun, (it was the end of April); the will case went in
favour of the charities and was decided with an unusual quickness ; and
by August the friends were in possession of the money and the building.
Matters had now assumed so definite a shape, that it
was thought advisable to call a public meeting in September, when about
a hundred persons came, and the plan of a Reformatory was laid before
them and adopted. It was to provide a refuge for the children until
confirmation. It was not to be an orphanage, nor a ragged-school, nor a
house of correction, nor a beggars' asylum, but a Christian household.
It repudiated any support from the State, or from any benevolent or
civic institution; it would limit its operation by the help it would
spontaneously receive through the sympathy of Christian hearts. These
were the simple principles which the meeting sanctioned, passively, it
would seem, and because they were carried away into enthusiasm by
Wichern's persuasive pleading and his terrible statistics; for the
notion of a Reformatory was too novel to be well understood, and people
asked each other what the word meant. Nevertheless, the scheme had
received this public recognition, and on the last evening of the next
month—another October —the young clergyman and his mother passed quietly
under the low thatched roof of the little Rauhes Haus, and the
Reformatory was begun. There was no festival, no stir of applauding
friends; only thoughtful Syndic Sieveking had hung in the sitting-room
two of his favourite pictures, "Christ's Entry into Jerusalem," and the
"Blessing of the Little Children."
There is something touching in the contrast between
the unconscious heedless city, with its gay lights shimmering in the
Alster, and the gay music escaping in bursts out of its crowded saloons,
and its crime and misery stalking through the night, its brawls and
wantonness, and the sad haggard faces of its poor, and faces of despair
bending over the gloomy river—between this and that self-denying son and
mother leaving cheerfully their world behind them, unattended, unknown,
with no arm about them but God's, entering by faith on a life of the
most painful and incessant sacrifice, and all for that very unwitting
city, the glare of whose lamps cast up against the sky is the last thing
they see as they close the door of their humble cottage behind them. And
pray think, good reader, as you change your seat to some more luxurious
chair, or saunter idly through green lanes perfumed by the May, what
this man's work is—to associate with rough, hardened lads born and bred
in crime, to shut himself up with them in the hope of winning hold upon
their wild natures, to bear their coarseness and brutality, train them
up through their ignorance, to be their companion, gentle, and kind, and
frank to them. That is precisely what he has undertaken : real,
thorough, manly work, that. Let it please you also to remember on what
ground he has undertaken it: by faith, he says. They are to come to him,
these shy, half-savage, free-living Arabs, out to this grave modest
little cottage, and to sit down and be taught. They must be fed and
clothed. And he is to have no subscription-lists, nor charity sermons,
nor annual donors, nor collecting-cards, but he is to depend on the
sympathies of Christian hearts! Perhaps you smile: he is an enthusiast.
Let him be: I am not now wishing to pronounce him either right or wrong;
but only to shew the principle on which he worked, and to induce you to
examine for yourself what came of it. From this time we lose sight of
the Visiting Society; it falls back again into the social life of
Hamburg: the Reformatory centres in Wichern. He had been the mover in it
all along, he had borne the others with him. He was the only man to
carry it through. They hold out to him strong, brotherly, helping hands,
they sustain him by their prayers, but for the rest we hear no more of
them. Like other men of marked characters and with distinct labours laid
on them by God, he is now to push his way from among the crowd into a
clear space where he can work freely and alone, where he is rid of the
hesitations and doubts and traditions that fetter most of us, and can
act directly on those about him. He has been rapidly changing through
the past twelve months; his will has been gaining an iron strength, his
purpose has been moulding his thoughts, his life has assumed a definite
and almost rigid shape; he is no longer meditating sadly the phases of a
vexing problem but bent on carrying it on to some solution. And he sits
there firmly in the sacrifice of youth, he and the kind, true-hearted
mother, looking out to the winter days before him, and waiting for the
lost children to be brought to his door. Will they come?