BLESSED NICHOLAS VON DER FLÜE.
Of the many beautiful views from the Rigi, none seemed so determined to imprint itself on our memories during our stay at Kaltbad as that looking up the Valley of Sarnen. At whatever hour we wandered to the Känzli, early or late, in bright weather or in dull, it was all the same. Somehow the sun was always lighting up the valley; either resting placidly on its velvety pastures, shining broadly over its small lake, and making it glitter like a brilliant dewdrop amidst the encircling verdure, or, at the very least, darting shy gleams across its waters from behind the clouds which lowered on all else around. The lake of Zug was much nearer to us, lying right beneath one angle of the Rigi; but it had not the like powers of fascination. Moreover, we noticed that exactly in the same degree that Sarnen attracted the sun Zug seemed to repel it. At all events, the lasting remembrance of Zug is dark, bleak, and unfriendly; that of Sarnen, on the contrary, peaceful and sunny. It seemed, too, as though it were tenderly watched over by all its neighbors. Mt. Pilatus guards the entrance to it from Lucerne, hills enclose the valley on three sides, while above and beyond, as seen from Kaltbad, rise those giants of the Oberland which give such sublimity to these scenes, and enhance their beauty by the constant variety of their aspect.
Undoubtedly the associations connected with Sarnen had something to do with our love for it. In the village of Sachslen, on the borders of its lake, Blessed Nicholas von der Flüe was born and lived, and there his remains are now preserved.
And here, behind this promontory of the Bürgenstock, just opposite the Känzli, lies Stanz, the capital of Nidwalden—as this division of Unterwalden is now called—whither Blessed Nicholas hurried, and, by his influence with the Assembly, succeeded in saving his country from civil war.
A visit to Sachslen held a special place in the programme sketched out for us by Herr H——. There were some days, too, still to spare before the feast at Einsiedeln on the 14th; so we determined to lose no further time in making our pilgrimage to “Bruder Klaus,” as my Weggis guide and all the people hereabouts affectionately call him.
It was easy to trace the route when standing at the Känzli, and to perceive that, by crossing over to Buochs, we might drive thence to Sachslen. Dismissing, therefore, all fears of the railway descent from our minds, we started by the eleven o’clock train from Kaltbad, which it cost us many a pang to leave, with its dear little church, its lovely views, and its bright, invigorating air. Crossing then in the steamer from Vitznau to Buochs, we speedily engaged carriages to take us to Sachslen, and to bring us back from thence on the following day.
Our road led through Stanz, the home of Arnold von Winkelried, where we lingered long, although determined not to visit the Rathhaus until our return from the sanctuary of its hero. But we had two statues of Arnold to admire—one, in fact, a handsome white marble group commemorating his noble feat at Sempach, and erected by national subscription—to catch a view of Winkelried’s house in a distant meadow; to see in the church statues of “Bruder Klaus” and Konrad Scheuber—who also led a solitary life of holiness in the Engelberg valley close by, and whose highest honor it was to call himself the “Daughter’s Son” of the great hermit—to read the tablet in the mortuary chapel in memory of the four hundred and fourteen priests, women, and children who had fallen victims to the French soldiery in 1798; and to hear tales of the desolation their unbridled vengeance caused all this country. Pretty Stanz! now looking so happy, smiling, and prosperous that it is difficult to realize it ever could have been laid in ashes some seventy years ago. No district in Switzerland is more fruitful at present; cultivated like a garden, dotted over with fine timber, and making a beautiful picture backed by the Engelberg line of mountains stretching away behind.
An avenue of stately walnut-trees leads to the little port of Stanzstadt, and on the way we passed the chapel of Winkelried, where an annual fête is held, and close to which the bodies of eighteen women were found, after the fight in 1798, lying beside those of their fathers, husbands, and brothers—so completely had it then become a war à outrance, in defence of hearths and homes.
From Stanzstadt the road turned abruptly westward, at first along the edge of the small lake of Alpnach, the ruins of Rossberg Castle perceptible on the opposite shore—the first Austrian stronghold taken by the Rütli confederates on the memorable New Year’s morning of 1308.
Thence the hills grew lower and the landscape more pastoral than Alpine, until we reached Sarnen, above which formerly rose the castle of Landenberg, the famous imperial vogt who put out the eyes of old Anderbalben, of the Melchthal, in punishment for his son’s misdemeanors when the latter evaded his pursuit. This barbarous act was the immediate cause of the Rütli uprising; but, like all the others, the castle was taken by surprise, and Landenberg’s life was spared. The terrace where it stood is still called the Landenberg, and there the cantonal assembly has annually met since 1646. Of this spot it is that Wordsworth speaks in his desultory stanzas:
“Ne’er shall ye disgrace
Your noble birthright, ye that occupy
Your council-seats beneath the open sky
On Sarnen’s mount; there judge of fit and right,
In simple democratic majesty;
Soft breezes fanning your rough brows, the might
And purity of nature spread before your sight.”
The panorama thence is said to be magnificent, and it was easy to conceive it all-inspiring to a patriotic orator; but the evening had closed in before we crossed the Sarnen bridge, and it was hopeless to attempt the ascent thither.
Whilst Mrs. C—— was inquiring about rooms we hastened to a church near where a bell had been tolling as we entered the town. “Only a chapel,” answered an old woman; “for the Blessed Sacrament is not kept there.” But the “chapel” contained the cheering sight of troops of children saying their night prayers aloud, headed by some of their elders. The inn is a modest, clean establishment, but in any case it would have been dear to us, all the rooms being full of pictures of “Bruder Klaus” and of every incident in his life. Herr H—— had said that “no house in Obwalden is without his picture,” and this quick fulfilment of our expectations enchanted us. Instantly we stormed the Kellnerinns with questions; but, alas! they were Bernese maidens, and, whether from prejudice or stolid ignorance, they only gave us the old stereotyped answer that “they were ‘Reformed,’ from the other side of the Bruning pass, and knew nothing, nor ever inquired about such matters.”
Accustomed as we had been of late to the large tourist hotels, everything seemed preternaturally quiet, when suddenly, late that evening, a deep voice sounded in the distance, advancing steadily onwards. We had scarcely time to reflect on this singular intrusion on the peaceful village when it became evident that it was that mediæval institution, “the watchman going his rounds,” which none of us ever before had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with; and as he came along the streets he distinctly sang:
“The clock has struck ten;
Put out fire and light,
Pray God and his Mother
To save and protect us!”
And constantly during the night the same appealing voice returned, merely changing the hour as time ran on.
Next morning the sun again befriended us, and Mass was “at the convent hard by,” said our hostess—“the convent of Benedictines, who teach all our girls.” And she said truly; for not only did we find their chapel crowded by the villagers, men, women, and children, while the nuns’ choir was hidden behind the altar, but High Mass was being sung at that early hour of half-past seven, with exposition of the Blessed Sacrament, ending by Benediction. Mr. C—— and George visited the Rathhaus and its portraits; but we were in feverish haste to get on to Sachslen, “two miles off,” said a peasant woman we accosted on the road, and who also said she was on her way thither to pray at the shrine of “Bruder Klaus.” Immediately after breakfast, therefore, taking leave of our comely hostess and of this capital of Obwalden, still so primitively good, although in the close vicinity of the “great world,” and feeling an increased aversion to the Bernese maidens, whose spirit is unmoved by things supernatural, we drove along the flat borders of the Sarnen lake, caught sight of the Rigi and its Känzli, and in less than half an hour found ourselves at Sachslen.
This village is very small, but at once tells its own tale; for the church stands, according to the fashion of “holy places,” in a large open space surrounded by good-sized houses, that serve as inns and resting-places for the crowds of pilgrims who flock here at stated periods. Now all was quiet and the church nearly empty; the Masses of the day—unfortunately for us—were long since over. After paying our visit to the Blessed Sacrament we wandered through the edifice, admiring its size and beauty, but unable to discover any sign of the shrine whose fame had brought us hither. At length George succeeded in finding the sacristan, a wrinkled, toothless octogenarian, who, as far as looks went, seemed quite ancient enough to have been himself a contemporary of “Bruder Klaus.” His German, too, was so intensely local, and consequently, to us, obscure, that we had the utmost difficulty in understanding him. But he pointed to the altar in the centre with an inscription in golden letters on its black marble frontal. And certainly it was worth looking at; for a more remarkable specimen of phonetic spelling is seldom to be found, exactly following the local dialect, even in its total disregard of grammar. On the other hand, this earnest simplicity in such strange contrast to the refined material that perpetuates it is deeply touching and in perfect keeping with everything connected with Blessed Nicholas and this pious people. It ran thus:
“Allhier Buwet die gebein des Seeligen
Bruder Claus von Flüe—dahero gesetzt da
Man die Kirche gebüwet anno 1679.”[196]
As soon as the aged sacristan felt satisfied that we had read the lines, without another word he drew back the picture over the altar as he might a curtain, and disclosed “Bruder Klaus” himself confronting us! Never shall I forget the thrilling sensation of beholding the hermit’s skeleton in kneeling posture right above the tabernacle and facing the congregation, clothed in his coarse habit, his hands clasped in prayer, the cavity of his eyes filled by two large emeralds, his nose by one enormous long, yellow topaz, while in the centre of the ribs, near his heart, hung a large jewelled cross, and round his neck a number of military orders. It was startling! We had expected from the word “gesetzt” to find him reposing in a shrine, and should have preferred, it must be confessed, to have seen more refinement and delicacy shown in the use of those precious stones as ornamentation. But were they not the precious stones of simple, firm faith and true love of God? This peasant population never had any pretension to “high art or learning.” Blessed Nicholas himself had naught but the refinement of that exalted piety which in itself transcends even the highest flights of human culture, and is, after all, the “one thing needful.” With such thoughts to guide us we could only admire and respect the desire, albeit crudely expressed, to show reverence to one whose own simple nature despised those “earthly treasures.” His countrymen, however, had that deep “art and learning” which taught them to appreciate Blessed Nicholas’ devotion to the Blessed Sacrament; for they could think of no resting-place more dear to him than that close to the dwelling of his Lord. Tender piety, too, prompted the offerings; but no votive tablets recorded their stories, as in the little church at Kaltbad, and we longed in vain to know their histories. The orders alone, we discovered, had been won in different countries by his descendants, and have been offered up by them, as well as various swords and trophies by other Unterwaldeners, in thanksgiving for the prayers and protection of the saintly hermit. A striking example of the enduring value of a noble, self-denying, God-fearing character it is thus to see the aid of this simple peasant still sought and the influence of his memory so powerful on the minds and better natures even of this material age. It was impossible not to pray that he may now more than ever watch over his beloved fellow-countrymen, and obtain for them that steadfastness in their faith and principles which they so sorely need during the terrible struggle they are now passing through. There is little else belonging to Blessed Nicholas to be seen—for was he not a hermit, and the poorest of saints?—but in a case near the wall the old clerk displayed his rosary and another habit, which we liked to fancy might have been made from the piece of stuff presented to him by the town of Freyburg after his successful intervention at the diet of Stanz.
Our thoughts now turned to his hermitage at Ranft, but only to meet with severe disappointment. It was too far for “ladies to walk,” said every one, and no horses could be had without previous orders, of which no one had once thought. Had we only slept here, instead of stopping at Sarnen, all would have been easy, and we should, moreover, have been able to have heard Mass at the shrine. The “Engel” of Sachslen was larger than, though scarcely so inviting as, the “Golden Eagle” of Sarnen, yet he would at least have watched over our spiritual interests; and “when one undertakes a pilgrimage,” exclaimed George, “ladies should despise comforts.”
“It was Herr H——’s plan,” retorted Caroline, determined that we should not be blamed, “and we should not be ungrateful; for remember that he had also to think of us Protestants! All we can now do is to warn other pilgrims, and advise them to come on here straight.”
It was provoking beyond measure to be thus deprived by mismanagement of this point in our visit. But Mr. C—— and George were determined not to give it up; they would go on foot, and report all to us, if only we would wait patiently for a few hours. Where was the use of further grumbling? Like good children, we cried out, “What can’t be cured must be endured,” and, summoning all the piety we could command to our aid, we offered up the disappointment in the spirit of true pilgrims in honor of “Bruder Klaus,” and bade our friends “God speed” and depart.
Anna and the two young ladies, soon discovering pretty points of view, settled themselves to sketch, while Mrs. C—— and I took a ramble through the village. Though without any pretension to an Alpine character, none is more genuinely Swiss than Sachslen. Leaving the square, we wandered among the detached houses, scattered here and there in the most capricious manner on the slope of a hill that rises gently behind, and which, dotted with timber throughout its fresh pastures, forms a most beautiful background to the picture. The wood-work, delicately, nay elaborately, carved, the windows glazed in many instances with bull’s-eye glass, the low rooms with heavy cross-beams, are all many centuries old, perhaps from the very days of Blessed Nicholas; but beyond all doubt the “Holy Cross,” “Engel,” and other hostelries, of which the place is chiefly composed, owe their origin to his memory. Photographs of the church and the hermitage hung in the window of the “library” of the village, which was opened for us, after some delay, by an active, tidy matron. “These are quiet days and few purchasers,” she said in an apologetic tone. “But the ladies would find it very different on feast days; on the 21st of March above all. Then ten and twelve thousand people often come from all quarters; every house far and near is full, stalls are erected in the square, and the church is crowded from morning till night. This is the Litany chanted during the processions,” she added, handing us a small book, which also contained “Prayers by Brother Klaus,” collected from old writings by a priest. Nothing could be more beautiful or simple than the latter; but the Litany in particular was a pre-eminently striking composition, every sentence showing that remarkable union of patriotism and piety which runs through the whole being of every Swiss Catholic. It begins by invoking the hermit, simply as “Blessed Brother Klaus,” to “Pray for us,” and, going on through every phase of his life, implores his intercession in a more emphatic manner wherever his love of country or of justice had been most conspicuous. And here it must be remembered that Blessed Nicholas has as yet only been beatified. Hence those who style him “saint” transgress the proper limits, which are never forgotten by the Swiss themselves. For this reason it is that in no prayer is he ever addressed except as “Blessed Nicholas,” and in popular parlance ranks no higher than their “dear Bruder Klaus.” But that he may some day be canonized is the fond hope of every Swiss Catholic, and one, it is said, which can be justified by many miracles.
Mrs. C—— and I carried off the Litany, etc., and, sitting down on a bench near the church, drew out other books we had with us, determined to refresh our memories regarding this great servant of our Lord.
Of these, two small documents, written during his lifetime, are the most interesting. One is a Memoir by John von Waldheim, a gentleman from Halle in Germany, giving an account of his visit to Brother Nicholas in February, 1474, and found in the Wolfenbüttel Library; the other a similar report of his pilgrimage to the Hermit of Ranft, addressed to the clergy and magistrates of the town of Nuremberg, by Albert von Bonstetten, canon of Einsiedeln, whom the historian, J. von Müller, calls “the most learned Swiss of his age,” and found in the archives of the town of Nuremberg in 1861, and wherein he states that, “as so many fables had been circulated about the hermit, he felt convinced they would be glad to know what he had himself seen.” Other contemporaries also allude to their visits; but these two, though short, bear such internal evidence of truth in the quaint freshness of their style and language, place us so completely face to face with all concerned, give such a picture of Blessed Nicholas’ humility and unsophisticated nature, and such an insight into the habits of thought of that period, that no others equal them, and we can only regret that space does not permit of more than merely a passing quotation.
All authorities agree that Blessed Nicholas was born in this then obscure hamlet on March 21, 1417. Zschokke, however, alone mentions that his family name was Löwenbrugger—a fact ignored by others, so completely had “Von der Flüe,” or “of the Rocks,” become his own, even during his lifetime. Yet all his biographers begin by explaining that this cognomen “came from his living at the rocks of Ranft.” Bonstetten also naïvely asks “how any inhabitant of this region can avoid coming into the world except under some one rock or another.” His parents were very poor, and Nicholas labored hard, in the fields especially, from his tenderest years. Grown to manhood, he married young, had ten children, and became distinguished above his fellows, in his public and private capacity, as “a model son, husband, father, and citizen.” He even served as soldier, like others, in the Thurgau war, where he was equally noted for deeds of valor and for compassion towards the sick and wounded. So high was his reputation amongst his neighbors that they several times elected him Landamman and resorted to him as arbitrator in their disputes. “The virtues he displayed to all around him,” writes Bonstetten, “were quite marvellous. For a long time he continued to lead this honorable existence, considerate, affectionate, true to every one, importunate to none.” At length a yearning for greater perfection became stronger than all else, and at fifty years of age he determined to seek for closer union with his Lord. Several of his children were already married and settled in the neighborhood. To those that remained and to his wife he handed over the house that he had built and the fields he had cultivated from early youth upwards, and, taking leave of his family and of all that he held most dear, he left his home for ever. Von Waldheim states that he at first intended merely to wander as a pilgrim from one holy place to another, but that, “on reaching Basel, he had a revelation, which made him choose a hermit’s life in preference, and in consequence of which he turned back to Unterwalden and to his own house. He did not, however, allow himself to be seen by wife, children, or any one, but, passing the night in his stables, he started again at dawn, penetrated for about a quarter of a mile into the forest behind Sachslen, gathered some branches of trees, roofed them with leaves, and there took up his abode.” At all events, it was in this spot, known as “the solitude of Ranft,” at the opening of the Melchthal, that he passed the remaining twenty years of his saintly life.
But although he had withdrawn from the world, that world soon followed him. Before long the fame of his sanctity spread abroad; above all, rumors were circulated that he never tasted earthly food, and that his life was sustained solely by the Blessed Eucharist, which some authorities say he received once a month, others on every Friday. This celestial favor, however, was at first the cause of great suffering to Blessed Nicholas. Calumnies were heaped upon him, insults offered. Still, he remained impassive, taking no heed of men. Some would not doubt him. “Why should they suppose that a man who had so long lived amongst them, whose honor had been so well tried and recognized, and who had abandoned the world merely to lead a hard life in the desert, would now try to deceive them?” But others declared that he only wanted to impose on the vulgar, and that he had food brought to him secretly. “What did the landamman and elders do,” says Bonstetten, “in order to prevent their being accused of playing the part of dupes? They selected trusty men, made them take an oath to speak the truth, and placed them as guards round the hermitage, to watch whether food was brought to Nicholas from any quarter, or whether he procured any for himself.” For a whole month this severe surveillance was maintained; but in the end it only proved in a most convincing manner that the hermit neither ate nor drank anything except that nourishment with which our Lord himself provided him. Two Protestant writers, J. von Müller and Bullinger, give details of this inquiry, of which they raise no doubt; and some years after it took place, during the lifetime of Blessed Nicholas, the following entry was made in the public archives of Sachslen:
“Be it known to all Christians, that in the year 1417 was born at Sachslen, Nicholas von der Flüe; that, brought up in the same parish, he quitted father, mother, brother, wife, and children to come to live in the solitude called Ranft; that there he has been sustained by the aid of God, without taking any food, for the last eighteen years, enjoying all his faculties at this moment of our writing, and leading a most holy life. This we have ourselves seen, and this we here affirm in all truth. Let us, then, pray the Lord to give him eternal life whenever he shall deign to call him from this world.”
As a natural consequence of this investigation, a strong reaction at once occurred. The villagers built him a chapel with a cell adjoining, and soon the Bishop of Constance came to consecrate it.
But the bishop was also determined to test the fact of his total abstinence, and ordered him to eat in his presence. Various are the versions concerning this event, the majority asserting that Blessed Nicholas was seized with convulsions the instant he swallowed the first mouthful. But J. von Waldheim, who seems to have experienced no difficulty in asking direct questions, gives us the hermit’s own words on the subject, brimful of truthfulness and humility. After stating that he had been entertaining Nicholas by an account of his own pilgrimages to holy places, and amongst others to the sanctuary of Blessed Mary Magdalen, in whose honor the Ranft chapel was dedicated, and having brought tears into the eyes of the venerable hermit by the beautiful legends regarding her which he told him, Waldheim proceeds:
“I said: ‘Dear Brother Nicholas! in my own country, as well as here, I have heard it maintained that you have neither eaten nor drunk anything for many years past. What may I believe?’ ‘God knows it!’ he answered, and then continued: ‘Certain folk asserted that the life I lead proceeds not from God, but from the evil spirit. In consequence my Lord the Bishop of Constance blessed three pieces of bread and a drop of wine, and then presented them to me. If I could eat or drink, he thought I should be justified; if not, there could no longer be any doubt that I was under the influence of the devil. Then my Lord the Bishop of Constance asked me what thing I considered the most estimable and meritorious in Christianity. ‘Holy obedience,’ I answered. Then he replied: ‘If obedience be the most estimable and meritorious thing, then I command you, in the name of that holy virtue, to eat these three pieces of bread and to drink this wine.’ I besought my lord to dispense me from this, because this act would grieve me to excess. I implored him several times, but he continued inflexible, and I was obliged to obey, to eat and to drink.’ I then asked Brother Nicholas,” continued Waldheim: ‘And since that time you have neither eaten nor drunk any thing?’ But I could extract no other answer from him save the three words, ‘God knows it.’”
Numberless were the reports concerning his mysterious ways. He often went to Einsiedeln, yet it was said that no one ever met him on the road!
“How does he get there?” asks Waldheim. “God alone knows.” His appearance, too, was said to be unearthly.
Waldheim had heard, too, that his body was emaciated and devoid of natural warmth, his hands icy, and his aspect like that of a corpse. He lays particular stress, therefore, on the fact that Nicholas possessed a natural bodily heat, like any other man, “in his hands especially, which I and my valet Kunz touched several times. His complexion was neither yellow nor pale, but that of one in excellent health; his humor pleasant, his conversation, acts, and gestures those of an affable, communicative, sociable, gay being looking at every thing from the bright side. His hair is brown, his features regular, his skin good, his face thin, his figure straight and slight, his German agreeable to listen to.”
A few years later Père Bonstetten heightens this picture by a minuteness that rivals the signalements of old-fashioned passports. He describes Brother Nicholas as being “of fine stature, extremely thin, and of a brown complexion, covered with freckles; his dark hair tinged with gray, and, though not abundant, falling in disorder on his shoulders; his beard in like manner, and about an inch long; his eyes not remarkable, except that the white is in due proportion; his teeth white and regular; and his nose in harmony with the rest of his face.”
And as we read this clear description, Mrs. C—— and I could not help regretting that posterity had not been satisfied with such a recollection, without having endeavored by emeralds and precious stones to fill up the voids which nature had since created; but when the motives had been so pure and loving, it was not for us to find fault with the manner of their reverence, nor do more than admire its earnestness and simplicity.
There seems to have been a certain difficulty in obtaining admittance to the hermit; for even Père Bonstetten had to be introduced by the landamman, and Von Waldheim took with him the Curé of Kerns. Brother Nicholas, it must be remembered, though an anchorite, was still not ordained; hence a priest was to him always a welcome visitor. His family, too, seem at all times to have had free access to him. Both writers commenced their visits by hearing Mass in his little chapel, where Brother Nicholas knelt behind a grating; but after their introduction he let them into his adjoining cell. Here he impressed them deeply by his humility, politeness, and gentleness, and both remark his sweet-toned voice and his kindliness in shaking hands with every one, “not forgetting a single person.” Père Bonstetten, more than Waldheim, seems to have retained his self-possession; for he says: “I kept my eyes wide open, looking right and left around the room, attentively considering everything. The cell was not half warm. It had two small windows, but no sleeping place, unless a raised portion at one end may be used for that purpose.” Nor could he see a table, nor furniture of any kind, nor sign even of a mattress on which this servant of God could ever repose. But he dwells with emphasis on his simplicity and truthfulness, saying that he answered his many questions, “not in the fashion of a hypocrite, but simply as became an unlettered man.”
And like these visitors came others from every quarter to see and consult him—magistrates to ask the advice of one who, in the words of the Litany, had been like that “just judge whose decisions were altogether dictated by conscience and justice,” and that “wise statesman who administered his offices solely for the honor of God and the good of his fellow-men”; soldiers to see the “brave warrior who took up arms for God and fatherland, and was a model of virtue to the army”; those in affliction to beg the prayers of that “most perfect follower of Jesus, who, by meditation on the life and sufferings of our Lord, had been so like unto him”; sinners to implore that “pious hermit, who left the world from desire of greater perfection,” to teach them how to subdue their passions. For all and each he had some word of comfort and exhortation. One of these pilgrims was so captivated by his heavenly admonitions that he resolved to remain near Blessed Nicholas and lead the same life. He built himself a chapel and cell close by, and soon became remarkable for his sanctity; but his antecedents are veiled in mystery, and he has descended to posterity simply as “Brother Ulrich, once a Bavarian gentleman.” Blessed Nicholas, however, evidently held him in high regard; for, after praising him warmly, he urged both Waldheim and Père Bonstetten to visit him before leaving Ranft. The naïve Waldheim takes no pains to conceal that he was prejudiced against poor Ulrich by reason of the mystery surrounding him; although “he is educated,” he says,“whereas Brother Nicholas is a simple layman who does not know how to read.” The learned monk of Einsiedeln, on the contrary, is at once prepossessed in his favor by the tincture of culture which he quickly detects. He notes that Ulrich “talks more and shows less dislike for the society of men than Brother Nicholas. No doubt,” he adds, “because he is more instructed. He is somewhat of a Latin scholar. At the same time, his books are in German. He showed them to me. I think that I perceived the Gospels and the Lives of the Fathers translated into German”—a fact which we may further note as a remarkable proof that such translations of the Gospels into the vernacular, mentioned thus incidentally by Père Bonstetten, were common before the days of printing, in the very midst of the so-called “dark ages.”
Amongst the many traits for which Blessed Nicholas was distinguished, Père Bonstetten records that conformity to the will of God and love of peace were pre-eminent. “He preaches submission and peace—that peace which he never ceases to recommend to the confederates.” And a time was coming when all his power and influence would be needed to preserve it. Some years after these two accounts were written, and while Blessed Nicholas and Brother Ulrich were praying and fasting in their “solitude at Ranft,” great deeds were being done in other parts of Switzerland. The battles of Grandson and Morat were fought and won, Charles the Bold driven back into Burgundy, and the rich spoils of his army became the property of the Swiss. But what union and heroism had gained victory and prosperity well-nigh destroyed. Soleure and Freyburg, in virtue of their hard fighting, claimed admission into the confederacy, which claim the older states disdainfully rejected; while the enormous Burgundian booty likewise became a fruitful source of discord. Numerous diets were held, without avail, for the settlement of these questions, each only increasing the trouble. At length a diet assembled at Stanz purposely in order to come to a final decision; but the disputes reached such a pitch that the deputies were about to separate, although the return to their homes would have been the signal for civil war. Blessed Nicholas, though so near, knew nothing of these proceedings until one morning, when one of his oldest and most esteemed friends unexpectedly arrived at the hermitage. It was the curé of Stanz; a worthy priest and a true patriot, who, in despair at the state of affairs, and mindful of Nicholas’ patriotism and love of peace, came to implore his help. Without an instant’s delay the hermit took up his staff, walked across the paths he knew so well, and marched straight into the hall at Stanz where the deputies were assembled. Zschokke, the Protestant writer, thus describes the scene:
“All with one accord rose from their seats as they beheld in their midst this old man of emaciated aspect, yet full of youthful vigor, and deeply venerated by every one. He spoke to them with the dignity of a messenger from heaven, and in the name of that God who had given so many victories to them and to their fathers, he preached peace and concord. ‘You have become strong,’ he said, ‘through the might of united arms. Will you now separate them for the sake of miserable booty? Never let surrounding countries hear of this! Ye towns! do not grieve the older confederates by insisting on the rights of citizens. Rural cantons! remember that Soleure and Freyburg have fought hard beside you, and receive them into fellowship. Confederates! take care, on the other hand, not to enlarge your boundaries unduly! Avoid all transactions with foreigners! Beware of divisions! Far be it from you ever to prefer money to the fatherland.’ This and much more did Nicholas von der Flüe say, and all hearts were so deeply touched, so stirred, by the words of the mighty hermit, that in one single hour every disputed point was settled. Soleure and Freyburg were that day admitted into the confederacy; old treaties and compacts were renewed; and at the suggestion of the pious Nicholas it was decided that in future all conquered territory should be distributed amongst the cantons, but booty divided amongst individuals! This done,” continues Zschokke, “the hermit returned to his wilderness, each deputy to his canton. Joy abounded everywhere. From all the church-towers of the land festive peals announced the glad tidings, from the furthest Alps even unto the Jura.”
The cantons vied with each other in the effort to express their gratitude to Blessed Nicholas. But in vain; he would take nothing from them except a few ornaments for his small chapel. Freyburg alone was favored by his acceptance of a piece of stuff to repair his worn-out habit, which was then in shreds; and this it was which we liked to think identical with the relic shown to us by the old sacristan in the church at Sachslen. Bern, in a spirit widely different from that of its degenerate posterity, presented him with a chalice, which elicited from him a letter full of patriotism and tender Christian feeling: “Be careful,” he writes in answer, “to maintain peace and concord amongst you; for you know how acceptable this is to Him from whom all good proceeds. He who leads a godly life always preserves peace; nay, more, God is that sovereign peace in whom all can repose. Protect the widows and orphans, as you have hitherto done. If you prosper in this world, return thanks to God, and pray that he may grant you a continuance of the same happiness in the next. Repress public vice and be just to all. Deeply imprint in your hearts the remembrance of the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ. It will console and strengthen you in the hour of adversity.” Then, as if in prophetic strain to the proud town, he adds: “Many people in our day, tempted by the devil, are troubled with doubts on faith. But why have any doubts? The faith is the same to-day that it ever has been.”
What wonder, after all this, that, in spite of himself, Blessed Nicholas became the arbiter of Switzerland during the few remaining years of his life? Every dispute was referred to him, and, as one writer adds, “In that solitude, where he thought only of serving God, by the simple fact of his sanctity he became of all his compatriots the most pleasing to God and the most useful to his neighbor.” At length the holy hermit lay down on the bare ground, which had so long been his couch, and, full of years and honor, he “fell asleep in the Lord” on the 21st of March, 1487—on the very day that he had fulfilled seventy years of his most spotless and saintly life.
We had just reached this point, when, looking up, we beheld Mr. C—— and George advancing and exclaiming: “Such a pity you did not come—such a pity!” Breathlessly they told us that the distance had proved trifling; they found horses, too, on the way, and everything had been deeply interesting. The road had passed near “Bruder Klaus’” fields, crossed the rushing stream mentioned by Von Waldheim; and not only had they visited the chapel and cell of Blessed Nicholas, but also that of Brother Ulrich, exactly as described by the two mediæval pilgrims. The stone used by Blessed Nicholas as his pillow is there preserved; both places, kept in excellent repair and attended by a priest who resides on the spot, are much frequented and full of votive offerings of various kinds. At once it became a question of our starting thither, even at that advanced hour. Had Anna and I been alone, we should have upset all previous arrangements for this purpose; but charity and forbearance are the virtues most needed and most frequently brought into play when travelling with a large party. Smothering our annoyance, therefore, a second time, as best we could, and making a mental resolve to return some future day and see with our own eyes what our friends so vividly described, we adjourned to the Engel, and did full justice to the meal which its pleasant-faced hostess had prepared for us. In another hour we were on the road back to Stanz, but this time across the hills. Kerns, now speaking to our minds of Von Waldheim and Père Bonstetten, was first passed, succeeded before long by St. Jacob and its plain, the scene of the terrible battle with the French in 1798; and in two and a half hours the comfortable cottages of Nidwalden had gradually developed into, and terminated in, the pretty houses of its capital, Stanz. Here we now halted, in order to repair our omission of yesterday by a visit to the Rathhaus. It was opened for us after some delay by a bluff Nidwaldener, whose German was as unintelligible as that of the Sachslen clerk. But, in like manner, he supplied the defect by pointing to two curious and very ancient paintings which hung in the entrance lobby, one representing Blessed Nicholas taking leave of his wife and family before he went to Ranft, the other his appearance at the diet here. The deputies in the painting have all risen, whilst the emaciated hermit is addressing them boldly and earnestly. As we proceeded into the hall close by, it required no stretch of imagination to fancy that the scene had but just occurred in that spot, so exactly is the room of the same shape, the chairs and table of the same pattern, and all placed in the same position as in the old picture. Though not the same building, one may well believe that the present is only a reproduction of the former town-hall, simple and unpretending as it is, and yet invested with such deep interest. Three sides of the hall are hung with portraits of the landammans since 1521, and the fourth is decorated by various banners won on different patriotic occasions. Of these, we notice one that was taken at the battle of Kappel, where Zwingle met his death; another sent to the Unterwaldeners by Pope Julius II.; and a third recently presented by Zschokke, a native of these parts, representing William Tell shooting the apple off his son’s head—thus giving the sanction of this grave and graphic historian to the story we all so much love. Long did we linger in the hall, full of the day’s impressions; but the light was waning, and it was necessary to depart. Ere we reached Buochs the sun had set; it was dark when the steamer came up to the quay; and night had closed when we arrived at Brunnen and entered the brilliantly-lighted hall of the Walstätter Hof.