Swiss allmends, and a walk to see them

by F. Barham Zincke

We were present once more—the next morning, at mass. The celebrants, if that is the correct appellation, were more than gorgeously vestmented, in vestments which appeared stiff with gold embroidery. These vestments, the screen which separated the priests from the profane laity, the incense, the bell-ringing, the lights, transported me in thought to the old heathen world. I felt as if I were witnessing the celebration, in the style of those times, of some of its sacred mysteries. The material means used, and the motives which prompted their use, that is to say the desire to produce a sense of undefined awe, were the same as they might have been then. I do not say this with any thought that it contains a reason why they should not be reverted to by ourselves: it may be right to aim at producing this effect; and these may be the readiest, the most powerful, and the most inoffensive means for producing it. I am only saying that what I was then witnessing carried my thoughts back to the old mysteries, which Christianity, as a matter of fact and of history, abolished; and which it abolished, because they would have served no purpose but that of obscuring the perception of its simple, intelligible, conscience-originated moral aims. I was told, immediately after the service, by a monk, who was showing me over the library, that in the celebration of the mass, at which I had just been present, a part had been taken by M. Dupanloup, the Bishop of Orleans.

The library, as might have been expected, is rich in folios. Folios, as a general rule, belong, like arquebuses, culverins, and coats of mail, to the past. As far as I saw, the contents of these folios, and of the books generally, were either theological, or classical. The Classics may be so made the instrument, and substance of education, and the study of a life, as quite to preoccupy the mind, and not themselves to suggest, or to allow anything else to suggest, any of the questions of modern controversy. Hence, perhaps, the desire and effort of the Church of Rome to confine education to the Classics. There were also in the library an electrical apparatus, and a cabinet of mineralogical specimens. We were, besides, shown the abbot’s private chapel; the guest chambers, most of which make up two beds; and the conference chamber. This last is a large room, on the walls of which, among some other modern portraits, hang those of Napoleon III., and of the Emperor of Germany. If I recollect rightly, these two had been placed where we saw them before the outbreak of the late war.

In the rows of stalls in front of the monastery—there are some of a similar character to the north of the building—and in a great many of the shops of the town, are sold only such objects as pilgrims of the poorest class would purchase, to carry home with them as mementos of their pilgrimage. Among these objects is conspicuous in wood, earthenware, and a variety of other materials, a miniature reproduction of the black-faced image. I thought of the silver shrines of Ephesus; though the precious material of which they were formed, tells us that their purchasers were the wealthy and the educated. The aspect of the locality, in which these mementos are exposed for sale, and the fact that, not the mementos only, but everything else vendible in it, is of the humblest kinds of tinsel, unredeemed by any articles of use or substance, reminded me somewhat of a bazaar, or fair.

What you go to Einsiedln to see is the pilgrims. This is as exclusively the one object there as the Temple of the Sun at Baalbec, or the rock sculptures and excavations at Elephanta. If there were no pilgrims, not only would no one go to see Einsiedln, but there would be no Einsiedln to go to see: for it is supported by pilgrims only, and by nothing else. We are told that about 150,000 visit it yearly. These hosts of pilgrims have built, and maintain, both the monastery and the town. Everything you see of the town shows its origin, purpose, and character. It is a town of pilgrims’ inns, and of pilgrims’ shops. It is quite a mediæval sight. What is presented to you here enables you to form a picture in your mind of what many a town in those days must have been; as, for instance, Bury St. Edmunds, with its great monastery, and its shrine for pilgrims.

Of course a man does not go a long journey to see some object without a wish to know something about it: that were irrational. If he go to Baalbec to see what remains of it, he would be glad to know how Baalbec came to be placed where he finds its remains; what maintained its population; and what was the kind of life of the place. At Elephanta he desires to know what were the ideas in men’s minds, that brought them to expend so much labour on such costly excavations. So at Einsiedln. You may not yourself have come on a pilgrimage to the shrine of the black-faced image: still you are not in every sense an unconcerned outsider. You have come on a pilgrimage of your own sort: its object is to see pilgrims doing a pilgrimage; and to think over the matter with the object, and the doers of the pilgrimage, before your eyes.

Now what is it that brings these tens of thousands of pilgrims here? That is the great question. Several reasons contribute to the explanation of the phenomenon. We will put first the famous Einsiedln inscription, because that is what first meets the eye as we enter the church. This inscription exhibits certain words of Christ’s Vicar upon earth—an infallible Pope of Rome. The words are, ‘Hic est plena remissio peccatorum a culpâ et a pœnâ.’ No words can be more precise and definite. ‘Here,’ in Einsiedln, in this Monastery, before this shrine of the black-faced Virgin, ‘is plenary remission of sins, from their guilt and from their punishment.’ No wonder, then, that the peasants of the Valais, of Bavaria, and of other places, where this statement is known and believed, flock to Einsiedln. This alone would explain their coming. The only wonder is that the whole Romanist world do not make a pilgrimage to Einsiedln the great and paramount object of life. To be sure I had just been told that I had, that morning, seen in the church M. Dupanloup, the Bishop of Orleans. But, during the last five centuries, how many Bishops of Orleans have been there? Was he following the example of his predecessors in being there? or was he there for some other purpose? How many Cardinals have made this pilgrimage? We do not ask how many Popes of Rome have made it; because, if they can give this plenary remission to those who make it, we may suppose that in this matter they do not give away all that they have to give, but reserve of it as much as will be needed for their own requirements.

Another question arises out of this inscription. Who could have expected that this remote, bleak, wild, formerly lonely forest, now open, dank grassland, would have been so highly favoured? Why is this ‘plenary remission of sins both from their guilt, and from their punishment,’ to be secured at this out-of-the-way, unhistorical, little-known spot? We might have supposed that, if at any one particular spot upon earth was to be granted this plenary remission of sins, it would have been at Bethlehem, or at Nazareth, or at Jerusalem. We, who wish to understand matters of this kind, cannot but ask, why they have been passed over, and why, of all places in the world, Einsiedln has thus been made the gate of heaven? But still in the meantime, as it is the gate of heaven, we cannot be surprised that the peasants of the Valais, of Bavaria, and of other like-minded places, are attracted to it. In them it would be wrong, if they were not so attracted. It would however make the matter a little more intelligible, if the Bishops and the educated neighbours, of these poor people came with them; and showed by accompanying them, that they participated with them in the desire to pass through this wide, and smooth-paved gateway. Can the reason of their not coming be, that they know, that of them, to whom so much more has been given, somewhat more will be required? Can it be at all because they cannot but think that plenary remission is not within their reach on such easy terms?

Another reason for the maintenance of this pilgrimage to the black-faced image of Einsiedln may be the offerings of the pilgrims. The surmise that the latter of these facts stands towards the former, in some way and degree, in the relation of cause to effect, receives a colour of probability from this plenary remission of sins not having been accorded to pilgrimages made to Bethlehem, Nazareth, and Jerusalem; and also from the cessation of pilgrimages to some other places, let us say, for instance, to Canterbury. We all know that pilgrimages to Canterbury were, once upon a time, as common in this country as Einsiedln pilgrimages now are in Switzerland. There are still plenty of Romanists in this country; some remains, at all events, of the shrine of St. Thomas are still at Canterbury; and the Dean and Chapter, we may be sure, would put no difficulties in the way of those who might wish to perform this pilgrimage. Why, then, do we see no parties of pilgrims assembling at, and setting out from, some modern Tabard, or, if Chaucer’s shade can forgive the supposition, from Cannon Street Station, for Canterbury? I am afraid we must give as a reason, not that the efficacy of prayers addressed to St. Thomas of Canterbury is less now than it was five centuries ago—any supposition of that kind would be quite inadmissible, for we know of nothing that could have diminished the saint’s power: whatever it was five hundred years ago it must be the same at this day, precisely—but that there are none now who can receive the offerings of pilgrims. There is no body of men on the spot who could receive such offerings. And it would hardly do to say to the faithful, make your pilgrimages to Canterbury first; and then make your offerings to some authorized recipients in London, or else remit them by a bill of exchange, or a post office order, to Rome. As nothing of this kind can be done, it comes about that St. Thomas of Canterbury is no longer an object of pilgrimage. If the fact that there is no longer anyone to receive the offerings of pilgrims to Canterbury is, in some way or other, a reason for the cessation of pilgrimages to Canterbury, the fact that there are people to receive the offerings of pilgrims to Einsiedln may, in some way, be a reason for the maintenance of pilgrimages to Einsiedln. This may also throw some light upon the fact, that though the monastery has seven times been destroyed by fire, the black-faced image has, upon every one of these catastrophes, escaped without injury; and that in 1798, though the French carried it away to Paris, it forthwith re-appeared. In short, we may, I think, infer, with some degree of probability, from the nature of the case, and from what we know of such matters, that there would be no monks, no monastery, no black-faced image at Einsiedln, were there no offerings.

One reason more: the peasant of the Valais goes to Einsiedln, because he has not yet arrived at that stage of knowledge which enables men to distinguish between things material and physical on the one side, and things moral and spiritual on the other; and to assign each to its own realm. To do this readily and habitually implies an advance in knowledge which has not yet been reached by the mass of any people in the world. Just as wit is, mainly, the perception of resemblances, so is knowledge the perception of differences; and the differences, which separate the matters we are now speaking of from each other, and which are of their very essence, the peasant of the Valais has not yet been brought to apprehend. He is still in that stage of the perception, or rather of the non-perception, of the differences of these things, which admits of his supposing that, if he drink water from a fountain from which he is told the Saviour drank, he will be thereby spiritually benefited; and that a carved piece of wood, dressed in tinsel, that can neither hear nor see, as was argued of old, but might help him to make a fire to warm himself, or to cook his dinner, is able to intercede with God on his behalf. Having, then, been taught that there is at Einsiedln such a fountain—it stands in front of the monastery, and has fourteen jets—he goes to Einsiedln, and drinks from each of the fourteen jets; to make sure that he has stood on the right spot, and drank from the right jet: though probably all the jets have been replaced many times since the date of the legend; if it have a date. And, having also been taught that there is there such a figure, he goes on a pilgrimage to it, and prostrates himself before it.

As to the poor peasant pilgrim himself: if the wish of his heart is to become a better man, morally and spiritually, then all right-minded people will regard him with sympathy and respect, notwithstanding his inability to distinguish between things physical and material on the one side and things moral and spiritual on the other. But if the wish of his heart be to purchase, by the means he has been taught to resort to, for the present certain earthly, and for the future certain heavenly advantages, then our sympathy and respect for him will be somewhat diminished. Ammer’s common-sense observation on the pilgrims we saw was in the direction of the mark: ‘If they really wish to become better men,’—of course he meant morally—‘they should try what can be done in that way by honest dealing, industry, and speaking the truth.’