SCHLATTER, THE MIRACLE-MAN
The town of Denver, the "pearl of Colorado," was en fête. Hundreds of thousands of pilgrims were flocking to it from all parts of America, and all, immediately they arrived, made straight for the house of Alderman Fox, where dwelt Francis Schlatter, the greatest miracle-worker of the century. For two months Denver was able to contemplate an unparalleled variety of invalids with illnesses both rare and common, all—or nearly all—of whom departed reassured as to their progress, if not completely cured. The trains were overcrowded, the hotels overflowed with visitors, and all the States rang with hymns of praise in honour of Schlatter, the saint of Denver.
But perpetual joy is not of this world. On the 14th of November, 1895, there were still thousands of people outside Alderman Fox's house, but their grief and despair were pitiable to witness. The women sobbed, the men cursed, and all this, mingled with the woeful complaints of the sick, created an extraordinary atmosphere in the usually gay and cheerful town.
The cause of it was that Saint Schlatter had fled from Colorado without warning in the night—whether for a short time or for ever nobody knew. The news spread far and wide, the affair assumed the proportions of a public calamity, and the Rocky Morning News and other Colorado journals shed copious tears over the sad lot of the abandoned pilgrims. Even the American newspapers, which so often foresee events that never happen, had not been able to foresee this thunderbolt that had descended in the midst of their readers.
On the previous day the saint had, as usual, given his blessing to the thousands of pilgrims gathered from all quarters, and had appeared to be in his customary state of serene kindliness. Nothing had suggested his desertion—for the disappointed crowds considered it a desertion indeed. Even Alderman Fox, deeply troubled as he was, could offer no consolation to his fellow-citizens. He, who was formerly stone-deaf, had gone one day to see Schlatter at Omaha, and when the latter took his hand his deafness had completely disappeared. Full of gratitude, he offered Schlatter a large sum of money, which was refused. He then offered the hospitality of his house at Denver, and this being accepted, Schlatter arrived there, preceded by the glory of his saintly reputation and his miraculous cures. Two months passed thus, and never had prophet a more devoted and enthusiastic disciple than the worthy alderman of Colorado's capital city. Then fell the blow!
When Alderman Fox had entered his guest's room the night before, the bed was empty. Dressed just as he had arrived, in his unique costume, Schlatter had disappeared, leaving behind him as sole trace of his visit this message:—"Mr. Fox—my mission is ended, and the Father calls me. I salute you. Francis Schlatter. November 13th."
After that he was sought for in vain. He who "intoxicated the weak soul of the people"—to quote one of the Colorado clergy—and made the land of sin ring with songs of heavenly triumph, had completely disappeared. In the words of another of them, "the plant that had grown up in barren soil was withered away by the wrath of God."
But the grief of those who had believed in him lasted for many years.
Schlatter was born in Alsace in 1855, and after his arrival in America he followed many avocations, finally adopting that of a "holy man." With head and feet bare, he traversed the States from one end to another, and proclaimed himself a messenger of heaven. He preached the love of God and peace among men. He was imprisoned, and continued to preach, and though his fellow-prisoners at first mocked at him, they ended by listening.
He only had to place his hand on the heads of the sick, and they were cured. After being released from prison, he went to Texas. His peculiar dress, bare feet, and long hair framing a face which seemed indeed to be illuminated from within, drew crowds to follow him, and he was looked upon as Elijah come to life again.