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.