THE BLACK VIRGIN OF EINSIEDELN—LIFE IN SWITZERLAND, &c.
MORE than a thousand years ago, a holy hermit, by the name of Meinrad,
of royal blood, sought the wilds of Finsterswald, and here (for I am now
on the spot) lived in a hut, and spent his days in prayer, with a little
black image of the Virgin and Child which had been given him by the
Abbess of Zurich. But his piety and the Holy Virgin did not shield him
from the violence of wicked men. He was murdered in his hut by two
robbers, who would never have been caught but for the interposition of
the Virgin, who sent two ravens after them. These birds followed them to
Zurich, and there hunted them till their guilt was detected, and they
were put to death.
The odor of Meinrad’s sanctity spread far and wide, and the Benedictine
monks came and established a community, built a monastery and a church,
and have flourished on this spot ever since. So long ago as 948 the
Bishop of Constance came here to consecrate the newly erected church,
and in the night before the ceremony was to be performed he was awakened
by the music of angels filling the place, and a voice from heaven came
to him, saying that he need not proceed with his holy services, for in
the night the house had been sanctified by the coming of the SAVIOUR in
his own proper person. This was reported to the Pope, who pronounced it
a genuine miracle; and in obedience to his decree a plenary indulgence
is granted to all pilgrims who come here, and on the church is
inscribed, “Here is full remission from the guilt and punishment of
sins.” During all these thousand years that have since revolved, this
spot has been the shrine to which not less than 200,000 human beings
each year, with heads and hands and feet like other people, have
journeyed, to bring their offerings, and worship a black image of the
Virgin Mary holding a black baby in her arms. Why the image is painted
jet black I cannot learn. So great is the concourse of pilgrims here,
and so large are their offerings, that this monastery, in a bleak Alpine
vale, 3000 feet above the sea, and off from all highways, has become one
of the richest in the world. One in Styria, one in Spain, and a third in
Italy, are, perhaps, more numerously visited. But the annual revenue of
this is immense. The abbot has his banking house in Zurich, where he
deposits the funds, and the investments are constantly increasing. They
are buying lands largely in the United States of America, especially in
Indiana, and the order of Benedictines at Vincennes is in constant
correspondence with Einsiedeln.
Hither have I just made a pilgrimage, not on foot, as many do. An old
woman of seventy-five, carrying her shoes in her hand and toiling up
with bare, sore feet, said the priest had bade her travel so to
Einsiedeln, and her sins would be pardoned. But I came by the steamboat
from Zurich to Ricksterwyl, and was then brought up the hill in a nice
covered carriage, a much pleasanter way of doing a pilgrimage than
walking barefoot, or even with peas in your shoes. It is a two hours’
ride from the lake, the ascending road being alive with travellers going
and coming, and public-houses to entertain the pilgrims invite you to
rest. The village itself consists of a multitude of taverns and shops
for the sale of images, crosses, medals, &c. Passing through it, we come
to a large paved square. On one side of it, and at the foot of a hill
which rises behind it, stand the sacred edifices: a vast temple, with
the monastic buildings on each side of it, imposing in their appearance
among these wilds of nature, where it seems almost a miracle that they
can ever have been reared and enjoyed by man. The church itself is
adorned with extravagant pictures and marble chapels and shrines, and
just at the entrance stands the image of “Our Lady of the Hermits,” the
only black image of the Virgin I ever saw. She and the Holy Child wear
crowns of gold, and glitter with diamonds and embroidered garments,
their faces of ebony shining in the blaze of jewelry and tinsel finery.
Before them, worshippers are always kneeling, counting their beads. At
the other shrines others are bowing and murmuring their prayers. Painted
skeletons of celebrated saints lie exposed in marble shrines. The
offerings of those who have had their prayers answered hang around on
the walls. All sorts of prayers are here made, and they who make them
believe they are answered.
In the square in front of the church is a fountain with a dozen jets of
water, and each pilgrim drinks from each one of them, to be certain that
he drinks of the one out of which the Saviour refreshed himself nine
hundred years ago!
The monastery is freely opened to strangers. Through long halls on each
side of which are guest-chambers where their many visitors are lodged,
we were led to a gallery, adorned with several splendid paintings,
presented by Catholic monarchs: Louis Napoleon and his Empress, the
Austrian Emperor, and several historical pictures. Out of this we walked
into the reception-room, where the abbot himself was so condescending as
to meet us. He speaks only German and Latin. A very large man, of
commanding form and presence; with a face shining like the sun with good
humor, good living, and content, he answered perfectly to your idea of
the abbot of a Romish monastery. He gave me a cordial greeting, and
understanding that I was from America asked if we enjoyed universal
peace. When I assured him we did, he spoke of the late contest in
Europe, which he pronounced “bellum atrocissimum,”—a most atrocious war.
Then he inquired about the President, and produced from his private
rooms a photograph of the late Lincoln in the arms of Washington in
heaven!
After a little further general conversation he withdrew. He is by virtue
of his office a prince of the Austrian empire, and is so addressed by
all the Roman Catholic cantons of Switzerland. I was highly pleased with
the interview, and not less with one of the monks to whose kind care I
was now committed. He led me to the interior of the monastery, where the
cells of the monks are arranged on the several stories or floors: each
one is a comfortable room, with one window looking into the walled
garden and the hill that rises behind. When we reached his own he
unlocked it and showed me in; placing its only chair, he bade me be
seated, while he went to look for the key of the library. “While I am
absent,” said he, “enjoy yourself as you please, examine every thing,
and be quite at home.” A few books were in a case over his writing-desk,
by which he could sit or stand and the closets, shelves, every thing was
bare of paint, and plain as could be. A little bed was in one corner
near the door, simple enough for an anchorite. No images, pictures, or
crucifixes were in sight. In a few minutes he returned, and led me
through the cabinet of natural history, into the library of 30,000
volumes, neatly arranged in niches. When we came to the folios of the
fathers, I pointed to the works of IRENÆUS, and said: I have the name of
that father, my own father having given it to me because he admired the
writings of the old author, the disciple of Polycarp, who sat at the
feet of the apostle John; I was thus in the line of the succession. We
took down the folio and looked at its imprint. Then he asked me if I
would like to see the manuscripts, and upon my expressing a strong
desire to do so, he raised an iron trap-door, and conducted me by a
flight of stairs into a room below, where an immense number are
deposited, and admirably preserved and disposed. None of them, however,
are very ancient.
A college of two hundred students is maintained in the same range of
buildings, and taught by some of the monks. Of these monks there are
about forty, besides the priests who minister at the altars, and receive
confessions in German, French, Italian, and Romanesch languages,
according to the nationality of the pilgrims. The monks spend their time
in reading, writing, and in the refectory, where they eat together, and
enjoy the good things of this life as well as other people. Some of them
are quite old. Death comes here as elsewhere, and closes up a life of
apparent indolence, yet possessing some strange fascination that is hard
to be comprehended by the outside world. It certainly is not favorable
to the highest usefulness, for these men might be doing far more for God
and their fellow-men in the pursuit of some honest calling, preaching
the gospel, or working with their hands. They consume and do not
produce. Nor is this mode of life friendly to holiness. Passions are
part of man’s nature, and they are not quenched or dwarfed by seclusion
from intercourse with the outer world. Human sympathies, which are
cultivated and refined by the practice of social virtues, and so tend to
make us better, are not apt to flourish in the cell of a monk. And
although the walls of this magnificent monastery, in a sterile Alpine
valley, shut out the pomps and vanities of the world, they cannot be
made so high or so strong as to confine the wandering desire, which will
sap the foundations of the sternest virtue, and make the bosom the seat
of vice to which the soul consents, and therefore suffers. The pure in
heart see God. Not in the cloister of the anchorite, the monk’s lonely
cell, nor the hermit’s cave; but in the steadfast pursuit of the Good,
the True, and the Great, in the daily walks of life. It is virtue to
live above the world, while living in it. None but the children of the
Holy One can walk through the furnace without the smell of fire on their
garments.
Such were my thoughts as I left the monastery, shaking hands with Father
Reifle, the Benedictine, who had so kindly waited upon me, and by his
intelligent conversation and lively interest in my enjoyment had won my
warm regards. He put the key into the lock of the iron gate at the head
of the stone stairs, and unlocking it let me out, and we bade each other
Adieu, as he stood within and I without the door.
Returning to Zurich, and going thence to St. Gall, I mounted a
diligence, and rode an hour and a half into the hill country, up hill
all the way, to a place unheard-of in the guide-books, and unvisited by
travellers, unless business or the search for solitude should call them
there. It is at least a thousand feet above the lake, of which a distant
view is had, and in the midst of beautiful high valleys, green pastures,
and thrifty villages, three or four of which are in sight, each with its
single church spire or tower. Not a boarding-house was to be found in
the place. There is a hotel, but hotels had been my dwelling-place long
enough, and now I would have a home, and such a home as the people
around me enjoy. In a private family, the village apothecary’s, I
learned that, perhaps, a room could be had, and thither I bent my steps.
Happily for me, they were willing to take me in, and in a short time the
apartments were ready and I was duly installed.
My quarters are a parlor and bedroom, on the front of the house, first
floor, up stairs over the shop. The floor is uncarpeted, made of various
Swiss woods laid in mosaic, in diamond shapes, of three different
colors. A large, earthen, polished, white, monument-like thing, gilt at
the corniced summit, stands on one side, and I soon learn that it is a
stove, the door of which is out in the hall, where the fire is kindled,
and now in the middle of August a fire is needed all the time. On the
corners of this ornamental as well as useful pile stand two Parian
busts, one of Goethe and the other of Schiller. An engraving of Schiller
reading one of his poems to his friends hangs on the wall, and a
portrait of Columbus, and another of Luther and other celebrities are
around me. The windows extend without interruption over the entire
length of the room, and a row of flowers in pots are on the sill
outside, and embroidered curtains within. The shutters are closed by
raising them with a strap, as the windows of a rail-car. A sofa, an easy
chair covered with leather, three tables, a divan, and a chair or two,
with rugs lying around, and little gems of art with books scattered
about, complete the furniture of this perfectly comfortable and
delightful room. The walls and ceiling are all panel-work in wood,
painted white, and as purely white as the Alpine snows. In the bedroom,
the floor, the wall, and ceiling are as in the parlor, only the color is
a light salmon, very chaste and clean. The bed has a down comforter on
the top of it, and two pillows, with double cases, the inner of figured
green silk, showing at the open embroidered end of the outer linen. It
is almost too pretty to sleep in, in the dark. Over the head of the bed
is a beautiful engraving of Uhland’s “Landlord’s Daughter.” On the stand
at the bedside is a little basket of confectionery, a porcelain
transparency of the Saviour standing among the clouds and pointing
heavenward; a china night-lamp burning with a bowl of water over it,
kept hot by the lamp; and every little nick-nack that delicate taste and
an appreciating sense of what comfort is would be likely to suggest.
I am asked, before retiring, at what hour I will breakfast, and I reply,
“When the family do; and let every thing be as you are in the habit of
having it.”
The times of eating and the food were not to my taste the first day. It
took me a little while to get adjusted to the change. But in every
country I would live as the well-to-do people of the country live. And
here I soon learned that the number of meals and the hours of eating
were regulated by the climate, which is so bracing as to indicate
frequent eating and substantial diet. I am writing this at ten o’clock
at night, and I will give you the journal of the day.
Breakfast at 7½ A.M., consisting of coffee, bread and butter, with honey
and cold meat.
Dinner at 12, noon, soup, fish, boiled beef, beef _à la mode_,
vegetables, salads, cucumbers, apricots, pears, plums, apples,
preserves, pastry, &c.
Lunch at 4 P.M., coffee, bread and butter and honey. Everybody takes
this meal as well as the others. They come in from the fields and the
shops to their coffee at 4.
Supper at 8 P.M. I am almost ashamed to say that at 8 this meal was
served in my parlor, for me only: soup and a roast chicken, which
disappeared, leaving scarce a wreck behind. And I forgot to say that at
six o’clock I took tea out with a private family in the village, where
the table was spread with the richest cream, butter, strawberries,
currants, bread, and honey,—all but the tea being the fruit of the
gentleman’s own grounds. And at my table there were presented several
dishes not enumerated above, the names of which were worse than Greek,
and the compound of a color and odor that did not enlist my sympathies.
However, I try a little of every thing, and eat all the time. I
understand there is a doctor in the village, whose fame extends to
distant cities, and ere the week is out I may have to test his skill.
IN THE HOTELS AND ON THE ROAD.
It is one thing to travel in a country, stopping only at the great
hotels, and quite another to get off the highways, among the people, and
live as they live. At the hotels, the aim is to give you the kind and
quality of food you are accustomed to in your own land, to put you into
a good bed, and charge you just as much as you will pay. It is my way,
when I can, to get out of the beaten paths of travel, and mingle, if
possible, with the natives of the country, and those, too, who are not
in the habit of entertaining strangers, and soon learning that they are
fair game to be plucked as long as they have any feathers.
More than half the guests in the Swiss hotels are Americans. The English
complain—John is generally grumbling—that the Americans get the best
rooms at the hotels, and that travelling on the continent is not half so
agreeable. It was my misfortune to travel last week in the same
compartment of the rail-car with an English clergyman and his wife [and,
by the way, she called him _hubby_, for husband, whenever she spoke to
him,—an appellation for the head of the house that was new to me, and
not very agreeable]. He said he would write a letter to the
_Times_,—that is an Englishman’s universal refuge when he thinks himself
imposed upon in travel. “I sh_o_ll write to the _Times_ about this
country, and I sh_o_ll say that the cookin’ is exceedin’ly mean, the
scenery very dull, and the travellin’ decidedly uncomfortable.” But he
was as near being a fool as a man could well be, and be at large. His
tongue ran incessantly, and he talked so loud that no other conversation
could be had, and everybody must listen to his twaddle and complaints.
“The ’ills were too ’igh” for him to think of climbin’ any of them, and
not “’igh” enough to interest him in lookin’ at them; and on the whole
he thought Switzerland a failure.
It is curious to observe how soon Americans are known to be such,
anywhere in Europe. In England, a hotel waiter or a porter at a lodge or
castle would know you to be an American, certainly the moment you spoke,
and perhaps before. A woman said to me when I had said that I was an
American, “You don’t speak like one.” When I pressed for an answer to
the question, “What is the difference between my speech and others,” she
replied, after much hesitation, “Why, I thought all your countrymen
talked through the nose.”
That educated Americans, and all of them accustomed to good society at
home, speak the English language with as much propriety and purity as
the most cultivated Englishmen, is certainly true, and it may safely be
added that the masses of the people in America, born to the manner,
speak it far better. Small as England is, the dialects of the provinces
are so diverse, that one is often sorely puzzled to understand a
commonplace remark or inquiry. It was very amusing, too, to perceive
that many _slang_ phrases, or technical terms, that we had supposed to
be of local origin and use in the United States, were as common in
England as with us at home. “You’ll ’ave lots of time,” says the
coachman. “I’ll pop out your luggage,” when he would tell us that it
would be done instantly, said the conductor.
But the language is not more marked by its peculiarities than the
manners. There are all sorts of people in every land. Some of each
variety go abroad, so that we must expect to meet them, and it is very
absurd to judge of a country by the few specimens you meet on the road.
But while I am heartily ashamed of some of my own countrymen who are
abroad, and make themselves ridiculous by an extravagance of
_independence_ that amounts to a contempt of every thing and everybody
except themselves and their country, still I think that, as a whole,
they are the best behaved people abroad. At the Baur du Lac Hotel,
Zurich, day before yesterday, at breakfast, a German lady took her seat
at the head of a long table, rested both elbows upon it, and taking a
roll of bread eight inches long, held it in both hands, and without
taking it from her lips, or taking her elbows down, she ate the whole of
it from end to end. I sat next to her, on the corner, and saw it done.
She then took another roll, a round one, and devoured that: all this
while waiting for her coffee. What more she ate, or how, I did not see,
having turned away in disgust. It is not probable that any woman from
America would go through such an exercise at home or abroad.
Yesterday, in the rail-car in which I was riding, an English gentleman
and family entered the compartment in which I was seated, the only
passenger. There were four seats, two on each side of a little table, on
which we could lay books or papers. Overhead were racks and pegs for
bags and bundles. He piled his, and his wife’s, and his wife’s sister’s,
on the top of the table, usurping the whole of it, and utterly ignoring
the right of anybody else to any of it. Jonathan would put a thing in
its place, and be ashamed to interfere with the convenience of his
neighbor. John Bull looks out for number one. This selfishness extends
to neglecting those little attentions to women, on which an American
prides himself, and which makes it so easy for women in America to
travel alone.
On the French and Swiss railroads has been introduced an improvement
that may be commended to our directors. In every train there is a car
with one compartment, marked on the outside, “For women unattended.”
Into this carriage ladies who have no male escort enter, and are
properly cared for by the conductor. They can travel in this way in
seclusion and with entire safety; but after all it is quite probable
that the women in America would be quite as willing to take their
chances with the men; and, perhaps, the experiment, if tried, would be a
failure. One thing the railway people might learn of us, and that is, to
check the baggage. In place of it, here they give you a slip of paper
with a number on it, and paste a corresponding slip on your trunk, which
is some protection, but not so safe nor so convenient as our plan. In
many respects the European railroad system is far, very far, superior to
ours. Its safety is incomparably greater than ours. An accident is very
rare. I have not heard of one since coming abroad. The connections are
invariably made. The track is more solid and secure. The road is made
for ages. There are grades of fare according to the accommodation. The
first class is better than any of ours. The second is not equal to ours,
and the third is inferior to the second.
[Illustration: Drawing of boys in the mountains]