CHAPTER XIII

A French monk—He teaches in Switzerland—Dispute between the Monk and Zuinglius—Discourse of the Leader of the Johannites—The Carnival at Berne—The Eaters of the Dead—The Skull of St. Anne—Appenzel—The Grisons—Murder and Adultery—Marriage of Zuinglius. On Saturday the 12th July there was seen entering the streets of Zurich a monk, tall, thin, stiff, gaunt, clad in a grey cordelier frock, and mounted upon an ass. He had the look of a foreigner, and his bare feet almost touched the ground. He arrived thus by the road from Avignon. He did not know one word of German, but by means of Latin succeeded in making himself understood. Francis Lambert (this was his name) asked for Zuinglius and delivered him a letter from Berthold Haller. “The Franciscan father,” wrote the Bernese curate, “who is no less than the apostolic preacher of the general convent of Avignon, has, for nearly five years, been teaching Christian truth: he has preached in Latin to our priests at Geneva, at Lausanne in presence of the bishop, at Friburg, and finally at Berne. His subjects were, the Church, the priesthood, the sacrifice of the mass, the traditions of the Roman bishops, and the superstitions of the religious orders. It seemed to me wonderful to hear such things from a cordelier and a Frenchman—circumstances, both of which, as you know, imply a host of superstitions.”² The Frenchman himself related to Zuinglius how the writings of Luther having been discovered in his cell, he had been obliged to take a hasty leave of Avignon; how he had first preached the gospel at Geneva, and thereafter at Lausanne. Zuinglius, overjoyed, gave the monk access to the church of Notre Dame, assigning him a seat in the choir near the high altar. Lambert here delivered four sermons, in which he forcibly attacked the errors of Rome, but in the fourth he defended the invocation of the saints and the Virgin.

“Brother, you are in error,” immediately exclaimed an animated voice. It was the voice of Zuinglius. Canons and chaplains thrilled with joy when they saw a quarrel rising between the Frenchman and the heretical curate. “He has attacked you,” said they all to Lambert: “demand a public discussion.” The man of Avignon did so, and at ten o’clock on the morning of the 12th of July, the two chaplains met in the hall of the canons. Zuinglius opened the Old and New Testament in Greek and Latin: he discussed and lectured till two. Then the French monk, clasping his hands, and raising them towards heaven, exclaimed, “I thank thee, O God, that thou hast by this illustrious instrument given me such a clear knowledge of the truth! Henceforth,” added he, turning towards the assembly, “in all my distresses I will invoke God only and leave off my beads. To-morrow I resume my journey. I go to Bâle to see Erasmus of Rotterdam, and thence to Wittemberg to see the monk Martin Luther.” He accordingly remounted his ass and set out. We will again meet with him. He was the first exile from France, for the cause of the gospel, who appeared in Switzerland and Germany—a modest fore-runner of many thousands of refugees and confessors.

Myconius had no such consolation. On the contrary he saw Sebastian Hofmeister, who had come from Constance to Lucerne, and there boldly preached the gospel, obliged to quit the city. Then Oswald’s grief increased. The moist climate of Lucerne disagreed with him. He was wasted by fever; and the physicians declared that if he did not change his residence he would die. Writing to Zuinglius, he says, “There is no place I should like better to be than beside yourself, and no place worse than at Lucerne. Men torture, and the climate consumes me. My disease, some say, is the punishment of my iniquity. Ah, it is vain to speak, vain to act: every thing is poison to them. There is One in heaven on whom alone my hope depends.” This hope was not vain. It was towards the end of March, and the feast of the Annunciation was at hand. The evening before there was a great solemnity in commemoration of a fire which in 1540 had reduced the greater part of the town to ashes. Multitudes from the surrounding districts had flocked into Lucerne, and several hundreds of priests were then assembled. Some distinguished orator was usually employed to preach on this great occasion. Conrad Schmid, commander of the Johannites, arrived to discharge the duty. An immense crowd thronged the church. What was the general astonishment on hearing the commander lay aside the pompous Latin to which they had been accustomed, and speak in good German, so that all could comprehend him, enforce with authority and holy fervour the love of God in sending his Son, eloquently prove that external works cannot save, and that the promises of God are truly the power of the gospel. “God forbid,” said the commander to his astonished audience, “that we should receive a chief so full of lies as the Bishop of Rome, and reject Jesus Christ. If the Bishop of Rome dispenses the bread of the gospel, let us receive him as pastor, but not as head; and if he does not dispense it, let us not receive him in any way whatever.” Oswald was unable to restrain his joy. “What a man!” exclaimed he: “what a discourse! what majesty! what authority! what overflowing of the Spirit of Christ!” The impression was general. To the agitation which filled the town succeeded a solemn silence; but all this was transient. When nations shut their ears against the calls of God, these calls are diminished from day to day, and soon cease. Thus it was at Lucerne. At Berne, while the truth was preached from the pulpit, the papacy was attacked at the merry-makings of the people. Nicolas Manuel, a distinguished layman, celebrated for his poetical talents, and advanced to the first offices in the state, indignant at seeing his countrymen pillaged by Samson, composed carnival dramas, in which, with the keen weapon of satire, he attacked the avarice, pride, and luxury of the pope and the clergy. On the Shrove Tuesday “of the Lords,” (the clergy were at this time the lords, and began Lent eight days before the common people,) all Berne was engrossed with a drama or mystery entitled, “The Eaters of the Dead,” which young boys were going to perform in the street of La Croix. The people flocked to it in crowds. In regard to the progress of art, these dramatic sketches of the beginning of the sixteenth century are of some interest; but we give them here with a very different view. We would have been better pleased not to have had to quote squibs of this description on the part of the Reformation, for truth triumphs by other arms. But the historian does not make his facts. He must give them as he finds them. At length, to the delight of the eager crowds assembled in the street of La Croix, the representation began. The pope is seen clad in gorgeous robes, and seated on a throne. Around him stand his courtiers, his body guards, and a promiscuous band of priests of high and low degree; behind are nobles, laymen, and mendicants. A funeral train shortly appears: it is a rich farmer on the way to his last home. Two of his relatives walk slowly in front of the coffin with napkins in their hand. The train having arrived in front of the pope, the bier is laid down at his feet, and the drama begins: first relative in a tone of deep grief O noble army of the sainted host, Take pity on our doleful plight; Our cousin, our illustrious boast, From life, alas, has taken flight.

Expence we grudge not; cheerfully we’ll pay For priests, monks, and nuns, in costly array:

Yea, one hundred crowns we’ll freely devote If thereby exemption may surely be bought From purgatory, that dread scourge, With which our frightened souls they urge. The Sacristan, breaking off from the band surrounding the pope, and running hastily to Curate Robert Ever-More— Something to drink, Master Curate, I crave; A farmer of note now goes to his grave. the curate One!—nay you must tell me of ten: My thirst will ne’er be quenched till then.

Life flourishes when mortals die, For death to me brings jollity. the sacristan Ah! could it shorten mankind’s breath!

I’d ring a merry peal for death! No other trade succeeds so well As tolling out life’s parting knell. the curate But does the bell of death the portals draw Of heaven’s wide gate? I cannot, may not say;

What boots it? to my house it brings Both fish and flesh, and all good things. the curate’s niece Tis well: I, too, anon will claim my share. This day this soul must pay to me my fare— A robe, white, red, and green, a flowered damas, A pretty kerchief likewise for my eyes at mass.

Cardinal High-Pride adorned with a red hat, and close by the pope:— If death brought us no heritage, Would we cause die in flower of age, On battle-plain, Such heaps of slain, Roused by intrigue, by envy fired?

Yes, Rome with Christian blood grows fat!

Therefore I hoist this scarlet hat, To tell the trophies thus acquired bishop wolf-belly In papal rites I’ll live and die, And clothe me in silk embroidery; In foray or chace I’ll take my pleasure, And eat and drink in ample measure; Had I been priest in days of yore, A peasant’s dress I then had wore.

We once were shepherds, but now we reign kings, For a shepherd I’ll pass ’mong the lambkins poor things … a voice When? When shall this be? bishop When the wool of the flock shall be gathered by me.

We truly are wolves, yet we’re shepherds of sheep, They must feed us, or death is the best they shall reap. His Holiness forbids to marry; This yoke the wisest ne’er could carry— But then! when priests do cross the score, The scandal only swells my store, And makes my train extend the more.

Nought I refuse, e’en farthings tell, A monied priest may have a belle.

Four florins a-year will wipe it away; Does an infant appear?—again he must pay. On two thousand florins I reckon each year, Were they chaste, I should starve on a pittance I fear.

Then hail to the pope; on my knees I adore And swear in his faith to live evermore; His church I’ll defend, and till death I avow, He alone is the god before whom I will bow. the pope The people now at length believe That priests can all their sins reprieve At pleasure—that to them is given Full power to shut or open heaven.

Preach loudly, every high decree, Of him, the conclave’s majesty.

Then, we are kings, the laity slaves: But if the gospel standard waves We’re lost; for no where does it say, Make sacrifice, let priests have pay. The gospel course for us would be, To live and die in poverty.

Instead of steeds to mark my state, And chariots on my sons to wait, A paltry ass must needs supply A seat for sacred majesty.

No, I cannot take such legacy, I’ll thunder at such temerity;

Let us but will—the world will nod, And nations adore us as God.

Slighting their rights I mount my throne, And partition the world among my own;

Vile laity must keep far aloof, Nor dare to enter our blest roof, To touch our tribute, or our gold.

Holy water e’en let them hold.

We will not continue this literal translation of Manuel’s drama. The agony of the clergy on learning the efforts of the Reformers, and their rage against those who threaten to interfere with their irregularities, are painted in lively colours. The dissolute manners of which this piece gave so vivid a representation were too common not to strike the spectator with the truth of the picture. The people were excited. Many jibes were heard as they retired from the play in the street of La Croix; but some who took the matter more seriously, spoke of Christian liberty and papal despotism, and contrasted the simplicity of the gospel with the pomp of Rome. The contempt of the people was soon displayed in the public streets. On Ash Wednesday, the indulgences were promenaded through the town amid satirical songs. In Berne, and throughout Switzerland a severe blow had been given to the ancient edifice of the papacy.

Sometime after this representation, another comedy was acted at Berne, but there was no fiction in it. The clergy, council, and corporation had assembled in front of the Upper Gate, waiting for the skull of St. Anne, which the famous knight, Albert of Stein, had gone to fetch from Lyons. At length Stein appeared, holding the holy relic wrapt in a covering of silk. As it passed, the Bishop of Lausanne knelt down before it. This precious skull, the skull of the Virgin’s mother, is carried in procession to the church of the Dominicans, and, amid the ringing of bells, enters the church, where it is placed with great solemnity on the altar consecrated to it, behind a splendid grating. But amid all this joy, a letter arrives from the abbot of the convent of Lyon, where the relics of the saint were deposited, intimating that what the monks had sold to the knight was a profane bone taken at random from the burying ground. The trick thus played off on the illustrious city of Berne filled its citizens with deep indignation. The Reformation was making progress in other parts of Switzerland. In 1521, Walter Klarer, a young man of Appenzel, returned to his native canton from the university of Paris. Luther’s writings fell into his hands, and, in 1522, he preached the evangelical doctrine with all the ardour of a young convert. An innkeeper, named Rausberg, a wealthy and pious man, and a member of the council of Appenzel, opened his house to all the friends of truth. Bartholomew Berweger, a famous captain, who had fought for Julius II and for Leo X, having at this time returned from Rome, began forthwith to persecute the evangelical ministers. One day, however, remembering how much vice he had seen at Rome, he began to read the Bible, and to attend the sermons of the new preachers; his eyes were opened, and he embraced the gospel. Seeing that the crowds could not be contained in the churches, he proposed that they should preach in the fields and the public squares, and, notwithstanding of keen opposition, the hills, meadows, and mountains of Appenzel, thenceforward often echoed with the glad tidings of salvation. The reformed doctrine, ascending the Rhine, made its way as far as ancient Rhætia. One day, a stranger from Zurich crossed the river, and waited on the saddler of Flasch, the frontier village of the Grisons. Christian Anhorn, the saddler, listened in astonishment to the language of his visitor. “Preach,” said the whole village to the stranger, who was called James Burkli. He accordingly took his station in front of the altar. A number of persons arrived, with Anhorn at their head, and stood round to defend him from a sudden attack while he preached the gospel. The rumour of this preaching spread far and wide; and, on the following Sunday, an immense crowd assembled. Shortly after, a great proportion of the inhabitants of the district desired to have the Lord’s Supper dispensed to them according to its original institution. But one day the tocsin suddenly sounded in Mayenfield; the people ran in alarm; and the priests, after pointing out the danger which threatened the Church, hastened at the head of the fanatical population to Flasch. Anhorn, who was working in the field, astonished at hearing the sound of bells at so unusual an hour, hastened home and concealed Burkli in a deep hole dug in his cellar. The house was by this time surrounded; the door was forced open, and the heretical preacher everywhere searched for in vain. At length the persecutors withdrew. The Word of God spread over the extent of the ten jurisdictions. The curate of Mayenfield, on returning from Rome, to which he had fled infuriated at the success of the gospel, exclaimed, “Rome has made me evangelical,” and became a zealous reformer. The Reformation soon extended to the league of “the House of God.” “Oh!” exclaimed Salandronius to Vadian, “if you but saw how the inhabitants of the mountains of Rhætia cast far from them the yoke of the Babylonish captivity!”

Shocking disorders hastened the day when Zurich and the neighbouring districts were to shake off the yoke. A married schoolmaster wishing to become a priest, obtained his wife’s consent, and they separated. The new curate was unable to keep his vow of celibacy, but not to outrage his wife’s feelings quitted the place where she lived, and, having taken up his residence in the diocese of Constance, formed a licentious connection. His wife hastened to the place. The poor priest took compassion on her, and dismissing the person who had usurped her rights, took back his lawful spouse. The procurator-fiscal forthwith drew up a charge against him: the vicar-general began to move; the council of the consistory deliberated … and the curate was ordered to abandon his wife or his benefice. The poor wife left the house weeping bitterly, and her rival returned in triumph. The Church declared itself satisfied, and thenceforth let the adulterous priest alone.

Shortly after a curate of Lucerne eloped with a married woman, and lived with her. The husband went to Lucerne and taking advantage of the priest’s absence brought away his wife. While returning they were met by the seducer, who immediately attacked the injured husband, and gave him a wound of which he died. All good men felt the necessity of re-establishing the divine law, which declares marriage honorable in all. The evangelical ministers had taught that the law of celibacy was of merely human origin, imposed by Roman pontiffs in opposition to the Word of God, which, when describing a true bishop, represents him as a husband and father. (1 Timothy 3:2 and 1 Timothy 3:4) They saw at the same time, that of all the abuses which had crept into the Church none had caused more numerous vices and scandals. They considered it not only as a thing lawful but as a duty in the sight of God to withdraw from its authority. Several of them at this time returned to the ancient practice of apostolic times. Xylotect was married. Zuinglius also married at this period. No lady was more respected in Zurich than Anna Reinhard, widow of Meyer of Knonau, the mother of Gerold. From the arrival of Zuinglius she had been one of his most attentive hearers: she lived in his neighbourhood, and he observed her piety, modesty, and fondness for her children. Young Gerold, who had become as it were his adopted son, brought him into closer connection with his mother. The trials already endured by this Christian woman, who was one day to be the most cruelly tried of all the women whose history is on record, had given her a gravity which made her evangelical virtues still more prominent. She was now about thirty-five years of age, and her own fortune amounted only to four hundred florins. It was on her that Zuinglius, on looking out for a companion for life, turned his eye. He felt how sacred and intimate the conjugal union is. He termed it “a most holy alliance.”² “As Christ,” said he, “died for his people, and gave himself to them entirely, so ought husband and wife to do and suffer every thing for each other.” But Zuinglius, when he took Anna Reinhard to wife, did not immediately publish his marriage. This was undoubtedly a culpable weakness in a man otherwise so resolute. The light which he and his friends had acquired on the subject of celibacy was not generally diffused. The weak might have been offended. He feared that his usefulness in the Church might be paralysed if his marriage were made public. He sacrificed part of his happiness to these fears—fears to which, though respectable perhaps, he should have been superior.⁴