CHAPTER IV

Zuinglius in regard to Erasmus—Oswald Myconius—The Vagrants—Œcolampadius—Zuinglius at Marignan—Zuinglius and Italy—Method of Zuinglius—Commencement of Reform—Discovery. A great man of this age, Erasmus, had much influence on Zuinglius, who, as soon as any of his writings appeared, lost no time in procuring it. In 1514, Erasmus had arrived at Bâle, and been received by the bishop with marks of high esteem. All the friends of letters had immediately grouped around him. But the monarch of the schools had no difficulty in singling out him who was to be the glory of Switzerland. “I congratulate the Swiss nation,” wrote he to Zuinglius, “that by your studies and your manners, both alike excellent, you labour to polish and elevate them.” Zuinglius had a most ardent desire to see him. “Spaniards and Gauls went to Rome to see Titus Livy,” said he. He set out, and on arriving at Bâle, found a personage of about forty years of age, of small stature, a frail body, a delicate look, but a remarkably amiable and winning address.³ It was Erasmus. His affability removed the timidity of Zuinglius, while the power of his intellect overawed him. “Poor,” said Ulric to him, “as Eschines, when each of the scholars of Socrates offered a present to his master, I give you what Eschines gave—I give you myself.”

Among the literary men who formed the court of Erasmus, the Amerbachs, the Rhenans, the Frobeniuses, the Nessens, the Glareans, Zuinglius observed a youth from Lucerne, of twenty-seven years of age, named Oswald Geisshüsler. Erasmus hellenising his name, had called him Myconius. We will often designate him by his surname, to distinguish the friend of Zuinglius from Frederick Myconius, the disciple of Luther. Oswald, after studying first at Rothwyl with Berthold Haller, a young man of his own age, next at Berne, and lastly at Bâle, had in this last town been appointed rector of the school of St. Theodoret, and afterwards of that of St. Peter. The humble schoolmaster had a very limited income; but, notwithstanding, had married a young girl of a simplicity and purity of soul which won all hearts. We have already seen that Switzerland was then in a troubled state, foreign wars having stirred up violent disorders, and the soldiers having brought back to their country licentiousness and brutality. One dark and cloudy winter day, some of these rude men, in Oswald’s absence, attacked his quiet dwelling. They knocked at the door, threw stones, and applied the grossest expressions to his modest spouse. At last they burst open the windows, and having forced their way into the school and broken every thing to pieces, made off. Oswald arrived shortly after. His little boy, Felix, ran out to meet him crying, while his wife, unable to speak, showed signs of the greatest terror. He understood what had happened, and at that moment, hearing a noise in the street, unable to restrain himself, he seized a musket, and pursued the villains as far as the burying ground. They retreated, intending to defend themselves. Three of them rushed upon Myconius and wounded him, and, while his wound was being dressed, these wretches again attacked his house, uttering cries of fury. Oswald says no more of the matter. Such scenes frequently occurred in Switzerland at the beginning of the sixteenth century, before the Reformation had softened and disciplined manners. The integrity of Oswald Myconius, his thirst for science and virtue, brought him into connection with Zuinglius. The rector of the school of Bâle was alive to all that was grand in the curate or Glaris. Full of humility, he shunned the praises bestowed upon him by Zuinglius and Erasmus. “You schoolmasters,” often said the latter, “I esteem as highly as I do kings.” But the modest Myconius did not think so. “I only crawl along the ground,” said he. “From infancy I had always a feeling of littleness and humility.” A preacher who had arrived at Bâle about the same time as Zuinglius was attracting attention. Of a mild and pacific disposition, he led a tranquil life; slow and circumspect in conduct, his chief pleasure was to labour in his study, and produce concord among Christians. He was named John Hausschein, in Greek Œcolampadius, that is, “light of the house,” and was born of wealthy parents in Franconia, a year before Zuinglius. His pious mother longed to consecrate to literature and to God the only child whom He had left her. The father intended him first for a mercantile life, then for law. But as Œcolampadius was returning from Bologna, where he had been studying law, the Lord, who designed to make him a lamp in the Church, called him to the study of theology. He was preaching in his native town when Capito, who had known him at Heidelberg, procured his appointment as preacher at Bâle. There he proclaimed Christ with an eloquence which filled his hearers with admiration.² Erasmus admitted him to his intimacy. Œcolampadius was enraptured with the hours which he spent in the society of this great genius. “In the Holy Scriptures,” said the prince of literature, “one thing only ought to be sought, viz., Jesus Christ.” As a memento of his friendship he gave the young preacher the commencement of John’s Gospel. Œcolampadius often kissed this precious pledge of affection, and kept it suspended to his crucifix, “in order,” said he, “that I may always remember Erasmus in my prayers.”

Zuinglius returned to his mountains, his mind and heart full of all that he had seen and heard at Bâle. “I could not sleep,” wrote he to Erasmus, shortly after his return, “if I had not conversed for some time with you. There is nothing of which I boast so much as of having seen Erasmus.” Zuinglius had received a new impulse. Such journeys often exercise a great influence over the career of the Christian. The disciples of Zuinglius—Valentin, Jost, Louis, Peter, and Ægidius Tschudi; his friends, the landăman Æbli, the curate, Binzli of Wesen. Fridolin Brunnen, and the celebrated professor Glarean, saw with admiration how he grew in wisdom and knowledge. The old honoured him as a courageous servant of his country, and faithful pastors honoured him as a faithful servant of the Lord. Nothing was done in the district without taking his advice. All the good hoped that he would one day restore the ancient virtue of the Swiss.

Francis I, having mounted the throne and being desirous to vindicate the honour of the French name in Italy, the pope in alarm laboured to gain the cantons. Accordingly, in 1515, Ulric revisited the plains of Italy amid the phalanxes of his fellow-citizens. But the division which French intrigues produced in the army stung him to the heart. He was often seen in the middle of the camp energetically, and at the same time wisely, haranguing his hearers in full armour ready for battle. On the 8th September, five days before the battle of Marignan, he preached in the public square of Monza, where the Swiss soldiers, who remained true to their colours, had reassembled. “Had the counsels of Zuinglius been followed then and afterwards,” says Werner Steiner of Zug, “what evils would not our country have been saved!” But all ears were shut to words of concord, prudence, and submission. The vehement eloquence of Cardinal Schinner electrified the confederates, and hurried them impetuously to the fatal field of Marignan. There fell the flower of the Helvetic youth. Zuinglius, who had been unable to prevent all these disasters, threw himself, for the cause of Rome, into the midst of danger. His hand seized the sword. Sad error of Zuinglius! A minister of Christ, he more than once forgot that it was his duty to fight only with spiritual weapons, and he was to see in his own person a striking fulfilment of our Saviour’s prophecy, He who takes the sword shall perish by the sword.

Zuinglius and his Swiss had been unable to save Rome. The ambassador of venice was the first in the pontifical city who received news of the defeat of Marignan. Delighted, he repaired at an early hour to the Vatican. The pope came out of his apartment half dressed to give him an audience. Leo X, on learning the news, did not disguise his terror. At this moment of alarm he saw only Francis I, and hoped only in him. “Ambassador,” said he trembling to Zorsi, “we must throw ourselves into the arms of the king, and cry for mercy.” Luther and Zuinglius in their danger knew another arm, and invoked another mercy. This second sojourn in Italy was not without use to Zuinglius. He observed the differences between the Ambrosian ritual used at Milan and that of Rome. He collected and compared together the most ancient canons of the mass. In this way a spirit of enquiry was developed in him even amid the tumult of camps. At the same time the sight of his countrymen led away beyond the Alps, and given up, like cattle, to the slaughter, filled him with indignation. “The flesh of the confederates,” it was said, “is cheaper than that of their oxen and their calves.” The disloyalty and ambition of the pope, the avarice and ignorance of the priests, the licentiousness and dissipation of the monks, the pride and luxury of prelates, the corruption and venality employed on all hands to win the Swiss, being forced on his view more strongly than ever, made him still more alive to the necessity of a reform in the Church. From this time Zuinglius preached the Word of God more clearly. In explaining the portions of the gospel and epistles selected for public worship, he always compared Scripture with Scripture. He spoke with animation and force,² and followed with his hearers the same course which God was following with him. He did not, like Luther, proclaim the sores of the Church; but as often as the study of the Bible suggested some useful instruction to himself, he communicated it to his hearers. He tried to make them receive the truth into their hearts, and then trusted to it for the works which it behoved to produce. “If they understand what is true,” thought he, “they will discern what is false.” This maxim is good at the commencement of a Reformation, but a time comes when error must be boldly stigmatised. This Zuinglius knew very well. “The spring,” said he, “is the season to sow;” and with him it was now spring.

Zuinglius has marked out this period (1516) as the commencement of the Swiss Reformation. In fact, if four years before he had bent his head over the Word of God, he now raised it, and turned it toward his people, to make them share in the light which he had found. This forms a new and important epoch in the history of the development of the religious revolution of those countries, but it has been erroneously concluded, from these dates, that the Reformation of Zuinglius preceded that of Luther. It may be that Zuinglius preached the gospel a year before Luther’s Theses, but Luther himself preached it four years before these famous propositions. Had Luther and Zuinglius confined themselves merely to sermons, the Reformation would not have so quickly gained ground in the Church. Neither Luther nor Zuinglius was the first monk or the first priest who preached a purer doctrine than that of the schoolmen. But Luther was the first who publicly, and with indomitable courage, raised the standard of truth against the empire of error, called general attention to the fundamental doctrine of the gospel—salvation by grace, introduced his age to that new career of knowledge, faith, and life, out of which a new world has arisen; in a word, began a true and salutary revolution. The great struggle, of which the Theses of 1517 were the signal, was truly the birth-throe of the Reformation, giving it at once both a body and a soul. Luther was the first Reformer. A spirit of enquiry began to breathe on the mountains of Switzerland. One day the curate of Glaris, happening to be in the smiling district of Mollis, with Adam its curate, Bunzli, curate of Wesen, and Varachon, curate of Kerensen, these friends discovered an old liturgy, in which they read these words: “After baptising the child, we give him the sacrament of the Eucharist and the cup of blood.” “Then,” said Zuinglius, “the supper was at that period dispensed in our churches under the two kinds.” The liturgy was about two hundred years old. This was a great disvery for these priests of the Alps. The defeat of Marignan had important results in the interior of the cantons. The conqueror, Francis I, lavished gold and flattery in order to gain the confederates, while the emperor besought them by their honour, by the tears of widows and orphans, and the blood of their brethren, not to sell themselves to their murderers. The French party gained the ascendancy at Glaris, which, from that time, was an uncomfortable residence to Ulric.

Zuinglius, at Glaris, might perhaps have remained a man of the world. Party intrigues, political questions, the empire, France, or the Duke of Milan, might have absorbed his whole life. Those whom God means to prepare for great services he never leaves amid the turmoil of the world. He leads them apart, and places them in a retreat where they commune with Him and their own consciences, and receive lessons never to be effaced. The Son of God himself, who in this was a type of the training given to his servants, spent forty days in the desert. It was time to remove Zuinglius from political movements, which, continually pressing upon his thoughts, might have banished the Spirit of God from them. It was time to train him for another stage than that on which courtiers, cabinets, and parties move, and where he should have wasted powers worthy of nobler employment. His country, indeed, needed something else. It was necessary that a new life should now come down from heaven, and that he who was to be the instrument in communicating it should unlearn worldly things, in order to learn things above. The two spheres are entirely distinct; a wide space separates these two worlds, and before passing entirely from the one to the other, Zuinglius was to sojourn for a time on neutral ground, in a kind of intermediate and preparatory state, to be there taught of God. God accordingly took him away from the factions of Glaris; and, with a view to this noviciate, placed him in the solitude of a hermitage—confining within the narrow walls of an abbey this noble germ of the Reformation, which was shortly after to be transplanted to a better soil, and cover the mountains with its shadow.