Chapter III: Part 3

Early the next morning, while darkness yet veiled the landscape, and the nightingale’s song still pulsated in the quiet air, Wilhelmine of Bergy painfully rose from her couch, and set out on her self-appointed journey, supported on one side by a trusty staff and on the other by a strong young servant maid.

The two women slowly crept out into the darkness, and wandering along the dewy meadows saw the night gradually make way before the first gleams of silvery light. Then they beheld the mountain tops change from blue to silver gray, then turn dazzling white, and suddenly blush and glow beneath the first rays of the rising sun.

The larks rose straight up into the blue, singing their triumphant morning hymn; the bees and butterflies hovered around them, but all the lovely sights and sounds of early morn could not beguile the old lady to take even a moment’s rest, and she hobbled bravely on. The peasants, rising from their hard beds to partake of frugal fare before beginning a long day’s work, stared in speechless amazement at their aged mistress, already well on her way, and gazed anxiously at the feeble form, wondering how long her strength and energy would last.

All through the bright morning hours, Wilhelmine plodded on without a pause; and it was only when the sun stood directly overhead, that she stopped for a moment under a tree to partake of food and of strengthening drink. Then, while the peasants stretched out in the cool shade to enjoy their midday rest, the old lady again stepped out into the quivering sunshine to continue her task. All through the glowing heat of afternoon, and long after the sun had set and the shades of evening had fallen, Wilhelmine crept on with faltering steps and ebbing strength, but with undiminished energy and determination. Darkness had long set in when she finally reached the village once more, and entering a hut where burned a small rushlight, and where the people had assembled by her order, she cried in weak but joyful accents,--

“My children, I have walked around a thousand acres! Five hundred of these belong to you, free from all taxes from this time forth. Do not blame me if your share is somewhat small, for I have done all I could to help you, but alas! although my spirit is willing, my aged feet could carry me no farther.”

Having said these words, old Wilhelmine tottered back to her own house, where she lay down so exhausted that she never found the strength to rise from her bed again. But the people whom she had benefited never ceased to be grateful to her; and when she died, in 1543, six years after this wonderful walk, they mournfully followed her to her last resting-place, shedding abundant tears while softly reminding each other of the many steps taken in their behalf by her weary old feet.

* * * * *

UNTIL the end of the eighteenth century, the city of Neuchâtel boasted a ghost whose apparition was the invariable precursor of a conflagration in town. Shortly before any signs of fire were perceptible, this spectral old woman passed swiftly along the streets, frantically wringing a cloth all dripping with blood until she vanished in a lurid mist in the direction of the lake.

No one now living remembers ever having seen this ghost, but old people in Neuchâtel solemnly aver that the woman was frequently seen by their ancestors, and that a fire always broke out shortly after her visit. They add that the ghost was the unfortunate widow of Walter, Count of Rochefort, publicly accused of forgery, and beheaded, in 1412, on the shores of the lake, on the very spot where the wraith always melted away in a crimson cloud. It is said that the Count’s widow, having secured his blood-stained shirt, constantly exhibited it to her sons, urging them to avenge their father, who, according to her assertions, had been wrongfully accused, and condemned without sufficient proof of guilt.

The implacable widow finally prevailed upon these young men to take a fearful revenge by secretly setting fire to the city; and it is a fact that Neuchâtel was almost destroyed by what is known as the great conflagration of 1450. Since then, either through remorse or to parade her spite, the old woman’s spectre heralded every conflagration, until, weary of destruction, or frightened away by effective modern methods of fighting fires, she ceased to haunt the city and frighten the inhabitants.

* * * * *

D. J. RICHARD started the manufacture of watches in Le Locle and La Chaux-de-Fonds, but the principal legend relating to that industry refers to Jacques Droz, the clever inventor of mechanical clocks, of music boxes, and of a writing automaton.

We are told that in the eighteenth century, the King of Spain once came to La Chaux-de-Fonds, and having heard of Jacques Droz’s clever contrivances, went with his suite to visit the inventor’s workshop. There the King examined everything, and was particularly charmed by a clock upon which stood figures of a negro, a shepherd, and a dog. Whenever the clock struck, the shepherd played a soft air upon his pipe, while his dog frisked joyfully around him.

This artistic contrivance so delighted both King and courtiers, that one and all loudly expressed their wonder and admiration. Jacques Droz listened quietly to their exclamations, then turning to the King, he smilingly informed him that the tiny dog was the faithful guardian of his master’s property, as could readily be seen if any one attempted to lay hands upon the apples in a basket at the shepherd’s feet.

The King, wishing to test the dog’s watchfulness, now attempted to abstract an apple, but no sooner had he touched it than the mechanical dog began to bark with such fury that the royal pet hound, springing forward, answered him. The monarch, startled by this unexpected development, stepped back in amazement, while his suite fled, making repeated signs of the cross. None of the Spanish grandees, with the exception of the minister of the navy, remained in the shop, so when the King had recovered from his momentary fright, he laughingly bade that official ask the negro what time it was, adding that after the wonders they had seen, it would not surprise him in the least to hear the darky talk. The minister, therefore, politely inquired the time of day, but as the question was put in Spanish, he received no reply until Jacques Droz suggested that he should repeat it in French, for the negro understood no other tongue.

The minister therefore translated his question with a somewhat sceptical smile, but when the negro courteously answered: “Messieurs, il est trois heures moins un quart!” (“Gentlemen, it is a quarter of three”), he too bolted from the room in terror, crying that the clock must be the work of the Evil One himself!

The legend claims that the King of Spain purchased this wonderful piece of mechanism, but we are told that Jacques Droz merely constructed musical clocks for him. The Spaniards, however, were not the only ones who fancied the watchmaker had made a pact with Satan, for his own countrymen used to look askance at him, and frequently averred that he was a sorcerer.

* * * * *

THE watchmaking industry has long been the great source of gain in western Switzerland, and clocks and watches are shipped from there to all parts of the world. The valleys of Le Locle and La Chaux-de-Fonds being very near the frontier, watches and jewelry are constantly smuggled into France over the mountain paths to avoid paying duty upon them.

In the days of post chaises, this smuggling assumed such proportions that the chief of the French police determined to make a special effort to check it. He therefore journeyed in person to Switzerland, and visiting one of the largest manufactories, selected a case full of fine watches. He then bargained with the manufacturer to pay for the goods only on condition that they were delivered free from duty at a certain address in Paris, and solicitously inquired whether the dealer thought he could pass them across the boundary safely? The merchant smilingly answered that the job presented no insurmountable difficulties, and took leave of his customer, promising that the watches should reach Paris as quickly as he did.

The chief of police, delighted with this answer, went back to the inn, where he gave orders to prepare for immediate departure. Seated in his carriage and rolling rapidly homeward, he congratulated himself upon the clever way in which he had managed; for all the custom-house officers had been duly warned to guard the frontier with special care, as a large number of watches were to be smuggled over within the next twenty-four hours. Their zeal had further been stimulated by the promise of a large reward should they secure watches and lawbreaker, while speedy punishment was to be the lot of any man who allowed them to escape.

At the frontier, the chief of police made a short halt, and thrusting his head out of the carriage window, again admonished the officer there to be very vigilant. The latter, promptly recognising his superior, confidently answered that not a squirrel should cross the frontier unseen, for all along the line were posted men eager to secure the promised reward.

Satisfied by this assurance, the chief of police now gave orders to drive on, and journeyed straight to Paris, stopping on his way only long enough to change horses or partake of hasty meals.

When he entered his own house, although worn out by the long and fatiguing journey, his first question was whether a parcel had arrived for him from Switzerland. His servants promptly denied having seen anything of the sort, so the chief of police threw himself down in an armchair, gleefully exclaiming: “Then my men have managed to intercept it at the frontier, and we will make such an example of the smugglers that none will venture to continue this business!”

His satisfaction did not last long, however, for, upon entering his bedroom, he saw resting upon the top of the rest of his luggage a case, which, upon investigation, was found to contain the very watches he had purchased in Switzerland.

In his anger, the chief of police hotly inquired of his servants how the parcel had come there; but none could give him any information, further than that it had probably been brought in without their notice by one of the men called to attend to his luggage.

The chief of police, angrier than ever, wrote scathing letters to all the custom-house officers, who one and all declared they were ready to stake their lives and reputations that no one, except himself, had crossed the frontier without being subjected to a thorough search.

Still hoping to secure the man who had delivered the parcel in Paris, and of reaching the smugglers through him, the chief of police now sent for his coachman, to ask him whether he had seen any one carry the case of watches into his house. To his amazement the coachman immediately replied,--

“Indeed I did. I gave it to the man myself, and was very glad to see the last of it, I can tell you!”

This answer astounded his master, who, upon asking for an explanation, learned that while the coachman was preparing the carriage for departure in the inn yard at La Chaux-de-Fonds, one of the waiters had suddenly appeared with a box, saying his master wished him to stow it away under his seat and keep it safely out of sight of every one until they reached Paris. He added that the case contained articles of great value which the chief feared might else fall into the hands of highwaymen, who of course would not dream of looking under the coachman’s seat for anything but oats. Thus cautioned, the coachman had carefully hidden the box away; but throughout the journey he had refused to lose sight of the carriage for an instant, lest his master’s secret should be discovered, and his property stolen.

On receiving this explanation, the chief of police made a wry face, for he now perceived how cleverly he had been outwitted by the watchmaker. The latter, having discovered his customer’s identity in some mysterious way, had defeated his purpose by bribing one of the inn waiters to give the box to the coachman, thus making the chief of police unconsciously smuggle his own goods across the frontier!

* * * * *

ANOTHER story runs that a Swiss naturalist often crossed the frontier at Pontarlier, where he was greatly annoyed by a cross and over-zealous French custom-house officer. The latter, for some inscrutable reason, had conceived an intense dislike to the Swiss savant, whose luggage he always examined with exaggerated care, although the naturalist was well known as a man of unimpeachable integrity.

Exasperated by this rude treatment, the naturalist finally determined to give this disagreeable official a lesson which he would not be likely to forget in a hurry. The next time he stopped at Pontarlier, therefore, besides his usual baggage, he had a tightly closed box, which he handled with special care.

In answer to the customary question, he truthfully swore he had no dutiable goods with him, but the custom-house officer, who had singled him out as his victim, gruffly demanded his keys and proceeded to turn his trunk topsy turvy as usual. To his evident chagrin, not the tiniest object upon which he could exact payment was forthcoming, but leaving the owner to rearrange his tumbled garments as best he might, the officer took up the box, shook it hard, and asked what it contained.

“Natural history specimens,” quietly answered the naturalist.

This reply elicited a contemptuous snort from the officer, who declared such a statement must be verified. The naturalist then protested vehemently, swore it contained nothing contraband, and finally seeing that he could not prevent the opening of the box, angrily cried,--

“Very well! Open the box if you choose, but don’t blame me for the consequences!” and marched out of the office where the discussion had taken place, slamming the door behind him with marked emphasis.

Left alone, the officer, armed with chisel and hammer, proceeded to tear off the cover of the box, out of which squirmed and tumbled a number of small snakes.

With a wild cry of terror, the custom-house officer rushed out of the office, crying, “Snakes, snakes!” but as he was often tipsy, or “lost his way in his master’s vineyard,”--as the local saying goes,--his companions would not believe him, and fancied he was the victim of a delusion natural to a man of his intemperate habits.

But one of his comrades venturing boldly into the office to convince him of his mistake, came out again precipitately, crying that snakes were really crawling all over the floor! The naturalist now stepped forward, calmly offered to replace the reptiles--which were perfectly harmless--in their box, and added that he had warned the officer not to tamper with natural history specimens.

After that, the custom-house officers at Pontarlier were particularly careful how they handled this savant’s luggage, and never again did they venture to raise the cover of any box when he told them that it contained materials for his collections.

BERN

The little city of Erlach, or Cerlier, on the Lake of Bienne, is romantically situated at the foot of the Jolimont, on which stand great rocks known as the Devil’s Burden. We are told that his Infernal Highness brought these stones hither to crush the Christians at the foot of the mountain. But, turned aside by the hand of God, the blocks fell where they could do no damage, and now serve as picturesque features in the landscape.

The castle of Erlach, founded in 1100 by a bishop of Basel, was entrusted to the care of a governor, or bailiff, who made ruthless demands upon the time and strength of his master’s vassals. No servant was ever strong and diligent enough to suit him; and when a tall foreigner came to offer his services, the bailiff, noting his well-developed muscles, immediately said he would engage him provided he could lift the huge rock which stood at the castle gate.

Picking up the stone with the utmost ease, the newcomer tossed it up as if it were a mere pebble, although its weight was such that it sank deep into the ground on the spot where it fell. This proof of strength fully satisfied the bailiff, who at first treated his new servant quite fairly. But as time went on, he exacted more and more, and once bade him take four horses and bring back to the castle a load of wood which twelve horses could not have drawn without great effort.

The muscular servant nevertheless set out undaunted to fulfil this task, and finding one pair of horses inclined to balk, unharnessed them, tied them to the tail of the cart, and taking their place, pulled so vigorously that the load safely reached the foot of the hill leading to the castle. There, however, the second pair of horses stopped short, and refused to advance another step. The servant quickly unharnessed these, too, bound them on top of the wood, and single-handed drew wood, wagon, and horses up the hill, although the load was so heavy that the deep ruts it made in the rock road can still be seen to this day.

When the bailiff beheld this new and startling proof of great strength, he was duly awed, and fearing the servant might prove troublesome some day, determined to get rid of him. With that purpose in view, he ordered a well dug, and when it was quite deep, made his men throw a huge stone down upon the strong servant’s head. To the general surprise, this man tossed the stone up out of the well again, muttering, “Don’t throw any more sand down into my eyes, or I’ll get mad.”

But looking up just then, he caught such an evil expression in the bailiff’s eyes that he was seized with a sudden fit of blind rage. Scrambling out of the hole, he pursued the conscience-stricken bailiff into the castle; and as neither man nor master were ever seen again, people suppose that the strong servant must have been an emissary of Satan, sent to carry their cruel master off to Hades, to receive due punishment for all his crimes.

* * * * *

ON the way from Basel to Bern, the train passes through a long tunnel piercing a hill upon which stand the ruins of Castle Grimmenstein. This was once the home of so enthusiastic a hunter, that he even broke the Sabbath to indulge in his favourite sport. His wife, a gentle and pious soul, once vainly besought him not to desecrate a particularly holy day of rest, but he nevertheless sallied forth, and after a long search came across a doe with its young.

Although this gentle animal bravely tried to defend her offspring, the cruel hunter slew them all one after another. But, just as the doe breathed her last, a giant sprang out of the ground, shook his fist vehemently at the Sabbath-breaker, and exclaiming that the harmless animals were already avenged, vanished with them underground!

The lord of Grimmenstein, awed in spite of himself by these mysterious words and by the sudden disappearance of the quarry he had slain, gave up all thought of further hunting for that day and rode slowly home. But when he entered his wife’s apartment, he found her and his children dying from the very wounds he had inflicted upon the gentle doe and her young.

Ever since then, when war or pestilence threaten the land, the lord of Grimmenstein rises from his grave, blows a resonant blast upon his hunting-horn, and again sets out to range through woods and valleys in quest of game.

Besides this hunter and Sabbath-breaker, almost every valley and hillside in Switzerland is said to be visited at times by some similar wraith, sweeping by on the wings of the wind. But the apparition which makes the most noise and causes most damage is undoubtedly that of Odin, the Wild Huntsman himself, who often rushes through the land with all his ghostly train of heathen deities.[2]

[2] See the author’s “Myths of Northern Lands.”

* * * * *

AFTER passing through the Wynigen tunnel, the train soon comes to Burgdorf, an ancient and picturesque little city, with an old castle in which Pestalozzi established a school toward the end of the eighteenth century.

Tradition relates that dense forests once covered all this region, which was infested by wild beasts of all kinds, not omitting an immense, fire-breathing dragon, which had its abode in a cave in the hill on which Burgdorf castle now stands.

Sintram and Baltram, the two sons of the Duke of Lenzburg, once penetrated into this wilderness in pursuit of game, and discovering the trail of this dragon, resolved to track him into his lair and rid the country of such a pest. But when they drew near the mouth of the cave, the dragon suddenly darted forth, and seizing Baltram, swallowed him at one gulp! At this sight Sintram boldly dismounted, drew his sword, and attacked the monster with such fury that he finally laid him low. Then, slitting him open, he had the good fortune to find his brother still alive and quite unharmed, thanks to the strong armour he wore.

The brothers were so proud of their victory over the monster, and so grateful for their miraculous escape from its teeth and claws, that they built a chapel on this spot, dedicating it to St. Margaret, because she too once met and defeated a dragon. In this chapel they placed a picture representing their fight with the Burgdorf monster, and as they soon founded the town and castle, their name and fame still endures in that section of the country.

* * * * *

IN the twelfth century, Burgdorf was the home of Berthold V. of Zähringen, who conquered and brought into subjection the various nobles in the Bernese Oberland. He built Fribourg on his own land, and founded a new city on a rocky height almost entirely surrounded by the Aare. History claims that he called this town Bern, in honour of his favourite hero and ancestor, Dietrich of Bern (Verona).[3] But legend states that, not knowing what name to bestow upon the new city, he decided to call it after the first animal he slew in the chase.

[3] See the author’s “Legends of the Middle Ages.”

Sallying forth one day, he met and slew some bears (_Bären_), and therefore called the city Bern. It is because the city is popularly supposed to have thus obtained its name, that there is a bear in its shield, and that these animals are conspicuous there in every form. The most famous and imposing bears in Bern are the stone effigies which long stood on either side of the city gates, and which now guard the entrance to the Historical Museum; but the most amusing are undoubtedly the live bears kept in a special pit.

According to some authorities these animals are the descendants of a cub which the Duke of Zähringen brought back from his memorable hunting expedition; according to others of a pair given to the town by René, Duke of Lorraine. Besides, you may also hear it stated that a Swiss soldier brought home a couple of cubs as trophy after the battle of Novarre, in 1513, which were preserved in the city. In 1798, General Brune carried off the Bern bears to the Jardin des Plantes in Paris, and the present bruins are also said to have descended from those or from a pair imported from Russia.

The city of Bern was laid out for the Duke by his henchman von Bubenberg, who, foreseeing its importance, made it twice as large as he was told. The Duke in wrath then demanded what he meant by this disobedience, but von Bubenberg soon proved that he was right, for so many settlers poured into the new place that only a narrow space could be allotted for each house. All the buildings were made from the wood growing within the new city limits, which gave rise to the distich,--

“Holz, lass’ dich hauen gern,
Die Stadt muss heissen Bern.”
(Wood, let yourself be felled readily,
The city must be called Bern.)

Bern became independent soon after its foundation, bravely withstood two sieges made by the redoubtable Rudolf von Hapsburg, and some time after defeating the Burgundian forces at Laupen, in 1339, joined the Swiss Confederation, of which it is now the head.

In the middle of the fifteenth century, the citizens began the construction of the beautiful cathedral, which, owing to lack of funds, remained incomplete for centuries and has only recently been crowned by its wonderful spire. In front of this building now stands the equestrian statue of Rudolph von Erlach, the hero of Laupen; but here, too, once stood a large wooden statue of St. Christopher. It was placed there after a silver communion service had been stolen from the cathedral, for the people believed that the giant saint would mount faithful guard over ecclesiastical property. But when in spite of his presence there, the communion service again fell a prey to thieves, great indignation was felt in town.

To punish St. Christopher for his lack of vigilance, he was banished to a niche in a tower bearing his name, where, as a further mark of disgrace, and because he stood directly opposite the fountain of David, he was dubbed Goliath. At that time a tradition was current in Bern that when St. Christopher _heard_ the town clock strike the noon hour, he invariably rained _weckli_ (local rolls) down upon the people. To fix this saying in the minds of a younger generation, a lady of the town ordered a large number of _weckli_ cast down upon the waiting school children at the stroke of twelve, one day before the tower was razed and the statue removed. The benevolent woman who played this innocent trick upon the delighted little ones, celebrated her one-hundredth birthday at Bern, in 1897, when the cathedral chimes pealed forth at noon a gay carillon in her honour.

When the quaint Christopher tower was torn down, in the middle of the nineteenth century, the head of the gaudily coloured statue of the saint was removed to the city Museum, where it now forms part of a collection of local antiquities.

South of the Cathedral, and extending all along one side of the building, is a beautiful broad terrace, commanding a marvellous view of the whole range of the Bernese Alps. On this shady place stands a fine statue of the founder of the city, with Bruin as his shield-bearer. At the edge of the terrace, set deep in the wall, is a tablet commemorating the miraculous escape of a student, whose frightened horse vaulted over the parapet in 1654. Theobald Weinzäpfli, for such was the student’s name, not only survived the fall which killed his steed, but became pastor of Kerzerz, where he died forty years later.

From the terrace, besides the matchless background of glaciers, there is a fine view of the pyramidal Niesen, darkly outlined against them, and of the winding Aare, which passes through the Lake of Brienz and that of Thun at the foot of this mountain. At one end of the Lake of Thun, where the Aare has its outlet, and less than an hour’s railway journey from Bern, stands the picturesque little city of Thun, with its ancient castle. At the other extremity, on a narrow strip of land between the two lakes, rises Interlaken, the goal of all Swiss tourists.

* * * * *

LEGEND claims that in the days when St. Peter was preaching in Rome, he converted there an English traveller, who received in baptism the name of Beatus. Longing to publish the good tidings he had received, this pious man set out from Rome, and preaching as he went, finally came to the shores of the Lake of Thun. There he found a large population of thrifty people still devoted to the Scandinavian religion practised by their ancestors.

The spot was so lovely, and the task awaiting him so urgent, that Beatus resolved to make a prolonged sojourn; but he was so busy caring for souls that he had no time to build himself a hut. He therefore determined to take up his abode in some cave, and searching for one which might answer his purpose, climbed the mountain on the north side of the lake. Far up the slope, he descried a large cavern, which he was about to enter. But he suddenly found himself face to face with a huge dragon, whose eyes were as big and round as cart-wheels, whose claws were as long and as hard as grappling-hooks, and whose long, tapering body and tail were covered with scales so thick that no weapon could pierce them! This monster lashed its tail, opened wide its capacious jaws, and spat forth such a torrent of fire and smoke that Beatus thought his last hour had surely come. Alone and unarmed, resistance was impossible, and as flight would have been equally vain, Beatus commended his soul to God and made a hasty sign of the cross.

At the same moment the monster crept back into its den with a cry of rage and terror; and Beatus, perceiving that it had quailed at the sign of the cross, immediately determined to use so potent a weapon to rid the country of this emissary of Satan. He therefore took up his post at the mouth of the Beatushöhle, where he mounted guard night and day, fasting and praying persistently. The presence of this holy man, the constant sound of fervent supplication, and the sight of the awe-inspiring sign of the cross every time it moved, so worked upon the dragon’s nerves, that it exploded on the eighth day, and vanished in a cloud of stinking smoke.

The Evil One having thus departed, Beatus took possession of the cave, which he fitted out to serve as a hermitage. From one of the trees on the bank of the lake, he fashioned a rude skiff, in which he rowed from point to point along the shore, often preaching from his boat as his Master had done on the Sea of Galilee.

By the blessing of God, Beatus’ words bore rich fruit, and conversions became so numerous that Satan was alarmed, and determined to make another attempt to kill or drive away the zealous missionary. He therefore stirred up fearful storms every time Beatus left his cave, caused brooks to swell and overflow whenever he tried to cross them, rolled rocks down the mountain to obstruct his pathway, and after many vain trials, succeeded in breaking his oars and making his poor skiff almost useless.

One day, when Beatus came down to the lakeside, he perceived that the waves rose to such a height that it would be impossible for him to cross the lake to officiate at Einigen as he had promised. Loath to disappoint the faithful anxiously awaiting him, Beatus spread out his cloak upon the bank and sat down upon it, hoping that the storm stirred up by the Evil One would soon abate sufficiently to enable him to cross without imminent danger.

While sitting there, inwardly praying, a gust of wind suddenly stole under his outspread cloak; and a moment later Beatus found himself soaring through the air, high over the tossing lake, and was soon gently deposited on the greensward near the little church. The people welcomed him gladly, listened to his teachings, and practised the Christian virtues so diligently that the place where they assembled for worship was soon known far and wide as Paradise.

The concourse of people there became daily greater, and as Beatus was often busy elsewhere, he bade his disciple Justus take charge of the services whenever he failed to appear at the appointed time. Now, it seems that while Beatus himself was very eloquent, his disciple was extremely prosy and long-winded; and Satan, perceiving this, determined to claim, on the judgment day, the souls of all those who slept through the sermon and thus missed the final benediction. He therefore entered the little church at Einigen one Easter morning, seated himself directly under the pulpit, and spreading out a ram-skin on his lap, prepared to take down the names of all who dozed during the service. Although Beatus was expected to preach on that day, and an unusually large congregation was present, he had not yet appeared when the little bell ceased ringing; so Justus mounted the pulpit and began to expound the Scriptures in his stead.

The place was overcrowded, the weather quite warm; and as the worthy man’s teachings were even more uninteresting than usual, one auditor after another nodded and slept. Beatus, who had been detained by a work of mercy, slipped unperceived into the church shortly after the sermon had begun, and seating himself modestly in a corner, lent a reverent and attentive ear to his colleague’s halting discourse.

Looking up, however, he suddenly became aware of the fact that the whole congregation was fast asleep, and that the Evil One was jotting down their names with fiendish glee. While Beatus was hesitating whether to be guilty of the sin of disturbing divine service by making a noise which would wake the imprudent sleepers, or whether he should leave their souls in such a dangerous predicament without making an effort to save them, he perceived that the Devil had almost reached the bottom of his ram-skin, and had not space enough left to inscribe all the remaining names.

At that very moment the Devil became aware of the selfsame fact, but, notoriously quick at devising expedients, he immediately seized the skin between his teeth, and began tugging at it with all his might so as to stretch it sufficiently to serve his purpose. In his haste he gave a jerk which, tearing the skin, threw his head backward, hitting the pulpit such a resonant bang that every man, woman, and child in the congregation awoke with a start.

Beatus, the only one who had seen the accident, disgraced himself by laughing aloud; and the Devil, perceiving he had defeated his own ends, flounced angrily out of the church, and vanished with a yell, while the people sank on their knees and frantically prayed to be forgiven for yielding to fatigue.

Beatus, we are told, was duly punished for laughing in church, for when he again spread out his mantle, expecting to be wafted across the lake, as usual, it remained stationary, and although he ultimately died in the odour of sanctity and was duly canonised, he ever after had to resort to ordinary means of transportation. The cave in which Beatus dwelt on the Beatenberg, and which still bears his name, has been uninhabitable since his day. From its mouth now pours forth a noisy stream during the spring months, and after heavy falls of rain.

* * * * *

MANY steamboats daily furrow the lake over which St. Beatus was wont to fly on his mantle; and after passing the romantic town of Oberhofen, directly opposite Einigen, where Justus preached, they come to Spiez, where stands a tower of the old castle of Strättlingen. A lord of that name is said to have been suddenly converted, while out hunting, by the sight of a stag bearing a luminous crucifix between its wide antlers. During the Christian persecutions under Hadrian, this Strättlingen took refuge in Burgundy, where he greatly distinguished himself during a quarrel with France.

It seems that the two kings had decided that their difference should be settled by a duel between champions of their selection. The king of France, however, produced a giant so strong that no Burgundian dared meet him; and when Strättlingen volunteered to fight, the king of Burgundy was duly grateful.

Reaching the lists before his antagonist, Strättlingen sat down to await his coming, which he dreaded so little that he quietly fell asleep. When the giant came, he gazed in angry astonishment at a rival snoring as peacefully five minutes before the redoubtable encounter as if he were merely taking a nap before dinner. Convinced that some miracle lay behind this marvellous composure, the giant gazed at his foe more closely still, and declared himself ready to acknowledge his defeat without striking a blow, because the Archangel Michael stood beside the sleeping champion, ready to battle for him.

In reward for the great victory thus won in his sleep, the Burgundian king gave Strättlingen his daughter’s hand in marriage, a large estate on the Lake of Thun, and great treasures. Part of this wealth was employed by Strättlingen in erecting the castle which still bears his name, and which long remained in the possession of his family. One of his descendants, Wernhardt von Strättlingen, was known far and wide for his great charity, and when a shivering pilgrim knocked at his gate one cold winter morning, he unhesitatingly bestowed upon him a brand-new cloak and bade him enter and spend the night in the castle.

When morning came, pilgrim and cloak had vanished, and the lady of Strättlingen, who was very economical and far less charitable than her spouse, reproached him bitterly for wasting such a good cloak upon an ungrateful scamp. Although her scolding was vehement and oft renewed, the husband bore it patiently, and when about to set out on a pilgrimage, parted amicably with her, giving her half his ring and telling her she might marry again at the end of five years, if in the meantime he did not return to claim her by producing the other half of the circlet.

This arrangement made, Strättlingen set out for Garganum, where he had heard that St. Michael, his patron saint, had recently alighted. Arriving there, he had a vision of St. Michael himself, who gave him his blessing. But on the way home, Strättlingen was cast into a prison in Lombardy, where he languished four whole years. Throughout this long captivity Strättlingen’s faith never wavered; and when came the time set for his wife’s remarriage should he not return, he fervently prayed that she might be preserved from bigamy.

At that moment the pilgrim appeared in his cell, wrapped in the mantle he had given him, and humbly confessed that he was a demon sent to Strättlingen to entrap him into a reckless act of charity, in hopes that the scolding his wife was sure to administer would cause him to sin. The demon next went on to explain that he was now sent by St. Michael to convey him home. Then he proceeded to carry out the orders he had received from the archangel, and did it so skilfully that a few minutes later the lord of Strättlingen stood at his castle gate, wrapped in the cloak he had given the pilgrim five years before.

Returning thus unexpectedly and unrecognised, Strättlingen perceived that wedding preparations were even then being made. Amid the throng of guests, he stepped up to the table unseen and dropped his half of the ring into his wife’s cup. When she raised it to her lips to drink, she found this pledge, and looking eagerly around her, recognised her husband in his pilgrim’s garb and fell upon his neck. Instead of a wedding feast, a banquet of reunion was now held in the great hall at Strättlingen, and as thank-offering for his miraculous return, the count built the church of St. Michael at Einigen.

This church was secretly dedicated by the archangel himself, who graciously made that fact known to the noble builder. The latter is said to have founded a dozen other churches in the neighbourhood, besides one large monastery. After a time, however, he began to pride himself upon his piety and great gifts to the church, and in punishment for this sin, fell desperately ill.

During this illness he saw the archangels Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel wrestling with the Devil for the possession of his soul. But they finally agreed to decide the matter in a strictly impartial way by weighing Strättlingen’s good and bad deeds in opposite scales. Held by one saint and filled by another and by the Devil, the scales wavered for a moment. Then the one containing the virtues seemed inclined to kick the beam, until St. Michael rested his hand heavily upon it. Seeing this, the Devil slyly clung to the bottom of the scale in which he was specially interested. But his black and claw-like fingers appearing over the edge of the scale, betrayed his stratagem to St. Michael, who, drawing his sword, drove him away.

This curious legend is illustrated by a painting which long graced the church in Lauterbrunnen, and the various legends told above are carefully preserved in the curious chronicle of the church at Einigen.

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OPPOSITE Spiez, at the foot of the Ralligenstock, and near the present town of Ralligen, there was once a village named Roll, whose inhabitants were noted all along the lake shore for their selfishness and pride.

One night when the wind was blowing very hard and after it had rained persistently for several days, a little dwarf came into the village, and knocking at every door humbly begged for shelter. All rudely refused to receive him, except an aged couple living at the end of the village. They bade him enter, gave him the best food that they had in the house, and would gladly have let him sleep in their own bed, had he only been willing to tarry with them over night. But the dwarf told them he still had much to do, and bidding them farewell, ran through the place again, crying that it would soon disappear.

Before morning a terrible storm broke, the lightning struck the top of the Ralligenstock, and all at once the awestruck people heard the rumbling sound of a great landslide. Peering hastily out of their window, the charitable couple saw their little guest gliding rapidly down the mountain side on a huge rock, which he seemed to steer like a sled. Guiding this rock close to their hut, he brought it to a sudden standstill there, making it serve as a bulwark for the tiny house where he had been so hospitably entertained. The rest of the earth and stones swept all the other houses and inhabitants of Roll into the lake, in punishment for their pride and lack of hospitality. But we are told that the little cabin so miraculously spared, stood on the very site of the present castle of Ralligen.

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ON the same side of the Lake of Thun, and not very far from Ralligen, is the charmingly situated town of Merligen. According to somewhat malicious legends, the people there were none too intelligent. They once built a beautiful City Hall, but discovered only too late that they had forgotten to provide any windows, and that it was pitch dark inside. As it was impossible to transact business in utter obscurity, the city council immediately declared light must be brought in without delay, and bade each of the councillors procure a bagful. All therefore betook themselves in a body to a sunny meadow, opened wide their sacks, and when they saw them full of sunlight, closed them tight and bore them off to the City Hall. But although one bagful after another of golden sunshine was carried in there, and all were opened at once, the hall, to their great surprise and disappointment, remained as dark as ever.

There once stood a nut tree close by the lake at Merligen. It bent so far over the water that the people fancied the topmost branches wanted a drink, so they determined to help it reach the water. The chief magistrate climbed the tree, and seizing the highest bough, bade another citizen catch hold of his legs. This done, a third clung to the second, and continuing thus the people formed a living chain which reached down into the lake. The last man now cried,--

“Are you all ready? Shall we pull?”

“No!” cried the chief magistrate, “wait a minute; I want to spit in my hands!”

Saying this, he suddenly let go, and the whole chain of men splashed into the lake, where they were drowned!

At the end of the eighteenth century, after the French had carried off the treasure of Bern to meet the expenses of the Egyptian war, the other cities decided it might be well to hide or bury their valuables, lest they too should fall into their enemies’ hands. The people of Merligen therefore put all their treasures on board a boat, rowed out to the middle of the lake, and sank them in the deepest spot. To make sure, however, that they would be able to find again the exact spot where the valuables were lying, they carefully drew a heavy mark on their boat directly above the sunken treasure. Unfortunately, this streak did not remain on the spot where the treasure was hidden, but to the dismay of the people accompanied them back to Merligen; and it is said no one has ever yet been able to locate these valuables, whose loss is still mourned.

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THE strip of land between the lakes of Thun and Brienz is watered by the Aare, which, flowing through both these bodies of water, also serves as a connecting link between them. Interlaken, as its name indicates, is situated between the two lakes.

From the steamboats on the Lake of Brienz, one can see the wooded slopes and charming village of Iseltwald. Here, we are told, you often hear sounds such as might be produced by a huge Æolian harp. Sometimes loud, sometimes low, the melancholy, ghost-like melody quivers softly through the summer air.

Tradition assures us that a huntsman of this region had his right arm disabled by a stroke of lightning; so, taking up his hunting horn, he wandered from place to place, playing wonderful tunes for a living. His admiring auditors rewarded him for his music by small gifts, and all delighted in his constant tunes. Early in the morning, when the first lark rose to the sky, the stirring notes of “Awake, my heart, and sing!” roused the sleeping inhabitants; and far into the night gentle reveries lulled them to sleep. All day long the music played strong, brisk, helpful accompaniments to their labours, and when a thief prowled about their huts at night, ready to seize their property, a sharp danger signal from the ever-ready horn pealed through the quiet air.

Every one loved the wandering huntsman,--no feast or funeral was complete without him, and wherever he went he invariably met with an enthusiastic welcome. The time came, however, when the poor man felt his last hour was near; and seating himself near the edge of the lake he played a melodious farewell to life, and to the land he loved. Then, addressing a lame beggar who had stolen up to listen to his music, he gave him all the money he had, on condition that he would promise to bury him in the Iseltwald.

“But,” he added, “be sure to place my beloved hunting horn in my hand. It has been my friend and comforter for many a year; and if the dead can still feel and move, I shall be glad to beguile the dark and lonely hours spent in my grave. There I shall play soft tunes, until released by the peal of Gabriel’s trump on the day of judgment, when I, too, shall arise to take part in the grand concert played before the throne of God.”

The old huntsman had scarcely finished these words when he died; and true to his promise the beggar laid him to rest at the foot of a mighty oak, with his beloved horn clasped tight in his dead hand. Since then, belated boatmen have often heard a musical call guiding them safely homeward; and the still summer air often pulsates with the sweet, weird melody the huntsman softly plays to himself while waiting to join in the grand Hallelujah Chorus on the judgment day.

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AFTER leaving Iseltwald the steamers on the Lake of Brienz stop at the Giessbach, part of which famous falls can be seen from its deck, and thence run on to Brienz, where one can take the train to Meiringen and see the beautiful Reichenbach.

Near the last-named town, on the way to the Hohenstollen, whence a magnificent view is obtainable, one passes the Balisalp, of which the following picturesque legend is told. A shepherd named Res used to tend his cattle here; and after they were duly cared for every evening, he was wont to take the huge funnel through which he poured his milk into his pans, and reversing it, step out on a projecting ledge of rock to call out a loving good-night to his sweetheart, who spent the summer on the Seealp. Then, when it was too dark to see the place where she stood, he would quietly enter his hut, climb up into the loft, and lying down on his pallet, would sleep soundly until the next day, when his first morning greeting was also shouted to the girl he loved.

One night the herdsman suddenly awoke, and hearing a crackling sound, peered down into the châlet to see what it might be. To his surprise he saw three strange-looking men sitting around a bright fire they had kindled on his hearth, busy making cheese in a giant kettle. The largest of the three kept stirring the milk, the next one brought more to add to it, while the third kept up a bright blaze by adding fuel to the fire from time to time.

Watching these men, the owner of the hut saw the cheesemaker pour a reddish fluid into the kettle. Then the second stepped to the door, and taking a huge horn, began to play a weird melody. Low at first, it gradually roused all the echoes, and had a magical effect, for all the cows came running up to him and soon stood around in a circle as if to listen. This musical performance ended, the third man poured the contents of the huge kettle into three vessels, and the watching herdsman noted with surprise that the liquid in each receptacle was of a different hue.

Just then, the tallest man looked up, and bade the herdsman come down and drink from any vessel he pleased,--explaining that if he partook of the red liquid he would be as strong as a giant and receive one hundred cows; if he tasted of the green, he would have a large fortune; while if he chose the white, he would receive the magic horn and be able to play the weird tune, which, as he had seen, would charm cows as well as men.

The young dairyman had been so enraptured by the music he had heard, that he unhesitatingly snatched the bowl containing the white liquid and took a deep draught. When he set it down again, his strange visitors warmly congratulated him upon his selection, for had he drunk out of either of the other vessels he would surely have died, and centuries would have elapsed before the Alphorn would again have been offered to mankind. This explanation given, the three strangers suddenly vanished, leaving no trace of their presence save the Alphorn, which the young man put to his lips just as the first gleams of light appeared in the east. Then, to his delight, he found he could play as well as the mysterious stranger.

He soon made a second horn just like the one he had received from his night visitors, and taught his beloved to use it. They kept up a lively musical intercourse all summer, although too far apart to hear each other’s words. In the autumn they were married, and their descendants inherited their wonderful musical instruments, and still play the peculiar air, which has, as yet, lost none of its primitive charm.

A similar story is told of the Wengernalp, where, however, on the eve of the wedding, the young herdsman’s musical call was answered by a ghostly voice announcing the death of his betrothed. The expectant bridegroom was so shocked by these tidings that he dropped his wonderful horn, which was shattered on the rocks below him. Then, maddened by grief, he ranged the mountain, until, in a fit of despair, he committed suicide.

Since then, many imitations have been made of the magic horn, but none has ever reproduced any of its best high notes, and all the present instruments are remarkable for their deep, sad tones, which produce an indescribably mournful impression upon all those who hear them for the first time.

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