Chapter IV: Part 4

ON the way from Meiringen to the famous Rhône glacier, one sees some of the most beautiful and varied scenery in the world. After passing charming points too numerous to mention, the road, which rises rapidly, leads over the barren Grimsel Pass, where stands a famous refuge for poor travellers, the well-known Grimsel Hospice.

A legend claims that in olden times this region blossomed like the rose, and that the highest mountains were as fertile as any valley nestling in a sheltered location at their foot. When Our Lord bade the Wandering Jew[4] begin the never-ending journey for which he is so noted, he immediately set out, and tramping incessantly, started to cross the Alps at the Grimsel. Although constantly urged along by a power he could not resist, Ahasuerus, the Jew, marked the happy people dwelling on the banks of the Aare and the Rhône, and marvelled at the extreme fertility of the pass, where grapes and figs grew in abundance, where no barren spot could be seen, and where mighty oaks covered the tops of mountains now crowned by eternal snows.

[4] See the author’s “Legends of the Virgin and Christ.”

The air was mild and balmy, even at the greatest altitude; and hosts of birds in bright plumage flitted about, twittering and singing in the merriest way. Ahasuerus also noticed that the people were gentle and hospitable, for wherever he asked for food or drink it was quickly granted, and he was warmly invited to tarry with them and rest his weary limbs. This invitation, however, he could not accept; but hurried on, unconscious of the fact that a blight fell over every place through which he passed; for the curse laid upon him not only condemned him to move on for ever, but enhanced his punishment by making cold, want, and pestilence follow in his train.

Many years passed by before the Wandering Jew again found himself near the Alps; but weary as he was, he somewhat quickened his footsteps, hoping to feast his eyes upon the landscape which had so charmed him the first time, and to meet again the warm-hearted people who had been so kind to him once before.

As he drew near the mountains, however, sad forebodings wrung his heart, for they were enveloped in a dense fog, which seemed to him particularly cold and clammy. Hurrying on up the pass, he eagerly looked from side to side, yet saw nothing but dark pines wildly tossing their sombre branches against a gray sky, while ravens and owls flew past him, croaking and hooting. Vines, figs, and oaks had vanished, and the happy people, driven away by the constant windstorms which swept the mountains, had taken refuge in the sheltered valleys. But although all else was changed, the spirit of hospitality still lingered on the heights, for the charcoal-burners gladly shared their meagre supply of coarse food with the Wandering Jew, and warmly invited him to be seated at their campfire.

The Jew, however, had to hasten on; and many long years elapsed before he again trod the Grimsel Pass. For a while he still perceived dark firs and smouldering fires, but it seemed to him that they were much nearer the foot of the mountain than they had been at his second visit. As he climbed upward he also noticed that the path was much more rugged than before, for rocks and stones had fallen down upon it from above, making it almost impassable in certain places. As no obstacle could stop this involuntary traveller, he went on over rolling stones and jagged rocks, and nearing the top of the pass discovered that every trace of vegetation had vanished, and that the place formerly so fertile was now covered with barren rocks and vast fields of snow. Raising his eyes to the peaks all around him he perceived that oaks, beeches, and pines had all vanished, and that the steep mountain sides were heavily coated with ice, which ran far down into the valleys in great frozen streams.

The sight of all this desolation, which had taken the place of such luxuriant vegetation, proved too much for poor Ahasuerus, who sank down on a rock by the wayside and burst into tears. There he sat and sobbed, as he realised for the first time the blighting effect of his passage. His tears flowed so freely that they trickled down into a rocky basin, and when he rose to pursue his way down into the Hasli valley, he left a little lake behind him.

In spite of the masses of snow and ice all around, and of the cold winds which constantly sweep over that region, the waters of the lake still remain as warm as the tears which fell from Ahasuerus’s eyes; and no fish are ever found in this pool.

Still, notwithstanding the desolate landscape, Ahasuerus found the spirit of hospitality not quite dead, for far up on the pass rose a shelter for weary travellers, where they were carefully tended by pious monks. But even here he could not rest, and as he passed along down the mountain, he heard the thunder of falling avalanches behind him. It is during this last journey that he is supposed to have lost the queer old shoe which was long treasured in one of the vaults of the Bern Library.

It is also said that when pausing at one of the huts in the Hasli valley, he sorrowfully foretold that when fate brought him there for the fourth and last time, the whole fruitful valley, from the top of the mountains down to the Lake of Brienz, would be transformed into a huge unbroken field of ice, where he would wander alone in quest of the final resting-place which until now has been denied him, although Eugene Field claims he found it in the New World.[5]

[5] See “The Holy Cross,” by Eugene Field.

This account of the passage of the Wandering Jew is told with slight variations of all the passes between Switzerland and Italy. Every particularly barren spot in the former country is supposed to have been blighted because he passed through there, or because mortals sinned so grievously that they brought a curse down upon it.

* * * * *

ALTHOUGH travellers coming over the Grimsel often make their way from there to Grindelwald, in the heart of the Oberland, this point is most easily reached from Interlaken, by means of the railroad following the course of an Alpine stream, the Lütchine, which flows in a rocky bed between tall cliffs and steep pine-clad hills. After passing Burglauenen, of which the same story is told as of Roll on the Lake of Thun, you come to Grindelwald, where you have the best view of the Wetterhorn.

A picturesque legend claims that in the Golden Age, when no snow or ice had ever been seen in Switzerland, rich pastures lay between the Faulhorn and the Siedelhorn. A fine brook flowing through there supplied the cattle with all the water they needed, and enabled the herdsmen to keep all their pails and pans in a state of dazzling whiteness and immaculate purity. The pasture was so rich, and the cows gave such quantities of milk, that the men were always tired of milking long before they were through. Spoiled by too great plenty, and over-inclined to take their ease, these men cursed cows and pasture, so a great change soon took place, which at first struck them as very welcome, because as the kine’s milk decreased their work diminished.

But one day a maiden came to Gidi, the principal herdsman, and breathlessly announced that a very strange thing had happened, for the brook was all covered with a very thin sheet of glass! When Gidi heard this, he cried,--

“Then it is high time we should change our pasture!”

He therefore immediately drove his herd down into the valley, where, clearing away the dense forest, he built the little village Gidisdorf, which still bears his name. Since then, that place--more generally known as Grindelwald--has become a great resort for tourists, who are attracted thither by the healthful situation, and by the marvellous views obtainable on all sides. From this place many interesting excursions are possible, among others that to the Scheidegg.

* * * * *

IT seems that the possession of the Great or Hasli Scheidegg was once the cause of a serious dispute between the people of Hasli and Grindelwald. As the matter could not be settled otherwise, it was to be decided by oath. The people of Grindelwald, who could not swear truthfully that it belonged to them, nevertheless won it by stratagem, for their champion, filling his shoes with earth from his garden at Grindelwald, boldly presented himself before the judge on the disputed land. There he swore in a tone of such intense conviction that he stood upon Grindelwald soil, that the judge, persuaded of the rectitude of his claim, awarded the disputed land to his community.

The perjurer was, however, duly punished for this crime, for even now his soul can find no rest. Mounted the wrong way round upon a ghostly steed, he rides every night from the spot where he committed perjury down to Meiringen; and if one listens attentively one can often hear his sighs and groans as he takes this nightly jaunt.

* * * * *

ON either side of the Upper Grindelwald Glacier tower the Wetterhorn and the two Schreckhorn peaks. The latter mountains are said to be haunted by an unhappy chamois-hunter, who insisted on going in pursuit of game, although a terrible storm was raging and his wife frantically implored him to stay at home.

After climbing far up among the rocks, he detected a fine chamois, and crouching near the edge of a fearful abyss, took careful aim and fired. But just then his gun recoiled, and losing his insecure footing, he slipped over the edge. Instead of falling all the way down, however, the hunter landed on a narrow ledge of rock, whence he could not stir, for the cliff rose straight above and fell sheer below him hundreds of feet.

The poor man, unable to move, remained almost in the same position for three days and two nights, when, seeing no hope of escape, and unable to endure his sufferings any longer, he resolved to commit suicide. Writing the story of the accident which had befallen him and of his fatal resolve, he threw the scrap of paper down into the abyss at his feet. Then, reloading his gun, which he had held fast in his fall, he sent an unerring bullet straight through his brain.

Months later the paper was found close by his shattered corpse; and since then, whenever a storm rages, one can hear the sudden report of a gun, a crashing fall, prolonged heart-rending groans, and the people declare it is the suicide repeating the awful tragedy which ended his life.

* * * * *

IT seems that there was once a convent at Interlaken where the nuns, unmindful of their vows, led anything but pure lives. Banished after death to the Schreckhorn, these nuns lie buried deep in the snow; but the spots where they rest glitter in a peculiar way, and are known as Snow Eyes. People say that they are placed there to serve as a constant warning to the valley maidens not to follow the example of those dissolute nuns.

A legend claims that St. Martin once came to Grindelwald, and finding a valley too narrow to admit as much sunshine as he deemed necessary for the good of the people, determined to widen it. He therefore resolutely braced his back against the Mettenberg, and jamming his stick hard against the Eiger, pushed with such force that he partly accomplished his purpose. Such was the effort he made, that the imprint of his back can still be seen in the Mettenberg and a final thrust of his staff punched a hole through the Eiger! This perforation, far up the mountain, is known as the Heiterloch or Martinsloch, and the sun always shines through it on St. Martin’s Day, to keep bright the memory of the saint who made it.

* * * * *

FAR up on the southwestern side of the Jungfrau, or Virgin Mountain, is a desolate, icy place, known as the Rothenthal, or Red Valley. In olden times this was one of the most fertile pastures that had ever been seen. And as it was all gemmed over with delicate Alpine flowers, it was generally known as the Alp of the Little Flowers, or the Blümelis Alp.

A beautiful winding road leading right through this valley formed a convenient pass between the cantons of Bern and Valais, and the people there would have been perfectly happy had they not been subject to tyrannical lords. These noblemen were grasping and unprincipled, as well as cruel, and built a castle near the highway so that they could conveniently despoil all travellers and levy supplies from the peasants in the neighbourhood. Not content with these depredations, they cultivated every vice they could think of, and often kidnapped the maidens who happened to please their taste or catch their lustful eyes.

A beautiful and innocent maiden was once tending her cows upon the fragrant Blümelis Alp when the lord of Rothenthal suddenly perceived her, and inflamed by passion suddenly tried to seize her. The poor girl uttered a wild shriek of terror, and looked around her for help. No one was in sight, however, and she already deemed herself lost, when a big black goat suddenly appeared, and rushing against her assailant with lowered horns, bucked him repeatedly, and finally hurled him over the edge of the precipice. The maiden, who had fled when the nobleman let go of her to defend himself against his horned antagonist, turned around just in time to see her persecutor fall. At the same moment the mountains shook violently, and huge masses of ice and rock came crashing down upon the blooming pasture, which, in the twinkling of an eye, was converted into the icy waste you can see there to-day.

Although now seldom trodden by human feet, the Rothenthal is still said to be haunted by the spirits of all those who have oppressed their fellow-men. Here they wander, up and down, bewailing their fate with sighs and groans which can be heard far and wide. Whenever the demons bring a new spirit thither to share their punishment, there is a grand commotion in the Rothenthal,--stones roll, avalanches fall, and the cries and groans become so loud and sustained that the people in the neighbouring valleys, awakening with a start, hide their heads under their blankets and murmur,--

“They are bringing another lord to the Valley!”

A moment later a sudden and stronger gust of wind sweeps past their dwellings; and when it is over, they timidly emerge from their coverings, making the sign of the cross to ward off evil, or softly breathing a prayer to be preserved from harm.

* * * * *

INTERLAKEN is also the usual point of departure for those who wish to visit the valley of Lauterbrunnen, the famous Falls of the Staubbach, and the pastures of Mürren, whence such a beautiful view of the Alps can be obtained, and whence the sunset effects on the glaciers are particularly grand. As Mr. Samuel Longfellow says,--

“From Mürren’s pastures zoned with snow
I watch the peaks, with quickened breath,
Flush in the sunset’s passionate glow--
Fade into pallor passing death.”[6]

[6] Poems of Places--Switzerland: Longfellow.

We are informed that in olden times, before the stream here had hollowed out its deep ravine, a herdsman used to exchange long conversations with his beloved, who tended her cattle on the opposite side of the Sausbach. One day when there was a great freshet, and the noise of the roaring waters drowned their voices, the young people, in a playful mood, began to fling handfuls of grass and sod at each other, laughing merrily and making mocking signs whenever one of the harmless missiles reached its goal. In the excitement of the game, however, the young man finally tore up a great lump of loose earth, and unconscious of the fact that a sharp stone lay imbedded deep in it, hurled it with accurate aim straight at the head of his sweetheart. Instead of the half-laughing, half-indignant outcry he fully expected, he suddenly saw the maiden sink lifeless to the ground, for the sharp stone had run straight into her temple!

The broken-hearted youth gave up his herd, withdrew from the company of his former associates, and building a hut on the very spot where the girl he loved had perished, spent the rest of his life in penance and prayer. It is also said that he finally died there, without having known another happy moment, and without ever smiling again.

LEGENDS OF SOLEURE

Soleure, on the Aare, in the canton of the same name, is said to be, after Trèves, the oldest city north of the Alps. Most of the old landmarks and fortifications of this city have had to make way for modern improvements; so the most interesting legends of the region are connected with the pretty drives just outside the city.

In olden times, the picturesque Verenathal, or Verena valley, is said to have been the retreat of a woman so very good and pious that she was known as St. Verena long before her death. This worthy creature, wishing to devote all her time to the worship of God, had betaken herself to this lonely spot, where she built a small hermitage and erected a cross, at the foot of which she spent many hours in fervent prayer. Such was her charity, that she constantly interceded for the wicked, pleading particularly for those who were most likely to succumb to temptation and thus fall into the devil’s clutches.

These prayers and intercessions were not without avail; and the Evil One, perceiving that he could not bag as many souls as usual in that vicinity, finally set out to discover what was the matter. Walking past the hermitage, the sound of passionate and persistent prayer fell upon his ear; so he noiselessly drew near to ascertain the exact nature of the petition.

Listening attentively, he soon distinguished the words, and gnashed his teeth with rage when he overheard her interceding with special fervour in behalf of the very souls he hoped soon to have in his power. This, then, was the reason for the alarming and otherwise unaccountable decrease in the number of his victims! He therefore resolved that the prayers of the holy woman should immediately be stopped, and with that end in view tore a huge mass of stone from a neighbouring cliff. Then stealing near the saint, he held it for a moment suspended directly above her head, carefully measuring the distance, so that he could kill her with one blow.

But just as he was about to let the mass fall upon Verena and crush her to death, she suddenly looked up, and met his baleful glance with such a look of mingled purity, compassion, and reproach, that Satan, starting back involuntarily, let the rock slip from his nerveless hand. The boulder, falling on his foot, crushed it so badly that he immediately vanished with a wrathful howl of pain and disappointment.

The rock thus dropped by the Evil One can now be seen on the very spot where it fell, and it still bears the distinct imprint of the Devil’s claws, which seem burnt in the stone.

“Wilt thou not believe my legend,
Go to St. Verena’s glen;
In the rocky clump thou’lt see there
Print of Satan’s fingers ten.”[7]

[7] Poems of Places--Switzerland: Longfellow.

Since then, his Infernal Majesty is said to have systematically avoided passing through the narrow gorge where he met with this unpleasant accident. But he is constantly reminded of St. Verena and of his luckless attempt, for his crushed foot never recovered from this accident, and he has walked lame from that day to this.

Near the hermitage hallowed by the holy life and death of St. Verena, there is a tiny chapel; and a little farther on one can see a representation of the Holy Sepulchre, hewn out of the rock, and adorned with life-size statues. This place is frequently visited by pilgrims, who also stand in awe and wonder before the fountains of the Soleure Cathedral, which represent Moses striking the rock, and Gideon wringing the dew out of the fleece, which, by a miracle, was dripping wet when all the ground around it was dry.

* * * * *

NOTED as a railway junction, as well as a pleasantly located town on the Aare, Olten is only five miles distant from the pretty health resort of Frohburg, on the Hauenstein. From this eminence one can enjoy a wonderful panorama of the Alps, extending from the Sentis at the extreme northwest, to Mont Blanc at the southeastern end of the mighty range of snow-capped mountains.

Within a few minutes’ walk from the hotel of Frohburg, are the ruins of a castle of the same name, once famous for its beauty as well as its great strength. The owner of this castle, the last Count of Frohburg, was known far and wide as a wealthy and powerful nobleman, who ruled his people with a heavy hand. His lands, extending for miles around the castle, were carefully parcelled out among the peasants, who, beside the feudal service required of them by their exacting master, were further compelled to give him one tenth of all the produce of their little farms.

On the day appointed for the payment of the grain tithes, the lord of Frohburg, standing on the battlements of his castle, yearly beheld the approach of a train of wheat-laden wagons, which formed an unbroken line several miles long. Indeed, it is said that when the first cart vanished under the tunnel-like gateway of the castle, the last could just be seen crossing the bridge at Olten, more than five miles away.

All this wealth and power, however, only tended to spoil the Count of Frohburg, who daily grew more haughty and overbearing, and finally persuaded himself that his vassals had been created for his good pleasure only, and were not human beings like himself. This belief made him extremely cruel and tyrannical, but his overweening pride was soon to be severely punished.

One day, shortly after the grain tithes had been paid, while the lord of Frohburg was away from home, a terrible earthquake suddenly shook the whole range of the Jura Mountains. The castle of Frohburg, unable to withstand the awful shock, although its owner proudly averred it would stand forever, was soon reduced to a heap of unsightly ruins, from which rose dense clouds of choking dust. Towers and battlements, halls and dungeons, were all laid low, and a messenger set off in great haste to apprise the Count of the utter destruction of his abode.

This emissary met his master on the bridge, where he breathlessly and tremblingly imparted his bad tidings. No sooner had the Count heard his report, than he flew into an awful passion, cursing and swearing so vehemently that all the people shrank away from him in horror. In his anger at his loss, and further enraged by his retainers’ evident reluctance to remain in the company of a blasphemer, the lord of Frohburg raised his right hand to heaven and threateningly cried,--

“As true as I am lord of the land, not one of you shall again till his fields, until my castle has been rebuilt by the work of your hands!”

At these words the distressed people groaned aloud, for the castle was a huge edifice, and many months of arduous labour would be necessary before it again rose in all its strength and magnificence. Forced to work without pay for their cruel lord, they would be doomed to starve to death with their wives and children, while the fields which had been so productive hitherto would lie fallow and bare.

While they still stood there in speechless dismay, a thunderbolt suddenly fell from a cloudless sky upon the cruel lord of Frohburg, who soon lay before them a blackened and lightning-scarred corpse. Thus, in the midst of his vassals, Providence punished the wicked man for his cruelty and blasphemy.

As this nobleman was the last of his race, the Castle of Frohburg was never rebuilt. It can still be seen, a mass of ruins, as it was left by the memorable earthquake of 1356, which made such a havoc among the buildings in the Jura mountains.

BASEL

Basel, the capital of the canton of the same name, was founded by the Romans before Christ. After serving as one of their military posts, it became a free town under the empire, and at the very beginning of the sixteenth century joined the Swiss Confederation.

The centre of a bishopric founded by Charlemagne, this city was already famous in his day for its churches, monasteries, and schools, although the present cathedral was built only two hundred years later. It suffered sorely from the great earthquake of 1356, when tradition asserts that the building rocked so portentously that a huge bell of pure silver was hurled from its spire straight into the Rhine. There it still lies, and on clear days can be seen shining deep down under the water. Sometimes, too, its sound can be heard there, for the Rhine spirits--who are all good Christians--ring it regularly at the appointed hours for prayer.

The old fortifications of the town have nearly all vanished, but the fourteenth-century Spalenthor still stands. Between that gate and the Spalenberg, the Spalen, a ghostly creature, is said to rush every stormy night. None of the inhabitants can describe it exactly, for they have only caught fleeting glimpses of it, although they have frequently heard it pass.

This ghost is variously designated as a sea-horse, a pig, a dragon, or a griffin, but if any one attempts to ascertain its exact nature, by looking out of the window when the sound of its flying footsteps is heard, he is duly punished by waking up on the morrow with a very swollen face. A bold spirit, who once recklessly thrust his head far out of the window to satisfy his curiosity, is said to have been stricken with such sudden and exaggerated inflammation that the window frame had to be removed before he could again draw in his head!

The two divisions of the town, on either side of the river, were long at feud, and this division was commemorated by a statue on the old bridge, which by means of a curious mechanism continually stuck out a derisive tongue at the people on the other side. This image, locally known as the “Lällenkönig” is now in the city museum. In reply to this insult the people of the opposite side are said to have set up a rival statue, which turned its back in the most contemptuous way to the famous Lällenkönig.[8]

[8] For this and other legends of Basel, see the author’s
“Legends of the Rhine.”

* * * * *

NOT far from the Summer Casino stands the St. Jacob monument, commemorating a battle of the same name fought in 1444. Tradition declares that thirty days before this fight, the people of Basel were warned of its approach by sudden noises high up in the air above them. First came a rush, as of mailed steeds; then a clash like that of contending armies, followed by a din of cries and groans. Although nothing was visible, the people knew full well that Satan’s ghostly train was already fighting in the air above them in anticipation of the coming carnage.

When the fight at St. Jacob really took place, Burkard of Landskron--whose ruined castle stands near Basel--sided with the French. He fought all day with such fury that when evening came and the battle was ended, he and his milk-white battle steed were all covered with blood. Gazing around him, Burkard saw the ground strewn with corpses, the grass and bushes drenched with blood, while the very brook ran red with gore.

The warrior, who delighted in warfare, gazed enraptured at this awful scene; then, patting his horse, he joyfully cried,--

“Ah, old fellow! you and I are bathing in roses to-day, are we not?”

These unfeeling words, which were answered by a gentle neigh from the weary steed, fell upon the dying ears of a brave Swiss, who had gone into battle echoing his companions’ dauntless cry, “Our souls to God, our bodies to the enemy!”

Raising himself feebly, he fixed dim, resentful eyes upon the cruel victor; then, recognising in him a bitter foe of his country, his heart swelled once more in violent anger. Too weak to rise and strike another blow with the sword which had done such good service that day, the Swiss fumbled around for a moment, then, seizing a stone dyed red with patriot blood, hurled it straight at Landskron, saying,--

“There, eat one of your roses, you fiend!”

The stone, flung with unerring aim, struck the warrior in the middle of his forehead, and he fell with a crash to the ground, bathed in his own life-blood. This last effort, however, entirely exhausted the patriot, who, after seeing his enemy fall, sank back on the blood-stained sward, where he breathed his last sigh.

The bravery of the small Swiss force which held out here, hour after hour, against an army twenty or thirty times greater, so surprised Louis XI. that he gladly made peace with the Swiss, who still consider this battle their Thermopylæ.

* * * * *

NOT far from the ruined castle of Landskron, and near the village of Ettingen on one of the spurs of the Jura mountains, are the remains of the old castle of Fürstenstein, the home of a lord of Rothberg in the fourteenth century.

A thoroughly virtuous knight, this nobleman married a good wife, and both were equally devoted to their only child, a charming little girl of about four years of age. One day the mother took the little maiden out into the forest, where she let her run about to fill her basket with wood-flowers, and with the tiny wild strawberries whose perfume and flavour are so delicious. The mother sat down in the shade of a big tree, where the little one came every few moments to exhibit some new treasure; but the Lady of Rothberg sprang to her feet in terror when a sharp cry rang suddenly through the air.

Rushing to the place where her child had stood a moment before, she now beheld a frightfully steep precipice, but when she leaned far over the edge, frantically calling the child, nothing but a loud echo replied.

Beside herself with grief, the unhappy mother rushed down the mountain path, wildly imploring the Virgin to protect her babe. On reaching the foot of the mountain, and the entrance to the ravine, she almost fainted with joy, for her little girl came running joyfully forward to meet her. The mother clasped the child rapturously to her breast, and when the first emotion was over, and she had assured herself that her darling was uninjured, she gently began to question her. The little maiden artlessly related that she had gone very near the edge of the precipice to pick a beautiful flower, and had suddenly fallen. But before she could touch the ground, she was caught in the arms of a beautiful woman, who gently set her down upon the soft grass, pointing out the red strawberries which grew there in profusion and which she had begun to pick for her father.

This miraculous rescue of their only child filled the parents’ hearts with such gratitude that they built a rock chapel on the spot where the little one fell. An image of the Virgin was placed in this building, which soon became a resort for pilgrims coming from far and from near to pray at the shrine of Maria im Stein. Later on, a Benedictine abbey, Mariastein, was erected near here; and a fine church now rises on the crag just above the rock-hewn commemorative chapel.

* * * * *

THE ruined castle of Waldenburg, near the village of the same name, was once the home of an exacting nobleman, who required such hard and continual labour from his numerous vassals, that they had no time to till the fields destined to supply their families with food.

One poor man had been kept so persistently at work for his lord, that his wife and children were in sore need. When a messenger came to require further service, he desperately seized a dish, and holding it out to him, declared he would work no more, unless that vessel were filled thrice a day with wholesome food for his starving family.

When the messenger gave this answer to the cruel lord, the latter immediately clapped the recalcitrant vassal into a damp prison, vowing he should remain there until he died miserably among the toads and other vermin which infested it.

The poor wife, driven almost frantic by the cries of her hungry children, painfully wended her way up to the castle one cold winter day, and meeting her master as he rode out of the gate on his way to the chase, fell on her knees in front of him, begging for her husband’s release.

The lord of Waldenburg, who did not even know the meaning of the word compassion, roughly bade her rise, threatening to trample her under foot like the rest of the dirt if she did not immediately get out of his way. But the woman still knelt on, pleading for her husband and for the hungry children who had no bread.

Motioning to his huntsman to give her one of the stones by the wayside, the lord now mockingly cried,--

“There is bread for your children. It will last all the longer because it is so hard; but when they have eaten it, you may come again, and I will give you some more of the same kind.”

This unfeeling remark proved too much for the outraged mother and wife. She sprang indignantly to her feet and cursed her master with trembling lips, saying that she wished his whole body might be turned into stone as hard and cold as his heart.

At that instant, the lord of Waldenburg felt a strange chill run through his veins, his muscles suddenly stiffened, and before he could move or even utter a sound, he and his steed were petrified. His vassals, seeing Heaven had avenged them, now rushed into the castle, freed the prisoners, took possession of all the money and food, and in passing out again taunted the stone image of the man who had wronged them so persistently.

This stone knight still mounts solemn guard near the entrance of his former castle, although wind and weather have so disintegrated the once hard rock that its primitive shape is now almost unrecognisable.

* * * * *

IN many parts of Switzerland, the noisy June bugs are known as thunder bugs. Near Basel, as well as at Ormond, the following amusing story is told of some simple peasants who dwelt in a deep valley. A long drought had made the soil so hard and dry that the people feared their harvests would be ruined unless they soon had rain. As their prayers and processions proved alike unavailing, they longed to try some more efficacious means of rain-making.

A joker, hearing their quandary, now gravely bade them go to Basel and buy a little thunder at the drug-store there, assuring them that if they only let it loose in their valley, the rain would soon follow. The peasants, hearing this, immediately sent a deputation to the city, and entering the largest and most fashionable apothecary shop, the rustic spokesman confidentially informed the clerk that he had come to buy some thunder.

The clerk, who was not devoid of humour, gravely asked a few leading questions, then went into the rear of the store, saying he would get what they wanted. Stepping out into the garden unseen, he caught a few June bugs, and packed them carefully in a large pill-box. This he wrapped up and solemnly delivered to the waiting peasants, making such a very small charge that they openly regretted not having known sooner that thunder could be purchased so cheap in Basel.

The men now set out on their return journey to the Frickthal, and as the apothecary had gravely charged them not to open the box until they reached their village, they passed the little parcel from hand to hand, weighed and shook it, and grinned at each other with delight when they heard a faint rumbling noise within it.

Their impatience to see what this thunder might look like so engaged their attention that they did not notice dark clouds looming up behind them, and when they reached the top of the mountain at the foot of which lay their village, they determined to wait no longer and opened the box. With a loud buzz and a bang, the June bugs, resenting their imprisonment and violent shaking, now flew, as luck would have it, directly over the village, while the deputation raced wildly down the mountain side with empty pill-box!

The people were all on the market-place ready to receive them, and as soon as they appeared, clamoured to see the thunder they had purchased. The men sheepishly confessed what they had done, but declared all would yet be right, because the thunder bugs had flown straight over the village, and the rain would doubtless soon follow. Fortunately for them, the first black cloud just then appeared over the top of the mountain, and the people, perceiving it, gave a loud shout of joy. In an almost incredibly short space of time, all the Frickthalers were obliged to take refuge in their dwellings, for the rain came down in torrents, drenching the soil which had been so parched, and thus saving all the people from the threatened famine.

AARGAU

In early days when men were simple-minded and pious, two lovely children were often seen hovering over the Aargau grain fields when the ears were just beginning to form. A boy and a girl, with golden curls waving over plump white shoulders, and gleaming white garments flowing down to the tiny feet which barely touched the swaying grain, this little pair flitted on from field to field, with dimpled hands outstretched as if in blessing.

Wherever they passed a golden gleam rested like a halo upon the land, where they were generally known as the Grain Angels, and people knew that a fine harvest was assured. These radiant little cherubs were the spirits of two little children, who, straying into a harvest field, lost their way and died there like the fabled Babes in the Woods.

* * * * *

THE people of Brugg once agreed to assemble on the next rainy day, and sallying forth in a body, plant an extensive oak forest near their quaint little city. As soon as the sky darkened, therefore, and the rain began to fall, they all went out, thrust sharp sticks into the damp ground, dropped acorns into the holes thus made, and pushing the dirt down with their feet, pressed it down hard. As men, women, and children took part in this sowing-bee, twelve acres were soon planted, and when the wet workers came back to town, the magistrates rewarded them by giving each a small wheaten roll.

The acorns thus consigned to the soil failed to grow because planted too deep, so the expedition was repeated on the following year, the seed being now laid in furrows instead of separate holes. This system of planting proving equally unsuccessful, the Brugg magistrates, on the third year, bade the inhabitants go forth into a neighbouring forest, dig up promising young trees, and plant them carefully on the spot where the future forest was to stand.

This third attempt, made in 1532, was turned into a sort of picnic by the merry children, who, singing in chorus, carried the young oaks to the appointed place, where each carefully planted the chosen tree. When they came home, the magistrates again gave each child a roll, and invited the older people to a grand public banquet where all drank to the success of the young oaks.

This time the trees throve apace, and on every anniversary of this famous oak-planting, the little ones march in gay procession all around the woods and come home brandishing green branches, to prove to their parents that the forest is doing well. This quaint procession of wands, or Ruthenzug, has been kept up for centuries, and we are told the Brugg school-children enjoy it to-day as much as any of their ancestors.

* * * * *

THE mineral springs at Baden were once under the protection of three wise women, who, although no one knew who they were or whence they came, were generally supposed to have inhabited the old castle of Stein.

Although usually on duty near the springs, these wise dames avoided being seen by the bathers, but if the water were defiled in any way, or if any of the rules were disregarded, they suddenly and mysteriously checked the flow of the healing waters, and did not allow another drop to run until the impurities were removed, or the wrong-doing ceased.

The wise women of Baden were particularly careful of the Verena spring, so called because the saint of that name once bathed in its waters. Into that basin they directed a stream of mineral waters of special potency when used by women and children. Sick babies plunged into this healing flood emerged rosy and well, and the women who came here to recover lost health or to secure the blessing of offspring, were sure soon to see the fulfilment of their dearest hopes.

The three guardian spirits of the Baden springs were so beautiful and benevolent that the people likened them to the Virgin, and at a loss for another appellation designated them the three Marys. Their memory is not only treasured at Baden, but it is also enshrined in a nursery rhyme, to which all German-speaking children are trotted in Switzerland.

“Rite, rite Rössli,
Ze Bade stoht e Schlössli,
Ze Bade stoht e güldi Hus,
Es lueged drei Mareie drus.
Die eine spinnt Side,
Die andere schnützelt Chride,
Die dritt schnit Haberstrau,
B’hüet mir Gott das Chindle au!”

* * * * *

AT Wettingen, the building now occupied by the Normal School was once an old abbey founded in 1227 by Henry, Count of Rapperswyl. This nobleman was so good and pious that he spent most of his time in pilgrimages, thereby winning the nickname of The Wanderer. Returning from the Holy Land, he once found himself in imminent danger of perishing in the waves, and fixing his eyes upon a bright star which suddenly shone through a break in the stormy sky, he made a solemn vow to build a monastery at Wettingen should his life be spared.

This prayer was evidently heard, for the storm soon abated and the ship came safely to land. When the Count of Rapperswyl therefore reached home, he founded the abbey, which, in memory of his vow, and of the star he saw at sea, was called Maria Stella, or Meer Stern, the Star of the Sea.

* * * * *

THE handsome old castle of Hallwyl, the ancestral home of a noble Swiss family of the same name, stands on the road between Lucerne and Lenzburg, near the Lake of Hallwyl.

A lord of Hallwyl had three sons, and as the two elder ones died early, the third had to drop his clerical studies and prepare to fulfil his duties as future head of his house. Although this young man duly married and had a fine son, it seems that he never ceased to regret his interrupted priestly career, but, surrounded by monks of all kinds, spent his time in religious practices and in poring over homilies and church records.

None too strong to begin with, these long vigils and fasts so undermined his health, that he finally became dangerously ill. One day, fearing that he was about to die, he vowed he would send his son on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land should he recover. True to this promise, the lord of Hallwyl no sooner left his bed than he recalled his son, who was fighting under Rudolf of Hapsburg, and bade him set out immediately for the Holy Sepulchre. The young man, who thought his services more needed at home, nevertheless prepared to obey, for a vow was a sacred matter and children in those days rarely ventured to question parental orders.

At parting the old lord of Hallwyl broke his ring in two, telling the young man that when death overtook him he would leave his half to his father confessor. The latter would administer the estates carefully, giving them up to none but the man who established his right to them by producing the other half of the broken ring.

It took twenty years for John of Hallwyl to fulfil his father’s vow. During that time the old man died, and the monks took possession of castle and estates. They were so determined not to give them up again, however, that they not only announced the death of young Hallwyl, but turned out of his castle an orphaned relative to whom he had been betrothed in her infancy according to his mother’s wish. Alone and friendless,--for she refused to yield to the monks’ suggestions and enter a convent,--this young girl would have died of want, had not the lord of Müllinen, a friend of her betrothed, offered her a home with his mother and sister in his own castle.

Clémence gratefully accepted this kind proposal, and as she had been a mere babe when John of Hallwyl started out on his perilous journey, she did not prove faithless to him when she unconsciously fell in love with his noble friend.

Now it happened that John of Hallwyl was not dead, as many supposed. On the contrary, he was even then on his way home to claim his estates. The monks, hearing this by accident, and determined to keep his property, hired highwaymen to lie in wait for him and murder him before he could reach Hallwyl and make himself known. This bold plan might have succeeded, had not the lord of Müllinen chanced to hunt near the place where the highwaymen were ambushed. Hearing the noise of a fight, he spurred rapidly forward, and perceiving a knight on the point of succumbing to a large force, made such a gallant charge that the robbers fled.

When Müllinen bent over the prostrate form of the man he had rescued, he found him grievously wounded, and had him carefully carried home. There, when the traces of blood had been gently removed, he recognised in the stranger his long-absent friend. Of course, he and the ladies now vied with each other in caring for Hallwyl, who, becoming aware during his convalescence of the affection existing between his friend and betrothed, generously released her and bade them be happy together.

As soon as he was sufficiently recovered he presented himself before the monks to claim his inheritance. They, however, pretended not to recognise him, but politely declared that if he could produce a fragment of ring exactly fitting the one entrusted to their keeping by the last lord of Hallwyl, they would gladly surrender the castle to him.

Hearing this, John of Hallwyl immediately presented the broken ring, and the monks sent for the casket in which they preserved the token left by the deceased. To John’s surprise and indignation, however, it failed to fit his half of the circlet, and the monks called him an impostor and dismissed him empty-handed.

Hallwyl and his friend now rode back to Müllinen, determined to appeal to the feudal court of Aargau for justice. There, both parties were called upon to expose their case and take their oath, but as the judge was entirely at a loss to decide which was right, he decreed the matter should be settled by a judiciary duel between John of Hallwyl and a champion selected by the monks.

On the appointed day, and in the presence of all the lords and ladies of the country, Hallwyl met his opponent in the lists, and after a fearful struggle and the display of almost fabulous strength and courage succeeded in defeating him. Then, while the monks’ champion lay where he had fallen, slowly dying from his many wounds, he suddenly confessed aloud that he and a band of assassins had been hired to waylay and kill Hallwyl on his return home.

Before he could add another word he expired, but the monks one and all solemnly declared that the poor man was raving, for they had always been willing to relinquish possession of the Hallwyl estates to any one who produced the right token. The mendacity of this statement was soon proved, however, for a dying jeweller confessed that he had been hired to make an exact copy of the broken ring, but altering its shape in such a way that the fragment in the young man’s possession would fail to fit it.

John of Hallwyl, having thus recovered his estates, soon went off to war again, and only when weary of fighting came home, married, and brought up several sons whose descendants still live in different parts of the country to-day.

The ring of Hallwyl is noted in Swiss art and literature, and the above story forms the theme of poems, paintings, and historical romances, which, bearing an unmistakable mediæval imprint, have a peculiar and enduring charm of their own.

* * * * *

AT the foot of the Wülpelsberg, on the right of the beautiful Aare valley, are the Schinznach sulphur baths, so frequently visited by French and Swiss sufferers from skin diseases.

One of the favourite walks from this point leads up the mountain to the ruins of Hapsburg Castle, the most famous of all Swiss strongholds. Founded in 1020, it is the cradle of the imperial family of Austria, in whose hands it remained for more than two centuries. Then, by papal decree, it passed out of their keeping, and was Swiss property until the Canton of Aargau presented it as a wedding gift to Rudolf, the prince imperial, on his marriage with a Belgian princess. Only one crumbling tower of the famous castle now stands, but the ruins are surrounded by such a halo of history, legend, and romance, that they are particularly attractive to all visitors.

The founders of this castle, the Counts of Altenburg, trace their genealogy back to the seventh century, when their ancestors ruled in Alsacia and Alemannia. Rich and influential even at this early date, these noblemen sought to extend their possessions by every means in their power. Their repeated encroachments upon their neighbours’ dominions were not accepted without protest, however, and when the emperor, in answer to frantic appeals for justice, bade them relinquish the territory to which they could lay no rightful claim, they assumed so defiant an attitude that an armed struggle soon ensued. The upshot of this conflict was that the grasping noblemen were despoiled of the main part of their estates, forced to leave Alsacia, and they took refuge in Helvetia, where they had already acquired some property. There they built new homes at Wohlen, Altenburg, and Muri, where, by fair means and by foul, they continued their policy of self-aggrandisement until their shattered fortunes were fully restored.

The sun of prosperity shining brightly over their heads once more, these noblemen again openly defied the imperial authority. But, taught by experience, they wisely resolved to prepare for future emergencies by erecting an impregnable fortress, in which they and their dependents could successfully resist even the emperor’s forces.

Gazing about them for the most favourable site for their projected stronghold, the Altenburgs finally decided upon the Wülpelsberg. Tradition relates, however, that while they were still hesitating where to build their future castle, Count Radbod of Altenburg went out hawking one day. While he was flying his birds in the Aare valley, one of them got away, and refusing to obey his call, flew off to a neighbouring height. Loath to lose his favourite bird, Count Radbod set out in pursuit of it, scrambled up the wooded slopes of the Wülpelsberg, nor paused until he caught the truant hawk, which was perched on the topmost ridge of the mountain.

The bird duly secured and hooded, Count Radbod--who had been too intent upon its capture to pay any attention to his surroundings--looked about him to find his bearings, and remained spell-bound before the magnificent view he now beheld.

At his feet lay the Birrfeld,--a plain where Constantius Chlorus fought a bloody battle against the Alemans in 303. Many thriving villages now dot this part of the country, and their gables and church spires rise here and there among flourishing fruit trees. But the modern traveller’s glance rests by preference upon the peaceful hamlet where Pestalozzi, founder of the kindergarten and prince of educators, spent the last few years of a useful life.