Chapter VI: Part 6

Overtaken on her way down the mountain by a sudden thunder-storm, the girl sought shelter in the hut of her lover, a herdsman to whom she confided all her sorrows. A generous, noble-hearted fellow, Alois no sooner heard of his sweetheart’s destitution and disappointment than he ran to get a small cheese, the only food he had in the house, and forced her to accept it for her starving mother. The storm over, Magdalen set out again with lightened heart, but her foot suddenly slipping on the wet grass, she let go the precious cheese, which, bounding from rock to rock, rolled over the edge of a precipice, into whose depths it disappeared.

Magdalen’s tears now flowed afresh; but while she sat there wringing her hands in despair, she suddenly felt a twitch at her dress. Looking down, she there beheld one of the tiny mountain spirits, carrying a small cheese upon his shoulder, and holding a bundle of medicinal herbs in his hand.

“Weep no longer,” the little man gently said. “The hard-hearted owner of the Kastelnalp shall be duly punished for his refusal to help you. In the meantime take these herbs, which will restore your mother’s health, and I am sure both you and she will enjoy this cheese.”

The little man then vanished, leaving his gifts behind him, and Magdalen hastened joyfully home. Her first care was to prepare herb tea for the patient, whose health was miraculously restored as soon as she had tasted it. But when Magdalen tried to cut the cheese the kind-hearted gnome had given her, she was amazed to find it was a solid lump of pure gold! She and her mother were so rich with this treasure that they soon purchased the Bründlisalp, where Magdalen and Alois, a happy husband and wife, tended their flocks together.

As for the hard-hearted owner of the Kastelnalp, he was justly punished for his lack of charity. The sudden rain-storm, loosening the rocks above his pasture, started a landslide which covered his alp with such a mass of loose stones that not a blade of grass has ever been seen on it since. Besides this, a fragment of rock struck the owner as he fled, and breaking both his legs, left him so badly crippled that he never walked without crutches again.

* * * * *

AS picturesque as Mount Pilatus, although in a different way, and far more accessible for pedestrians, the Rigi has long been a centre of attraction for travellers from all parts of the world. Before the two railways were built, which now carry passengers up to the mountain-top in less than an hour and a half, ascensions were frequently made on foot or on horseback. This climb was cheerfully undertaken in hopes of enjoying the marvellous views obtainable from many points on the mountain, and the vast panorama, with changing hues at sunset and sunrise, which can best be seen from the mountain’s crest.

The slopes of the Rigi are now all covered with orchards and rich pastures, for although snow frequently falls on its summit even in mid-summer, it never lingers there long, owing to the warm rays of the sun striking directly upon it. There are countless points of interest to be seen on this mountain, but the most characteristic of all its legends is connected with the gushing spring of ice-cold water at Rigi-Kaltbad.

We are told that in the days when Austrian bailiffs still exercised their tyranny over the land, three lovely sisters dwelt in the Arth valley at the foot of the Rigi. Not content with despoiling these defenceless maidens of all their worldly goods, the bailiff of Schwanau, although aware that they loathed him, persecuted them with his unwelcome attentions, and even attempted to rob them of their honour.

In their terror lest they should become victims of this evil man’s lust, the sisters fled from Arth one night, and boldly rushed into the dense forest which then covered all the slopes of the mountain. The wild beasts abounding in that region seemed to these helpless maidens far less to be dreaded than the human beast whose pursuit they were trying to escape. They therefore bravely threaded their way up the Rigi by the dim light of the stars, nor paused in their flight until they reached a sheltered plateau high up on the mountain.

Exposed to the southern sun, and provided with a spring of crystalline water flowing plentifully from the rocks near by, this place seemed so remote from mankind, and so fitted by nature to serve as a safe retreat, that the three sisters determined to spend the rest of their lives there. They therefore built a little hut of bark stripped from the trunks of fallen trees and of wattled branches, and gathering moss for their beds, spent summer and winter there in utter seclusion. The berries and edible roots collected on the mountain side were their only food, while the sparkling water from the fountain served as their sole beverage. In their gratitude for escaping from their cruel persecutor, the sisters, who had always been remarkable for their piety, spent most of their days and part of their nights in praising God for their deliverance, fervently praying that they might live and die in the service of their Maker.

Although entirely cut off from mankind,--for no one ever ventured so far up the mountain then,--and notwithstanding the cold and the other privations they had to endure, the sisters dwelt here year after year, without a murmur over their hard fate. Such was their piety, that the angels kept constant watch over them, and finally bore their sinless souls to heaven, leaving three lambent flames to hover over their tenantless bodies.

In the meantime no one knew what had become of the three girls who had vanished so mysteriously from the Arth valley, and their former friends, gazing up at Mount Rigi, little suspected that those tender maidens were even then living like hermits far above their heads. When the sisters died, however, the miraculous lights hovering over their bodies were distinctly perceived from various parts of the lake and valley, greatly rousing the curiosity of all who saw them. Night after night the lights twinkled up there in undiminished brightness, until the stars paled and the sun rose, flooding mountain, lake, and valley with its golden beams.

Thinking some holy hermit must have built his cell up there, and wishing to satisfy their curiosity as well as secure his blessing, some herdsmen determined to make their way up the mountain in spite of pathless forests and dense undergrowth. After a long and arduous climb, they finally reached the plateau, where they were amazed to find a hut showing signs of prolonged occupation, but now fast falling into ruins. In searching for further traces of the supposed hermit, they suddenly discovered the bodies lying side by side near the ever-flowing spring, and beheld the three flames float slowly upward and vanish into the blue sky.

Awed by this miracle, the herdsmen reverently buried the three corpses, and over the spot where they rested, built a rustic chapel which was first dedicated to the Virgin Mary and then to the archangel St. Michael. A church now stands on this hallowed spot, which is frequently visited by pilgrims, as well as by those who come to Rigi-Kaltbad for health or for pleasure. The spring, which still gushes from the rock, was long known as the Schwesternborn, in memory of the pious sisters, whose sinless lives and death cast a glamour of romance over that spot.

* * * * *

THE ruins of the Castle of Schwanau, on the island of the same name, in the Lake of Lowertz, at the foot of the Rigi, are connected with the above legend, because here lived the cruel persecutor from whom the pious sisters fled. Not content with driving these girls away from home, the Lord of Schwanau once kidnapped a maiden from Arth, whom he carried by force into this castle, where she vainly tried to escape from his clutches. This lady, however, was not entirely destitute of male protectors, and when her brothers heard how she had been treated, they sallied forth in anger and slew her ravisher. Then calling the freemen of Schwyz to their aid, they captured and destroyed the castle, leaving it a mass of smoking ruins, with only one tower standing to serve as a monument of the Lord of Schwanau’s crimes and of their revenge.

It is said that although the cruel kidnapper was slain nearly six hundred years ago, his spirit can still find no rest. Every year, at midnight, on the anniversary of the day when the frantic girl rushed wildly through the castle to escape his pursuit, a flash of lightning and a deep roll of thunder herald his return to the scene of his crime. Suddenly he appears in the midst of the ruins, where he stands, quaking with fear, until a maiden, clad in white and bearing a flaming torch, rushes out of the tower. Then the bailiff utters a blood-curdling cry of terror, and turning, races madly from one part of the castle to the other, closely pursued by his innocent victim. Over crumbling stones, up and down the ruined tower, through former passages and along ruined battlements, pursuer and pursued hasten with flying steps, until, seeing no other hope of escape, the Lord of Schwanau, with a last mad shriek, plunges from the parapet into the lake, whose dark waters close with a dull splash over his head. Then the avenging maiden vanishes, not to be seen again until the hour strikes when she must once more sally forth to torture the bailiff for his heinous crime.

* * * * *

ANOTHER legend, also connected with the Lake of Lowertz, claims that a church once stood very near the edge of the water. There, while the women and children of the neighbourhood knelt within its holy precincts, Sunday after Sunday, dutifully reciting their prayers, the men sat on the church steps, smoking, drinking, and gambling. Such was their lack of respect for religion and the divine service, that they even swore out loud, and flung their dice down upon the stones with such violence that the noise often drowned all sounds of prayer and praise.

These wicked men, who mocked at the priest whenever he tried to make them change their evil ways, were, however, to be sorely punished for their sacrilegious behaviour. One Sunday, while gambling on the church steps as usual, a sudden storm swept over the little lake, and before they could gather up their dice or scramble to their feet, a huge wave swept right over their heads. At the same moment the church sank down into the depths of the lake, where it still lies many fathoms under water. Some of the local boatmen claim that the top of the church spire can still be seen when the water is clear, and that at the wonted hour for worship the bells can always be heard ringing a soft and musical peal. Then the sound of prayer and praise becomes faintly audible, and very keen ears can distinguish a rattle of dice and muttered oaths. The women and children are said to be perfectly happy in their endless adoration, but the men are compelled to continue for ever the sacrilegious game which has become prolonged and unbearable torture.

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LEAVING the city of Stanz and going up the Aa valley, toward the Titlis, which forms the boundary between the cantons of Uri and Bern, you pass Engelberg, and the Sürenenalp, of which the following characteristic legends are told.

Count Conrad von Seldenbüren, in a moment of great danger, made a solemn vow that he would build a monastery should he escape unharmed. Saved from his imminent peril, he immediately prepared to keep his promise, and with that purpose in view, set out with a number of his friends and retainers to select a site for the projected building.

Riding along the valley, he drew rein from time to time to admire the lovely landscape, and to inhale the perfumed breezes wafted down from the surrounding mountains. There were so many charming spots that Conrad, quite bewildered by the choice, finally breathed a fervent inward prayer for divine guidance. Looking up a moment later, he suddenly beheld an angel host sweep down through the blue sky. They alighted on a neighbouring eminence, where the celestial choir intoned a hymn of praise, their voices faintly reaching Conrad’s ear and filling his heart with ineffable bliss.

The hymn ended, the angels again rose up into heaven; but Conrad, overjoyed by the miracle vouchsafed him, loudly declared that not only should the monastery be built on the hill upon which the angels had rested, but that it should ever after be known as the Engelberg, or Angels’ Mountain.

Founded in 1119, the Engelberg Abbey soon became rich and prosperous, for the monks owned all the pastures around there, and had so many head of cattle that they stored away countless cheeses in their great cellars. The choicest of all their grazing grounds were, however, on the Sürenenalp, where they sent their herdsmen with their finest cattle.

One of these men is said to have developed a special affection for a silvery-white sheep entrusted to his care, which followed him wherever he went, and so became a great pet. His fondness for the creature became such that he finally baptized it with holy water stolen from the monastery chapel. He did this, hoping to preserve it from all harm; but no sooner was the sacrilegious ceremony accomplished than the silvery-fleeced sheep, transformed into a raging monster, fiercely attacked shepherds and flocks, and drove them away from the rich pastures. Such was the fear inspired by this creature--which no weapon could wound--that the peasants, one and all, refused to venture up the mountain, and even the much frequented Sürenen Pass was entirely deserted.

The monks of Engelberg, unable to use their pastures themselves, or to derive any income by renting them out to others, finally sold them for a mere song to the people of Uri. The latter, thrifty in the extreme, could not bear the thought that the fine grass on the Sürenenalp was going to waste, so they tried various devices to kill or capture the demoniacal sheep. Weapons, prayers, and exorcisms proving equally unavailing, they finally bespoke the good offices of a travelling scholar, who had studied the Black Art under no less capable an instructor than Satan himself.

After sundry liberal potations of the warm southern wine brought by the Urners from Italy over the famous St. Gothard and Furka passes, and after duly securing a pocketful of gold, the magician gave the people minute directions, assuring them that if carefully carried out they would settle the obnoxious sheep for ever.

By his directions, the Urners selected a snow-white bull, which was fed with the milk of one cow during the first year, and with that of two during the second. Increasing the rations of this animal at the rate of a cow per year, the bull in the ninth year was consuming the entire produce of nine cows, and had grown to a prodigious size.

The ninth year ended, a virgin from Attinghausen, carefully arrayed in bridal white, was told to lead the chosen bull to the Sürenenalp. Her little hand passed through the ring set in the bull’s nose, this maiden slowly wended her way up the mountain, followed by the bull, which obeyed her slightest touch. When they reached the choicest pasture, the maiden suddenly let go her charge, for the monster sheep stood very near and about to attack her. At the same moment the bull thundered past her with lowered horns, and rushing toward the christened sheep began a terrible fight. The mountain shook and groaned beneath the trampling feet of the animals, which wrestled together with locked horns, while black clouds loomed up over the pasture, blotting out the bright sunshine, and making the air oppressively hot and close.

The darkness soon grew so intense that the people in the valley could no longer distinguish either trembling maiden or struggling monsters. All at once a dazzling flash of lightning rent the black clouds asunder, and it was instantly followed by a peal of thunder so loud and prolonged that the peasants, ducking their heads between their knees in terror, tightly closed their eyes.

When they again ventured to look up, they fairly gasped with amazement, for the blue sky again arched above the alp, the storm clouds were rapidly drifting away, and golden sunbeams flooded the spot where bull and sheep had met.

No trace of cattle or maiden being visible, the peasants, after some hesitation, timidly ventured up the mountain to see what had become of both. On the grass they found a bloody and trampled mound of flesh, which upon investigation proved to be the remains of the accursed sheep, but the maiden had vanished for ever, leaving no trace. On the banks of the Aawasser, quite near its source, they further discovered the body of the snow-white bull, which, having drank too greedily of the ice-cold waters while overheated from his exertions, had met with a sudden but natural death.

Since then, the place where the bull expired has been known as the Bull’s Stream, or the Steersbrook, and cows, sheep, and goats have feasted unmolested upon the luscious pastures on the Sürenenalp. Besides, in grateful recognition for the white bull’s services, the people of Uri placed his head upon a shield, decreeing that ever after the head of a bull should grace the official seal of the canton of Uri and form its sole coat of arms.

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AT the northern extremity of the canton of Uri, and at the point where the Lake of Lucerne makes a sudden southward bend, rises the Seelisberg, renowned alike for its beautiful scenery and rich pastures. Here once dwelt a peasant who, having won the good-will of the mountain dwarfs, often received their help. The herdsman, in return for their favours, lavished upon them the best of all he had, and when called away by urgent business, often left them in charge of châlet and herd.

The mountain dwarfs could always be trusted to see to everything, provided the Föhn, or south wind, did not blow. But whenever the breath of that strong wind swept over the glaciers, they one and all crept far down into the bowels of the earth; whence they did not emerge until it ceased to rage.

Once, while the herdsman was on the opposite side of the lake, the Föhn suddenly broke loose with such fury that although he made frantic efforts to cross the water, it was four whole days before the waves subsided enough to enable him to return home. During all that time the dwarfs had cowered down in the depths of the earth; so nearly all the cattle had perished from hunger and thirst. When the peasant entered his stables and saw this sad state of affairs, he tore his hair, and in his despair even cursed his little friends. The latter, who in ordinary times would have resented the slightest approach to bad language, patiently bore all his reviling, and when he was somewhat cooler, offered to teach him the art of making cheese from sweet milk. This would enable him to use much produce generally lost because it did not thicken in time for use.

The herdsmen, on hearing this offer, reluctantly admitted that if it were possible to make cheese from sweet milk, he might yet retrieve his fortunes. So the dwarfs bade him kill his old goat, showed him how to curdle milk by using its stomach, as rennet, and taught him to make the excellent cheese for which the Seelisberg is still noted. Thanks to the secret revealed by the repentant dwarfs, the peasant soon became rich again, and when he died at a good old age, he left behind him fine pastures, countless heads of cattle, and the invaluable receipt which he had learned from his little friends, and which his descendants still use.

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IN going over the Klausen Pass, and in crossing the boundary of the cantons of Glarus and Uri, one is reminded of the famous old quarrel concerning this frontier. Both cantons once claimed the best pastures along it, and as the herdsmen often came to blows over this matter, it was finally arranged to settle the dispute once for all.

The jury before whom the matter was laid, composed of the most honest and influential citizens in both cantons, decreed that as the matter could not be settled satisfactorily otherwise, it should be decided by a race. According to their minute directions, each canton was to select a cock and a champion. On an appointed day, at their respective cocks’ first crow, these champions were to start from Altorf and the Linth valley, and running with all their might, fix the boundary line for ever on the spot where they finally met. This wise decree pleased both cantons; cocks and champions were duly chosen, and the day for the race was eagerly expected.

The people of Glarus, thinking their rooster would be most likely to wake early if well fed and tended, lavished every care upon him, while those of Uri kept theirs half starved, declaring he would sleep little if hungry and thirsty.

When fall came and the time appointed for the race, the Urner’s conjectures proved correct, for their skinny rooster awoke at the very first gleam of dawn. His hoarse crow had scarcely been uttered, when their champion set out from Altorf for his race to the frontier.

Over in Glarus, however, matters were less promising, for while all the people of the Linth valley stood in expectant silence around their cock, he slept on and on, until all the changing tints of dawn had coloured the sky in turn, and the sun rose triumphant above the horizon. Then he gave a lusty crow; but although the Glarus champion ran his best, he had set out so long after his rival that he soon saw him coming rapidly down the Grat.

When they met, the Urner triumphantly cried: “Here is the boundary!”

But the Glarner, pleading for his community, said: “Neighbour, I pray thee, be so just as to grant me a bit of the fine pasture land thou hast acquired by good luck.”

At first the Urner would not consent, but as his antagonist continued to plead with gentle importunity, he finally exclaimed: “Well, friend, thou shalt have as much ground as thou canst carry me over!”

The overjoyed man from Glarus now picked up his opponent, and although the latter was heavy, and the road led up a steep hill, toiled valiantly onward until he sank down lifeless far up the slope. By his heroic efforts this man thus won a considerable piece of pasture land for his fellow-citizens, who, in grateful memory of his efforts in their behalf, buried him on the spot where he fell, and still speak of his feat of strength with wonder and admiration.

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THE marvellous St. Gothard Railway, which cost ten years of persistent labour, crosses almost countless tunnels and bridges, and gives the traveller an opportunity to see some of the finest and wildest scenery in the world. At Altorf it passes the Capuchin Monastery, in connection with which the following story is told.

The monks, in olden times, lived on a very friendly footing with the people all around there, until one of them, meeting a pretty girl on a lonely path, declared he must have the bunch of Alpine flowers she wore on her breast, and a kiss besides. The peasant maiden, who had picked the flowers for her lover, and who was far from expecting such behaviour on the part of one of the monks, gave a loud shriek when he attempted to secure the bouquet and salute her by force.

At the same instant the ground shook, a wide crevice appeared, whence rose a cloud of smoke. Then a slip knot suddenly closed around the neck of the monk, who was dragged down into the abyss, which closed over him with an ominous crash! Since then, if we are to believe the chronicles, no monk from the Capuchin convent has ever dared raise his eyes to any of the girls of the town, or to exchange even a conventional greeting with them.

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ONE of the tunnels crossed by the railroad, is near a ravine which is known as the Pfaffensprung or the Monk’s Leap, and owes its name to the following legend. A wicked monk once kidnapped a young girl, and was fleeing with her through the mountains, when he suddenly discovered that he was pursued. To escape from his would-be captors, and retain possession of the girl he had carried off, this monk ran to the edge of the Reuss. There, seizing her in his arms, he took a desperate leap, and--helped by the Devil--landed safely on the other side! According to some versions of the story, the monk was none other than the Evil One himself, for it is claimed no one else could have leaped across a chasm which measures no less than twenty-two feet at this place.

* * * * *

THE old-fashioned stage road which winds its way over the St. Gothard, passes through Schoellenen, Goeschenen (the entrance to the St. Gothard tunnel), and over the new Devil’s Bridge. This is built across the Reuss at a point where steep rocks tower above and below it on all sides, and where the scenery is extremely wild and impressive.

From the new bridge one can see the remains of a more ancient structure, of which the following legend is told, as well as of all old bridges built in dangerous or difficult places, such as that of Pont-la-Ville over the Sarine in Fribourg, and the one in the ravine of the Morge in the Valais.

Already in very olden times the people of Uri had discovered that if they could only establish a safe road over the St. Gothard mountain they would be able to earn many a penny by trading with Italy. They therefore spared neither pains nor expense, and built one foot after another of the road, even piercing the hard rock in one spot to make what is still known as the Urner Loch, or Hole of Uri. Countless apparently insurmountable obstacles were gradually overcome, and the road, which had been begun on both sides of the mountain, was rapidly drawing close together near the banks of Reuss. There, however, the builders paused appalled on either bank, for it seemed quite impossible to bridge the awful chasm near the falls.

A meeting was therefore called at Goeschenen, where, although there was no lack of talking, smoking, and drinking, no satisfactory decision could be reached. A stranger, clad in black, with broad-brimmed hat and bold heron feather, sat at a neighbouring table and listened attentively to this discussion. Finally, seeing the meeting about to break up, he drew near the talkers, and taking a seat beside the principal magistrate in front of the fire, announced that he was a famous builder, and could span the stream before morning. He even offered to show them a fine bridge there at dawn, on the next day, provided they were willing to pay his price.

One and all now exclaimed that nothing he could ask would seem too much, so the stranger in black quickly responded,--

“Very well, then, it is a bargain! To-morrow you shall have your bridge, but in payment I shall claim the first living creature which passes over it. Here is my hand upon it!”

Saying these words, he seized the hand of the astonished magistrate beside him, and before any one could add another word, disappeared. The people gazed at one another in silence for a moment, then made furtive signs of the cross. As soon as the chief magistrate could speak, he loudly declared the stranger must be his Satanic Majesty in person! In support of this assertion, he declared that the stranger, while sitting in front of the fire, had boldly thrust his feet right into the red-hot coals, where he kept them while talking, as if the heat were agreeable to him; and added that he had distinctly felt sharp claws when the man in black shook hands with him to close the bargain.

All now shuddered with fear, and a general wail of terror arose. But a tailor who was present at the meeting, promptly bade his fellow-citizens fear naught, for he would settle the bill with their architect on the morrow. This offer was gladly accepted, the meeting was speedily dissolved, and all hastened home, because none of them cared to be out after dark while still under the spell of their recent encounter with the Spirit of Evil. That night no one slept in the neighbourhood, for although the sky had been clear when they went to bed, a sudden storm arose and raged with fury until morning.

Amid the roll of thunder, incessant flashes of vivid lightning, and violent gusts of wind, they heard the splitting and falling of rocks, which seemed to roll all the way down the steep mountain side and crash into the valley. But when morning came, no signs of storm were left, and as soon as the sun had risen and they again dared venture out, all rushed forth in a body to see what had happened. When they drew near the Reuss, they could not sufficiently express their wonder and admiration, for a fine stone bridge arched boldly over the swift stream.

On the opposite side stood the black-garbed stranger, grinning fiendishly and encouraging the people by word and gesture to test his bridge by walking across it. Just then the tailor appeared, carrying a large bag. He advanced as if to cross first, but instead of setting foot upon the structure, deftly opened his bag, from which escaped rats and mice, closely followed by a few cats.

The Devil, for it was he, gave a yell of rage when he saw himself thus outwitted, and, forgetting the part he had played until then, cast off his disguise and ran down Goeschenen for a huge rock, which he intended to hurl at the bridge so as to wreck it entirely before any other living creature could cross.

On his way back, however, Satan met a little old woman, who, frightened by his black looks, made a sign of the cross which caused him to drop his burden and beat a hasty retreat into his own realm. To this day, however, the people still point out the huge boulder in which the marks of Satan’s claws are still visible, and which is known as the Devil’s Stone.

According to another version, the Devil no sooner saw himself outwitted than he seized handfuls of rock which he hurled at the bridge. But these missiles were all deflected by a cross which the tailor planted in the middle of the structure as soon as the animals reached the other side. These big stones now lie scattered in the bed of the Reuss, and around the pillars of the bridge, where, to the Devil’s constant chagrin, they only serve to strengthen his construction.

To avenge himself in a slight measure, however, the Evil One posted one of his own imps in this valley. When travellers pass, this demon pounces down upon them unseen, snatches their hats off their heads, and with a slight mocking whistle tosses them into the middle of the stream. This imp, known as the Hat Fiend, or Hut Schelm, still haunts the valley, although centuries have passed since the Devil played the part of engineer for the people of Uri.

TESSIN

A judge of Bellinzona, known far and wide for his unswerving honesty, was wont to ride daily to Magadino to attend court there and mete out strict justice to all who appeared before him.

Although this was long years ago, when most judges openly accepted bribes, this particular magistrate could never be bought, and while the innocent loudly praised him, all wrong-doers hated him cordially.

Confirmed thieves and habitual criminals were particularly angry at his mode of procedure; so they finally decided it would be well to waylay the upright judge one dark night on his homeward journey, and end his blameless career by a foul murder.

Three young men therefore registered a solemn oath to kill the magistrate, and posting themselves in ambush behind the rocks by the roadside, they impatiently awaited the appearance of their victim. Toward midnight a clatter of hoofs was heard on the stony pathway, and the lurking assassins, peering cautiously forth, beheld the judge galloping toward them, preceded and followed by three armed horsemen. The three highwaymen, who had expected to see the judge alone or in company of one servant only, feeling loath to attack a force so superior to their own, allowed the judge to pass by unmolested, and postponed their attempt until the morrow. Then, reinforced by six of their evil companions, they again lay in wait for the incorruptible magistrate.

But instead of rushing out to attack him as soon as he drew near, they cowered low in fear, for their expected victim was escorted by a troop of twelve armed men, riding six before and six behind him. The crime was deferred by unanimous if tacit consent until the next day, when six more ruffians joined the murderers, to accomplish their wicked purpose without further delay.

Again they waited and listened, and again their hearts beat fast at the sound of approaching horsemen; but their hands dropped powerless to their sides on perceiving the judge ride rapidly past them with an escort of twenty-four men!

Convinced that their plans had been revealed to the man they hated, the murderers now resolved to follow him home, to discover which men formed his body-guard, and if possible to find the informer or at least secure the connivance of the horsemen by means of large bribes. They therefore noiselessly pursued the little cavalcade, and saw it come to a sudden halt in front of the judge’s house. There the magistrate slowly dismounted, gave the bridle of his weary steed to a waiting servant, and entered his house without saying a word or making a sign to the horsemen standing all around him.

As the door slammed shut, the servant led the horse away to the stable, and the mounted escort suddenly vanished into thin air. Then only, the amazed highwaymen became aware that the judge had been guarded by angelic spirits, detailed to watch over his safety, but of whose presence he was evidently not aware. This discovery filled their hearts with such awe that they never again attempted to lay violent hands upon him; but one of their number, overcome by remorse, finally went to seek him, and confessing their evil intentions, humbly begged his pardon for the projected crime.

The judge, who was as merciful as he was just, freely forgave this man; but, relying upon divine protection in case of need, he continued to mete out justice as before, and rode home alone when his day’s work was over. No harm ever befell him, and it is said that when his upright career on earth was ended, the invisible body-guard escorted him to the great tribunal, where the verdict awarded to him was: “Well done, thou good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”

SCHAFFHAUSEN

In olden times, when the Alemans first invaded Switzerland, they practised the bloody rites of their religion at the Falls of the Rhine, near Schaffhausen, and sacrificed many white horses to the god of the Rhine. These steeds were driven into the water some distance above the cataract, and in spite of their frantic efforts were swept over the brink by the rapid current.

Not long ago, horse-shoes could still be seen in the cracks of the rocks near the waterfall, and even now, on moonlight nights or on misty days, the ghosts of these sacrificed steeds can still be seen, rearing and plunging in the waters, and wildly tossing their snow-white manes. These wraiths are most clearly discerned during the night from Friday to Saturday, because it was then that they were offered up in sacrifice to the old heathen gods.

A ghostly chariot, drawn by white oxen, was also seen formerly driving down the stream to Schaffhausen, where it went thrice around the town. When this circuit took place from right to left, it was considered an infallible sign of good fortune; but when it made the journey in an opposite direction, bad luck was sure to ensue.

* * * * *

IN olden times, when nothing but a convent and boat-landing stood on the present site of the city of Schaffhausen, a nobleman once came down to the river to fish. Weary of his exertions, he finally fastened his skiff, and lying down in the bottom of it, fell asleep.

But while thus oblivious of all that was taking place, his vessel slipped its moorings, and drifting out into mid-current, was swept over the falls. The passenger was so sound asleep, however, that he did not even rouse when hurled down into the thundering abyss, and was greatly amazed on awakening to find his boat had drifted ashore far below the dreaded cataract.

In token of gratitude for this narrow escape, this nobleman is said to have founded the Benedictine abbey at Rheinau, on the very spot where his skiff drifted ashore after its perilous journey down the Rhine.[12]

[12] For other legends of Schaffhausen, etc., see the
author’s “Legends of the Rhine.”

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A YOUNG fisherman, who had a similar experience, fatuously imagined that if his vessel went safely over the falls without being steered, it could not fail to do the same when guided by an experienced hand. He therefore loudly boasted that he was about to go over the cataract again, and in spite of all remonstrances on the part of friends and relatives, actually made the attempt.

The skiff, however, was soon caught in the whirling waters, and in spite of all the fisherman’s efforts, dashed against the rocks. For one minute the horrified spectators saw the broken boat and clinging youth pause on the brink of the abyss, then they were swept over into the whirlpool, whence they never emerged! Since then, on the anniversary of this foolhardy attempt, the ghost of the reckless youth can be seen drifting down the stream, and with a blood-curdling cry of despair it invariably plunges over into the vortex at the foot of the Rhine Falls.

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WHEN noble knights still dwelt on the Randenberg, a pious maiden set out from there before dawn every morning to walk to the convent of All Saints at Schaffhausen, where it was her custom to attend early mass.

Her sole escort on this daily walk was a faithful stag, which patiently awaited her coming at the castle gates every morning. When it was very dark, this faithful animal walked lightly ahead of her, proudly carrying a flaming torch between its branching antlers, and it always waited at the city gates to accompany her home.

One day when the pious maiden and her attendant stag were nearing the city, they were suddenly attacked by wayside thieves. With a cry of terror, the maiden sped on as fast as her trembling limbs would carry her; but when she came to the city gates she saw with terror that they were still shut. Knowing no human help could reach her in time to save her from the hands of the miscreants, she now had recourse to a short but fervent prayer, and the last words were scarcely uttered when an angel darted down from heaven, keys in hand, and led the maiden into the city, closing and locking the gates in the very face of the cruel highwaymen.

Ever since the pious maiden was thus miraculously saved by angelic intervention, that gate of Schaffhausen has been known as the Engelbrechtsthor, or the gate broken open by an angel.

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WHERE the recently restored castle of Munot now stands, there was once an older building occupied by a noble lord, who set out for a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, leaving wife and children safe at home.

Those were the days of slow travel and no mail; so months became years without the Lady of Munot’s receiving any tidings of her absent spouse. She therefore began to fear that he was dead, or that he had entirely forgotten wife and children at home. But such was not the case, for the knight, having surmounted many perils, was now very near home, and spurring on with all haste, in spite of the darkness, to see his family sooner.

Only a short stretch of wood, and the torrent of the Mühlenthal lay between him and his castle; but although the knight fancied he knew every inch of the ground, he soon lost his way. Instead of crossing the swollen stream at the usual place, he plunged into its waters at the most dangerous point, only to find a watery grave within sight and sound of home. One of his faithful retainers, however, managed to escape from the torrent, and sadly bore the sorrowful tidings to the poor widow.

When the Lady of Munot learned how her spouse had perished, she put on mourning which she never laid aside, and to prevent other belated travellers from meeting a similar fate, hung a silver bell in the castle tower and had it rung for an hour every night.

The mournful toll of this little bell at nightfall not only served to guide travellers safely through the forest, and keep the knight’s memory green, but also reminded his former vassals to say a prayer for the rest of their dead master’s soul.

LEGENDS OF ZÜRICH.

Zürich, the old Roman Turicum, on either side of the Limmat at the point where it flows out of the green-hued lake, is the capital of the canton of the same name, and noted alike for the beauty of its situation and for its famous University.

In the days of the early Christian persecution, Felix and Regula, the patron saints of Zürich, were beheaded near this town. Strange to relate, though, immediately after the execution, both martyrs picked up their severed heads, tucked them under their arms, and stalked off to the spot where the minster now stands, where they wound up their marvellous performances by burying themselves comfortably! On the spot where they suffered martyrdom Charlemagne erected a memorial pillar, above which he hung a bell, saying that it could be rung by any one who had been wronged, and that they should receive immediate justice.

During one of his visits to Zürich, Charlemagne took up his abode in the Choristers’ House, and while he sat there at table one day he suddenly heard a loud peal from the bell of justice. He immediately despatched a servant to see what wrong had been done, and was greatly annoyed when the man reported that careful search had failed to reveal the presence of any living creature. A few moments later the bell rang again, but when the servant once more announced that no one was there, the emperor bade his guards hide near the pillar, and seize the miscreant who dared to pull the bell of justice in mere fun.

Before long the bell sounded a third time, and a few moments later the guards rushed into the emperor’s presence with faces blanched with fear, to report that a snake had coiled itself around the pillar, and seizing the rope in its teeth, tugged until the bell rang forth loud and clear. The emperor immediately rose from table, saying he must see this phenomenon with his own eyes, and followed by all his court went down to the pillar. As he drew near, the snake came forward to meet him, and rising upon its coiled tail, bowed low before the monarch in evident recognition of his exalted station. Then, dropping down to the earth once more, it crept away, turning from time to time, and making signs as if to invite the emperor to follow. The serpent’s actions were so eloquent that Charlemagne, understanding them, obediently followed it down to the edge of the water, where, parting the reeds, the snake showed him its nest, in which sat an enormous toad.

Charlemagne now bade his guards seize and kill the intruder, and when the snake had bowed its thanks and contentedly coiled itself around its eggs, he went back to his interrupted meal, loudly praising the bell by means of which even dumb animals could appeal for justice.

The next day, while the emperor again sat at dinner, the guards rushed in breathlessly to announce the coming of the strange snake. Charlemagne quickly bade them stand aside and not try to hinder the reptile, which now crawled into the room where he sat, climbed up on the table, did obeisance to the emperor, and delicately lifting the cover of his drinking-cup, dropped into it a jewel of fabulous price. Then, replacing the cover of the vessel, the snake bowed low again, and creeping down, left the cloister to return to its nest by the lake.

According to one version of this legend, Charlemagne set this precious stone in a ring which he gave to his wife, Frastrada.[13] Unknown to him, however, the stone had the magic power of fixing his affections upon its wearer. When the queen, therefore, thought she was about to die, she slipped the ring into her mouth to prevent its falling into the hands of some rival. For eighteen years Charlemagne refused to part with his wife’s body, and carried it with him wherever he went. But at the end of that time his minister Turpin discovered the secret of his infatuation, and obtaining possession of the magic stone, soon saw all Charlemagne’s affections fixed upon him.

[13] For other version, see the author’s “Legends of the
Rhine.”

As the emperor’s devotion proved somewhat of a bore to the old minister, he tried to get rid of the spell by casting the ring into the mineral springs at Aix-la-Chapelle. While out hunting the next day, Charlemagne urged his steed to drink of that water, and when the animal hastily withdrew its foot and refused to approach the pool again, the emperor dismounted to investigate the cause.

Touching the imprint of the horse’s hoof, Charlemagne discovered that the mud was very warm, for he was near the hottest of these thermal springs. While resting near that pool, he was seized with such an affection for the spot that he soon founded there his capital of Aix-la-Chapelle.

In memory of the horse which guided him hither, the Cathedral was built in the shape of a horseshoe, and as Charlemagne could not endure the thought of ever leaving this enchanted neighbourhood, he left orders to bury him in the minster of Aix-la-Chapelle.

On the spot where Charlemagne’s famous bell once hung, at Zürich, stands the Wasserkirche, which now contains a large library with valuable and interesting manuscripts. Charlemagne’s great-grandson Louis II. often visited Zürich, where his two pious daughters induced him to build a convent and the Frauenmünster.

It is said that the place for these buildings was staked out by angel hands, and that the stakes were connected by a silken string of the finest make. This rope was hung above the altar of the new church, where it remained until the Reformation. It was then removed with many other relics, and served for years as ordinary bell-rope in a private house.

The king’s daughters, who both became abbesses, long dwelt at Baldern Castle, whence, however, they went down to the Frauenmünster whenever the bell rang for prayers. They even attended the midnight services there, and when it was very dark a stately stag invariably walked before them carrying a flaming torch between its antlers.

At the foot of the southern slope of the Albis--a green mountain near Zürich--lies the little lake of Türl or the Türlersee. Tradition claims that this valley once belonged to the lords of Schnabelberg, whose castle stood on the height still bearing that name. They intrusted the care of their lands to an unprincipled steward who once induced a miser to sell his daughter for a piece of rich land down in the valley. This iniquitous bargain had no sooner been concluded than the inhuman father hastened down to view his new farm; but while he was inspecting it, a fearful storm arose. Thunder-bolts, repeatedly striking the mountain, detached great masses of stone, which, in falling, made a dam across the valley.

In a few moments the rain, pouring down the mountain side in swift torrents, filled all the hollow made by this dam, covering every inch of land the miser had received in exchange for his child. Terrified by this visitation from Heaven, the unjust steward not only let the maiden go unharmed, but paid a rich dower to the convent she entered, and mended his evil ways as much as he could.

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NEAR the Lake of Türl once lived a lady named Kriemhild, who was jealous because her neighbours’ lands were more productive than her own. In hopes of ruining their crops, she bade a Salamancan student flood their fields. The latter, scorning magic arts for so simple a task, dug a deep ditch, which, allowing the waters of the lake to escape, would accomplish his evil purpose just as well.

St. Verena, passing by there accidentally, discovered his purpose, and before he could complete his task whisked him and Kriemhild off to the Glarnisch in Glarus, where both are condemned to dig in the ice and snow until they have made plants bloom in the desolate spot still known as St. Verena’s or Vreneli’s garden. As for the ditch it is still to be seen, and in memory of Kriemhild’s evil intentions it still bears her name.

* * * * *

ONLY a short railway journey from Zürich is the ancient castle of Kyburg, which rises between Winterthur and Frauenfeld. It once belonged to a family of the same name, a side branch of the famous house of Welfs or Guelfs. To account for this name, tradition relates that a Kyburg having married Irmentrude, Charlemagne’s sister-in-law, went to live with her in a castle near Altorf.

One day, a poor woman came to this castle begging for food, and sadly yet proudly exhibited triplets, whose recent arrival into the world prevented her working as usual for her living. The Countess of Kyburg, seeing these children, sternly refused all help to the woman, declaring no faithful wife had ever been known to bear so many children at once, and that she would not encourage vice in her lands by giving alms to women of bad lives.

The virtuous peasant woman, justly offended at this harsh speech, turned angrily away. But she paused a moment at the gate, to call Heaven to prove that she had always been true to her marriage vows by giving the Countess twelve children at a birth. The Countess paid little heed to this curse, but many months later she was terrified by the simultaneous arrival of twelve sons, all exactly alike, and all unmistakable Kyburgs.

Now it happened that her husband was away when these babes came into the world, and the Countess, fearing he might take the same view of the affair as she had taken of the poor woman’s triplets, bade her faithful old nurse drown eleven of the babes in a neighbouring pond. The nurse, for whom the Countess of Kyburg’s words were law, immediately bundled eleven of the boys into her apron, and stealing out of the castle by a postern gate, made her way towards the pool. She had nearly reached it when she was suddenly confronted by her master just returning home, and he immediately inquired what she had in her apron, and what she was going to do.

The poor woman, hoping to shield her mistress, stammered that she was on her way to drown a litter of wolf cubs; then she tried to slip past him, but he insisted on seeing the cubs, and when she resisted, laid violent hands upon the apron she held so tightly together. A mere glimpse of its contents made him hotly demand a full explanation, and when posted about every detail of the affair, he bound the nurse over to secrecy, took charge of the boys, and had them carefully brought up, unknown to his wife, who fancied they were all dead.