LEGENDS
  OF
  SWITZERLAND




By the Same Author


  LEGENDS OF THE VIRGIN AND CHRIST
  LEGENDS OF THE RHINE
  LEGENDS OF THE MIDDLE AGES
  STORIES OF THE WAGNER OPERAS
  STORIES OF FAMOUS OPERAS
  MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME
  MYTHS OF NORTHERN LANDS

$1.50 per volume


[Illustration: COATS OF ARMS OF THE SWISS CANTONS.]




  LEGENDS
  OF
  SWITZERLAND


  BY
  H. A. GUERBER


  _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_


  NEW YORK
  DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
  1899




  _Copyright, 1899_,
  BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY.

  _All rights reserved._


  University Press:
  JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.




  DEDICATED
  TO
  SWITZERLAND

  IN GRATEFUL MEMORY OF HAPPY SUMMERS SPENT
  WITHIN ITS BORDERS




PREFACE


Aside from the picturesque, historical, and geological interest
connected with a journey in Switzerland, that country also boasts of
a rich fund of legends, delightfully characteristic of the people at
whose firesides they have been told for centuries.

The grand scenery, terrific storms, sudden earthquakes, landslides
and avalanches, together with the barbaric invasions and fierce wars
which have swept over it for thousands of years, have all left their
indelible stamp, not only upon the face of nature, but also in the
imagination and folklore of the people.

In varying keys, and touching upon many chords and themes, these
legends refer to saints and to sinners, to heathen gods, giants,
ghosts, dwarfs, Devil, and fairies, as well as to kings and queens,
knights and ladies, monks and nuns, besides dwelling particularly upon
shepherds, pastures, cattle, and game.

The rustic crudity of some of these tales, the mediæval halo of romance
around others, added to the poetic subtle charms of a few, have been
rendered as faithfully as possible, to enable the reader to gain a
nearer insight into the life and thoughts of the sturdy race which has
established the most lasting republic in modern Europe.

Life-long familiarity with the official languages, some knowledge of
the peculiar dialects, together with prolonged sojourns in the country,
and diligent study of its principal works on national folklore, have
enabled the writer to collect these legends, some of which are now laid
before the English-speaking public for the first time.

Trusting they may enhance the pleasure of a trip to Switzerland for all
those who have the good fortune to enjoy one, remind former travellers
of matchless scenes, and amuse and interest even stay-at-homes, this
book is sent out into the world with the sincere hope that it may meet
with a kindly welcome.




CONTENTS


                                                                    PAGE
  LEGENDS OF GENEVA                                                    1

  LEGENDS OF VAUD AND VALAIS                                           6

  FRIBOURG                                                            69

  LEGENDS OF NEUCHÂTEL                                                79

  BERN                                                                97

  LEGENDS OF SOLEURE                                                 140

  BASEL                                                              147

  AARGAU                                                             158

  THE FOREST CANTONS                                                 176

  TESSIN                                                             238

  SCHAFFHAUSEN                                                       242

  LEGENDS OF ZÜRICH                                                  248

  LEGENDS OF ZUG                                                     261

  THURGAU                                                            270

  ST. GALL AND APPENZELL                                             274

  GLARUS AND GRISONS                                                 281


  INDEX                                                              303




ILLUSTRATIONS


  COATS-OF-ARMS OF THE SWISS CANTONS, WITH CANTONAL
    BEADLES IN TRADITIONAL COSTUME (in color)             _Frontispiece_

                                                               FACE PAGE
  LAKE OF GENEVA, WITH DENT DU MIDI                                    2

  THE MIGRATION OF THE HERDS                                           8

  ALPINE FAY                                                          38

  THE MIST NYMPH                                                      44

  THE WILD HUNT                                                      100

  THE OLD ST. CHRISTOPHER TOWER                                      106

  THE GIESSBACH                                                      122

  GRINDELWALD                                                        132

  THE JUNGFRAU                                                       136

  THE SPALENTHOR, BASEL                                              148

  THE OATH ON THE RÜTLI                                              184

  TELL ANSWERS GESSLER                                               188

  LUCERNE, WITH MT. PILATUS                                          196

  THE RIGI                                                           214

  THE DEVIL’S BRIDGE                                                 236

  THE FALLS OF THE RHINE                                             242

  CHARLEMAGNE AND THE SERPENT                                        250




Legends of Switzerland


        ❦




LEGENDS OF GENEVA


The crescent-shaped Leman, or Lake of Geneva, the largest and bluest
of all the Swiss lakes, has been sung by all the poets and praised by
every writer who has had the good fortune to behold it in its native
splendour.

The fertile slopes on the northern bank, the charming resorts and
drives to the east and south, and the glorious view of Mont Blanc, in
Savoy, as seen from Geneva itself, bewitch all those who are privileged
to enjoy them. Countless steamboats and sailboats are constantly plying
to and fro over the lake, and stopping at picturesque points along
the shore, whence delightful excursions can be made either among rich
pastures, orchards, and vineyards, or up into the mountains from which,
rippling and roaring, torrents and streams pour down to fill the basin
of this beautiful lake. The most picturesque craft on the Lake of
Geneva are the lateen-sailed market-boats, hovering like birds over
waters whose colour reminds one of the Mediterranean, the only other
body of water in Europe where such vessels are frequently seen.

A legend claims that in olden times a fairy boat of this peculiar
shape was often seen flitting from point to point along the shores of
Lake Leman. Its sails catching every gleam of golden light, it shone
like the face of the new moon in a summer sky. Drawn by eight large
snow-white swans, it glided gently over the waters, to the song both
weird and sweet of these graceful birds, accompanied by the thrilling
chords of a harp touched by the invisible fingers of the Spirit of the
Winds.

Standing by the mast of this ship, was a tall woman of dazzling beauty,
whose golden locks streamed out in the breeze, while the sunset flush
on the snow-mountains seemed no more delicate than the bloom on her
dainty cheeks. Clad in flowing robes of purest white, she stood there,
smiling gently at countless winged and chubby sprites, hovering around
her like butterflies about a rose, and scattering handfuls of flowers
and fruit at her feet.

[Illustration: LAKE OF GENEVA, WITH DENT DU MIDI.]

It is said that wherever the fairy ship touched the shore, the soil
bore flowers and fruit in abundance, and any one who was so
fortunate as to catch a glimpse of the lucky vessel was sure of the
fulfilment of any desire, expressed or unexpressed. Even when buried so
deep in the hidden recesses of the heart that the owner was scarcely
conscious of its existence, the fairy’s melting blue eyes were sure to
discover this wish, and her heart was so tender that, once discovered,
she could not but grant it.

The fairy skiff of Lake Geneva haunted its shores for many years, and
might still be seen there, had not the giant swans been frightened away
by the puffing and snorting steamboats which furrow the blue waves.
None but the oldest inhabitants ever mention this ship, of which they
caught fleeting glimpses in their early youth, when they sat by the
lakeside during the long moonlight nights, in hopes of securing the
realization of their dearest hopes.

But the luck-ship figures not only in the tales told by the peasants
around the fireside during the long winter evenings; it is also often
seen in effigy upon Genevan holiday and birthday cards. Then “Good
Luck,” or “Happy New Year,” is inscribed across the wing-like lateen
sails, and such a card is supposed to bring the happy recipient as much
good fortune as an actual glimpse of the swan-drawn vessel of mythic
fame.

An interesting old legend is connected with the church of Ste. Marie
Madeleine in Geneva, and with a local yearly festival celebrated there
on the twenty-second of July.

In the days when the Madeleine church was founded, Geneva, after having
been the main stronghold of the Allobroges before Christ, and a Roman
camp from the days of Cæsar until the fifth century, was the capital
of a Burgundian kingdom. The Christians in that part of the country,
desirous of building a church where they could worship God, selected a
site just outside of the city fortifications, and then began to solicit
contributions on all sides.

In those days there dwelt in Geneva a very good and pious girl, noted
far and wide for her deftness in spinning, and for the unusual beauty
and fineness of her thread. As soon as this virtuous maiden heard that
funds were needed for a church to be dedicated to her patron saint, she
made a solemn vow to consecrate to that good purpose all the thread she
could spin, and immediately set to work.

From early morn until far into the night, Madeleine now spun on
unweariedly, selling skein after skein of thread to purchase stones
and mortar for the new building. As is always the case, the zeal and
gifts of many of the Christians soon ebbed, but Madeleine twirled her
distaff faster and faster, working without respite day after day, to
make up for all deficiencies.

The workmen, who contributed their labour, soon depended upon her alone
for materials, and fearing lest her strength or courage should fail
before the church was finished, they called out to her every time they
passed her house to keep up a good heart and work on. This cry,--

     “Tiens bon, Marie Madeleine,
      Tiens bon, Marie Madelon!”

was taken up by all the Christians in town, and now forms the refrain
of a song sung at Geneva’s yearly festival.

Thus encouraged, Marie Madeleine went on spinning until the
building was completed, and as most of the stones were purchased
with the proceeds of her industry, the workmen carved spindles and
spinning-wheels all over the church. On the festival of Ste. Marie
Madeleine, illuminations and processions are the order of the day in
Geneva, and the statue of a spinner is carried along all the principal
streets of the town, to the rhythmic chant of the old distich, which
commemorates alike the maiden’s piety and her extreme diligence.




LEGENDS OF VAUD AND VALAIS


Late in the spring, when the grazing down in the valley is pretty
well exhausted, farmers in Switzerland are wont to drive their cows
up to the mountain pastures, which by this time are all covered with
luxuriant grass and gemmed with dainty wild-flowers. The day set for
the departure of the cattle is always a gala day. The people, dressed
in their Sunday best, assemble in the villages through which the herds
must pass, to exchange merry jests with the herdsmen, bid them God
speed, and admire the fat sleek cows, wearing around their necks bells
of different sizes and varying tones.

The head herdsman proudly walks in front of his cattle, wearing a
bunch of gay ribbons or of fresh flowers in his hat or cap. His blue
cloth coat, with its short sleeves, sets off a dazzlingly white shirt
of coarse linen, and his costume is completed by knee-breeches, thick
woolen stockings, and shoes whose soles are elaborately studded with
bright nails. This man carries a bag full of salt, and an umbrella
slung across his back; and from time to time, as he strides joyfully
ahead of the herd, he offers a handful of salt to the foremost cows.
Leaning on his stout staff, he sturdily climbs the mountain, giving
vent to those long-drawn musical cries known as “huchées” or “jodels,”
according to the section of the country in which they are heard.

Close behind the herdsman comes the bull, with a ring in his nose,
or a fine cow, the queen and leader of the cattle. Conscious of the
honour of wearing the largest and deepest-toned bell, this animal steps
proudly along, tossing a shapely head decked with bunches of bright
flowers on either horn, and between them rests the milking-stool, a
sign of particular distinction.

Cow after cow slowly files past, greeted by calls and loving pats from
proud owners, and amid the tinkling of bells, the trample of hoofs, the
lowing of kine, and the cheers of the people sound the resonant cracks
of the herdsmen’s whips, which they snap incessantly to show their
proficiency in that greatly admired branch of their calling.

The sight of such a herd going up the mountain invariably reminds the
old people of happy summers long gone by, and while sitting on the
benches in front of their stone or wooden houses at twilight, they
entertain the younger generation with reminiscences of the joyful past,
and a regretful sigh always heaves their aged breasts when they finally
mention the Golden Age of Switzerland.

According to tradition, this was the time when none of the
mountains--not even the highest--were ever veiled in cold mists, or
covered with ice and snow. Neither were there any barren and rocky
heights such as we see now. Luxuriant grass grew all the way up the
steepest slopes, carpeting even the topmost ridges, and the climate
was so genial that cattle dotted the hillside pastures during nine or
ten months of the year. The cows were then far larger and fatter than
any we see now, and their milk was so abundant that they were milked
thrice a day into huge ponds, or tanks, where the herdsmen went about
in skiffs to do the skimming.

One of these men is said to have once lost his balance and fallen
head first into a lacteal lake, but although his mourning companions
diligently sought for his corpse, and even dredged that huge natural
milkpan, they could find no trace of him. When churning-day came round,
however, and the big vats of thick cream were poured into a churn
as large and tall as a castle tower, the dead man was suddenly
discovered imbedded like a fly in the thick cream. The dairymen and
milkmaids then mournfully laid his corpse to rest in a huge cave, lined
with honeycombs so tall and massive that none was smaller than the city
gates.

[Illustration: THE MIGRATION OF THE HERDS.]

Such was the prosperity of all the farmers in the Cantons of Vaud and
Valais, that their men used goat cheeses (_tommes_) instead of quoits
for their daily games, and on Sundays played bowls with huge balls
of the sweetest, hardest, yellowest butter that has ever been made.
The fruit trees were as productive as the pastures; the grapes, for
instance, being so large and juicy that faucets had to be inserted in
each grape to draw off the juice, while the pears were so fine and
heavy that their stems had to be severed by means of a double hand-saw
when came time to pick them.

The Golden Age of the Alps did not last long, however, for the
unparalleled prosperity the people enjoyed filled their hearts with
such inordinate pride that they became very insolent, and thereby
called down the wrath of heaven upon their guilty heads. The brutality
and avarice which they displayed was punished by earthquakes, storms,
and landslides, which ruined their finest pastures, and by sudden
and unwelcome changes in the temperature. Dense fogs swept over the
mountains, and there were long and heavy snow-falls which swathed the
mountains in a permanent casing of ice and snow. The summer season
became far briefer than in the past, and fields and pastures much less
productive. Cattle and fruit therefore soon dwindled down to their
present comparatively small proportions, and unlimited plenty no longer
reigned in the land.

In the Golden Age the country boasted of a few very large but quite
benevolent giants. They roamed about at will, striding over mountains
and forests, which seemed to them no larger than mole hills and tiny
shrubs. The best known of these giants was Gargantua, renowned alike
for his athletic proportions and for his childlike spirit. He was so
huge that when he sat down to rest upon Mont Blanc, Monte Rosa, or some
other large mountain, his legs hung down on either side until his feet
rested comfortably in the valleys. Sometimes, when indulging in a brief
noonday nap, he used one of these peaks as pillow for his huge and
sleepy head. His thick white beard and hair, falling around him on all
sides, then gave these heights somewhat the same aspect they have now,
with their fields of snow and rivers of ice. The sunken orbits of the
giant’s eyes and his wide-open mouth looked like valleys and crevasses,
while his nostrils could be mistaken for deep and dark caves, and his
ruddy cheeks for great patches of red rock peeping out among the snows.

When the weather was warm, Gargantua’s breath seemed like the mist
hovering on the mountain tops; but when the temperature fell, it
rapidly congealed, spreading like a dense fog all over the country.
His gentlest snores are said to have sounded like the distant rumble
of thunder, or the crash of avalanches; and when he stretched himself
after a siesta, the whole country was shaken as by a violent earthquake.

Once, while the giant lay asleep, his head resting against a mountain,
a large flock of sheep scrambled up over his prostrate form, and began
to thread their way through his tangled hair and beard in quest of
pasture. Awakened by a slight tickling sensation, the giant half opened
his sleepy eyes. The sight of a host of little white creatures crawling
around in his beard so angered him, that he took them up one by one
between his thumb and index, and crushed and threw them away, thinking
they were vermin.

During another nap a large herd of cows strayed into the giant’s
wide-open mouth, which they mistook for a cave. Their presence there,
however, occasioned a prodigious coughing-fit, in the course of which
the cows were ejected with such force that they flew through miles of
space and landed in another country!

As simple and innocent as he was large, Gargantua delighted in playing
in the dirt. To amuse himself, he hollowed out the Rhône valley, and
scooped out a basin for the Lake of Geneva. There the marks of his
fingers can still be seen, for having no other tools he freely used
those nature provides, flinging handfuls of earth and stones on either
side of him, or into a rude basket made of wattled pine-trees which he
carried on his back.

At one time Gargantua elected to build a fine sand-heap, and carried
load after load of dirt and stones to a point southeast of the present
city of Geneva. There he dumped them one after another, and as the heap
increased in size after each basketful, he gleefully cried: “Ça lève,
ça lève!” (It is rising, it is rising!) This cry was overheard by the
people in the neighbourhood, who ever after used it as a name for that
mountain, changing the orthography to Salève.

Gargantua sometimes threw huge rocks around him in sport, or in
petulant fits of anger, punched holes in and through the mountains,
and dug out fistfuls of earth here and there to fashion his mud pies.
He also liked to make gullies for the streams which trickled down the
mountains. Once, while scratching out the Illiez valley he forgot the
burden on his back and stooped to drink from the Rhône, which seemed
to him like a mere rill. By some mischance, however, he stubbed his
big toe against the rocks of St. Triphon, and fell sprawling along
the valley, spilling part of the dirt out of his basket. The simple
fellow, amazed at this accident, picked himself up gravely and uttered
the local substitute for “My goodness!” (Eh Monteh!). This exclamation
was thereafter used by the natives to designate a mound of earth now
covered with oak forests and known as Monthey.

In his wrath at having tripped and broken the straps fastening his
basket to his back, Gargantua gave his burden an ill-tempered kick,
which sent it flying some distance further on, where it dumped the rest
of its contents. This heap of dirt formed the picturesque eminence on
whose wooded heights the ruined tower of Duin now stands.

A similar accident occurring when the giant once tried to quench
his thirst in the Sarine, is the alleged origin of the hill upon
which rises the church of Château d’Oex. On another occasion, resting
one foot upon the top of the Berra and the other upon the Gibloux,
Gargantua bent down and took a draught from the Sarine, which drained
it so dry that not a drop of water flowed along its bed for three
whole days. During that time one legend claims that the giant laid the
foundation for the bridge at Pont-la-Ville, near Fribourg, but another
ascribes that construction to his Satanic Majesty in person.

Gargantua’s feet were so large that one of his sandals could serve as
bridge over the Rhône or Sarine, and his hands so strong that he tore
great gaps in the Jura mountains to enable those two streams to make
their way to the sea.

A mountain giant who roamed about in the mist, but never came down into
the valleys, was known as Pathô. He delighted in terrifying the people
in the lowlands by sudden wild cries, or by playfully rolling stones
down upon them, their cattle, houses, or pastures.

Many of the Swiss giants were supposed to dwell in caves, or castles,
on the tallest mountains, hidden from the eyes of men by ever-shifting
clouds. To commemorate this superstition, Schiller wrote a charming
ballad, telling how the daughter of one of these giants once strayed
down into the valley, where, for the first time in her life, she beheld
a farmer ploughing his field. In her delight and wonder, she bundled
man, horses, and plough into her apron, and quickly carried them home,
where she proudly exhibited her new playthings to her father. The
giant, who wished the puny human race no ill, immediately bade his
little daughter carry the frightened peasant and kicking team back to
the place where she had found them, gravely warning her never to meddle
again with the people in the valley, whose diligent toil supplied
giants as well as mortals with their daily bread.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE monks who lived in the old abbey at Romainmotier, in the northern
part of the canton of Vaud, once built a bridge over the rushing
waters of the Orbe, to enable the throngs of pilgrims to reach a
wonder-working image of the Virgin near Vallorbes. But as these monks
were very eager to enrich their monastery, they also placed a toll-gate
across the bridge, and would allow none to pass without paying a
certain sum.

One night, the bridge-keeper was startled out of his peaceful slumbers
by the rhythmic sound of rapid hoof-beats on the hard road, and he
sprang to his window just in time to find himself face to face with a
panting, foam-flecked steed, upon which sat a girl clad in garments
apparently no whiter than her anguished face. In breathless tones the
maiden bade the keeper open wide the gate and let her pass, for her
beloved mother was dangerously ill, and she wanted to plead for her
recovery at the foot of the miraculous image.

The gate-keeper listened unmoved to this passionate entreaty, and
instead of opening the gate, held it shut tight while sternly demanding
his toll. In vain the girl repeated she had forgotten to bring any
money, and implored him to let her pass, promising to bring him the
required amount on the morrow; he would not listen to anything she said.

Seeing it was useless to parley any longer with such an unfeeling
man, yet determined to save her mother at any price, the brave girl
urged her steed to the very edge of the bridge, and suddenly leaped
over the low parapet into the rushing tide. For a few moments the
horrified gate-keeper saw horse and rider struggling bravely to reach
the opposite shore, but all at once their strength gave way, and they
were swept into a whirlpool in the middle of the stream. A moment later
he saw them dashed against sharp rocks, and vanish beneath the foaming
waters which were soon tinged red with blood.

The gate-keeper stole back to his couch, trembling in every limb, but
told no one of the girl’s visit or of her frightful death. At midnight
on the anniversary of the tragedy, the conscience-stricken man was
however again roused by a loud clatter of hoofs. Torn from his bed by
invisible hands, he found himself on the bridge, face to face with
the same unhappy maid, whose snowy garments were now all stained with
blood. Still impelled by a force he could not resist, the gate-keeper
suddenly dropped down on his hands and knees before her, and felt her
spring lightly upon his back. A second later he was galloping wildly
toward the shrine of the miraculous Virgin.

There the maiden dismounted and fervently prayed for her sick mother;
then rising hastily from her knees, she again sprang upon her human
steed, whom she urged on over the stony road by lashing him with a long
wet reed. At the bridge, the spectre maiden vanished over the parapet,
and the terrified gate-keeper straightened up once more, only in time
to hear the gurgling cry of a drowning person rising above the roaring
and splashing of the swollen stream.

This spectral apparition visited this man every year, and so shattered
his nerves that he fell ill and died of fright. But before he breathed
his last, he humbly confessed to one of the monks his cruel treatment
of the girl, her pitiful end, and his awful punishment.

In memory of this event, an image of a man on all fours, and ridden
by a beautiful maiden, was placed in the convent church, where it was
long exhibited to pilgrims and tourists, to whom the above story is
invariably told.

       *       *       *       *       *

SOUTH of Romainmotier, on the road from Vallorbes to Lausanne, stands
the small and very ancient town of La Sarraz, with its quaint castle.
We are told that a statue was excavated there lately, which once
stood in the chapel, and represented a knight, on whose cheeks and
shoulder-blades clung loathsome toads. The recovery of that peculiar
statue recalled the olden tale of a young knight of La Sarraz, who,
having won great distinction in warfare, aspired to the hand of a
Count’s daughter.

Although the maiden was far above him in station, her father consented
to their union, provided the bridegroom gave her a castle and three
hundred cows as wedding gift, or _morgengabe_. This condition filled
the knight’s heart with hopeless sorrow, for he could boast no property
except his trusty sword, his stout suit of mail, and his fiery
battle-horse.

His parents, perceiving his dejection, questioned him tenderly, and
when they learned the cause of his sorrow, they joyfully exclaimed that
he need not despair, for they would give him castle and cattle, which
was all they had in the world. They confidently added that they knew
their son would never let them want in their old age, even if they did
bestow everything upon him, reserving naught for themselves.

The selfish son gladly accepted this proffered sacrifice, but when
the marriage ceremony had been completed, and he and his wife were
comfortably settled in their new home, he begrudged his old parents the
little they required, and instigated by his wife, turned them out of
the house one cold and stormy night.

After closing the door upon them, to shut off the sound of their
pitiful sobs and heartbreaking reproaches, the knight of La Sarraz
strode back into the hall of his castle, where a huge beaker of strong
beer and a fine game-pie were awaiting him near a good fire. Settling
himself down comfortably in a big armchair, the knight removed the
crusty cover of the pie. But no sooner had he done so than he started
back in horror, for two live toads sprang straight out of it to his
cheeks, where they buried their claws so deep that no one could remove
them. Every effort was made to kill these animals or drive them
away, but all in vain. The knight, in despair, finally sent for the
neighbouring priest, thinking that his prayers might accomplish what
force and skill had failed to effect.

No sooner did the priest behold the live toads imbedded in the knight’s
cheeks, however, than he exclaimed this must be a visitation from
heaven, and bade him confess what grievous sin he had committed. But
when the knight acknowledged that he had unmercifully driven his
aged parents out of the house they had given him, the priest made a
frightened sign of the cross, and bade him apply to the bishop, as he
could not give absolution for so heinous a sin.

The bishop, equally shocked and horrified at the knight’s confession,
referred him to the Pope, who, seeing the man’s plight, bade him return
to his native land, find his aged parents, atone for his past cruelty
by treating them kindly as long as they lived, and assured him that
when he had obtained their forgiveness, the toads would certainly
depart from his face.

The knight of La Sarraz therefore journeyed home again, and after a
long and conscientious search discovered the dead bodies of his old
father and mother lying side by side in an abandoned hermitage. At the
pitiful sight of their wasted corpses, he fell on his knees, while
tears of bitter repentance flowed in torrents down his cheeks. These
tears effected what no other agent had been able to accomplish, for
the toads suddenly loosened their hold, and sprang from the knight’s
cheeks, down to his shoulders, where they again burrowed and clung fast.

As long as the knight of La Sarraz lived, he bore these awful living
reminders of his sin, but as he kept them carefully hidden from sight,
no one suspected the tortures he endured for more than twenty years. It
is this sin and its awful punishment which was commemorated by the odd
statue in the chapel of La Sarraz.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN the tenth century, when all the western part of Switzerland formed
part of the kingdom of Burgundy, good Queen Bertha rode through the
land, visiting every castle, farm, and hamlet, and taking a kindly
interest in the affairs of rich and poor.

Wherever she went, she encouraged high and low to be good and virtuous,
setting them a shining example of industry by spinning diligently from
morning until night. Such was her skill in handling the distaff, that
she twirled it even while riding her snow-white palfrey from place to
place. Those days were so peaceful and happy, that the time “when Queen
Bertha span,” is still regarded in Switzerland as a synonym for the
Golden Age. Of course, the memory of so virtuous a ruler has been kept
green in the minds of the people, who have also carefully preserved her
saddle with its hole for her distaff. This relic can still be seen in
Payerne, where the virtuous Queen lies buried beside her husband and
son.

Statues, pictures, and poems perpetuate Queen Bertha’s fame, and people
still relate anecdotes about her. One of these affirms that the queen,
seeing a shepherd girl spin while tending her flock, was so delighted
with her industry that she bestowed upon her a rich reward. The court
ladies, wishing to secure similar benefits, presented themselves on the
morrow, distaff in hand, before their royal mistress. Observing them
for a moment in silence, the queen then archly remarked: “Ah, ladies!
the peasant girl, like Jacob, received the blessing because she came
first, but you, like Esau, have come too late!”

Queen Bertha was so good and charitable, that she was particularly
loved by the poor, who claim that her spirit still haunts that region.
Every year, towards Christmas time, she is said to wander through the
villages after nightfall, peering in at every window to ascertain
whether the women and girls have spun all their flax. Those who have
been careful and diligent, and can show empty distaffs and skeins of
fine, smooth thread, are rewarded by magic gifts. These consist of
skeins which never end, or handfuls of leaves, twigs, shavings, or
coal, which, if carefully put away, turn into gold before morning. But
the maidens who have been careless or lazy are sure to be punished by
sleepless nights, troubled dreams, tangled skeins, and numerous other
petty mishaps.

We are told that Queen Bertha built the castle of Vufflens for a
faithful servant who had become insane. As it was not safe to let him
go abroad, the good Queen carefully selected this lovely spot so that
the poor man could constantly feast his eyes upon the magnificent view
of the lake, with Mont Blanc in the distance.

It is said that a thunderbolt put a sudden and merciful end to this
madman’s life. Then, as Queen Bertha was about to leave the country to
join her married daughter in Lombardy, she bestowed the castle upon
Grimoald, a brother of the deceased, believing him to be good and
honourable too, although he was really a base-hearted wretch whom every
one feared.

Grimoald had not deemed it necessary to marry until then, but, wishing
to have an heir for his new castle, he soon brought home a reluctant
bride, forced by a stern father to accept his hand. He treated his
wife, Ermance, moderately well until the birth of her first child. But
when he heard that this babe was a girl, instead of the boy he desired,
he flew into a towering rage, and vowed it should be confined in one
of the corner turrets of the castle, to remain there with its nurse
until he had an heir. Poor Ermance pleaded in vain for an occasional
glimpse, or even for news, of her child. Then, she began a series
of pilgrimages, and fasted and prayed without ceasing, hoping that
Providence would give her a son. To her intense sorrow, however, she
gave birth to daughters only, who as soon as they came into the world
were consigned to separate towers, their cruel father reiterating ever
more emphatically the remarks he had made at the advent of his first
child.

When the fourth daughter came, the poor mother, clasping her
passionately in her arms, begged permission to share her imprisonment
and be her nurse. Grimoald, whose wrath by this time knew no bounds,
then angrily said:

“Since you can give me nothing but daughters, you may go! But remember,
I shall keep you in prison for ever. Every one shall believe you are
dead, and I will take another wife, who, I hope, will not be such a
fool as you!”

Striding out of his wife’s room, Grimoald then made all his
arrangements. By his orders, the babe was carried to the turret, and
Ermance covered with a sheet as if she were dead. Then a coffin was
brought into the room by servants, who fancied their mistress had died
of grief at losing her fourth child too. But during the night, Raymond,
Grimoald’s trusted henchman, put some stones into this coffin, nailed
down the lid, and secretly conveyed his mistress to the fourth tower,
which, like all the rest, then communicated with his own dwelling by
secret passageways.

Years now passed by, during which Ermance devoted all her thoughts to
her last child, for her husband had made Raymond tell her that the
other little girls were all dead. From a narrow window high up in the
wall, she caught a glimpse of her funeral procession; but although she
often saw her husband ride in and out of the castle yard, she never
beheld a woman beside him, for now that his cruelty was known, no one
would consent to marry him.

Although confined within the narrow limits of a little tower room,
Ermance’s youngest daughter throve like a flower, and became so pretty
and attractive that she won the heart of her grim jailer. Before she
was thirteen, Raymond could refuse her nothing, and when he fell ill,
he sent his adopted son and daughter to wait upon her and her mother.
In the company of these charming young people,--to whom mother and
daughter felt equally attracted,--the prisoners spent many happy hours,
and heard many tidings of the outside world.

In the meantime Grimoald was failing fast, and Raymond rushed into the
tower one night to summon his mistress and her daughter to his master’s
death-bed. On entering her husband’s chamber, Ermance was somewhat
surprised to behold there Raymond’s adopted children with two other
beautiful girls. But she almost died of joy, when Grimoald faintly
informed her that these three maidens were the children for whom she
had mourned so long. Then, after begging and obtaining her forgiveness
for all he had made her endure, Grimoald told her that Raymond’s
adopted son, the child of an elder brother, was to inherit the castle
of Vufflens, where, however, she and her daughters might dwell as long
as they pleased.

Neither Ermance nor her daughters could mourn greatly for a husband
and father who had treated them so cruelly, and after he was laid to
rest, they openly rejoiced to find themselves free to go wherever they
pleased. The four girls, especially, were in a state of rapturous
delight over everything they heard and saw; for, until then, their
world had consisted of narrow turret chambers, with as much of the
country as they could perceive from loop-hole windows.

In time, three of these maidens, who were noted for their great beauty,
married the lords of Blonay, Châtelard, and La Sarraz, whose castles
still exist to-day, while the fourth became the wife of Artus, the
new and gallant young lord of Vufflens. Unlike his uncle, this knight
treated his wife and children with the utmost consideration, and the
corner turrets were never again used as prisons for innocent babes.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN journeying on eastward along the northern shore of the Lake of
Geneva, one soon comes to a dense forest of pine and hickory, very near
Clarens, where stands the famous overhanging “Scex que Plliau,” or
Raining Rock, of which the following romantic legend is told:

The son of a rich lord, whose castle was at Montreux, once fell
desperately in love with Joliette, the daughter of a neighbouring
mountaineer. All went well until the young man’s father heard of this
love affair, and peremptorily bade his son part for ever from the
maiden who was too far beneath him in station ever to become his wife.

The young lover, unwilling to give up his beloved, yet not daring to
see her openly, now began to roam about the country, ostensibly in
quest of game, but in reality in hope of encountering by chance the
fair Joliette. One day, the good fairies who watch over all true lovers
of that region, brought both young people to a charming and secluded
spot in the forest, and while they sat there under an overhanging rock,
exchanging vows and confidences, the hours sped by unmarked.

They were still lingering there, hand in hand, listening to the
soughing of the wind in the pines, and the ripple of the waters over
the stony bed of Clarens Bay, when they were suddenly startled out
of their love dream by the angry voice of the young man’s father.
Terrified beyond measure by this unwelcome interruption, Joliette fled
for protection to the arms of her lover, who, clasping her close to his
heart, gazed defiantly at his sire.

The baron of Chaulin, however, like all mediæval fathers, expected his
son to obey him implicitly; so when he beheld this attitude, he angrily
bade his followers hurl the disobedient lovers over the rocks into the
ravine at their feet! But, before this fierce order could be carried
out, Albert sprang in front of Joliette with drawn sword, swearing he
would have the life blood of any one who dared to lay a finger upon his
betrothed.

His resolute bearing checked for a moment the advance of the baron’s
followers, who had tried to execute their master’s order. While they
stood there motionless, silently awaiting further directions, a fairy
voice was suddenly heard, bidding the young people marry without fear,
promising them her protection, and upbraiding the hard-hearted father
for opposing their union. This speech, which somewhat encouraged the
lovers, further exasperated the baron. He furiously bade his men seek
for the witch and hang her on the nearest tree, adding that his son
should marry Joliette when water dripped through the rock above them,
but not before!

To emphasise this statement, the baron savagely kicked the stone with
his mailed heel, and he was about to pour forth more abuse, when he
suddenly beheld the rock turn damp and saw the first drop of water form
and fall. All now gazed in open-mouthed wonder at the overhanging rock,
to which clung countless big drops which fell one after another, with a
gentle splash, while new ones formed above in their stead.

“The rock is raining, the rock is raining!” the baron’s followers
gasped; and then, seized with superstitious terror, they turned and
fled, leaving their master alone with the lovers.

“Yes,” cried the fairy’s voice, “the rock is raining, and unless the
baron of Chaulin breaks his word for the first time in his life, you
young people can now marry without further delay.”

Awed by this phenomenon, or too honourable to disregard his oath, the
baron not only consented to the young people’s union, but gave them
such a grand wedding that all Montreux feasted and danced for a whole
week.

Since then, water has constantly trickled from the overhanging Raining
Rock, down on the moss and the shiny-leaved water plants beneath
it; and the delicate fronds of the ferns, growing in every cranny,
perpetually rise and fall with dainty grace as the huge drops fall down
upon them, and glancing off, slowly roll from stone to stone until they
find their way into the Lake of Geneva.

       *       *       *       *       *

NORTH of Clarens, on the boundary of the cantons of Vaud and Fribourg,
is the mighty Dent de Jaman, which can best be crossed by means of the
“col,” or pass, of the same name.

A peasant who had never left his native valley in the southern part
of the canton of Fribourg, once decided that it might be well to see
a little of the world, and after talking a long while of his plans,
he bade his friends and relatives an impressive farewell and set out.
Armed with his mountain staff, he slowly climbed the rough path leading
to the Col de Jaman. Tramping sturdily on, he soon came to the boundary
line between his own canton and that of Vaud. Never yet had he ventured
so far from home, and everything seemed so strange that he kept looking
around and behind him, marvelling at the view, which grew more and more
extended with every step.

As it was one of those bright days when every object is perceptible for
miles around, there was plenty to see, and as he had never travelled,
he was quite unprepared for the sight which greeted his eyes when
he reached the top of the pass. He therefore stood still there, in
open-mouthed wonder, his gaze fixed upon the wonderful Lake of Geneva,
whose waters were of the exact tint of the sky overhead.

After staring thus for some time, the sturdy peasant heaved a great
sigh, turned slowly on his hobnailed heel, and wended his way home
again, along the very path which he had just trod.

When he reached his native village once more, the people all crowded
around him, asking why he had come back so soon, and what had induced
him to give up his long-cherished plan to see the world on the other
side of the mountain?

The peasant, whose intellect was none of the keenest, listened stolidly
to all their questions, then, scratching his curly head, slowly
explained that on reaching the top of the pass he had discovered it
would be useless and rather unsafe to venture any farther, as a big
piece of the sky had just dropped down into the valley on the other
side of the mountain!

       *       *       *       *       *

A SIMPLE mountaineer, whose greatest ambition was to own a horse,
worked and saved with the utmost diligence until he had amassed a sum
sufficient to purchase a colt. Thinking it would be very delightful to
watch the gradual development of this animal into the coveted steed,
the good man tied up his savings in a corner of his handkerchief, and
taking his sharpest-pointed staff set out long before day-break for
Aigle, where he knew a large horse and cattle fair was held.

After a long, fatiguing tramp down the steep Ormond mountains, the
sturdy mountaineer reached the valley, and entering the town of
Aigle, proceeded to examine every horse and foal on the market, with
the laudable aim of securing the best animal he could for his money.
Pricing them one after another, he found, to his intense dismay, that
his savings were not sufficient to pay for the smallest colt offered
for sale there, and that he would have to return home without having
made the desired purchase.

A charlatan, who had slyly watched him for some time, now stepped up
to him, and before long drew from the unsophisticated mountaineer a
detailed account of his long cherished hopes and of his present bitter
disappointment. After listening with feigned sympathy to the whole
story, the charlatan suggested that if the peasant’s means would not
permit his buying a foal, he ought to purchase a mare’s egg; adding
that a cow could hatch it, and suckle the foal until it was old enough
to eat grass.

The peasant, delighted with this suggestion, promptly expressed a
fervent desire to buy a mare’s egg if such a treasure could only be
secured. Assuring him there would be no difficulty about that, the
charlatan led the peasant to another part of the town, and after
threading his way amid countless bags and baskets of fruit and
vegetables exposed for sale, he finally stopped before a cart in which
lay a huge yellow squash.

“There is a fine mare’s egg!” cried the charlatan to the peasant,
making a sign to his accomplice, the proprietor of both squash and
cart. The mountaineer, who had never seen a squash in his life, stared
at it in awe and wonder, and after asking countless questions and doing
considerable chaffering, he decided to purchase it. To carry it home
safely, he then tied it up in his huge handkerchief, which he hung on
the end of his stick over his shoulder.

He was so elated by his purchase, and by the potations he had indulged
in with his friend, the charlatan, while closing the bargain, that he
set out for home trolling a merry song. Climbing higher and higher, he
revelled in joyful anticipations of his wife’s surprise, and of the
time when the huge egg he carried would be safely hatched and a pretty
foal would come at his call.

While walking near the edge of a precipice, glancing from time to time
down its steep sides covered with jagged rocks and stunted bushes,
the knots in the handkerchief, loosened by the weight of the squash,
suddenly came undone, and the startled peasant beheld his precious
purchase bounding from rock to rock down the precipitous slope! As he
stood there, motionless in utter despair, the squash dashed with such
force against a sharp stone that it flew into pieces which scattered
far and wide.

At the same moment, a brown hare, hiding in a bush near by, sprang
in terror from its cover and darted down the mountain. The peasant,
thinking this was the desired colt, accidentally released from the
shattered egg, loudly called: “Coltie, Coltie, come here!” and wrung
his hands in helpless grief when he saw the fleet brown creature
disappear.

After vainly watching for hours for its return, the peasant sorrowfully
went home, and spent the evening relating his various adventures to
his wife. And, as long as he lived, he talked of the remarkable horse
which he would have had, had not the fleet-footed colt run away as soon
as hatched from the mare’s egg bought on the market-place at Aigle.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE mountains around Ormont were once remarkably rich in game of all
kinds, and the favourite haunts of large herds of chamois. Tradition
claims that these animals were herded on the high pastures by countless
dwarfs, the servants of the august Spirit of the Alps. Chamois-hunters
who slew too many of these deer, or who ventured high up the mountains
and along the dizzy precipices where they were supposed to be safe from
human reach, were sure to be punished for their temerity. Either the
Spirit of the Alps appeared to them in person (as in Schiller’s poem
of the Chamois Hunter), bidding them begone in awe-inspiring tones,
or dwarfs uttered similar warnings. When some rash mortal ventured
to disobey these orders, the gnomes slyly laid bits of treacherous
ice under his feet, or deftly loosed the rocks on which he trod, thus
making him lose his precarious foothold and fall into some abyss, where
he was dashed to pieces.

The chamois-hunters of the region not only delighted in this
venturesome sport, but prided themselves upon constantly adding
new victims to their hunting record, which was always kept with
scrupulous care. Some of these men, wandering up to almost inaccessible
heights, are said to have encountered there dainty, mist-like Alpine
fairies, who guided them safely over dangerous places, watched over
their slumbers when they rested exhausted at the edge of frightful
precipices, and often whispered wonderful dream tales into their drowsy
ears.

Both dwarfs and fairies are also reported to have revealed to their
favourites the places where the finest rock crystals could be found,
to have delivered into their keeping long-concealed treasures, or to
have bestowed upon them magic bullets which never missed their aim,
or cheeses made of chamois milk, which became whole again after every
meal, provided a small piece was left “for manners.”

As the chamois are the shyest of game, and their brown coats are not
easily distinguishable at a distance from the rocks, hunters often
carry spy-glasses to locate their quarry. We are told that one of these
men, discovering that the chamois were sure to see him and scamper away
before he could lay down his glass and take good aim, once decided
that it would be of great assistance to him if he could only see and
shoot around the corner of any rock behind which he chose to hide.
After much cogitation, therefore, this particular hunter bent his
gun and spy-glass so they formed sharp angles. Thanks to this clever
device, he easily discovered and killed his prey!

[Illustration: ALPINE FAY.]

Another sportsman once set out with his pack of dogs to hunt hares.
He had not gone very far before seven fine specimens, starting from
covert, darted away. The hounds eagerly pursued six of them, but the
hunter concentrated all his attention upon the seventh and last, which
was also the finest. This hare, however, was as sly as it was large and
fleet-footed, and knowing the man’s unerring aim, began to run around
and around a haycock. Such was the speed with which the hare ran, that
the hunter’s eyes could not follow it, and even the animal’s shadow
failed to keep up with it. The sportsman, seeing he would never bag
this fine hare unless he too resorted to stratagem, quickly bent the
barrel of his gun until it almost formed a hoop. Then, taking quick
aim, he sent after the speeding hare a bullet which laid it low in its
circular track around the haycock.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN olden times Wotan reigned alone in the canton of Vaud, to which
he is said to have given his local name Vaudai. As long as he was
sole master of the country, Wotan proved on the whole an amiable and
benevolent ruler; but the gradual introduction of Christianity so
soured his temper and made him behave so badly, that the Christians
finally identified him with the Evil One himself.

The new religion was so very distasteful to Wotan, that he hated both
sight and sound of it, and hoping to avoid coming in contact with
it, retreated far up into the mountains and took up his abode on the
summit of the Diablerets. There, he vented his rage by sending dense
fogs and violent storms down into the valleys, and by producing great
snow-storms so that the melting drifts should cause all the rivers to
overflow.

Brooding over his wrongs one day, Wotan determined to make a last
and mighty effort to exterminate Christianity in the Rhône valley by
drowning all the inhabitants. He therefore called up a fearful storm,
and at his command the river began to boil and rise and overflow.
Riding on the crest of a huge wave, Wotan himself swept down the
valley, while the waters rose higher and higher, threatening to wash
away everything along their path. But all Wotan’s magic proved
powerless when he came in sight of St. Maurice, where the Christians
had set up a huge cross. Before this holy emblem the waters suddenly
cowed, crept back into their wonted place, and flowed peacefully on
within their long-appointed limits.

Baffled and discouraged, Wotan again retreated to the Diablerets, where
he is said to beguile the monotony of his sojourn by holding monster
witch-dances on certain nights of the year. All the spirits, witches,
and sorcerers of the neighbourhood then betake themselves on their
broomstick-steeds to the Diablerets, to indulge in mad revelry. They
circle around so wildly in their sabbatical dances that the motion
raises a wind which sweeps down the mountain on all sides, while the
sounds of their cries, hisses, and flying footsteps can often be heard
far down the valley.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE souls of all those who have done wrong while on earth are also
supposed to haunt the topmost ridges of the Diablerets, where they play
endless games of ninepins with the demons and their master. This belief
is so general that in speaking of a dead sinner the natives generally
say, “Oh, he has gone to join the demons on the Diablerets!” instead
of stating that he has gone to Hades to receive due punishment for
his crimes. Besides, one of the peaks of that mountain is called the
Devil’s Ninepin; and when a great clatter is heard on the glacier,
the people whisper in awestruck tones that the spirits are evidently
engaged in their infernal game. When stones come clattering down on the
pastures, the shepherds think they are some of the spirits’ missiles
which have strayed out of bounds, and they seek to ward off the nearer
approach of evil by repeated and fervent signs of the cross.

       *       *       *       *       *

ON the way to Chamounix, far above the road, you can perceive the
entrance of the famous stalactite Grotte de Balme, the supposed abode
of all the fairies of that region. These creatures resembled human
maidens, except that they were dark of skin and had no heels to their
feet. Clad in long rippling hair, which fell all around them like a
garment, the fairies of Balme often sought to lure young shepherds
and hunters into their retreat. Sometimes, too, they met these men
on lonely mountain paths, where they tried to win their affections
by gifts of rare Alpine flowers, of fine rock crystals, of lumps of
gold and silver, or by teaching them the use of the healing herbs and
showing them how to discover hidden treasures. The youths who refused
the fairies’ advances encountered such resentment that they were sure
to meet shortly afterwards with some fatal accident. Those who ventured
on the Diablerets, or the Oldenhorn, for instance, were suddenly pushed
over the rocks into abysses and crevasses, from whence they never
escaped alive.

But the young men who received the fairies’ overtures graciously were
very well treated, and a few of them were even taken up to the grotto,
where they feasted on choice game, and quaffed fiery wine as long as
they obeyed their fairy wives. If, however, they proved untrustworthy,
or tried to pry into the fairies’ secrets, they were ignominiously
dismissed; and while some of them managed to return home, the majority
never prospered again, and as a rule came to an untimely end.

       *       *       *       *       *

BEFORE the Rhône enters the Lake of Geneva, and not very far from
Noville, there are low banks and a few picturesque little islands,
all covered with lush grass, and bordered with rustling reeds and
shiny-leaved water-plants of all kinds.

These marshy places, with their dense luxuriant vegetation, are said
to be the favourite haunts of fairies and nixies of all kinds, and
especially of a local water-nymph known as Fenetta. All the river
sprites timidly avoid the glance of man; so it is only now and then
that some sharp-eyed native catches the gleam of a white hand gently
parting the tall reeds, or discerns a slender figure, garbed in
trailing white robes all dripping with water, and wearing a wreath of
water-lilies upon her rippling golden hair.

The water-nymphs betray their presence only by a slight rustle among
the reeds, by an almost inaudible whisper, or by a long-drawn trembling
sigh. But at dawn and twilight their breath is so cold and clammy, that
whenever it happens to strike a mortal, cold shivers begin to creep up
and down his spine, his finger-nails turn blue, and before long his
teeth chatter noisily. Then, if the victim looks behind him, he is
pretty sure to descry somewhere among the reeds on the bank a mist-like
trail, which is the flutter of the water-nymph’s white veil.

Although the river-sprites are lovely in appearance, none of the people
care to see them, for those whose eyes have rested upon them have
invariably died within a year. For that reason, the banks of the stream
are generally deserted after sunset, the hour when the fairies are
wont to sally forth to disport themselves in the cool waters of the
limpid river, to tread the measures of their noiseless but fantastic
dances along the shore, or to flit from one water-lily to another,
gently opening their waxen petals with cool and dainty fingers.

Even in broad daylight it is well to shun these marshy places, and
those who do venture there should always warn the nymphs of their
approach by whistling, singing, or making some other marked sound. Such
signals enable the fairies to scurry out of sight before the visitor
draws near; and when he reaches the bank, waving reeds and grasses are
the only sign of an unseen presence.

It is said that a coquettish maiden from Noville once bade her lover go
and get her some water-lilies, although she knew the hour had struck
when the water-sprites had left their retreat. The young man, who had
frequently declared he did not believe there were any water-nymphs,
cheerfully departed to do her bidding. Running down to the river’s
edge, he hastily unfastened his skiff, and with long and vigorous
strokes rowed out to the place where the water-lilies softly rose and
fell on the rippling waters in the midst of their broad green leaves.

[Illustration: THE MIST NYMPH.]

The last golden gleams had just died out in the west, gray shadows had
replaced the flush on the snow mountains, and a cool evening breeze was
sweeping gently over the river. The young man, who had laboured under
the burning sun all day, revelled in the freshness all around him,
and although he caught glimpses of vapoury white here and there along
the shore, he thought they were trails of mist, and smiled to himself
because superstitious mortals mistook them for the flutter of the
nymphs’ gossamer veils.

He was just bending over the edge of the boat to reach the largest and
finest lily, when he felt an icy breath on his neck, and turning around
with a start, dimly perceived Fenetta’s lovely form, and noticed that
she was sadly and gently motioning to him to depart. As she vanished,
he suddenly felt cold chills running all over him, and looking downward
perceived that his sunburned hands seemed strangely wan and pale. With
chattering teeth and failing strength he now rowed back to the shore;
but although he grew colder and colder every minute, and felt as if the
chill had gone to his very heart, he picked up the lilies to carry them
to his beloved.

Reaching her door with faltering steps, he swooned on the threshold,
scattering the lilies at the feet of the maiden, who came out to
welcome him with merry words and arch smiles. At first she fancied he
had merely tripped, but seeing he did not immediately rise, she stooped
over him barely in time to catch his last sigh and a faint whisper of
“Fenetta! Fenetta!”

The sudden death of this stalwart young lover proved such a shock to
the maiden of Noville, that she lost her reason and began to wander
along the river-bank among the reeds, constantly murmuring “Fenetta!
Fenetta!”

The nymph, in pity for her sorrow, must have appeared to her too; for
one evening she came home with dripping garments and shivering from
head to foot. After a few days’ illness, the girl gently passed away,
still whispering the water-nymph’s name; and since then youths and
maidens have carefully avoided this fatal spot after sundown.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN the valley of Conthey, noted for its picturesque situation as well
as for its wines, there once dwelt a tailor who made fun of his wife
because she firmly believed in witches, ghosts, and spirits of all
kinds, and even maintained that a helpful sprite assisted her when she
had more work on hand than she could easily accomplish.

The tailor, who had been freely tasting the vintage of some of his
neighbours, once mockingly remarked, while sitting cross-legged upon
his bench, that he wished her familiar spirit would appear and take him
on a nightly journey through the Valais, for he would like to see the
famous witches and demons about which he had heard so many tales.

The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when a grinning, mischievous
dwarf, clad in all the colours of the rainbow, suddenly darted out of
a corner, saying, “Your wish shall be granted!” At the same moment
the tailor felt a clawlike hand close over his coat-collar, and was
whisked through the air to Monthey. There, he and the dwarf alighted
on the banks of the Viege, while the clocks were solemnly tolling the
midnight hour, and quickly mounted a coal-black ram which came rushing
out of the churchyard to meet them. The dwarf, who had jerked the
tailor on the ram’s back, roughly bade him hold fast, whispering that
their fleet-footed steed was the spectral ram of Monthey, which ranged
noisily through the land on certain days in the year.

They now sped on so fast that the tailor felt the wind whistle through
his hair, and he almost fainted with terror when his guide pointed
out the huge Ivy Snake, which was mounting guard over all the gold of
heathendom, spread out on a barren heath. The snake no sooner perceived
them than it rushed towards them, hissing loudly and breathing fire and
brimstone from its gaping mouth. A timely kick, administered by the
dwarf, fortunately urged the black ram on to such speed, that the Ivy
Snake could not overtake them however fast it pursued.

At St. Maurice the ram paused for a moment near the monastery
fish-pond, where a dead trout suddenly rose to the surface of the water.

“There,” cried the dwarf, “one of the choristers has just died, for
whenever one of them breathes his last, a dead trout appears in this
pond.”

In confirmation of his words, a funeral knell began to toll, and this
sound accompanied them for some time as they sped on towards the Plan
Nevé. Here, among the gray rocks and along the huge glacial stream,
they beheld countless barefooted ghosts painfully threading their
way. The dwarf then explained to the tailor that these spirits were
condemned to carry fine sand up the mountain in sieves, but that as
every grain ran out long before they reached their goal, they were
obliged to begin again and again their hopeless task.

At the bottom of a neighbouring well, the dwarf next pointed out the
ghost of Nero, who, in punishment for his manifold sins, was condemned
to blow huge bubbles up to the surface without ever stopping to rest.
In the Aucenda, near Gex, the dwarf also showed him the spirits of
dishonest lawyers, who, having fished in figuratively troubled waters
all their lives, were now condemned to do the same in the ice-cold
stream, where they were further employed in brewing the storms and
freshets which desolate that region.

Before the bewildered tailor had time to comment upon these awful
sights, he was whisked away to La Soye, where a red-headed maiden
told him she would give him a golden calf, provided he would kiss her
thrice. Reasoning that it was far from Conthey, and that his wife
could not possibly see him, the tailor pursed up his lips, and was
about to bestow the first kiss, when the red-headed girl was suddenly
transformed into a hideous, writhing dragon. This metamorphosis so
terrified the poor tailor that he buried his heels in the flanks of the
black ram, which darted away at such a rattling pace that they soon
reached Sion.

There the dwarf transferred the tailor to the back of the three-legged
white horse which haunts this city, and as they galloped away, the
tailor saw that they were followed by a fire-breathing boar, the ram,
the dragon, the red-headed girl, the ghosts of Plan Nevé with their
sieves, and the dripping lawyers. In the dim distance he could also
descry Nero, still blowing huge bubbles, and the deceased chorister
holding a dead trout between his teeth.

This strange procession now swept along the Rhône valley to the Baths
of Leuk, where they were joined by a mischievous sprite who rapped
loudly at every door as he darted past. At Zauchet, their ranks were
further increased by the wraith of a giant ox, whose horns glowed like
live coals and whose tail consisted of a flaming torch.

Next they sped down the Visp valley, where a woman once refused food
to Our Lord when he journeyed through the land. In punishment for this
sin, the hamlet where she dwelt sank beneath the ground, and a stream
now runs over the broad, flat stone which formed the altar of the
village church.

Arriving at Zermatt, the dwarf and tailor exchanged their mount for
a blue-haired donkey, whose loud bray, added to the snorts, groans,
hisses, and cries of their ghostly train, created an awful din in the
peaceful valleys through which they swept like the wind. Arriving
finally at Lake Champey, the Blue Ass swam to an island, where the
Devil of Corbassière and a number of witches were madly treading the
swift measures of an infernal dance.

The tailor, seeing this, sprang from his steed to join them; but when
he offered to kiss the youngest and prettiest of the witches, the
Devil of Corbassière angrily flung him head first into the lake. As
the witches belaboured him with their broomsticks whenever he tried to
creep ashore on the island, the tailor finally struck out for the other
bank, where he sank down, panting and exhausted, and closed his eyes.

Suddenly he felt a small hand laid upon him, and thinking it must be
one of his recent tormentors, he cried aloud in terror, “Leave me
alone, you witch!”

A vigorous box on his ear made him open his eyes with a start, just
in time to see his wife standing over him with upraised hand, saying,
“I’ll teach you to call me a witch!”

The tailor now protested that he had done nothing of the kind; but
although his wife declared that he had merely fallen asleep over his
work, he knew that his spirit had journeyed all through the Valais, in
company with the dwarf and the demons which haunt the land.

He was so thoroughly imbued with this belief that he never made fun of
his wife’s superstitions again, and when sceptics denied the existence
of ghosts, demons, or witches, he merely shook his head, for he had
seen for himself that “there are more things in heaven and earth than
are dreamt of in our philosophy.”

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ascension of the Fletschhorn, near the Simplon, was probably first
accomplished in 1856, but tradition claims that this feat was performed
long before this date by a dauntless Swiss.

He resolved to be the first to reach the top of the mountain, and with
that object in view started to scale it early one fine morning. As he
did not know which road to follow, he scrambled up and down the rocks,
through snow and over ice, and thus was quite exhausted long before he
came near the top, where jagged rocks and steep walls of ice offer only
a most precarious foothold.

The mountaineer, who was an expert climber, knew it would be folly to
venture any farther that day, so he sat down to rest a moment before he
began the descent. While sitting there on the mountain side, trying to
recover his breath, he suddenly heard a ghostly voice far above him,
bidding him bring a cat, dog, and cock, as propitiatory sacrifices to
the Spirit of the Mountain next time he attempted the ascent.

Refreshed by a few days’ rest and by strengthening food, the
mountaineer soon set out again, taking with him the three animals the
Mountain Spirit had asked for. At the first dangerous spot the dog lost
his foothold and fell down a precipice; farther on even the cat’s sharp
claws failed to preserve it from slipping down into the blue-green
depths of a crevasse, and after some more rough climbing the cold grew
so intense that the poor cock was frozen stiff!

The brave mountaineer now pressed on alone, although it was snowing
hard and the wind blew sharp ice splinters into his face which almost
blinded him. Presently the storm began to rage with such fury that the
man had to relinquish his purpose, although he had now reached a much
higher point than the first time.

On arriving home, friends and neighbours crowded around him, to hear
a minute account of his adventures; but they all deemed him more
than foolhardy when he declared that, in spite of all the perils
encountered, he meant to try again on the next favourable day.

True to his resolve, however, the man started out again with cat,
dog, and cock, which poor animals met with the same fate as their
predecessors. As for the Swiss himself, he climbed higher and higher,
until he came so near the summit that a last determined effort would
have enabled him to reach it. But the great exertions he had made, and
the rarefied atmosphere, brought on a severe headache which made him
feel very weak and dizzy. Nevertheless he bravely went on until the
pain in his head grew so intolerable that it seemed as if his skull
would burst. He therefore relinquished his attempt, and crept slowly
home, feeling his headache decrease with every downward step.

But even this last experience could not daunt our climber, who set out
again a few days later, with the same strange trio of animals. This
time, however, he prudently provided himself with an iron hoop, which
fitting closely around his head, would prevent its bursting should he
again reach a great altitude!

Thus equipped, he wended his way up the Fletschhorn, where cat, dog,
and rooster soon perished, leaving the man to continue his perilous
climb alone. Although the pain in his head again grew worse with
every upward step, our mountaineer pressed bravely on, knowing the
iron band would hold fast, and finally reached the topmost pinnacle of
the mountain. His fellow-citizens, proud of this feat, bestowed upon
him the Fletschalp, and honoured him as long as he lived as the most
skilful Alpine climber of that part of the country.

       *       *       *       *       *

PATCHES of so-called red snow are sometimes found high up on the Alps;
but while scientists ascribe that peculiar colour to a microscopic
fungus growth, the legend accounts for the vivid hue in a very
different way.

In bygone times, before the Alps had been pierced by tunnels and even
before convenient roadways had been built, rough paths leading over the
various passes served as means of communication between Switzerland
and Italy. These were much frequented by pack-drivers with their
sure-footed mules, and among other things thus imported were fiery
Italian wines. Some of the muleteers who had a tendency to drink, or
who were none too scrupulous to cheat their employers, used to tap
the barrels and kegs on their way over the mountains, replacing the
wine they had consumed by water from some mountain stream, so that the
vessels were always full when they reached their destination.

The pack-drivers on the Furka Pass were, it seems, especially addicted
to this species of peculation, and generally paused at the top of the
pass to refresh themselves after their long and arduous climb. In
their eagerness to partake of the strength-giving fluid, some of them
often tapped their barrels so hastily that red wine spurted forth, and
falling upon the immaculate snow gave it a blood-like tinge.

In punishment for this crime, or for so carelessly guarding their
merchandise that they did not even notice when barrels leaked, many
pack-drivers are now said to haunt this pass, continually treading
the path they once went over. They are tormented by a thirst such as
is known by the damned only, and which all the ice, snow, and running
streams around there cannot quench. Their only refreshment now comes
from the scattered drops remaining here and there upon the snow, or
from small libations which compassionate travellers still pour out
along the pass, to moisten the parched lips and throats of these
unhappy spirits.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE old and picturesque city of Grandson, on the west shore of Lake
Neuchâtel, and in the northern part of the canton of Vaud, is noted
in history as the place where, in 1476, fifty thousand Burgundians,
under their Duke Charles the Bold, were routed with great slaughter by
less than half that number of Swiss patriots. Rich and quaint specimens
of the booty secured on that memorable occasion by the victors, still
adorn various Swiss museums and arsenals; Soleure exhibiting the
costume of Charles’s jester, while Lucerne boasts of the golden Seal of
Burgundy.

Many romantic legends are told of the town and castle of Grandson,
which were defended by a Bernese patriot, Brandolf of Stein, at the
beginning of the Burgundian war. Such was the courage and skill of this
commander, that, perceiving he could not secure the town by force, the
Count of Romont, Charles’s ally, resorted to stratagem. It succeeded
only too well, and the Burgundians were already masters of the town
when the first alarm was given, and Stein rushed bravely into the fray
at the head of his five hundred men. The Swiss, however, soon saw
that the town was lost, and wishing to preserve the castle until his
countrymen could send reinforcements to eject the Burgundians, Stein
quickly ordered a retreat.

To make sure that the enemy would be held at bay until all his men
were safe, and the castle gates duly closed, Stein himself covered
their retreat; but at the last moment he was surrounded and overpowered
by Romont, who, forcing him to surrender, led him away to his own
quarters to await the arrival and decree of the Duke.

As soon as Charles came, he bade Romont lead Stein under the walls
of the castle, and have a herald proclaim that unless the garrison
surrendered immediately, Stein would be put to death. This order was
executed; but the last words of the proclamation had scarcely been
uttered when the prisoner sternly cried,--

“Comrades, pay no heed to these summons. You were Swiss before you
became my friends; therefore be true to your country, and die rather
than relinquish your trust. But if you love me, guard well my treasure
and cast it into the lake rather than let it fall into the hands of our
enemy.”

Before the Burgundians could recover sufficient presence of mind to
silence him, this brief speech was ended, and it was clear that not a
word of it had been lost, for the garrison shouted a unanimous refusal
to yield when summoned to do so for the third and last time. Still,
when the Swiss saw their beloved chief led away to the scaffold, hot
tears poured freely down their bronzed and bearded cheeks.

Such was their respect for their master’s memory that they resisted
every attack, holding out until forged papers convinced them that Bern
was in the power of the Burgundians, and that they could expect no
help from their distressed countrymen. These false tidings determined
them to surrender the castle, provided their safety was guaranteed by
Charles the Bold.

But the gates were no sooner opened than Charles, in spite of his
promises, ordered most of these brave men cast into the lake or
hanged, sparing only a few of those who pledged themselves to serve
him faithfully. Having thus rid himself of the garrison, the Duke
next proceeded to search for Stein’s treasure, but all in vain. He
questioned the few survivors, but they truthfully declared they had
never heard of any store of gold, silver, or precious stones. Convinced
nevertheless that Stein must have owned at least one priceless jewel,
Charles bitterly regretted having slain him before ascertaining the
nature and place of concealment of that treasure.

Thinking that Laurent, keeper of the alarm tower, an old retainer of
Stein’s, might know something about it, Charles went in quest of him,
harshly threatening to pitch him into the lake, unless he immediately
revealed all he knew concerning his master’s possessions. Thus
constrained, Laurent reluctantly admitted that Stein, having spared the
life of a Mussulman, had received from this grateful man a pyramidal
diamond of fabulous value, from which hung by a slender golden chain a
huge pear-shaped pearl.

The Duke, who had a passion for diamonds, immediately ordered a new
and more minute search; but as the treasure was not forthcoming, he
renewed his visit and threats, telling Laurent he must produce the
missing jewel or die on the spot. In vain the poor man swore he had
never seen the diamond since his mistress wore it on her wedding-day;
the Duke refused to believe him, and angrily ordered him flung out of
the window! Just then, however, a panel in the wall directly opposite
Charles slipped noiselessly aside, revealing a deep niche in which
stood a beautiful, stern-faced woman, gowned all in black, but wearing
a dazzling diamond pendant. This woman stepped slowly forward, the
panel closed behind her, and the Duke started back in terror when she
threw the magnificent jewel at his feet, crying,--

“There, traitor, behold the diamond you covet; but Stein’s real
treasures, his sorrowing wife and innocent daughter, will die by their
own hand rather than fall into the power of such a miscreant as you!”

Then, before the Duke could recover sufficient presence of mind to
speak or move, the Lady of Stein vanished behind the secret panel, and
Charles could have believed himself victim of a delusion had not the
jewel still sparkled at his feet.

The Lady of Stein had vanished; but the Burgundian now learned from
Laurent that the two ladies were waiting, in the secret chambers of the
castle, for an opportunity to escape to a convent, where both intended
to take the veil, since he had broken their hearts by killing Stein.

Charles, who had an eye for beauty, promptly reasoned that the daughter
of such a handsome mother must be very lovely, and he began to devise
an excuse to see her. He therefore artfully informed Laurent that
Romont alone was to blame for Stein’s death; adding that his dearest
wish was to provide a suitable husband for Elizabeth Stein, and that,
in token of regard, he would give her her father’s jewel as wedding
present. Then he persuaded Laurent to carry a message to his stern
mistress and induce her to come down into the great hall of the castle,
where he would await her.

The Duke having departed, Laurent touched a cunningly hidden spring,
and threaded his way along secret passages which led from tower to
tower, down long, narrow stairs, and into a passageway opening out on
the lake. In one of these recesses he found his mistress, who finally
consented to appear before Charles with her seventeen-year-old daughter
Elizabeth.

The moment Charles’s eyes rested upon this lovely maiden, he was seized
with a mad passion, which he determined to gratify at any cost. His
first move was to try and gain the good graces of both women, but in
spite of all his protestations and courteous speeches, the Lady of
Stein declared he must prove his innocence by punishing her husband’s
murderer, adding that her daughter would either marry her father’s
avenger or become a nun.

On hearing these words, Charles gave immediate orders to seize Romont
and have him beheaded in the presence of both ladies. A few moments
later, therefore, the Count stood in the castle yard; but when the
executioner read aloud his death sentence, he boldly declared he
was neither a murderer nor a traitor, and that he could prove his
innocence, were the guest in his tent only allowed to appear with him
before Charles. Anxious to seem just and generous in the eyes of the
ladies, the Duke granted this request, and the brave young James of
Romont soon came in, followed by a man in full armour.

“My lord Duke,” cried Romont, “I am not a traitor! I have merely been
guilty of disobeying an order which I knew you would regret in time.
You accuse me of being Stein’s murderer; that is impossible, for,
behold! there he stands!”

At that moment the stranger to whom Romont pointed threw up his
vizor, and both ladies rapturously flew into his arms, thus proving
his unmistakable identity. The first outburst of emotion over, Stein
told his wife and daughter how generously Romont had treated him, and
Charles winced when he heard them express their undying gratitude, and
saw the glances exchanged by the young people, who had fallen in love
with each other at first sight.

To rid himself of the youthful saviour who found such evident favour in
Elizabeth’s eyes, Charles now sternly ordered Romont back to prison,
saying he must prove himself innocent of the charge of treachery which
had also been brought against him.

Sure of speedy acquittal,--for he was the soul of honour,--Romont
quietly allowed himself to be led away to a dungeon, where he beguiled
the weary hours by long day-dreams, and by composing and singing tender
love-songs in praise of the fair Elizabeth.

In the meantime, Charles led the Stein family to his own camp, where
he assigned them sumptuous tents, and surrounded them with all manner
of graceful attentions. But in spite of all his efforts to win their
confidence, Stein and his wife could not help suspecting he was not
so good and true as he would fain appear. For this reason they both
watched carefully over their daughter, and the Duke could not secure a
moment’s private intercourse with her, although he frequently tried to
do so.

This watchfulness vexed Charles greatly; for while he loved the girl,
he had no intention of marrying her, but he knew her parents would
detect his evil intentions should he approach her through them.

One day, he accidentally learned that Romont managed to send love-songs
to the fair Elizabeth, and that her parents unconsciously encouraged
her secret passion for the young prisoner by speaking of him in terms
of the highest praise. Thinking he might perchance win Elizabeth by
working upon her fears for Romont’s safety, the Duke now informed Stein
that he would forgive and release the prisoner, provided Elizabeth
interceded in his behalf, and if he were allowed to make sure of her
real sentiments in a private interview.

Although loath to lose sight of his daughter even for a minute, Stein
felt too deeply in Romont’s debt to refuse this apparently simple
request, and himself conducted Elizabeth to the Duke’s tent, where he
bade her enter while he mounted guard at the door.

The timid Elizabeth therefore presented herself alone before Charles,
who gently reassured her, and then explained that if she would only
consent to be his, Romont should be released, but that if she refused,
the young man should be put to death.

At first the virtuous Elizabeth could not credit her ears, but when the
Duke drew near as if to clasp her in his arms, she fled to her father
crying--

“Take me away, father! The poor prisoner we love will have to die, but
I know he would rather lose his life than see me dishonoured!”

Stein gnashed his teeth on hearing these words, which more than
confirmed his darkest suspicions; and while he gently led his weeping
daughter back to her mother, he tried to plan how best to avenge this
deadly insult.

In the meantime, the Duke feverishly paced his tent, and calling for
his confidant asked him what course he could pursue to recover the
maiden’s confidence and still attain his evil ends. This man, whose
task it was to gratify the Duke’s passions, now artfully suggested that
Charles should declare he had merely wished to test Elizabeth’s virtue,
and should propose to her parents that she marry Romont without delay.
Then, under pretext of sparing the latter the hard duty of fighting
against his wife’s people, Charles was to dismiss Romont from the army.

But while he thus openly posed as the young people’s friend and
benefactor, one of his emissaries was to persuade a few of the camp
followers that Romont was a traitor, and instigate them to create a
disturbance when the bridal party left the church. In the midst of the
confusion a hired assassin could easily kill Romont; and the Duke,
in pretending to avenge his death and protect Elizabeth, would gain
possession of his vast estates and of his young widow, who would then
be at his mercy.

This artful plan so pleased Charles that he immediately hastened to the
Steins’ tent, where he played his part with such consummate skill that
they believed all he said, and joyfully consented to their daughter’s
immediate marriage.

The preparations were speedily made, and the nuptials solemnised; but
as the little procession left the church, Stein and the Duke were
detained for a moment by a man with a petition.

Romont, proudly leading his peerless young bride, on whose bosom
sparkled the famous diamond, suddenly found himself surrounded by a
brawling troop of soldiers, who angrily shook their fists at him and
denounced him as a traitor. Before he could speak one word in his own
defence, the hired assassin sprang forward with raised dagger, crying,
“Die, thou traitor!”

Just then Elizabeth sprang forward, and the sharp blade had to pass
through her slender body before it could touch Romont. A scene of
indescribable confusion ensued; but although Romont swiftly carried his
dying bride into her mother’s tent, where every care was lavished upon
her, she lived only long enough to whisper, “I die happy since I could
save you, beloved!” and gently breathed her last.

When the fatal truth dawned upon the frantic bridegroom, he fell
fainting across his dead bride; and it was only then that they
discovered that he too had been wounded, for his doublet was drenched
with blood. Nobly forgetting her own sorrow to minister to her
husband’s saviour, the Lady of Stein nursed Romont so carefully that in
spite of his longing to follow Elizabeth’s pure spirit into the better
land, he was soon restored to health. But he never forgot his bride,
and when her parents ultimately died, he left his own country to take
up his abode in a foreign land.

As for the Duke, he was sorely punished for all his crimes. Not only
did he lose Elizabeth, whom he passionately loved; but a few days after
her death he was defeated by her countrymen at the battle of Grandson.
Such was the fury of that Swiss onslaught, that Charles would have
fallen into their hands had not his fleet steed swiftly carried him out
of their reach. A few months later he suffered a second crushing defeat
at their hands at Morat; and he was slain near Nancy, in the following
year, while trying to escape from his Swiss foes for the third and last
time.




FRIBOURG


The city of Fribourg, capital of the canton of the same name, is
picturesquely situated on a rocky height almost surrounded by the
Sarine, one of the tributaries of the Aare. A mediæval town, it boasts
of many interesting relics, while in its cathedral stands the great
modern organ known the world over.

When Charles the Bold experienced his second appalling defeat at Morat,
in 1476, one of the Swiss soldiers volunteered to carry the joyful
tidings to Fribourg, his native city. Although he had fought bravely
and was very weary after his almost superhuman efforts, he snatched
a green twig from a neighbouring lime-tree, stuck it in his hat so
that his people could see from afar this sign of victory, and quickly
started for home. Tradition claims that he ran every step of the
way; the fact is, he reached the city so exhausted that he sank down
lifeless as soon as the one word “Victory” had escaped from his parched
lips.

His fellow-citizens were so proud of this victory, and of the messenger
who brought the news so quickly to them, that they planted the
lime twig on the very spot where he had fallen. There it throve and
grew, until it is now a mighty tree, with a boll fourteen feet in
circumference; and it still serves as a green monument of this famous
triumph of the Swiss army.

The whole valley of the Sarine and its tributaries is most picturesque,
and the soil so fertile that it supports countless heads of the finest
cattle in the world. After passing the quaint little mediæval town of
Romont, with its old castle and fortifications, you come to a hill in
the middle of the Sarine valley on which rises the famous castle of
Gruyère, recently restored, and now one of the most beautiful show
places in Switzerland.

The view from Gruyère is most charming, and includes not only the
winding course of the Sarine, and the green hills dotted with the
herds,--which furnish the renowned Swiss or Gruyère cheese,--but beyond
rise rocky pine-clad mountains, the most important of which is the
Moléson.

The founding of the castle of Gruyère is attributed to Gruerius, a
captain in the Thebaid legion, who, escaping martyrdom in the days of
Diocletian, fled into the mountains. After threading his way through
the dense forests which then clothed these grassy hills, he finally
reached the point where the castle now stands. There, helped by other
fugitive Christians, he began to clear away the primeval forest, and
founded the castle and town which bear his name.

Gruyère thus became the cradle of a new race, which, constantly
increasing in wealth and power, soon ruled over a vast extent of land
peopled by many vassals. The Counts of Gruyère were in general good
masters; and the land, carefully tilled by their dependants, grew more
and more productive, until many villages dotted the country, while the
tinkle of cow-bells was heard for miles around.

In the days of the Crusades, many knights passed this castle on their
way to the Holy Land; and the Counts of Gruyère, assuming the cross
too, joined them with the fatalistic cry, “Go we must, return who may!”
(“S’agit d’aller, reviendra qui pourra!”)

In spite of their wealth and extensive possessions, the Counts of
Gruyère were none too well informed, for we are told they naïvely asked
their companions whether the sea they had to cross on their way to
Palestine could possibly be as large as the stretch of water they had
seen in making a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Lucerne.

Toward the end of the fourteenth century, Margaret, Countess of
Gruyère, was very sad, because, although she had already been married
several years, Providence had not yet vouchsafed her a child. In
her anxiety to obtain offspring, this fair Countess consulted the
astrologers and other fortune-tellers who visited the castle; but as
their promises afforded her very little satisfaction, she soon resorted
to pilgrimages, fasting, and long seasons of fervent prayer.

All the pilgrims who stopped at the castle, on their way to and from
the shrines at Einsiedlen and Lucerne, were entertained with the utmost
hospitality at Gruyère, and when they departed the Countess invariably
loaded them with gifts, gently begging them to intercede for her when
they reached the goal of their pilgrimage.

Garbed like a nun, in the plainest of homespun dresses, the Countess
diligently visited the poor and sick, helped the needy, and was so good
and charitable to all that she was revered throughout the country like
a saint. Besides, every night and morning, she spent hours on her knees
in the castle chapel, imploring the Virgin and all the saints to grant
her her heart’s desire.

One evening, when twilight was fast merging into darkness, she still
lingered there on her knees, weeping bitterly because hitherto all her
prayers had remained unanswered. Absorbed in sorrowful thoughts, and
uttering broken words of supplication between her sobs, the Countess
failed to notice the entrance of a lame beggar who had often been the
recipient of her bounty.

The sound of suppressed weeping and convulsive prayer soon attracted
the beggar’s attention, and peering through the gloom,--which the
taper burning on the altar only seemed to intensify,--he soon descried
a woman clad in rough homespun. Lame Hans, whose sorest trial was an
occasional lack of food, immediately concluded that this poor woman
must be needy, and catching the word “children,” he hastily drew some
coarse bread and cheese out of his wallet, and laid it beside her,
saying,--

“This is all I have, my poor woman, but the Holy Virgin’s blessing
resting upon it will enable it to dry your tears.”

Then, before the astonished Countess could say a word, the lame man
hobbled off; and although he went to bed hungry, he felt a warm glow in
the region of his heart whenever he pictured the zest with which the
hungry children would devour his bread and cheese.

The Countess came out of the chapel a few moments after Hans, and as
she returned to her apartments her servants marvelled at the radiant
expression of her face, although it bore marks of recent tears. They
were still more surprised when they saw her come forth in her richest
apparel to welcome her husband and his friends on their return from
the chase. Their amazement was shared by the hunters, who gazed with
unconcealed wonder at the hostess whom they had left in the morning
pale, silent, and dejected, but who now seemed radiant with life and
hope.

Her unwonted vivacity charmed both husband and guests; and when toward
the end of the evening meal she begged leave to lay before them a new
dish, they all received the proposal with joyful acclamations. At a
sign from the fair châtelaine, her aged nurse and favourite page then
brought in two covered silver dishes, which they gravely set before
their master.

All eyes were riveted on these vessels when the Count of Gruyère
simultaneously raised both covers; and his expression of disappointment
was mirrored on every face, when instead of choice dainties nothing
was seen but the coarse bread and cheese of the peasant population.
Interrogative glances were therefore soon directed to the Countess,
who with charming grace and simplicity related her adventure in the
chapel and repeated the lame beggar’s words. She concluded by saying
that she now believed her prayers would be answered, and begged all
present to partake with her of the food which had come to her in such
a strange way. Touched by the tale she told, one and all solemnly
ate the bread and cheese she gave them; but her old nurse laid her
share carefully aside, saying she would partake of it only when her
mistress’s dearest wish had been fulfilled.

Then the castle chaplain arose, filled all the beakers with wine,
blessed them as solemnly as if he were about to celebrate a communion
service, and all drank to the health of the gracious Countess and the
speedy coming of a son and heir to the castle of Gruyère.

Within a year from that day the Stork brought a beautiful boy to the
Countess, and at his christening feast many noble guests merrily drank
his health. The Countess, radiant with happiness, bestowed bountiful
alms upon all the poor, giving lame Hans a new suit of clothes, and a
pension to prevent his ever feeling the pangs of hunger again.

In the midst of this feast the old nurse came in and solemnly ate her
carefully treasured share of Hans’s bread and cheese. Then she made a
deep curtsey to her mistress, saying,--

“Gracious Lady, you see it is just as I always told you. To the one who
gives freely, much will be given. May God preserve you and your husband
and grant your son a long, happy, and useful life at Gruyère!”

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM the castle and town of Gruyère one can enjoy a fine view of
the Moléson, the highest peak in that region, from whose summit can
be seen the Lake of Geneva with Mont Blanc, the Dent du Midi, and
the Diablerets to the south. West and east are the Jura and Titlis
mountains, while to the north extends the fertile valley of the Sarine.

Here on the Moléson, as well as on most mountain pastures in
Switzerland, you can often hear the famous Ranz des Vaches, Kuhreihen,
or musical call, which the cattle no sooner hear than they crowd around
their herdsmen.

This melody, repeated by the echoes, and accompanied by the ripple and
splash of running waters, the tintinnabulations of cow-bells, and the
lowing of the kine, has a peculiar charm for all who hear it, and in
words runs about as follows:--

     “The herdsmen of the Colombettes
      At the dawn of day have risen;
        Ha, ah! ha, ah!
      Cows, cows, to the milking come!
      Come here, all of you.
      White ones and black ones,
      Red and brindled,
      Young ones, old ones,
      Under this oak-tree,
      Where I will milk you;
      Under this poplar,
      Where I will drain you!
      Cows, cows! to the milking come!”[1]

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

The Moléson was long the favourite field of the chamois-hunters in
Fribourg. One of these men having been overtaken by darkness high up on
the mountain, once sought refuge in a deserted herdsmen’s hut. Drawing
near it, he was surprised to hear the tinkle of bells, the lowing and
stamping of cattle, and the voices of herdsmen, for he knew the cows
had already left the high pastures. Entering the hut, he was further
amazed to see four queer, wizened-looking men, whose thumb and first
and second fingers were missing. Besides, one of these men was lame,
the second hunchbacked, the third had but one eye, and the fourth was
apparently a leper.

These men signed to him to take a seat near the fire, where they were
busy making green cheese, of which, however, they had already a large
store in the hut.

The hunchback herdsman offered the guest bread and meat which looked
so unpalatable that the hunter took but one mouthful and set the food
aside, muttering that they must have forgotten the salt when preparing
it. This remark so incensed his hosts that they began to gnash their
teeth, and came toward him making such threatening gestures that in
sudden terror the hunter made a sign of the cross. At that moment
herdsmen, cheese, cows, and fire vanished, and the chamois-hunter found
himself alone in the deserted hut.

But when he told his night adventure at home, he learned that a small
piece of meat had been cut out of the left hind quarter of his best
cow. One of the oldest inhabitants of the village, moreover, informed
him that the men whom he had seen were wicked herdsmen, who had
neglected their duties while in the flesh, and had besides been guilty
of perjury. In punishment for their wickedness, they had not only lost
the three fingers upheld in taking an oath, but were condemned to atone
for past laziness by working hard every night.




LEGENDS OF NEUCHÂTEL


A younger son of one the Counts of Neuchâtel, wishing to found a family
of his own, went to settle in 1155 in the picturesque Val de Ruz in
the Jura mountains. Here he selected a tall and jagged rock, washed by
the Seyon, as the site of his new stronghold, the Castle of Vallangin.
Owing to its position, it was almost impregnable; but it was a very
dismal abode, for the heights of Chaumont at the south overshadowed it,
cutting off much sunlight, while the dense pine forests around it did
not tend to lessen the gloom.

The Val de Ruz was so fertile, however, that the lords of Vallangin
soon grew rich and powerful, ruling wisely over the many peasants
who came to settle there under their protection. At the end of the
thirteenth century their vassals already numbered many thousands, and
included all classes of society.

Rollin, lord of Vallangin, was but sixteen years of age, when two
of his most powerful vassals renounced their allegiance to him and
prepared to despoil him of his property. With that end in view, they
armed their retainers and sallied forth to attack their young master.
The friends of the latter, however, getting wind of this plot, hastily
assembled the noblemen, clergy, and peasants who were still faithful
to their lord, and consulting with them took active measures to meet
and conquer the foe. Young Rollin himself, supported by the lords of
Neuchâtel, of Colombiers, and of Vauxtravers, set out at the head of
his army, and meeting the two faithless lords on the plain of Coffrane,
defeated their forces in pitched battle, and secured the persons of the
recreant vassals.

Many men perished on both sides in this encounter; and hundreds of
years later, a staff of command lost in this battle was ploughed up by
a farmer and placed in the Museum of Neuchâtel, where it is carefully
preserved as a relic of the fight.

Rollin, having seized the faithless vassals, had them brought before
him, and sternly informed them that in his anger at hearing of their
treachery, he had vowed nothing short of two heads would ever satisfy
him. At these words the guilty lords trembled and grew pale, for they
felt their last hour was near. Their despair was such that when Rollin
bade them reveal the place where they had concealed their treasures,
they offered no resistance, but meekly obeyed. Before long, therefore,
two huge heaps of silver lay at Rollin’s feet. He gazed at them a few
moments in silence, then addressed the culprits, saying:

“I swore I would have two heads, and this solemn vow cannot be
recalled. But, as I have never yet sentenced a guilty man to death, I
am loath to shed your blood. I will therefore spare you, on condition
that two silver heads be cast from this metal, to take the place of
those which you have forfeited, but which I allow you to retain. You
shall also recover your freedom and go home in peace, but I hereby warn
you that should you ever prove faithless again it will be bloody and
not bloodless heads which I will claim!”

The delinquent lords, happy to escape their death sentence, solemnly
presented two heavy silver heads to the young lord of Vallangin. These
were placed by his order on the high altar of the collegiate church
at Neuchâtel, where they remained until the days of the Reformation,
when an ignorant iconoclast, deeming them idols, removed them from the
altar. Since then no trace of the silver busts has been seen.

       *       *       *       *       *

EARLY in the fourteenth century, some of the vassals of the lord of
Vallangin went to settle in the lovely valleys of the Jura Mountains,
where, joined by a few families from Burgundy, they founded Le Locle
and La Chaux-de-Fonds. These two colonies speedily increased in numbers
and wealth, and the towns thus founded are now important centres for
the manufacture of watches and jewelry.

Many of the people of the Canton of Neuchâtel having turned Protestant,
Wilhelmine of Bergy, grandmother of one of the lords of Vallangin, a
stanch Catholic, sadly forsook the castle which she had entered as
a happy young bride, to go and live like a hermit in the village of
Gezard, which was her dowry.

This lady, already eighty years of age, was lamed by gout and quite
feeble, but she nevertheless took great interest in the peasants around
her, whom she often visited and frequently helped by her good advice.

One day, sitting among the women of the village who were diligently
spinning, she heard them comment bitterly upon their sad lot, saying it
was very hard that among all the fields they tilled, there was not a
single acre which they could call their very own and which was entirely
free from taxation.

Emboldened by the kindly interest the old lady showed in their remarks,
they finally ventured to beg her to give them part of her land, to
have and to hold without being asked for tithes or rent in exchange.
Wilhelmine, who could not dispose of the land otherwise, then said:

“My good women, your request shall be granted. You shall have one half
of the land which I can walk around in one day.” Saying these words,
the old lady painfully rose from her seat, and tottered slowly back to
her humble dwelling.

The peasant women, whose hearts had swelled with joy at her first
words, but whose hopes had been shattered by the conclusion of her
speech, sadly watched her limp out of sight, and then murmured
regretfully,--

“The poor mistress is so old and weak, that with the best intentions in
the world, she will hardly be able to creep around a single acre!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

“Natural history specimens,” quietly answered the naturalist.

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

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

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

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

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

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




BERN


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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: THE WILD HUNT.]

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

[Illustration: THE OLD ST. CHRISTOPHER TOWER.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

“Are you all ready? Shall we pull?”

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

[Illustration: THE GIESSBACH.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

[Illustration: GRINDELWALD.]

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

[Illustration: THE JUNGFRAU.]

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!

[Illustration: THE SPALENTHOR (OR THE SPALEN GATE) BASEL.]

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.

Count Radbod gazed enraptured at the extensive forests, and the
picturesque valleys of the Aare, the Limmat, and the Reuss, tracing the
course of these mountain streams to the point where they meet and merge
into one, near the site of the old Roman station, Vindonissa. Then his
eyes rested upon the green hills rising in ever widening circles around
him, while above and behind them towered the Alps, like a host of
snow-clad angels mounting silent guard over the matchless landscape.

Charmed with the prospect before him, and quickly perceiving the
strategic value of the location, Count Radbod immediately determined to
build his fortress on the spot where he had caught his hawk, calling
it the Hawk’s Castle, or Habichtsburg, in memory of the circumstances
under which this decision had been reached.

The castle was therefore duly begun, the walls being built strong and
thick so as to resist every attack. Still, only a small part of the
funds furnished by the family for the erection of the stronghold was
devoted to that purpose, for Radbod wisely used the main portion to
acquire numerous friends, vassals, and servants, who promised to stand
by him and his in time of danger.

The castle was not entirely finished when Radbod’s brother, Bishop
Werner, announced his visit to inspect the work. Upon receipt of this
news, Count Radbod summoned his dependents, bade them hide in the
neighbourhood, and noiselessly surround the fortress at a given signal.
Then he went to meet the Bishop and escort him up to the new castle.
Werner sincerely admired the location and strength of the building, but
found fault because it was not flanked by outer walls and towers, and
because the interior was so bare of all ornamentation. He finally asked
Radbod somewhat testily what had become of all the money sent him,
for it was self-evident it had not all been expended on the fortress.
Radbod good-naturedly bade the bishop cease his grumbling and go to
bed, promising to prove on the morrow that every penny had been wisely
invested in making the castle impregnable and in strengthening their
position in the land.

At sunrise, on the following day, Werner rose from his couch, and going
to the window gazed in speechless admiration at the view. But while
he stood there, feasting his eyes upon the flame-tipped glaciers, his
attention was suddenly attracted by shadowy forms, which, starting
up from behind every rock, shrub, and tree at his feet, stealthily
surrounded the castle. In terror lest the imperial forces--whose coming
he always dreaded--should have stolen a march upon him, and lest he and
his brother should fall into the enemy’s hands, the bishop rushed to
the door to give the alarm. But on the threshold he met Count Radbod,
who, smiling at his fright, quietly said,--

“Rest without fear, my brother. The men you see yonder are your vassals
and mine, fully armed for our defence. I acquired their services with
the funds entrusted to my care, for I knew strong walls would prove of
little avail, unless defended by stout hearts and willing hands.”

This answer, and the sight of the brave men now drawn up in military
array for his inspection, more than satisfied the bishop, who,
accepting Radbod’s invitation, betook himself to the great hall of the
castle, where he received the oath of fealty and the respectful homage
of the new retainers of his race. Since then, all the members of the
old Altenburg family have been known as the counts of Habsburg, or
Hapsburg, a modification of the old Habichtsburg.[9]

      [9] See the author’s “Legends of the Rhine.”

The Hapsburgs throve apace in their new home, their power increasing
until even the freemen of the land humbly besought their protection
in exchange for the payment of certain taxes. But the ascendency thus
gained by these noblemen made them more arrogant and tyrannical than
ever, so that they finally considered themselves owners of the land,
and lords of the free people they were gradually exasperating by their
arbitrary treatment.

In those days, the greatest of all the Hapsburg race, Rudolf III., was
born in the castle, the emperor being his sponsor. At twenty-one, owing
to the early death of his father, Rudolf became head of the family,
and began that career of warfare and conquest for which he is noted
in history. Afraid of nothing, and ready to grasp at everything, his
neighbours soon learned to dread him, and the Bishop of Basel--with
whom he had a feud--expressed the general opinion of his congeners by
crying out once in comical dismay,--

“Sit firm upon Thy throne, O Lord God, or the Count of Hapsburg will
crowd Thee, too, out of it!”

Still, Rudolf was so frank and genial, that he won many friends and
adherents, and his sturdy warriors were particularly devoted to him,
because he shared all their fatigues, cheerfully partook of their
frugal fare, and was even seen by their camp fire diligently mending
his worn garments.

When Rudolf could not compass his ends by force, he frequently resorted
to ruse. For instance, wishing to take a castle on the Uetliberg near
Zürich, which was owned by a Robber-Knight who despoiled all the
citizens passing along that way, he devised the following stratagem.
Thirty tall and strong horsemen, mounted upon sturdy steeds, were
directed each to take a companion behind him, and ride up the mountain.
A force of thirty men had no terrors for the Robber-Knight, who
boldly sallied forth with his garrison to attack them. But when he
found himself face to face with double that number, he fled in terror
followed by all his retainers. Rudolf’s small force now entered the
wide-open gates of the castle, and after disposing of its occupants and
riches, razed it to the ground.

While administering his affairs in person, Rudolf proved a kind and
just master, and often sat under the linden-tree at Altorf, to award
justice to the freemen of Uri, who had chosen him as their umpire.
But while he was away, upholding the tottering fortunes of the
Hohenstauffens, or extending his domains, his bailiffs and stewards
ruled with a rod of iron over the estates he had won. Such were their
exactions, that the people of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwald, who had
long prided themselves upon their independence, finally determined to
recover their freedom. In 1245 they openly rebelled, but while Uri
recovered its lost liberty, and was again allowed to depend directly
from the crown, Schwyz and Unterwald were compelled to remain under the
overlordship of the Hapsburg race.




THE FOREST CANTONS


Rudolf von Hapsburg’s many possessions included an old castle on the
Ramflue, which, although it is said to have been founded by the Romans,
was known as Neu Hapsburg. Charmingly located on the banks of the Lake
of Lucerne, this castle was a favourite resort of Rudolf, who went
thither, in the intervals of fighting, to hunt the chamois and the deer.

Tradition claims that Rudolf once set out for the chase from Neu
Hapsburg, mounted upon his favourite steed, and followed by one squire,
who rode an inferior horse, and therefore had some trouble in keeping
up with his rapid pace. While crossing a beautiful green meadow,
Rudolf’s attention was suddenly attracted by a tinkling sound. His
curiosity aroused, he spurred ahead in the direction of the noise,
and soon beheld a priest carrying the Sacrament, and preceded by a
sacristan dutifully ringing a little bell.

At this sight, Rudolf immediately dismounted. Then, kneeling, he did
respectful homage to the Blessed Body of our Lord, and in that humble
posture watched the little procession pass along its way. A few moments
later, he sprang up surprised, for the priest had come to a sudden
standstill. After a brief period of evident hesitation, Rudolf saw him
set the Host down upon a neighbouring stone, and begin to remove his
sandals and gird up his cassock. Hastening toward him, Rudolf perceived
that recent heavy rains had so swollen the mountain torrent which
flowed through the meadow, that the rude bridge had been entirely swept
away. No other means of crossing being available for many miles, the
priest had determined to wade through the ice-cold waters, for that was
his only chance of reaching the dying man who had begged for the last
sacrament.

After vainly trying to dissuade the priest from a struggle with the
cold and rushing stream, Rudolf, impressed by the good man’s devotion
to duty, suddenly offered him his steed. The priest demurred at first,
but realising he might not reach his parishioner in time if he had to
wade through every torrent, he gratefully accepted the offer. Rudolf
then helped him mount the fiery steed, and, once safely across the
torrent, saw him speed away to the dying man, whom he reached just in
time to bestow the last consolations of religion and thus smooth his
path to the grave.

In the meantime, Rudolf patiently awaited the coming of his squire,
then mounting the latter’s palfrey went on his way. But, early next
morning, the priest appeared at Neu Hapsburg, leading the borrowed
steed by the bridle, and he warmly expressed his gratitude for the
timely loan of a mount whose strength and speed had enabled him to
reach and comfort a dying man. When he added, however, that he had come
to restore the animal to its owner, Rudolf impetuously cried: “God
forbid that I, or any of my men, should ever use again for war or the
chase the steed which bore the sacred Body and Blood of our Blessed
Lord!” Then he formally presented the horse to the priest, to have and
to hold for ever, bidding him use it for the fulfilment of his holy
duties.

Later, on that selfsame day, Rudolf visited a convent, where a nun
suddenly addressed him saying: “My lord, you honoured the Almighty
by the timely gift of your horse. This good deed will not remain
unrewarded, for it has been revealed to me that you and yours will
attain the highest temporal honors.”

The castle of Neu Hapsburg was destroyed by the inhabitants of Lucerne
in 1352, but since then the peasants have declared that the ruins are
haunted by the spirits of departed knights and ladies. A peasant girl,
rowing past there early in the morning and late at night, said she
often saw a gayly dressed company. Sometimes the knights and ladies
made friendly signs to her, but at others the men were all in armour
and terrified her by their threatening gestures. Encouraged by their
signs, she once stepped ashore to watch them play on the grassy slope
with disks of bright gold, which she vainly tried to catch in her apron
and carry home.

The nun’s prediction to Rudolf was duly fulfilled, for the priest
who had received his steed, having become chaplain to the Bishop of
Mayence, used his influence to such good purpose that he secured
Rudolf’s election to the imperial crown of Germany, in 1273. Schiller,
in his poem “The Count of Habsburg,” claims that at the coronation
feast at Aix-la-Chapelle an aged minstrel brought tears to the eyes of
all the guests by singing a touching ballad, describing the good deed
performed by the new emperor, when he was only a count.

Rudolf proved as successful as ambitious while seated on the German
throne, but as the imperial crown was elective and not hereditary, he
secured for his descendants Austria, Styria, and Carinthia. These
lands were won during a war with the king of Bohemia, and have ever
since formed the patrimony of the Hapsburg race, which has provided
many rulers for Europe, America, and India.

When Rudolf died in 1291, the imperial crown was disputed by two
candidates, until, by the death of one of them, it finally fell
into the hands of Albert of Hapsburg, Rudolf’s son. As grasping and
tyrannical as any of his race, Albert refused to let his nephew
John--the son of an older brother--have the Castle of Hapsburg, which
was his by right of inheritance. Embittered by this act of injustice,
and despairing of redress since the wrong was committed by the emperor
himself, John began to plot with several malcontents, biding his time
until he could take his revenge by slaying his uncle.

John was not the only one who complained of injustice. The freemen of
Helvetia also had good cause for resentment. On mounting the imperial
throne, Rudolf had refused to confirm Uri’s charter, and his bailiffs
and stewards ruthlessly exerted the power entrusted to them. Thus,
they gradually alienated the peaceful peasants, and drove them to the
verge of despair. Mindful of their former independence, and weary of
tyranny and extortion, the principal citizens of the cantons of Uri,
Schwyz, and Unterwald met, seventeen days after Rudolf’s death, and on
the 1st of August, 1291, took a solemn oath to stand by each other and
resist all foreign intervention, until they had recovered their former
freedom. This oath--the corner-stone of the Swiss Confederation--was
duly sworn by all the principal inhabitants, among which figure men
whose names are noted in legend as well as in history.

Tradition has richly supplemented the meagre historical data of this
epoch, thus giving us one of the most romantic, if not authentic,
chapters of Swiss history. The legend, which gradually arose, has been
the theme of Schiller’s tragedy of “William Tell,” of Rossini’s opera
of the same name, and a source of inspiration for countless poems,
pictures, and statues. Such is the popular belief in the tale, that
all the most famous places mentioned in it are always pointed out to
strangers, and kept alive in the memory of the public by more or less
picturesque monuments.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE famous Tell legend runs as follows: The stewards and bailiffs of
the House of Austria, encouraged by immunity, daily grew more and more
cruel, until, under the slightest pretext, they thrust Swiss freemen
into damp and dark prisons, keeping them there for life. Fearful
stories of the heartlessness of these bailiffs were noised abroad, and
no one could speak strongly enough of their greed, cruelty, and total
lack of principle.

The Swiss bore this oppression as patiently as they could, and until
their position became so unbearable that they perceived they must
assert and maintain their rights to freedom, or they would soon be
reduced to a state of such abject slavery as to be deprived of all
power of resistance. Walter Fürst, Arnold von Melchthal, and Werner
Stauffacher, the wealthiest and most respected citizens of the
cantons of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwald, therefore met to discuss the
advisability of an uprisal, and, in support of their views, quoted
recent acts of wanton cruelty perpetrated by Austrian bailiffs. For
instance, one of these men had grievously insulted the wife of a
peaceful citizen, who, to defend her, slew the oppressor and was now a
hunted fugitive.

A young man of Uri was told he must surrender the fine team of oxen
with which he was ploughing, because the bailiff wanted them. As the
messenger coolly proceeded to taunt him and unyoke his oxen, the young
peasant, in a frantic effort to save the cattle, dealt a blow which
raised a terrible outcry among the bailiff’s servants. Knowing that
such an offence would be punished by life-long imprisonment in some
foul dungeon, if not by prolonged torture and cruel death, the young
man hastily fled. But the blow so thoughtlessly given was visited upon
his aged father, whose eyes were put out by order of the vindictive
bailiff.

Countless other examples of fiendish cruelty and wanton oppression
were not lacking, and when the three men parted, it was with the
understanding that they were to ascertain how many of their countrymen
were willing to help them. They furthermore arranged to meet again,
October 17, 1307, on the Grütli or Rütli, a plateau at the foot of the
Seelisberg, close by the Mythenstein, on the Lake of Lucerne.

One moonlight night, therefore, three bands of ten picked men, led by
Fürst, Stauffacher, and Melchthal wended their way to the Grütli, and
there beneath the open sky, and in sight of the snow-crowned mountains
tipped by the first glow of dawn, the leaders, clasping hands, raised
three fingers to heaven. In that position they solemnly swore to shake
off the yoke of the oppressor, their motto being, “One for all and all
for one.” This oath was fervently echoed by the thirty companions they
had brought thither, and ere they parted all agreed to be ready to rise
at a given signal on New Year’s Day, to drive the tyrants out of the
land for ever.

On the traditional spot where the Swiss patriots stood while
registering this solemn oath, three springs of crystal clear water
are said to have sprung. The legend further claims that in one of the
clefts of the Seelisberg the patriots sit, wrapped in slumbers which
will remain undisturbed until their country again has need of their
services.

Swiss peasants say that the Three Tells--for such is their popular
designation--have been seen several times. A young shepherd, for
instance, seeking a stray goat, once came to the entrance of this
mysterious cave, and beheld three men fast asleep. While staring in
speechless amazement at their old-fashioned garb and venerable faces,
one of the sleepers suddenly awoke and asked, “What time is it up in
the world?”

“High noon,” stammered the shepherd, remembering that the sun stood
directly overhead when he entered the cave.

“Then it is not yet time for us to appear,” drowsily remarked the
aged man, dropping off to sleep again.

[Illustration: THE OATH ON THE RÜTLI.]

The shepherd gazed in silent awe upon the three Tells, then, stealing
noiselessly out of the cave, carefully marked the spot, so he could
find it again when he wished to return. These precautions were vain,
however, for he and his companions searched every nook and cranny in
the mountain, without ever being able to find the entrance to the
cave of the Swiss Sleepers. But the natives declare that some simple
herdsman may again stumble upon it by accident, and many believe that
the guardians of their country’s liberties will come forth to defend
them in case of need.

Among the patriots who took the oath upon the Rütli, was a man named
Tell, son-in-law of Walter Fürst, and noted far and wide for his skill
as a marksman. Strong and sure-footed, Tell delighted in pursuing the
chamois over almost inaccessible heights, and along the jagged edges of
dangerous precipices, where a moment’s dizziness or a single misstep
would have hurled him down on the rocks hundreds of feet below. Tell
lived, with his wife and two little sons, in a hut at Bürglen, in Uri,
on the very spot where a chapel was built in his honour in 1522.

It came to pass, shortly after the patriots had met on the Grütli,
and before the time set for their uprisal, that Gessler, an Austrian
bailiff, one of whose castles rose in sight of Hapsburg, determined
to ascertain by a clever device how many men in Uri were loyal to his
master. He therefore set up a pole in the market-place at Altorf, upon
which he hung a hat,--the emblem of Austrian power,--bidding a herald
proclaim aloud that all must do homage to it under penalty of death or
life-long imprisonment.

The freemen of Uri were justly incensed when they heard this decree,
and by common consent avoided passing through the square. When
compelled to do so, they resorted to various stratagems to avoid
obeying Gessler’s orders without forfeiting life or liberty. One of
their devices was to send the priest to take up his position with the
Host directly under the obnoxious Austrian emblem. Of course, all who
now passed by reverently bent the knee; but it was quite evident, even
to the guards, that the homage was paid to the Sacrament alone, and not
to the imperial hat.

Living only a short distance from Altorf, but ignorant of all that
had recently happened there, Tell came down to the village one day,
leading his little son by the hand. Unconscious alike of pole, hat,
and guards, he strolled across the square, and was greatly surprised
to find himself suddenly arrested for defying Gessler’s orders. While
protesting his innocence, and striving to make the guards release him,
Tell saw Gessler ride by; so, turning toward him, he loudly called for
justice. The bailiff immediately drew near, and standing in the midst
of the crowd composed of his attendants and of the startled inhabitants
of Altorf, he sneeringly listened to Tell’s account of his unjust
arrest.

Now, it happened that Gessler had often heard Tell’s skill as a
marksman loudly praised, and that he had long wished to see an
exhibition of it. He therefore seized this opportunity for gratifying
both his curiosity and his cruelty, and promised to set the prisoner
free, if he shot an apple from the head of his child at a distance of
one hundred and fifty paces.

At these words a murmur of indignation arose in the crowd, but such was
the fear inspired by the cruel Gessler that none ventured to interfere
in behalf of Tell, whose prayers and protestations proved alike vain.
Seeing no other means of escape, and urged by his child, who of his own
accord ran to place himself against a linden-tree on the spot where
the fountain now stands, Tell tremblingly selected two arrows from
his quiver. One he hastily thrust in his bosom, the other he carefully
adjusted in his crossbow; but when he would fain have taken aim, the
weapon fell from his nerveless hand. Still, a sneer from the bailiff,
and an encouraging call from his boy, steeled Tell’s heart for this
awful test of skill. A moment later the child came bounding forward,
proudly exhibiting the apple transfixed by his father’s dart.

Just as Tell, still dazed by emotion, was about to turn away, Gessler
called him back to inquire why he had drawn two arrows from his
quiver, when only one shot was required to prove his proficiency. Tell
hesitated; but when Gessler assured him that he could speak without any
fear for his life, he hoarsely answered,--

“Had I injured my child, this arrow would have found its goal in your
heart, for my hand would not have trembled a second time!”

Beside himself with rage at these bold words, Gessler now bade his
guards bind Tell fast, and convey him immediately down to his waiting
boat at Flühlen, adding that while he would keep his promise not to
kill Tell, he would nevertheless thrust him into a dungeon where
neither sun nor moon would ever shine upon him, and where snakes would
prey upon his living body.

[Illustration: TELL ANSWERS GESSLER.]

Placed in the boat, with fast-bound hands and feet, his useless
weapons close beside him, Tell despairingly watched the bailiff embark
and the shore near Altorf slowly recede. But when the rowers tried to
round the Axenstein, a sudden tempest swept down on the lake, whipping
its waters to foam, and bringing skiff and passengers in such imminent
danger that there seemed no hope of escape. The boatmen, remembering
that Tell was the most clever steersman on the lakeside, now implored
Gessler to let him help, and the prisoner, freed from his bonds,
quickly seized the rudder.

With strong arm and fearless gaze he stood there, and boldly directed
the boat toward a broad ledge of rock forming a natural landing-place
at the foot of the Axenberg, at a point where the lake is nearly seven
hundred feet deep.

As the boat drew near this place, Tell suddenly let go the rudder,
and seizing his bow and arrows, sprang ashore! This spot, since known
as Tellsplatte, is one of the most interesting sites on the Lake of
Lucerne, and in the chapel commemorating this feat there are several
paintings representing various phases of the legend.

Gessler’s boat, hurled back among the seething waves, tossed about in
great danger, although his boatmen now made frantic efforts to save
their own lives. Dreading the bailiff’s vengeance should he manage to
escape, Tell hastened over the mountains to the Hohle Gasse, or Hollow
Way, a narrow road between Küssnacht and Immensee, along which Gessler
would have to pass to reach home.

There, crouching in the bushes on the steep bank, Tell patiently waited
to see whether his enemy would escape from the perils of the storm.
Before long the bailiff appeared, riding at the head of his troop,
and evidently meditating in what way he could best effect his revenge
upon Tell. His wicked plans were all cut short, however, for an arrow
from Tell’s bow put a sudden end to his tyrannical career. The spot
where Tell stood and where Gessler fell has long been marked by a
small chapel, decorated with a painting representing this scene. After
ascertaining that Gessler was really dead, Tell fled, making his way
back to Bürglen, where he cheered friends and family by the assurance
that the tyrant could never trouble them again.

The story of Swiss independence and of Tell’s brave deeds has been so
ably dramatised by Schiller, that a grateful people have carved his
name on the Mythenstein, where it may be seen by passengers on the
boats constantly plying to and fro on the Lake of Lucerne.

Besides the three picturesque chapels known by the name of Tell, where
anniversary services are held every year, and the huge statue erected
at Altorf, on the very spot where he shot the apple from the head of
his son, Tell’s name has been honoured in poetry, painting, sculpture,
and song. His death was on a par with the rest of his life, for when
far advanced in age, he fearlessly sprang into the Schächen to save
a drowning child. The sudden plunge into the ice-cold waters of this
mountain stream, and the great exertion required to stem its current,
so enfeebled the old man that he soon died.

     “And thus the great life ended;
      God!--was it not the best
      Of all the deeds of valour
      That won a hero’s rest?
      So mused I by the Schächen;
      So say we, true and well
      That the last deed was the best deed
      That closed the life of Tell!”

      HENRY MORFORD.[10]

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

Tradition claims that Gessler’s cruel treatment of Tell precipitated
historical events, for when the men of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwald
heard that Gessler was dead, they gave the agreed signal for a general
uprising. Then they simultaneously attacked all the Austrian bailiffs,
slew or drove them away, and razed their castles to the ground, after
freeing their captive countrymen.

This rebellion roused the wrath of the Emperor Albert, who immediately
set out from Hapsburg Castle to put it down with a heavy hand. But
while crossing the Reuss, in full view of his castle and retainers,
Albert was murdered by his nephew John and by four Swiss noblemen, the
only persons who were with him. Then the murderers fled, leaving the
emperor to breathe his last in the arms of a peasant woman who happened
to be near.

It is said that, wandering among the mountains, John finally reached
Tell’s cottage at Bürglen, where he stopped to beg food. Here he
confessed what he had done, and was sternly reproved by Tell, who
proved to him that murdering a relative in revenge for personal
injuries and for the sake of selfish gain, was very different from
killing a tyrant in self-defence and for the good of one’s country.

All but one of Albert’s murderers escaped justice; but not content with
slaying that victim in the most barbarous way, his wife and daughter
persecuted all the friends and relatives of those who had taken part
in the crime. More than a thousand of these unfortunates are said to
have perished, and it is claimed that Agnes, the emperor’s daughter,
personally superintended some of the executions, and rapturously
exclaimed, “Now I am bathing in May dew!” when she saw their blood flow
in torrents.

On the spot where Albert died--the site of the old Roman
Vindonissa--his widow and daughter erected the famous Abbey of
Königsfelden, which was richly decorated with historical paintings
and stained-glass windows. About two centuries later the abbey was
secularised, and it is now used as an insane asylum; but the principal
objects of interest there are still shown to admiring tourists.

       *       *       *       *       *

ALBERT was succeeded by two emperors who, not belonging to the Hapsburg
race, were inclined to help the Swiss. But their brief reigns having
come to an end, another Hapsburg was raised to the imperial throne, and
on the 15th of November, 1315, made a determined attempt to conquer the
Swiss. The latter, however, were lying in wait for his army, which they
suddenly attacked while it was hemmed in between Lake Ægeri and the
mountain at Morgarten. Far from expecting such an impetuous onslaught,
the imperial forces, notwithstanding all their boasted panoply of war,
were completely routed by an inferior number of poorly armed patriots.
The latter, impelled by long-pent fury for all the wrongs they had
endured at the hands of the Austrians, fairly swept them into the lake,
where many of the knights were drowned.

Ever since then, at midnight on the anniversary of the battle, it is
said the lake suddenly begins to boil, and that its seething waters
assume a bloody hue. Then, from the depths of the lake, the spirits
of all these drowned warriors arise, still clad in full armour and
bestriding their huge battle steeds. Led by Death on his pale horse,
brandishing his scythe and hour-glass, the dead knights march in solemn
procession around the lake, plunging back into its waters when the
clocks in the neighbouring villages strike one.

A memorial chapel, containing a painting representing the famous
encounter at Morgarten, marks the spot where the battle was fought, and
solemn anniversary services are held there every year. This memorable
victory won so many adherents for the Swiss in their own land, that
before long the Confederation numbered eight instead of three cantons.

       *       *       *       *       *

SEVENTY years after Morgarten, the Austrians made a second attempt to
conquer the Swiss, but they were again defeated at Sempach, on the
lake of the same name, near Lucerne. At first it seemed as if this
battle would prove fatal to the Swiss, for the Austrians were armed
with long pikes, which enabled them to make havoc in the ranks of their
opponents, whose weapons were too short to reach them.

Perceiving his companions fall around him, without being able to strike
a single blow, Arnold von Winkelried suddenly determined to break the
enemy’s ranks. Calling loudly to his friends to look after his wife and
children, this hero seized an armful of the long Austrian spears, and
driving them into his own breast, fell, crying, “Make way for liberty!”
His countrymen, pouring into the breach he had thus made at the expense
of his life, attacked the enemy with such fury that they soon won a
brilliant victory.

The battle of Sempach is commemorated by a monument, upon which stands
the simple inscription: “Hier hat Winkelried den seinen eine Gasse
gemacht.” 1386. (Winkelried here made a way for his friends).

At Stanz, in Unterwald, the birthplace of Winkelried, a fine statue
represents his heroic death. The Austrian spears clasped in a last
embrace, he turns his dying glance upon his countrymen, urging them
to rush over his prostrate body against their country’s foe. On the
anniversary of the battle a ghostly voice is heard in the castle at
Richensee, dolefully calling, “Conrad! Conrad!” In answer to this cry,
a knight in black armour, with ghastly wounds in head and breast,
suddenly appears on the ruined tower, and as though responding to a
roll-call, gruffly answers, “Here, Austria!”

This apparition is said to be a lord of the castle, who fell at
Sempach, fighting for Austria as bravely as one of his ancestors who
lost his life in that cause at Morgarten.

       *       *       *       *       *

AN outpost of the mighty Alps, Mount Pilatus, on the boundary of the
cantons of Lucerne and Unterwald, is one of the most picturesque
features of that region.

[Illustration: LUCERNE, WITH MT. PILATUS.

(Old View.)]

In the days of Roman occupation a light-house (_lucerna_) is said to
have shone on the spot where the Wasserthurm now stands, and to have
given its name to canton, lake, and town. At that epoch Mount Pilatus
was known as Mons Fractus, Fracmont, or the Broken Mountain, owing to
the jagged crag-like appearance of its summit. This descriptive name,
however, was gradually supplanted by another, equally appropriate, that
height--seldom free from clouds--being called Mons Pileatus, or the
Capped Mountain. Every storm coming from the north or west gathers
around this majestic peak, which serves as a natural barometer for all
the people dwelling within sight of it. According to a very old and
equally popular rhyme, the weather probabilities are that the day will
be fair if the clouds merely rest upon the mountain top; when they
extend part way down, it is well to be prepared for sudden changes;
but should trails of mist reach far down Pilatus’ rugged sides, it is
considered an infallible sign of a coming storm. In its oldest form
this rhyme runs:--


     “Das Wetter fein und gut
      Wann Pilatus hat ’nen Hut;
      Trägt er einen Degen
      So gibt es Regen.”

In the course of time this jingle has undergone sundry modifications,
until the English version now reads:--

     “If Pilatus wears his cap, serene will be the day;
      If his collar he puts on, you may venture on the way;
      But if his sword he wields, at home you’d better stay.”

With the introduction of Christianity, and the substitution of the
vernacular for the Latin language, the original meaning of _pileatus_
was entirely forgotten. The natives therefore soon began to claim
that the mountain was named after Pontius Pilate, the unscrupulous
governor of Judea who sentenced our Saviour to death. Little by little
this belief gave rise to the picturesque legend connected with this
locality, which, owing to numerous accretions, is singularly complete
and interesting.

In the second century after Christ, there already existed an apocryphal
Epistle of Pilate, containing his account of the trial and condemnation
of Jesus Christ.[11] Warned by his wife, Procla, who had “suffered many
things in a dream because of him,” and by sundry miracles enumerated
in his epistle, Pilate, convinced of the divine origin as well as of
the innocence of the Prisoner brought before him, nevertheless weakly
yielded to the threats of a few among the Jews, and condemned our Lord
to an ignominious death. A moral coward, Pilate next sought to escape
the natural consequences of his pusillanimous compliance by publicly
washing his hands, and solemnly crying, “I am innocent of the blood of
this just person; see ye to it.”

      [11] For the Pilate legend see the author’s “Legends of the
           Virgin and Christ.”

Pilate’s report and various other rumours concerning the death and
resurrection of Christ, together with frequent bitter complaints of
extortion and misgovernment, finally reached the ears of Tiberius.
Moved by anger and curiosity, this emperor immediately summoned the
accused official to Rome to render a minute account of his stewardship.
But before Pilate could reach the Eternal City, Tiberius died and was
succeeded by Caligula, who, equally incensed against the faithless
governor, loudly boasted that he would make very short work of his
trial. The Roman courtiers were therefore seized with unbounded
astonishment when they beheld their savage master treat Pontius Pilate
with every mark of extreme courtesy, and heard the mild and gentle
tones in which he addressed him. But no sooner had Pilate left the
tribunal than all Caligula’s wrath flamed up anew, and he peremptorily
ordered the delinquent governor to be brought in again.

When Pilate stood before his irate judge, the latter, suddenly and
mysteriously soothed, once more overwhelmed him with tokens of the
highest favour instead of punishing him as he wished. The courtiers’
wonder grew apace, nor did it diminish when, after Pilate’s second
exit, the emperor breathed forth curses and threats even more violent
than before. Summoned a third time with the same baffling result,
Caligula, convinced that Pilate must be protected by some amulet of
great power, bade his courtiers carefully search the Judean governor
ere they brought him into his presence for a fourth and last time.

In executing these orders, the courtiers discovered that Pilate wore
under his usual garments the “seamless robe” of Our Lord, which he had
purchased from the soldier to whom it had fallen by lot. Stripped of
this talisman, Pilate stood before Caligula, who, no longer restrained
from anger and vituperation by the presence of the holy relic, poured
out all the vials of his wrath upon the prisoner’s head, and sentenced
him to an ignominious death.

To avoid the jeers of the Roman mob, and the disgrace of a public
execution, Pilate is said to have committed suicide in his prison
by stabbing himself with his table-knife. His corpse--as was then
customary in cases of self-murder--was cast into the Tiber. But the
waters, refusing to suffer such pollution, rose with unprecedented fury
and overflowed their banks, while the thunder rolled, the lightning
flashed, and the earth shook with such violence that all hearts were
filled with awe. The terrified Romans therefore hastened to consult
their oracles, and learning that the dreadful tumult was occasioned by
Pilate’s corpse, they quickly withdrew it from the Tiber, whose fury
immediately subsided as if by magic. To dispose of the body,--which
could not be buried in the usual way,--it was now cast into the
Mediterranean Sea. But there, too, its presence caused such dire
commotion that to ward off further misfortunes it was again removed.

Finding earth and water equally loath to harbour such an abhorred
tenant, the Romans, remembering they owed a grudge to the inhabitants
of Vienne, in Gaul, carefully placed Pilate’s corpse upon a barge, and
sent it up the Rhône. Arrived at Vienne, the Roman envoys obediently
cast the body into the deepest spot in the river. But its presence
there caused such damages that the frightened inhabitants hastened to
forward it on to Lausanne. The same unpleasant phenomena recurring
there also, Pilate’s remains were finally sent out into the wilderness,
far from the haunts of men. After carrying them for many days up hill
and down dale, the bearers finally reached an almost inaccessible
mountain. Convinced that this point was sufficiently remote from
civilisation to satisfy all reasonable requirements, they cast their
uncanny burden into a small lake at the foot of a barren peak, and
hastened away as quickly as they could. Still, it was only with the
utmost difficulty that they managed to reach home, for no sooner had
Pilate’s body touched the waters of the lonely tarn, than it stirred up
such a tempest as had never before been seen in that region.

Night and day, year in and year out, the storm went on raging around
the lonely mountain-top, filling with awe the hearts of the simple
peasant-folk who dwelt in the neighbouring valleys. They too soon
longed to be rid of the unquiet spirit, but could find no people
willing to harbour a ghost which raged round the mountain, waded about
the lake until it overflowed, stormed up and down the jagged rocks
howling with fear and remorse, and which occasionally indulged in
fearful wrestling-bouts with the spirit of King Herod, or those of
other famous malefactors. Even in his comparatively quiet moments,
Pilate was dreaded, for then he sat aloft on the Güppe,--one of the
peaks of the mountain,--grimly conjuring new storms, washing his hands
in the dripping clouds, and shaking huge rain-drops from his trembling
fingers down upon the fertile pastures below him. None of the shepherds
dared venture near him, because he stampeded their flocks by his
violent gestures, and often hurled cows and goats over the precipices
and down on the sharp rocks, where they were dashed to pieces.

Years, therefore, passed by without Pilate’s being molested in any way;
but at last there came a travelling scholar, who, having mastered the
Black Art at Salamanca, was fully competent to deal with spirits of all
kinds. The people no sooner heard of his unusual accomplishments than
they crowded around him, eagerly imploring him to cast a quieting spell
upon Pilate’s restless ghost, and proffering rich rewards if he would
only put an end to their woes.

Thus urged, the magician consented to try his skill. Journeying up
the mountain, he came, after several hours of hard climbing, to the
foot of the peak upon which Pontius Pilate sat watching his approach
with lowering brows. Placing himself upon a large stone, the conjurer
drew a magic circle around him, and then began his incantations.
But even his most powerful formulas left Pilate unmoved, although
they made the rocks around him quiver and shake as if about to fall.
When the magician perceived this, he changed his position to a peak
directly opposite the one Pilate had chosen for his favourite seat,
and undismayed by his first failure, again began reciting all the most
potent exorcisms he knew. This time they were not without effect, for
Pilate suddenly rose in anger from his rocky throne and rushed toward
the intruder as if to sweep him off the face of the earth. But balked
of this amiable intention by the magic circle, instead of whisking the
magician off into space, Pilate could only rage around and around him,
trampling the ground with such fury that no grass can even now grow on
that spot. Indeed, his mere footprints laid such a curse upon the soil
that no dew has fallen upon it, nor any animal ventured to cross it
since that day!

After careering thus wildly around the scholar for some time, Pilate’s
ghost, weakening perceptibly, finally agreed to retire to the tarn high
up the mountain side. There he promised to remain in peace, provided
no one wantonly disturbed his rest, and he was allowed to range the
mountain at will one day in the year.

The exorcist having consented to this stipulation, Pilate further
proved he had not sojourned among the Jews in vain, by carefully
bargaining that a steed should be provided to bear him off in state
to his last resting-place. The Salamancan scholar therefore called up
from the depths a flame-breathing steed of the blackest hue, which bore
Pontius Pilate off at a truly infernal pace. As they dashed over the
rocks, the steed’s clattering hoofs struck out so many sparks that the
mountain was illumined from base to summit, and it stamped so hard that
the marks of its flying feet can still be seen in the rocks near the
tarn.

Arriving there, Pontius Pilate vanished in the depths of the lake, or
morass, where he quietly stayed, thus honestly keeping his part of the
agreement. Since then, unless disturbed by sceptics coming to mock at
him, or cast sticks and stones into his retreat, Pilate has quietly
reposed in the depths of his lake. But although sure to resent any mark
of disrespect, by rising to stir up a fearful storm, his spirit has
always been sufficiently discriminating to make no demonstration when
his rest is broken by accident or through ignorance.

Such was the dread of rousing Pilate’s wrath, that the magistrates of
Lucerne solemnly issued a decree forbidding all strangers to visit the
tarn. They also made all the herdsmen take a yearly oath not to guide
any foreigner thither, or to point out the road which led there. Any
infringement of this edict was punished with the utmost severity, as
can still be seen in the annals of Lucerne; and the law remained in
force until 1585, the time of the Reformation.

Then a doughty pastor prevailed upon the magistrates to repeal their
edict, and climbed up to the tarn. There he convinced all the people
that there was no further cause for their superstitious fears, by
flinging stones into the water, calling out every imaginable insult,
and boldly challenging Pilate’s ghost to rise and do its worst.

Pilate’s spirit, banned by the Salamancan student, has ever since
been said to rise only on Good Friday. Clad in purple, he then sits
upon a judgment seat, which comes up out of the lake, and repeats in
pantomime the actions he performed on the fatal and memorable day when
he sentenced Christ to the cross. Then, too, Pilate always washes
his shaking hands, in the futile effort to cleanse himself from all
share in that deadly sin; and any wanderer who, by choice or accident,
gazes at his distorted features at that time is sure to die within the
year. On Good Friday, too, Pilate often rages around the mountain in
despairing remorse, but at midnight he invariably sinks down again into
his morass.

There are numerous variations of this legend, one of which claims that
Pilate ruled in Vienne, where he committed suicide by casting himself
into the Rhône. Another version says that, full of remorse for his
crime, he wandered from place to place, until in despair he finally
drowned himself in the lake on the mountain bearing his name.

Such was the terror inspired by this mountain, and the difficulty of
reaching its summit, that the first ascension is said to have taken
place only in 1518. As one can seldom obtain a clear view even after
bearing the fatigue of such an arduous climb, it was rarely visited
by strangers until the wonderful railway was built which now enables
travellers to reach its top with the utmost ease. Since then Mount
Pilatus has become a favourite goal for excursions, and those who have
once beheld the extensive panorama visible from its crest can never
forget the marvellous view, which, extending as far as the eye can
reach, includes glaciers, mountains, valleys, streams, and lakes, not
to mention picturesque towns, villages, churches, and castles, which
abound in that section of the country.

       *       *       *       *       *

BESIDES the legend from which Mount Pilatus is popularly supposed to
have derived its name, many others are told relating to various points
on the mountain. For instance, it is said that a cooper from Lucerne
once climbed up its rocky sides in quest of wood for barrel hoops and
staves, and fell into a deep gully whose sides were so high and steep
that he could not get out of it again. The soil at the bottom was so
soft and slimy that the cooper, uninjured by his fall, next tried to
make his way out by following the bottom of this cleft. He could find
no issue, however, but finally came to a sort of tunnel in the rocks.
Entering boldly, he suddenly found himself face to face with a couple
of huge, fire-breathing dragons. A hasty sign of the cross, and a
fervent, if trembling prayer for the Virgin’s protection, effectively
closed the mouths of the dragons already gaping wide to devour him, and
transformed them into gentle creatures which fawned upon him, humbly
licking his hands and feet. Their manners were so ingratiating that the
cooper soon ceased to fear them, and sitting down beside them, spent
six months in their company, feeding as they did upon a salty substance
which exuded from a crack in the rocks.

Winter over, the dragons, who had lain supine in the cave all that
time, wriggled slowly out into the gorge, where they began stretching
and shaking themselves, spreading and furling their wings, as if
to make sure their pliancy had not suffered from a long period of
inaction. Then the amazed cooper suddenly beheld one of the monsters
rise straight up into the air, and once out of the deep cleft, fly in
wide circles far above his head and finally pass out of sight.

The second dragon soon after showing signs of a desire to follow its
mate, the cooper promptly grasped it by the tail, and was whisked up
out of the abyss, but gently set down again on a soft grass plot near
the city of Lucerne. On entering that town, he was rapturously welcomed
by his friends, who, after vainly seeking him on the mountain, had
given him up as dead.

In token of gratitude for his marvellous preservation, and safe return
to his native city, the cooper gave a communion service to the church
of St. Leodegarius in 1420. On this service is a quaint representation
of his adventure with the dragons on Mount Pilatus. The legend
declares, however, that, unable to digest common viands after living so
long upon the dragons’ mysterious food, the cooper died of starvation
two months after his return to Lucerne.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANOTHER legend claims that a peasant from Lucerne once beheld a dragon
rise slowly from the Rigi and fly heavily towards Mount Pilatus. Gazing
in open-mouthed astonishment at this wonderful sight, the peasant next
saw the monster drop something, and when sufficiently recovered from
his terror to investigate what it might be, he discovered it was a huge
clot of blood in which lay imbedded a precious stone.

This jewel was found in time to possess wonderful curative powers, for
a mere touch of it healed victims of the pest and of other equally
fatal diseases. The Dragonstone was, therefore, carefully preserved in
the city, where it can still be seen, although for some time past its
medicinal powers are said to have deserted it.

       *       *       *       *       *

WHILE the summit of Mount Pilatus is quite barren, the lower slopes
provide pasture for large herds of cows and goats which graze there
under the care of their herdsmen. One of the highest and finest
pastures is the Bründlisalp, near which is a cave known as the
Dominikhöhle or Dominican’s Grotto. A huge rock bearing the rough
semblance of a human form stands at the entrance to this cave.

According to tradition, a mountain giant was once posted in this grotto
to keep watch over the region round about, and give the people due
notice of the approach of any foe. When an enemy drew near, he gave the
alarm; then, placing himself at the head of the natives, attacked the
foe with such strength and fury that he always secured the victory for
his country.

But a day finally came when the Swiss, who had never borne arms except
to defend themselves against the incursions of strangers, suddenly
found themselves unable to agree, and resorting to force, began a civil
war. Feeling strife in the air, the giant rushed out of his cave to
ascertain what was the matter. But when he beheld brother armed against
brother, saw the Swiss attack each other with rage, and viewed their
blood flow in torrents, he was so horror-struck that his cry died on
his lips, his blood froze in his veins, and he stood there immovable,
turned into stone! Ever since then, the petrified giant at the entrance
of the Dominican Cave is pointed out as an emblem of patriotism and as
a solemn warning against civil strife.

       *       *       *       *       *

MOUNT PILATUS is said to have long been the home of countless little
gnomes who hid in every nook and crevice and under every stone. These
dwarfs were about eighteen inches high, and wore long green mantles to
conceal the fact that they had goose-shaped feet. Bright red caps were
jauntily perched on top of their snow-white hair, while long beards
of the same colour flowed down over their breasts. The gnomes not only
watched over the chamois, bounding from rock to rock, but tended the
fish sporting in the depths of the mountain streams, and protected all
game from the greed of wanton sportsmen.

These gnomes were so obliging that they cheerfully helped the herdsmen
watch and tend their cattle, milk the cows, make butter or cheese, and
in exchange for their manifold services merely required a small bowlful
of milk or cream. Gentle and helpful as long as they were treated
kindly, the gnomes were sure to revenge themselves upon any mortals who
ill-treated them or their protégés, or hurt their feelings by trying to
get a sight of their misshapen feet.

A rich peasant once pastured his cattle high up on the beautiful
Kastelnalp, on Mount Pilatus, where the grass was so rich that the cows
had to be milked three times a day. Magdalen, the only daughter of a
widowed cousin, once painfully made her way up to this alp to beg for a
little help for her sick mother, who had neither food nor medicine in
the house. The rich man, who had provisions in plenty, and who stored
away cheese after cheese in his cellars, nevertheless refused to help
his poor relatives, and sent Magdalen home empty-handed and in tears.

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.

[Illustration: THE RIGI]

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

[Illustration: THE DEVIL’S BRIDGE.]

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.

[Illustration: THE FALLS OF THE RHINE.]

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.”

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

[Illustration: CHARLEMAGNE AND THE SERPENT.]

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

For six years the Count of Kyburg kept this secret, but at the end
of that time he gave a great banquet, to which he invited all his
relatives and friends. In the middle of this meal, the eleven boys,
richly dressed, were shown into the hall by his order. The guests all
stared in amazement at these children, who were so exactly like one
another, and like the supposedly only son of their host, that no one
could doubt their parentage.

While they were still speechless, the Count of Kyburg suddenly
inquired, in terrible tones, what punishment should be awarded to
the person who had tried to murder eleven such promising young Welfs
(Wolves)? At these words the guilty Countess suddenly fainted, and the
guests were informed of the part she had played. When she recovered her
senses, her husband generously forgave her, but the children he had
rescued were known ever after by the name their father gave them when
he first introduced them to his friends.

       *       *       *       *       *

KING LOUIS II. of France is said to have promised one of the Welfs as
much land as he could ride around in a golden wagon in one day. This
Welf immediately decided to secure the boon by a subterfuge, since he
could not get it otherwise.

By his orders, a tiny golden wagon was made, and sitting upon this toy,
placed in a wagon to which were harnessed his quickest pacing oxen, he
rode around a tract of land on either side of the Rhine, which included
the site of Kyburg Castle. Thus he won the Kyburg estate where his
three sons were born. In due time two of these became bishops, equally
renowned for their learning and great piety.

One of them, in serving Mass at Easter, saw a huge poisonous spider
fall into the chalice. Loath to disturb the communion service, he
swallowed the spider with the wine, and after Mass sat down to table,
where, however, he refused to partake of any food. Exhausted by a long
spell of fasting, he soon fell asleep, and his drowsy head rested on
the table, while his breath passed softly between his parted lips.
His friends, watching him, suddenly saw the spider--an emissary of
Satan--creep out of his mouth and slink away, having been unable to
injure so good a man.

The two bishops once sat in the castle, before a well-spread board,
on the eve of a solemn fast-day. Although food and wine lay in plenty
before them, they partook of them but sparingly, and were so absorbed
in pious conversation that they remained there hour after hour, quite
unmindful of the flight of time. The castle clock had just pealed
forth the midnight hour, and the solemn fast had begun, when their
secretary stepped into the hall to inquire whether they still had
need of his services. This man, envious of their reputation, had long
been jealous of them, and anxious to catch them tripping so he could
publish the fact abroad. When he therefore beheld them seated before a
huge roast of boar’s flesh, with several bottles full of wine still
before them, his eyes flashed with malicious pleasure. A moment later,
however, he stood with lowered eyes and in subservient attitude before
his superiors, who bade him go to rest, and, in the kindness of their
hearts, gave him a big portion of meat and a bottle of wine to carry
away with him.

The secretary meekly thanked the bishops, and took leave of them with
apparent humility; but no sooner had he closed the door behind him,
than he rushed off to a neighbouring convent, his heart dancing with
fiendish glee. Rousing the brethren, he told them, with every mark of
sanctimonious regret, that their shepherds were faithless, for they
were even now, on a solemn fast-day, partaking of forbidden meat and
drink!

He added that when they found themselves detected in this wrong-doing,
they tried to silence him by giving him a portion of their viands, thus
making him a partaker in their sin. In proof of this assertion, he
produced the food they had given him, and the monks all crowded around,
with long-drawn faces, to see and smell these evidences of their
superiors’ guilt.

To the secretary’s surprise, however, they soon turned indignantly upon
him, declaring that the so-called boar’s flesh was the fish served on
the monastery table every fast-day; and the rich wine nothing but the
small beer which invariably accompanied it. The secretary protested
wrathfully, but when he, too, examined those articles carefully, he was
forced to acknowledge the monks right, and to confess that Providence
had worked a miracle to prevent two absent-minded saints from
inadvertently committing a grievous sin.




LEGENDS OF ZUG


The Lake of Zug, the home of prehistoric lake-builders, is beautifully
situated at the foot of the Rigi, and separated from the Lake of
Lucerne by a narrow strip of land. At one end of this small sheet of
water is the city of Zug, the capital of the canton of the same name,
and at the other extremity, the pretty city of Arth, at the foot of the
Rossberg.

This mountain is famous for its landslides, which have cost many lives
and buried whole villages at its foot. The legend ascribes these
cataclysms to the hard-heartedness of the people, who incurred the
anger of the dwarfs by refusing them hospitality, as was the case at
Roll on the Lake of Thun. The city of Zug has twice been undermined by
the lake. The first time, in 1435, two whole streets sank down into the
water; but while science attributes such accidents to perfectly natural
causes, legend tries to account for them in a more poetic way.

In the centre of the lake, far down below the surface of the water,
nixies and water-nymphs are supposed to dwell in a marvellous palace
all hung with gleaming crystal stalactites, paved with silver and gold,
and brightly lighted by the sparkle of precious stones encrusting its
walls. The dainty inhabitants of this sub-aqueous palace seldom rise
to the surface of the lake, except at night, when they are seen in
the moonlight, dancing here and there over the waves, floating gently
ashore, or hovering along grassy banks, where they love to spread out
their mist like veils.

These nymphs occasionally appear at village dances, where they can be
distinguished from mortal maidens by their superior beauty, and by
the ever wet hem of their long white gowns. One of these nymphs fell
violently in love with the handsome young son of a magistrate of Zug,
and besides meeting him at dances on the green, held nightly trysts
with him on the edge of the lake.

The youth was deeply enamoured with the dainty nymph, and when she
rose out of the waves one evening with reddened eyelids, he insisted
upon knowing the cause of her grief. The sprite now told him that
her father, having discovered her infatuation for a mere mortal, had
forbidden her to have any further intercourse with him, unless he were
willing to follow her down into her father’s abode and live with
her there in happy wedlock. The young man, on hearing this, vowed he
would be only too happy were such a course possible to him, but gently
explained that the element in which she lived was not adapted to human
lungs. The nymph, however, declared such an obstacle could easily be
removed, and immediately proffered a magic draught, which would enable
him to breathe in the water as easily as in the air. The enamoured
youth quickly seized the cup she tendered, and after quaffing the
crystal clear, tasteless fluid it contained, sank with her down into
the depths of the lake.

Delighted with his new powers, and with the wonders he saw on all
sides, the youth was very happy for a while, but homesickness finally
seized him in the crystal palace. When the nymph tenderly inquired what
was the matter, he sadly confessed that he longed to see his parents
and friends once more, and that he would never be entirely happy unless
he could attend divine service regularly in his parish church.

At these words the nymph’s sweet face darkened, but it was soon
illumined again by a brilliant idea which she vowed she would put into
immediate execution. That evening, for the first time, she left her
beloved, and stealing into the sleeping city, replaced all the drinking
water in the houses of two streets by the same magic fluid she had
given to the youth. Then, plunging into the lake again, she called all
her father’s minions to her aid, and gently and noiselessly undermined
those houses. When the people were sound asleep the next night, she
drew them softly down to the bottom of the lake.

On awakening in this new element, on the morrow, they found all their
surroundings unchanged, and took up their life where they had left it
off when they went to sleep the night before. The youth could now hold
constant intercourse with his former neighbours and friends, attend
service whenever he pleased, and he and all the others are still as
happy as the day is long, for the magic draught has endowed them with
the immortality which all water spirits enjoy.

When the waters are very clear, you can still see the spire of the
sunken church and the gables of the old houses, and people gifted with
particularly keen eyes and lively imaginations can detect the stir of
busy life in the streets, catch the sound of ringing bells, and the
deep solemn tones of an organ, gently accompanying the chants of the
sunken congregation.

       *       *       *       *       *

ON the spot where the boundaries of Zürich, Zug, and Schwyz converge,
stands the Hohe Rhonen, the goal of charming excursions; for from the
top of this mountain one can enjoy a fine view of the lake, the Sentis,
and the Toggenburg and Glarus mountains.

Part of the Hohe Rhonen consists of fine pastures, and a legend claims
that a miser once tried to cheat a widow and several orphans out of
their portion of this soil. To establish his claim to the pastures, the
wicked man not only resorted to forgery, but as the judge still seemed
doubtful of the justice of his claims, boldly volunteered to swear on
the spot itself that it was rightfully his. The judge accepted this
offer, and accompanied by plaintiff, defendant, and several witnesses,
wended his way up the mountain to the disputed alp. Standing on a huge
granite boulder which lay there, the miser took his oath, holding up
three fingers as usual, and when the judge cried, “Woe upon thee, if
thou swearest falsely!” boldly added, “If I have committed perjury, may
these fingers sink into this hard stone as easily as into water!”

Saying these words, he thrust his fingers downward, and to his horror
and dismay felt them sink into the stone up to the second joint! But
although they entered so easily, he could not draw them out again,
and standing there, a convicted perjurer, had to confess his sin. He
had scarcely ceased speaking, when he was hidden from sight by a dark
cloud, a terrible cry was heard, and when the rock again became visible
to the amazed spectators, the man had disappeared, carried off to Hades
by the Devil. But the stone, with the imprint of his perjured digits,
is still known as the Three Finger Stone, and remains there as a
constant warning against falsehood and treachery.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOT very far from the Hohe Rhonen, but in the canton of Schwyz, stands
the church of Einsiedlen, a famous place of pilgrimage ever since the
ninth century. The legend claims that the spot is particularly holy
because Our Lord once drank from the fountain with fourteen mouths,
while journeying through the country to preach the gospel.

Besides, Meinrad, Count of Sulgen, having vowed to spend the rest of
his life in prayer, came to this lovely valley long years ago. Here he
built a little chapel to contain a wonder-working image of the Virgin,
which he had received from one of the princess-abbesses of Zürich.
Meinrad also built a small hut close by this chapel, and as this was
generally called his hermitage (Einsiedelei), its name was given to
the town which has since arisen on that spot.

Meinrad was known far and wide for his piety as well as for his
charity, and all the gifts he received from strangers were immediately
lavished upon the poor. Years were spent by the hermit in penance,
prayer, and works of mercy, and when very old, the death angel suddenly
appeared to him one day in the chapel, to announce that his end was
near.

Meinrad, who had longed for Heaven for many a year, received this
warning with solemn joy, and after returning thanks went out of the
chapel, to feast his eyes once more upon the lovely landscape. While
he sat near his hermitage, two tame ravens which he had brought up
came to nestle in his lap, and he gently stroked them with his aged
and trembling hands. While he sat there quietly, two robbers suddenly
sprang out of the thicket, and exclaiming that they had come for the
treasures accumulated during all these years, drove their daggers deep
into his heart.

The old man fell to the ground lifeless, the ravens flew croaking away,
and the thieves, picking up the corpse, threw it into the chapel, so
as not to have it continually under their eyes while they made their
search. With feverish haste they next turned over every article in
the little hermitage, ripped open the straw pallet, peered into the
depths of the one crock, and dug up the floor; but to their chagrin no
treasure was forthcoming. Thinking the holy man might have concealed
his wealth in the chapel, they now betook themselves thither; but no
sooner had they crossed the threshold than they paused aghast, feeling
their hair slowly rise up on end.

The chapel, which had been so dark a while ago, was now illumined by
lights burning on the altar; the corpse was carefully laid out at its
base, with tapers burning all around it, and close by stood the two
crows, mounting solemn guard over their dead master. But when the
murderers, recovering a little from their first surprise and terror,
ventured to take a step forward, these faithful birds forsook their
post, and so furiously attacked the intruders with beak and claws that
they soon drove them out of the chapel.

Terrified by this attack, the robbers fled over the mountains to
Zürich, and did not feel quite safe until seated in a little inn where
they were wont to linger for hours. They were drinking hard, hoping
to forget their recent uncanny experiences, when in through the open
window suddenly flew two ravens which circled wildly around their
heads, croaking loudly and threatening to pick out their eyes. The
criminals, with a common impulse, ducked their heads, and groaning
aloud, exclaimed: “Meinrad’s watchers! Meinrad’s watchers!”

These words, and the mysterious behaviour of the birds, which could
not be driven away for some time, so aroused the suspicions of the
city magistrates, that they sent both men to prison until they could
ascertain whether Meinrad were still safe. That same evening, however,
a traveller reported the murder of the hermit, whom he had found dead
in the chapel, and when the judges summoned the prisoners they had
to confess their crime. In punishment for slaying a hermit whom all
revered like a saint, the murderers were first broken on the wheel and
then burned at the stake.

A monastery was soon erected on the site of Meinrad’s hermitage; and
since then a beautiful church, a fine abbey, and many inns and hotels
have been built for the accommodation and edification of tourists and
pilgrims who visit Einsiedlen in great numbers.




THURGAU


The canton of Thurgau, bordering on the Lake of Constance, is less
frequently visited by tourists than almost any other, because it
consists principally of arable land and thriving manufacturing towns.
It is not, however, without romantic interest; but most of its legends
are only slight variations of those already mentioned in connection
with other places.

In the days of Charlemagne a Thurgau giant named Kisher joined the
imperial forces, and went with them to fight against the Huns and
Avars. Such was the size and strength of this warrior that he waded
across every river, however deep, and when his horse hesitated to
follow him, dragged it after him by its tail, crying, “Comrade, you
must come along too!”

In presence of the enemy this mighty giant remained unmoved, and
placing himself at the head of the army, mowed down the foe as calmly
and steadily as if he were cutting hay in his native country. The
battle over, Kisher strung seven or eight of his victims on his lance,
and flinging it across his shoulder, tramped home as coolly as if
returning from a day’s hunt with his game. Such were his prowesses that
Charlemagne declared that, as he was a host in himself, his name should
be changed from Kisher to Einheer, which means an army.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN going from Romanshorn to Constance, one passes the village of
Güttingen with its old castle. The lords of this place, equally noted
for their wealth and avarice, had several other castles, one of which
stood so near the lake that the waves constantly dashed against its
walls.

Once, when there was a great famine in the land, the starving people,
knowing their lords had great quantities of food stored away in their
granaries, surrounded the castle and began to clamour loudly for
grain. The lords of Güttingen, who were living on the fat of the land
themselves, would not give anything to the poor, and, weary of their
importunate cries, determined to get rid of them once for all.

They therefore bade their hungry vassals assemble in an empty old barn,
where they assured them their pangs would soon be stilled. The people,
thinking their masters were about to distribute food, thronged into
this place; but when it was full, almost to overflowing, the cruel
lords of Güttingen bade their servants close the doors and set fire to
the building. When the bright flames rose all around them, the poor
victims loudly begged for mercy; yet although their pitiful cries would
have touched any one else, the lords of Güttingen quietly sat there on
their steeds, and laughed aloud when one of them sarcastically cried,
“Just hear those mice squeak!”

Before long the roof fell in and the clamours ceased; but from the
smoking ruins suddenly came hosts of mice, which, running straight
to the Güttingen castles, devoured everything they could find. The
lords themselves, terrified at the sight of these pests, fled to their
Wasserburg, or Castle in the Water. But the mice pursued them there
too, and having disposed of everything else, pounced upon them. In a
few moments heaps of clean picked bones were all that was left of these
heartless lords, whose castle shortly afterwards sank into the lake.
There its ruins can be seen when the water is very low, and some people
claim you can still hear mice gnawing the bones of those cruel men if
you listen very attentively.[14]

      [14] For similar legends of Bingen and others of this
           section, see the author’s “Legends of the Rhine.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A COUNT of Seeheim eloped with a maiden of Kyburg because her father
objected to their union. The lovers, dreading the Count of Kyburg’s
wrath, placed themselves immediately under the protection of the Abbot
of Reichenau, who promised to aid and watch over them, and pronounced
their nuptial benediction.

The bride, having a fortune of her own, soon built a castle near the
boundary of her father’s land, carefully providing it with strong walls
so that he could not molest her or her beloved spouse. For some time
after the two families lived on a war footing, but in course of time a
complete reconciliation took place.

In memory of this feud and of its happy termination, the town which
rose around the new castle received the name of Frauenfeld, and the
coat of arms of that city still bears the effigy of the faithful woman.
She is represented controlling a lion, which fierce animal is intended
to represent the race from which she sprang, and whose wrath she
successfully defied and subdued.




ST. GALL AND APPENZELL


St. Gall, capital of the canton of the same name, which entirely
surrounds that of Appenzell, is noted for the famous abbey founded
in 614 by St. Gallus, an Irish monk. He had come into this unsettled
region to preach the gospel, and when his disciple Hiltiboldus urged
that they would be exposed to the attacks of the bears, wolves, and
boars, quietly answered, “If God is with us, who can be against us?”

The snakes which had infested that region departed for good and all at
the saint’s command, and his disciple soon discovered that even the
wild beasts of the forest stood in awe of so holy a man. One evening,
while Gallus was praying at the foot of a rustic cross, a bear came
down the mountain to devour his provisions. St. Gallus, perceiving the
theft, quietly bade the bear earn the food he had eaten, by bringing
wood to keep up his fire. The crestfallen Bruin humbly fulfilled this
penance, and when the saint told him henceforth to remain on the
heights, never ventured down into the valley again.

One day Gallus’s disciple discovered an apple-tree far up the mountain,
and climbing up shook down some fruit to carry home to his master. But
when he slid to the ground again, he was dismayed to find a huge bear
on the other side of the tree greedily munching the fallen apples. The
disciple’s first impulse was to flee, but remembering that his master
was fond of fruit, he determined to secure some for him. Taking his
staff, therefore, he scratched deep marks at right angles with the
tree, and then gravely informed the bear that while he was welcome to
the apples on his side of the line, those which fell on the other were
reserved for St. Gallus. Strange to relate, the bear understood this
speech, and as long as the apples lasted never ventured to touch one on
the saint’s side of the line, although he devoured all those on his own!

The cell and cross of St. Gallus were the nucleus of a monastery and
school, which for several centuries had no rival in Europe. Kings and
emperors were wont to visit it, and the abbey, enriched by their gifts
and concessions, daily increased in importance and wealth.

Within the walls of this edifice dwelt men noted for their learning,
and countless scribes spent their lives there, patiently copying
and illuminating manuscripts which, but for their efforts, might
have been lost to mankind. Some of these manuscripts still remain in
the abbey library; among others, a thirteenth century copy of the
Niebelungenlied, Germany’s famous epic. Innumerable scholars visited
the school and abbey at St. Gall, which is said to have been the scene
of a comical encounter between the abbot and Charlemagne, almost an
exact counterpart of the story of King John and the Archbishop of
Canterbury.[15]

      [15] See the author’s “Legends of the Rhine.”

The old monastery life so ably depicted in “Ekkehard,” by Von Scheffel,
with its descriptions of the herdsmen and hermit on the Sentis, have
surrounded that region with a halo of romance for all who have enjoyed
the perusal of the book.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE Sentis, with its cap of snow, is the highest mountain in Appenzell,
and the goal for travellers who wish to make a whey cure or to
enjoy an excursion to its summit. From the top of this mountain the
view embraces the Lake of Constance, southern Germany, the Tyrolean
Mountains, and the Alps in Glarus and Bern. All the way up are various
pastures with their low châlets, where butter and cheese are constantly
made and carried down the steep paths for consumption in the valleys.
The Sentis, like all other mountains where cattle go to pasture, is
supposed to be haunted by mountain-folk, who, when well treated, always
helpful to mortals.

The Devil, too, plays his part in the Sentis legends, for one of them
claims that a lazy herdsman once called upon him to take his cattle, so
that he need no longer run after them when they strayed into dangerous
places. The words were no sooner uttered than a hurricane swept down
the mountain, and the terrified peasant saw Satan, riding on the wind,
drive his cows over the edge of the abyss. In sudden repentance he made
a sign of the cross, fell on his knees, and cried that he had sinned
grievously. At those words the wind ceased, the Devil vanished; but
ever since then the pasture, which had been known as the Glücksalp, or
Lucky Alp, has been called Im Fehlen, or In Sin.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANOTHER legend claims that the Devil once came striding across northern
Switzerland with a huge bag slung over his shoulder. In this sack
he had packed away a large number of houses, together with their
inhabitants, and was carrying them away with the intention of removing
them for ever from Swiss soil. While taking a leap over the Sentis,
however, he burst a hole in his bag, and the houses all tumbled down
in Appenzell, where they still stand in irregular groups, just as they
fell.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE same story which is told of the Alphorn at Meiringen is also
told of the heights near the much frequented baths of Ragatz, in the
southern part of the canton of St. Gall. Not very far from this resort,
and on the same wild stream, the Tamina, are the no less noted baths of
Pfäfers, and farther up the gorge an ancient abbey of the same name, to
which legend ascribes the following origin:--

In the beginning of the eighth century St. Pirminius and his disciple
Adalbert preached the gospel in the eastern part of Switzerland. Their
efforts were rewarded with such success that they determined to build a
chapel and monastery in this part of the country. Wishing to secure the
Pope’s consent and blessing for this undertaking, Pirminius set out for
Rome, bidding Adalbert in the meantime select a suitable site and begin
clearing ground.

After much search Adalbert decided upon a lovely sheltered valley,
where the sun shone brightly, where grass and fruit-trees were
abundant, and where limpid waters flowed gently through meadows and
forests. He and his converts now began felling trees, but while doing
so Adalbert’s axe suddenly slipped, inflicting a deep wound in his
sandalled foot. The blood gushed forth, staining the chips around, and
while all were trying to check its flow, a white dove suddenly alighted
near them, and catching up a gory chip, flew off to a neighbouring
tree. At the same moment Adalbert’s blood stopped running, the wound
closed, and in a moment he felt no more pain.

This miraculous cure seemed to all connected in some way with the dove;
so when the bird flew slowly away with the chip, Adalbert determined to
follow it. Flitting from tree to tree and from rock to rock, the dove
entered the cold and dark Tamina gorge, and penetrating ever farther,
finally perched on a sombre pine, and dropped the bloody chip at its
foot. Returning to his companions, Adalbert now told them he must await
Pirminius’ return, and relate these marvels to him so that he might
interpret them if he could.

When the saint came back from Rome and learned what had happened, he
immediately cried that Providence had sent them a sign, wishing them
to build a church and abbey on the spot where the dove had dropped
the bloody chip. He added that such a wild, desolate region was more
fitted to encourage a life of constant penance, labour, and prayer than
the valley flowing with milk and honey first chosen by Adalbert. By his
orders the Abbey of Pfäfers was begun, and to this day its seal bears a
white dove carrying a bloody chip in its beak, in memory of the miracle
to which it owes its location.




GLARUS AND GRISONS.


Near the city of Chur or Coire, and at the foot of the majestic
Calanda, are the ruins of several castles, among others that of
Haldenstein. Not very far from its crumbling walls is a fine spring
of clear water, where people claim a charming vision was often seen.
Dressed in a long white gown which fell in classic folds to her feet,
this lovely maiden was wont to linger on the sunniest spot by the edge
of the spring, dabbling her hands in its cool waters. A hunter once
came to this place, saw the beautiful maiden, and heard her weeping
softly. He immediately drew near and looked at her so compassionately
that she told him if he would only hold her hand and not let it go
until she bade him, he would release her from the baleful spell which
caused her tears.

The young man unhesitatingly took her slender white hand between his
own sunburned palms, but started at finding it as cold as ice. While
he held it tight, trying to communicate a little of his own warmth
to the chilled fingers, a tiny old man came out of the castle and
silently offered him a diamond basket full of gold. Although he could
easily have secured this treasure by stretching out one hand, the young
huntsman continued the task he had voluntarily undertaken, and was soon
rewarded by feeling a little warmth steal into the slender hand he held
so firmly. At the same time the girl’s sad eyes beamed with pleasure, a
slight flush stole into her pallid cheeks, and looking up at him, she
joyfully exclaimed,--

“I see I was not mistaken. You have proved trustworthy; so you may now
let go my hand, and take that basket as a token of my gratitude.”

The maiden softly drew her hand from his, gave him the treasure, and
vanished with a seraphic smile.

Since then the White Lady of Haldenstein has never been seen by
mortals, but the spring over which she mounted guard became known far
and wide for its curative properties. These lasted for many a year; but
although the spring still flows as clear as ever, it is said to have
now lost all its healing powers.

       *       *       *       *       *

ON the way from Coire to Castiel one passes the awful Tobel, where a
huge dragon once took up its abode. Such were the ravages it made in
that region that the people of Castiel, Calfriesen, and Lüen solemnly
pledged themselves to provide it with a human victim every year on
condition that the monster left them unmolested the rest of the time.

The dragon in the Castieltobel agreed to this arrangement, and the
yearly victim was chosen by lot from each of the villages in turn. Now
it came to pass that a tall, muscular stranger soon came to settle
there with his only daughter, and when the lot fell upon her, he boldly
declared he would accompany her to the monster’s den, and slay it or
perish with her.

Leading the maiden by one hand, and holding his trusty sword tight
in the other, the brave man advanced cautiously, followed at a safe
distance by all the people, who wished to witness his encounter with
the dragon. They did not have to wait long, for, ravenous after a whole
year’s fast, the monster rushed eagerly forward to swallow its prey. It
had already opened wide its capacious jaws, when the desperate father
rushed toward it, thrust his sharp blade right into its throat, and
inflicted such a severe wound that the dragon expired a moment later.

Overcome with joy at having saved his beloved daughter, the father
now fell on his knees, and raising his hands to Heaven, gave solemn
thanks for her preservation. While he was in that attitude, a drop of
dragon-blood fell from his sword upon his head, and such was the deadly
nature of the venom that it instantly killed him. The village people
were so grateful to him for delivering them from this dragon, however,
that they generously provided for his daughter, and erected a church on
the very spot where he had breathed his last.

       *       *       *       *       *

ABOUT half-way between Castiel and Davos is the village of Arosa, where
grows a fine tree from beneath whose roots gushes a living spring.
According to popular superstition, lucky people can find a golden key
in the hollow whence this water flows from the ground. As soon as
secured, one suddenly perceives a passage-way barred by an iron door,
which can only be opened by means of this golden key.

A herdsman, who once came to refresh himself at this spring, discovered
this key by great good fortune, and boldly opening the locked door,
found himself in a vast cave. There a dwarf bade him choose between a
heap of gold and diamonds, which would make him the wealthiest man in
the country; a golden cow-bell which would assure him the possession of
the finest cattle for miles around; or a lovely girl, whose eyes were
fixed imploringly upon him, and who softly whispered that he would find
true happiness only with her.

The young man hesitated, but as he had a passion for fine cows, he
finally left the cave with the golden bell. He felt so weary upon
leaving this place, however, that he lay down to rest a moment near
the spring, and soon fell asleep. When he awoke, the magic key had
vanished, and he might have believed the whole adventure a mere dream,
had not the golden bell still lain beside him.

On returning to his post, he found his herd miraculously increased, and
all his cows were so handsome that his neighbours soon became jealous
of him, and refused to have anything more to do with him. The young
herdsman, therefore, left alone with his cattle, often regretted he had
not chosen an intelligent companion to share his solitude; but although
he frequently tried to find the golden key again, and thus secure the
fair maid he had once seen, it was all in vain. Within a year from
that time, he lost all his fine cattle, because he brooded continually
over his loneliness instead of taking care of them, and before long he
committed suicide by flinging himself down from the top of one of the
sharp peaks near there.

       *       *       *       *       *

EAST of Coire and south of the lovely Prätigau, is Davos Platz, so
charmingly located near the top of a pass, where it is well sheltered
from the northeast winds. Besides its interest as a health resort
visited by many noted people, and the beautiful scenery and healthful
climate, this place derives additional charms from its legends. On the
western slope of the Davos Schwartzhorn, for instance, there is a place
generally known as the Dead Alp. Not a shrub or blade of grass is seen
there now; so it offers a striking contrast to the many other fine
pastures in that vicinity.

In olden days this desolate spot was the finest grazing-ground for
miles around, for it was then thickly covered with heavy grass,
and watered by springs of the freshest water. At one time the land
belonged to a rich young dairy maid, who came down into the valley one
fine Sunday afternoon to dance on the village green. She had so many
partners, and so thoroughly enjoyed herself with them, that she did
not want to go home, although she knew that it was time to milk the
cows. Duty warned her to return; but the delights of dancing proved
so tempting that she determined to linger, and tried to silence the
voice of conscience by recklessly cursing both pasture and kine. This
malediction had scarcely left her lips, when her fruitful alp was
turned into a desert, her cows all vanished, and she suddenly found
herself deprived of all the worldly goods she had so little known how
to appreciate!

       *       *       *       *       *

OTHER Davos herdsmen, as pleasure-loving as she, once cursed the
Icelandic moss or Cyprian herb which was then so rich in milk-producing
qualities that they had to milk their cows several times a day. No
sooner was the curse uttered than the luscious herb dried up, and ever
since then it has been the poorest sort of fodder, which no animal will
eat as long as something else can be found to satisfy its hunger.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOT very far from the Dead Alp, you can see, summer and winter, a broad
field of snow, far below the usual snow-line. This, too, was once a
luxuriant pasture, where herdsmen were kept very busy tending their
cows, and making butter and cheese from the milk they gave in such
profusion.

The owner of this alp was so good and generous that the poor were in
the habit of going up there for food whenever they were hungry, and
there was much wailing among them when he grew ill and died, and they
heard the pasture now belonged to an avaricious man. They soon found
the new proprietor was even worse than they expected, for he was very
cruel too, and drove all beggars away with curses and hard blows.

A poor but numerous family, travelling through the country, climbed up
these heights one cold and foggy day, to beg for the food and shelter
no one else could have denied them. But when they drew near the châlet,
cross dogs rushed out to meet them, barking, snarling, and showing
their teeth in the fiercest way. The poor people nevertheless made
their way to the door, where they stood, humble suppliants, while the
oldest among them described their pitiful plight and asked for aid.

The hard-hearted herdsman would not listen to him, however, roughly
bade him begone with all his family, and seeing he did not immediately
obey, called out to his men to drive the beggars away. This order was
only too promptly obeyed. The rough servants rushed out, and falling
upon the poor family, lashed them with their long whips, threw stones
at them, and laughed with uproarious glee when their fierce dogs began
to chase the beggars down the mountain.

Besides several old people, there were weak women and puny little
children among these poor fugitives; still these cruel men felt no
respect for age or sex, and merely urged on their dogs worse than ever.
Their inhumanity proved too much for an old man, who, as he tottered
last down the path, with torn garments and bleeding limbs, suddenly
turned around and cursed their alp, wishing it might soon be hidden
beneath a covering of snow that might rest upon it for ever.

That wish was fulfilled the self-same night, for huge masses of snow
and ice fell down upon the pasture, transforming it into a wintry
waste, which well deserves its name, the Cursed Alp. Since then,
whenever a storm rages, or whenever fog envelops the mountain, the
buried herdsmen rise from their shroud of snow, and one can again hear
them snapping their whips, exciting their dogs, and hotly pursuing
ghosts of beggars whom they are condemned to chase for ever in
punishment for their sins.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN the centre of the Grisons arises a reddish peak known as the
Rothhorn, which towers above all the other heights around it, and from
whence a fine view can be enjoyed.

It is said that the people of Plurs once exploited the gold mines in
this mountain, and thus became very rich. All this prosperity was not
owing to their exertions alone, but due mainly to the fact that they
had won the good graces of the gnomes, who, at noon every day, poured a
canful of liquid gold down into a vein which they could easily reach.

Unfortunately, the people of Plurs did not make a wise use of this
wealth, but drank, gambled, and led vicious lives. This fact so
incensed their former friends, the mountain spirits, that they slyly
loosened great masses of stones and dirt, and hurled them down upon the
city one dark night in 1618.

Only one of the inhabitants, a pack-driver, escaped from general
destruction. He had arrived in the village late, intending to tarry
there overnight, but his leading mule refused to stop at the inn, and
passing on was dutifully followed by all the rest, although the driver
tried to stop them. Three times this man drove his train back to the
inn, but three times they passed by, and the pack-driver had to follow.

When they had gone some distance from the city for the third and last
time, the man suddenly heard a terrible noise, and, looking behind
him, witnessed the landslide and the total destruction of the once
prosperous little city.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE Engadine Valley, noted for its bracing climate, is rather bleak,
for, according to a popular saying, it boasts nine months of winter and
three of cold.

In the seventh century St. Florinus with one disciple came to Rémus, in
the northern part of this valley, to preach the gospel. Feeling very
weak and ill one day, the saint bade his faithful companion beg some
wine at a neighbouring castle to restore his failing strength.

The disciple obeyed, and having secured a crockful, slowly wended his
way home. He soon met a poor woman weeping bitterly, and inquiring
the cause of her sorrow, learned that her husband had been very ill,
and that she had no money to buy the wine he needed to restore his
strength. Touched by her tears, the disciple poured all he had received
into the vessel she held, and then went back to the castle to beg
for more. But the people up there, having seen him give the wine to
the poor woman, now reproved him harshly, and sent him empty-handed
away. The disciple departed sadly, regretting his generous deed; and,
fearing to present himself before his master with an empty crock, he
filled it with water at a wayside spring. As soon as St. Florinus
saw him standing at his bedside, he reached up eagerly, seized the
crock, and took a long deep draught. The disciple, who fully expected
an exclamation of bitter disappointment, was dumfounded to hear the
saint declare he had never tasted such good and strengthening wine;
and, when invited to try it also, he discovered that the miracle of
Cana had been repeated, for the Lord had again turned water into wine.
This transformation took place, as long as the saint needed a tonic;
but when he was quite well, the crock was found to contain nothing but
water as before.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE people of the Engadine valley are very simple indeed; so simple
that a legend claims they were often cheated, and never could decide
what it was best to do. A traveller, hearing the people of Sils
complain, mischievously suggested that they ought to buy a little
wisdom, and when they seriously inquired what it was and where it could
be procured, he gravely informed them that it was a precious herb,
purchasable only in Venice.

The people, believing him implicitly, took up a collection and sent an
emissary to Italy to buy the rare plant. After a long painful journey,
this man came home, having purchased from a charlatan the only sprout
of the herb of wisdom still to be had in that city. The people all
crowded eagerly around their emissary to see and admire the wonderful
herb, compared it exhaustively with those which grew around them,
and although they could perceive but little difference, planted it
carefully on their village green. But, while they were indulging in a
great jollification to celebrate the advent of wisdom among them, an
old donkey came straying along, and before they could prevent it, ate
up the precious plant!

Since then, the people of Sils have never been able to secure another
specimen, and it is said they still grievously mourn their great loss.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE scene of the above legend is located in the Upper Engadine or Inn
Valley, south of the much frequented towns of St. Moritz and Pontresina.

From there, you can see the dazzling snow top of the Bernina, a high
mountain between Switzerland and Italy, with a much travelled pass
leading from the Engadine to the Valteline Valley. Journeying from
Poschiavo over the Bernina, one passes a desolate spot formerly
occupied by the small town of Zarera. The inhabitants of that place are
said to have taken advantage of their position on the highway between
Italy and Switzerland, to extort money from all the pack-drivers and
travellers who passed through there. In fact, they enriched themselves
by such unlawful and questionable means that they finally incurred
the wrath of Heaven. One night, when the moon was partly veiled by
shifting clouds, a maiden dressed in white rode slowly around their
town on a snowy palfrey, calling to them to repent while it was still
time. But this admonition fell upon ears that would not hear, and the
predicted retribution soon came. Dark clouds gathered around the top
of the mountain, vivid flashes of lightning zigzagged through the
ever-increasing gloom, and soon the rain came down in such torrents
that rocks and trees were swept down the mountain like pebbles and
chips. In a few minutes the once prosperous town of Zarera was
completely annihilated, and only the fragments of ruined houses could
still be detected here and there. All the people perished in this
flood, with the exception of a mother and daughter, noted for their
piety, who dwelt at some distance from the wicked town.

These two women had been very busy that day, doing their semi-annual
baking; for, like most of the people around there, they made bread
only twice a year. In spite of the serious work on hand, they prayed
as long and read their Bible as diligently as usual, and even while
setting the bread to rise, commented reverently upon the teachings
contained in Our Lord’s mentions of leaven and flour.

From time to time one or the other gazed out into the garden, where
chestnut-trees three hundred years old overshadowed their little house.
The southern exposure and the protection afforded by the mountain
against the cold winds from the north and east, made their peach and
apricot trees bloom already in February, allowed fresh figs to grow
close at hand, and made their vines as productive as those in the
Valteline. The two women were very grateful for all these blessings,
and would have been perfectly happy with their lot, had they not sorely
missed their husband and father, who had died three years before.

While taking the huge loaves of sweet-smelling fresh bread out of the
oven, they thrice heard the melancholy, wailing note of the storm bird,
but they were so absorbed in their occupations that they paid no heed
to it, until the tempest fairly broke over their heads and the rain
began to fall with violence.

All through that awful storm, which wrecked the town of Zarera, they
knelt in prayer, and when morning came and the downpour ceased, they
found their garden transformed into a stony waste, and all their trees
uprooted and swept down into the valley.

In spite of the losses which suddenly deprived them of their means
of existence, these two women returned fervent thanks for their
preservation, and seeing that their house was now unsafe, and that
it would be useless to remain on the mountain, they picked up their
few remaining possessions, and wended their way down into the valley.
There they soon found shelter, and by dint of hard work finally
managed to retrieve their shattered fortunes; but, as long as they
lived, they both remembered the awful storm in which they would surely
have perished had it not been for the hand of God stretched out in
protection over them.

       *       *       *       *       *

FOLLOWING the Rhine’s devious course toward its source in the St.
Gothard mountain, we come to the junction of two branches of this
stream at Disentis.[16] Here stands an abbey, dating from the seventh
century, when its monks served as missionaries to the people around
them.

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

The heathen from the banks of Lake Constance once made a raid down
this valley, and visiting every castle, church, convent, and hut,
destroyed almost everything they could not carry away. Laden with
booty, they were slowly making their way north again, when they were
surprised at Disentis by the exasperated Swiss. The latter there
attacked the heathen with such fury that all those who were not killed
were only too glad to seek safety in precipitate flight.

The brave Swiss were so weary, when the battle was over, and so parched
with thirst, that they longed for a drink. As there was no spring near
by, and as their extreme exhaustion would not permit their going in
search of one, their venerable old leader made a short but fervent
prayer, and then thrust his sword into the ground up to the very hilt.
When he slowly drew it out again a moment later, a strong jet of water
shot straight up into the air, and falling down again on the rocky
soil, soon formed a pool and brook where all could drink. This spring
still flows as freely as ever, and its limpid waters possess medicinal
properties which have since attracted many visitors to this picturesque
spot.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE line between Glarus and Grisons was long undetermined, so
the shepherds from either canton often indulged in raids and
cattle-stealing, which not infrequently resulted in violence and
bloodshed.

Once the men of Glarus suddenly came over the border, and noiselessly
surrounding a large pasture, drove away all the cows, after tumbling
the herdsmen head first into the great kettles of boiling milk where
they were busy making cheese. Only one of these men managed to escape
death by hiding in the hay. As soon as the raiders vanished, he
determined to sound the alarm. Taking his horn, he therefore climbed
up into a pine-tree, just above the great Flimser Rock, and calling
through this instrument with all his might, told his beloved Trubina,
who dwelt on another alp, of the misfortune which had occurred. The
strain was such, however, that the unhappy youth burst a blood-vessel,
and sank dying from the top of the tree. His life blood ran in a thin
stream over the great rock, where it made an indelible red streak,
which can still be seen, and which serves to remind people of his
heroic deed.

The timely warning he had given enabled Trubina to start a party
of Grisons herdsmen after the cattle, which they followed down the
mountain to the village of Flims. By careful reconnoitring, they soon
ascertained that the cows had been turned into an enclosed orchard,
just beside the inn where the raiders were celebrating their capture in
the most convivial way.

Stealing unseen into this orchard, the Grisons men slyly fastened all
the cow-bells to one steer, which they left in the enclosure, while
they noiselessly drove all the rest of the herd home. The revellers,
hearing the constant tinkle of cow-bells, deemed their prizes quite
safe, and were therefore greatly surprised and chagrined, when after
their carousal they found only one bull calf in the enclosure, and saw
how cleverly they had been duped.

       *       *       *       *       *

ON the frontier between Glarus and Uri, and not far from the Klausen
Pass, where the great Boundary Race took place, rises a majestic
glacier known as the Claridenalp. The people around there claim that
this mountain was once fine pasture-land up to the very top, where a
small ice-cap served to feed the many streams trickling down through
the rich alps into the valley.

Most of the grazing on the Claridenalp once belonged to a young
herdsman, who, although he revelled in plenty, cruelly let his old
parents starve in the valley below him. This young man was, however,
lavish enough when it suited him to be so, for he daily sent rich
presents to his sweetheart, who, on the whole, was as selfish and
heartless as he.

Finding separation from her unendurable, the young herdsman finally
begged her to come up and spend the summer with him in his fine
châlet, and receiving a favourable answer, immediately began elaborate
preparations for her reception. His cows were groomed until they shone,
and decked with bright ribbons and garlands of flowers; his larder
stocked with every dainty he could secure, and lest his beloved should
bruise her tender feet against a stone, or soil her dainty apparel in
walking near the châlet, he paved the space all around it with fine
rich cheeses, thus making a soft and smooth, if rather costly floor.

Meeting his sweetheart part way down the mountain, the herdsman
joyfully escorted her to the châlet, where she duly admired all his
arrangements, and encouraged his extravagance by throwing butter into
the fire to keep up a bright flame. The revelry up in the châlet grew
more fast and furious hour after hour, and the lovers feasted and sang,
while the poor parents, faint from lack of food, lay shivering on their
hard pallets down in the valley.

A burst of loud music floating down from the mountain finally roused
the old father from his torpor. Sitting up in bed, he then shook his
emaciated fist in the direction of the châlet, and solemnly cursed his
unnatural son.

That night, an awful storm swept down the mountain, and when morning
broke, the people in the valley saw that the Claridenalp had been
transformed overnight into the glacier which you now see. Pasture and
cattle, herdsman and sweetheart had all vanished, but the spirits of
the lovers are said to haunt the site of their mad revelry.

Similar stories, with trifling variations, are told of many other
snow mountains in Switzerland. The Plan Nevé, for instance, is said
to have become a waste because a herdsman ill-treated his old mother.
But the Blümelisalp, once the possession of a rich dairymaid, who
built a staircase of cheeses from valley to châlet so she could more
easily trip down to the weekly dances, was transformed into the present
glacier, because she cruelly gave an aged beggar a drink of milk in
which she maliciously stirred some rennet. The milk, turning suddenly
into a hard lump of cheese in the poor woman’s stomach, caused her such
intolerable suffering that she cursed the cruel giver.

Since then, the alp, once thickly strewn with the many delicate
Alpine flowers which gave it its name, has been almost inaccessible.
But countless mortals constantly admire it from a distance, and
breathlessly watch it flush at sunset, or glitter in all its icy
splendour beneath the silvery rays of the full moon.

       *       *       *       *       *

HELVETIA boasts of many other legends connected with nearly every part
of her soil; but as they are mostly repetitions of those already quoted
they are purposely omitted here. The samples of Swiss folklore already
supplied will enable travellers to gain some idea of the old-time
village tales which have cast their glamour over “the playground of
Europe.” These crude yet often poetical imaginings lend additional
charms to scenery which rises before our mental vision whenever we hear
or see the magic word “Switzerland.”




Index


  Aare, 106, 120, 127, 140, 144, 167, 170.

  Aargau, 158–175.

  Aa Valley, 221.

  Aawasser, 226.

  Abbey, 153, 243, 280, 296.

  Adalbert, 278–280.

  Ægeri, Lake of, 193–194.

  Agnes of Hapsburg, 193.

  Ahasuerus, 126–131.

  Aigle, 33–36.

  Aix-la-Chapelle, 179, 251, 252.

  Albert of Hapsburg, 192–193.

  Alemannia, 168.

  Alemans, 170, 242.

  Allobroges, 4.

  All Saints, 244.

  Alois, 213–214.

  Alphorn, 124–126, 278, 298.

  Alpine flowers, 41, 136, 231, 302.

  Alp of Little Flowers, 136, 302.

  Alps, 55, 106, 128, 138, 140, 143, 170, 196, 276.

  Alsacia, 168.

  Altenburg, 168–169.

  Altorf, 175, 186–187, 189, 191, 229–230, 231, 254–257.

  Angels’ Mountain, 222.

  Appenzell, 274–280.

  Archbishop of Canterbury, 276.

  Arnold von Melchthal, 182, 183.

  Arnold von Winkelried, 195–196.

  Arosa, 284–285.

  Arth, 215, 219, 261.

  Artus, 27.

  Attinghausen, 224.

  Aucenda, 49.

  Austria, 167, 179, 196.

  Austrian, 182, 186, 194, 195, 196, 213.

  Axenberg, 189.

  Axenstein, 189.


  Babes in the Woods, 158.

  Baden, 160–161.

  Baldern, 252.

  Balisalp, 123–124.

  Balme, Grotto of, 41.

  Basel, 97, 99, 147–157.

  Beatenberg, 107–112.

  Beatus, St., 107–112.

  Beatushöhle, 108.

  Bellinzona, 238–241.

  Benedictine Abbey, 153, 243.

  Bergy, Wilhelmine of, 82–85.

  Bern, 59, 97–139, 221, 276.

  Bern, Dietrich of, 102.

  Bernese, 57.

  Bernese Alps, 106.

  Bernese Oberland, 102.

  Bernina, 293–296.

  Berra, 14.

  Bertha, Queen, 21–24.

  Berthold V. of Zähringen, 102–104.

  Bertram, 101–102.

  Birrfeld, 170.

  Bishop of Basel, 97, 174.

  Bishop of Mayence, 179.

  Bishop Werner, 171–173.

  Black Art, 203, 224.

  Blanc, Mt., 1, 10, 23, 76, 143.

  Blonay, 27.

  Blümelisalp, 136, 301–302.

  Bohemia, 180.

  Boundary Race, 229–230, 299.

  Brandolf of Stein, 57–68.

  Brienz, 123.

  Brienz, Lake of, 106, 120,122.

  Broken Mountain, 196.

  Brugg, 158–160.

  Bründlisalp, 210, 214.

  Brune, General, 103.

  Bubenberg, Von, 103–104.

  Bull’s Stream, 226.

  Burgdorf, 101–102.

  Burglauenen, 131.

  Bürglen, 185, 190, 192.

  Burgundian 4, 57–68, 104.

  Burgundy, 21, 82, 113.

  Burkard of Landskron, 149–150.


  Cæsar, 4.

  Calanda, 281.

  Calfriesen, 283.

  Caligula, 199–200.

  Capped Mountain, 197.

  Capuchin, 231–232.

  Carinthia, 180.

  Castiel, 282–284.

  Castieltobel, 283.

  Castle in the Water, 272–273.

  Cerlier, 97–99.

  Chamounix, 41.

  Champey, Lake of, 51.

  Charlemagne, 147, 248–252, 254, 270–271, 276.

  Charles the Bold, 57–68.

  Château d’Oex, 14.

  Châtelard, 27.

  Chaulin, 29–31.

  Chaumont, 79.

  Chaux-de-Fonds, la, 82, 87, 89, 92.

  Choristers’ House, 248–249.

  Christ, 4, 108, 126, 147, 198, 200, 206, 266, 292, 295.

  Christian, 4, 5, 39, 40, 71, 109, 113, 248.

  Christianity, 39, 197.

  Christopher, St., 104–105.

  Chur, 281.

  Clarens, 28–31.

  Clémence, 164–165.

  Coffrane, 80.

  Coire, 281, 282, 286.

  Col de Jaman, 31–32.

  Colombettes, 77.

  Colombiers, 80.

  Confederation, 194.

  Conrad, 196, 222.

  Constance, 271.

  Constance, Lake of, 270, 296–297.

  Constantius Chlorus, 170.

  Conthey, 46–52.

  Corbassière, 51.

  Crusades, 71.

  Cursed Alp, 289.

  Cyprian Herb, 287.


  David, 105.

  Davos, 284, 286.

  Davos Platz, 286–289.

  Davos Schwartzhorn, 286–287.

  Dead Alp, 286–287.

  Death, 194.

  Dent de Jaman, 31.

  Dent du Midi, 76.

  Devil, 111, 140–143, 232, 234–237, 266, 277–278.

  Devil’s Bridge, 232–237.

  Devil’s Stone, 237.

  Diablerets, 39–41, 42, 76.

  Dietrich of Bern, 102.

  Diocletian, 70.

  Disentis, 296–297.

  Dominican Grotto, 210–211.

  Dominikhöhle, 210–211.

  Dragonstone, 210.

  Droz, Jacques, 87–89.

  Duin, 13.


  Eiger, 135.

  Einheer, 271.

  Einigen, 109–112, 116, 117.

  Einsiedlen, 72, 266–269.

  Ekkehard, 276.

  Elizabeth of Stein, 61–68.

  Engadine Valley, 291–296.

  Engelberg, 221–223.

  Engelbrechtsthor, 245.

  Erlach, 97–99.

  Erlach, Rudolf von, 104.

  Ermance, 24–27.

  Esau, 23.

  Ettingen, 151.

  Evil One, 141–143, 232, 237.


  Falls of the Rhine, 242–244.

  Faulhorn, 131.

  Felix, St., 248.

  Fenetta, 43–46.

  Fletschalp, 55.

  Fletschhorn, 52–55.

  Flims, 298–299.

  Flimser Rock, 298.

  Florinus, St., 291–292.

  Flühlen, 188–189.

  Föhn, 227.

  Forest Cantons (Lucerne, Uri, Schwyz, Unterwald), 176–237.

  Fracmont, 196.

  France, 113.

  Frastrada, 250.

  Frauenfeld, 254, 273.

  Frauenmünster, 252.

  French, 120.

  Fribourg, 14, 31, 69–78, 102, 233.

  Frickthal, 155–157.

  Frohburg, 143–145.

  Furka Pass, 56, 224.

  Fürstenstein, 151–153.

  Fürst, Walter, 182, 183, 185.


  Gabriel, St., 116, 122.

  Gargantua, 10–14.

  Garganum, 114.

  Gaul, 201.

  General Brune, 103.

  Geneva, 1–5, 12.

  Geneva, Lake of, 1–5, 12, 28, 31, 32, 76.

  Germany, 179, 276.

  Gessler, 186–191.

  Gex, 49.

  Gezard, 82.

  Gibloux, 14.

  Gideon, 143.

  Gidi, 132.

  Gidisdorf, 132.

  Giessbach, 122.

  Glarnisch, 254.

  Glarus, 228–231, 254, 276, 281–302.

  Glücksalp, 277.

  Goeschenen, 232, 233, 236.

  Golden Age, 8–10, 22, 131–132.

  Goliath, 105.

  Gothard, St., 224, 231, 232, 233, 296.

  Grain Angels, 158.

  Grandson, 56–68.

  Grimmenstein, 99–100.

  Grimoald, 24–27.

  Grimsel, 126–131.

  Grindelwald, 131–132, 133, 135.

  Grisons, 281–302.

  Grotte de Balme, 41.

  Gruerius, 70.

  Grütli, 183, 186.

  Gruyère, 70–76.

  Guelfs, 254–257.

  Güppe, 202–204.

  Güttingen, 271–273.


  Habichtsburg, 171, 173.

  Habsburg, 173.

  Hadrian, 113.

  Haldenstein, 281–282.

  Hallwyl, 162–167.

  Hallwyl, Lake of, 162.

  Hans, 73–75.

  Hapsburg, Rudolf von, 104, 173, 176–180.

  Hapsburg Castle, 104, 167–175, 180, 186, 192, 193.

  Hasli Scheidegg, 133.

  Hat Fiend, 237.

  Hauenstein, 143.

  Hawk’s Castle, 171.

  Heiterloch, 135.

  Helvetia, 168, 180, 302.

  Henry of Rapperswyl, 162.

  Herod, 202.

  Hiltiboldus, 274–275.

  Hohenstauffens, 175.

  Hohenstollen, 123–125.

  Hohe Rhonen, 265–266.

  Hohle Gasse, 190.

  Hole of Uri, 233.

  Hollow Way, 190.

  Holy Land, 71, 163, 246.

  Holy Sepulchre, 142, 163.

  House of Austria, 181.

  Huchées, 7.

  Hut Schelm, 237.


  Icelandic moss, 287.

  Illiez Valley, 13.

  Im Fehlen, 277.

  Immensee, 190.

  Inn Valley, 293–296.

  In Sin, 277.

  Interlaken, 106, 120, 131, 135, 138.

  Irmentrude, 254.

  Iseltwald, 120–122.

  Italy, 55, 131, 233, 292.

  Ivy Snake, 48.


  Jacob, 23.

  Jacob, St., 149–151.

  Jaman, 31–32.

  James of Romont, 57–68.

  Jardin des Plantes, 103.

  Jesus Christ, 198.

  Jew, The Wandering, 126–131.

  Jodels, 7.

  John of Hapsburg, 180, 192.

  John of Hallwyl, 163–167.

  Joliette, 28–31.

  Jungfrau, 136.

  Jura, 76, 79, 82, 144, 151.

  Justus, 110–112.


  Kastelnalp, 212–214.

  Kerzerz, 106.

  King Herod, 202.

  King John, 276.

  Kisher, 270–271.

  Klausen Pass, 228–231, 299.

  Königsfelden, 193.

  Kriemhild, 253–254.

  Kuhreihen, 76, 124–125.

  Küssnacht, 190.

  Kyburg, 254–260, 273.

  Kyburg Castle, 257.


  La Chaux-de-Fonds, 82, 87, 89, 92.

  Lady of Haldenstein, 281–282.

  Lady of Munot, 246–247.

  Lake of Ægeri, 193–194.

  Lake of Brienz, 106, 120, 122.

  Lake of Champey, 51.

  Lake of Constance, 270, 276, 296–297.

  Lake of Geneva, 1–5, 12, 28, 31, 32, 76.

  Lake of Hallwyl, 162.

  Lake Leman, 1, 2.

  Lake of Lowertz, 218–221.

  Lake of Lucerne, 176, 183, 189, 190, 226, 261.

  Lake of Neuchâtel, 56.

  Lake of Sempach, 195.

  Lake of Thun, 106, 107, 114, 118, 120, 131, 261.

  Lake of Türl, 253–254.

  Lake of Zug, 261–264.

  Lake of Zürich, 248.

  Lällenkönig, 148–149.

  Landskron, 149–151.

  La Sarraz, 18–21, 27.

  La Soye, 49.

  Laupen, 104.

  Lausanne, 18, 201.

  Lauterbrunnen, 117, 138.

  Le Locle, 82, 87, 89.

  Leman, Lake, 1, 2.

  Lenzburg, 101, 162.

  Leodegarius, St., 209.

  Leuk, 50.

  Limmat, 170.

  Linth Valley, 229, 230.

  Locle, Le, 82, 87, 89.

  Lombardy, 24, 115.

  Lorraine, 103.

  Louis II., 252, 257.

  Louis IX., 151.

  Lowertz, Lake of, 218–221.

  Lucerne, 72, 162, 178, 183, 189, 190, 195, 196, 205, 207, 209, 226.

  Lucerne, Lake of, 176, 183, 189, 190, 226.

  Luck Ship, 1–3.

  Lucky Alp, 277.

  Lüen, 283.

  Lütchine, 131.


  Magadino, 238–241.

  Magdalen, 212–214.

  Margaret, St., 102.

  Margaret of Gruyère, 72–76.

  Maria im Stein, 152.

  Mariastein, 153.

  Maria Stella, 162.

  Marie Madeleine, Ste., 4–5.

  Martin, St., 135–136.

  Martinsloch, 135.

  Maurice, St., 40, 48.

  Mayence, 179.

  Meer Stern, 162.

  Meinrad, 266–269.

  Meiringen, 123, 126, 133, 278.

  Merligen, 118–120.

  Mettenberg, 135.

  Michael, St., 113–117, 118.

  Midi, Dent du, 76.

  Moléson, 70, 76–78.

  Monk’s Leap, 232.

  Mons Fractus, 196.

  Mons Pileatus, 197–198.

  Mont Blanc, 1, 10, 23, 76, 143.

  Monte Rosa, 10.

  Monthey, 13, 47.

  Montreux, 28, 31.

  Morat, 68, 69.

  Morgarten, 193–194.

  Morge, 233.

  Moritz, St., 293.

  Moses, 143.

  Mount Pilatus, 196, 205, 206, 207–214.

  Mühlenthal, 246.

  Müllinen, 164–166.

  Munot, 245–247.

  Muri, 160.

  Mürren, 138, 139.

  Mythenstein, 183.


  Nancy, 68.

  Nero, 49, 50.

  Neuchâtel, 79–96.

  Neuchâtel, Lake of, 56, 81, 86–87, 79–96.

  Neu Hapsburg, 176–179.

  Niebelungenlied, 276.

  Niesen, 106.

  Novarre, 103.

  Noville, 42–46.


  Oberhofen, 112.

  Oberland, 102, 131.

  Odin, 100.

  Oex, Château d’, 14.

  Oldenhorn, 42.

  Olten, 143, 144.

  Orbe, 15.

  Ormond, 33–36, 153.

  Our Lady of Lucerne, 72.


  Palestine, 71.

  Paradise, 110.

  Paris, 90, 91, 92, 93, 103.

  Pathô, 14.

  Payerne, 22.

  Pestalozzi, 101, 170.

  Pfäfers, 278–280.

  Pfaffensprung, 232.

  Pilate, Pontius, 198–205, 206, 207.

  Pirminius, St., 278, 280.

  Plan Nevé, 48, 50, 301.

  Plurs, 289–290.

  Pontarlier, 93–96.

  Pont-la-Ville, 14, 233.

  Pontius Pilate, 198–205, 206, 207.

  Pontresina, 293.

  Poschiavo, 293.

  Procla, 198.


  Radbod of Altenburg, 169–173.

  Ragatz, 278.

  Raining Rock, 28–31.

  Ralligen, 117–118.

  Ralligenstock, 117–118.

  Ramflue, 176–177.

  Randenberg, 244–245.

  Ranz des Vaches, 76, 124–125.

  Raphael, St., 116.

  Rapperswyl, 162.

  Raymond, 25–27.

  Red Snow, 55.

  Red Valley, 136.

  Regula, St., 248.

  Reichenau, 273.

  Reichenbach, 123.

  Rémus, 291–292.

  René of Lorraine, 103.

  Res, 123–125.

  Reuss, 170, 192, 232, 233, 236, 237.

  Rheinau, 243.

  Rhine, 147, 242–244, 296.

  Rhône, 12, 14,39–40,42–46, 50, 126, 127, 201, 206.

  Rhône Glacier, 126.

  Richard, D. J., 87.

  Richensee, 196.

  Rigi, 214–218, 261.

  Rigi-Kaltbad, 215–218.

  Rochefort, 86.

  Roll, 117–118, 131, 261.

  Rollin of Vallengin, 79–81.

  Romainmotier, 15–18.

  Roman, 4, 147, 170, 193, 199, 200, 201, 248.

  Romanshorn, 271.

  Rome, 107, 199, 278.

  Romont, 57–68, 70.

  Rosa, Monte, 10.

  Rossberg, 261.

  Rossini, 181.

  Rothberg, 151–153.

  Rothenthal, 136, 137, 138.

  Rothhorn, 289–290.

  Rudolf von Erlach, 104.

  Rudolf von Hapsburg, 104, 173–180, 181.

  Ruthenzug, 160.

  Rütli, 183, 185.

  Ruz, Val de, 79–81.


  Saint Felix, 284.

  St. Florinus, 291–292.

  St. Gabriel, 116, 122.

  St. Gall, 274–280.

  St. Gallus, 274–276.

  St. Gothard, 224, 231, 232, 233, 296.

  St. Jacob, 149–151.

  St. Leodegarius, 209.

  St. Margaret, 102.

  St. Marie Madeleine, 4–5.

  St. Martin, 135–136.

  St. Maurice, 40, 48.

  St. Michael, 113–117, 218.

  St. Moritz, 293.

  St. Pirminius, 278, 280.

  St. Raphael, 116.

  St. Regula, 248.

  St. Triphon, 13.

  St. Verena, 140–143, 160, 254.

  Salamanca, 203, 204, 206, 254.

  Salève, 12.

  Sarine, 14, 70, 76, 233.

  Sarraz, La, 18–21, 27.

  Satan, 14, 39, 40, 51, 99, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 116, 117, 149,
            224, 235, 237.

  Sausbach, 139.

  Savoy, 1.

  Scandinavian, 107.

  Scex que Plliau, 28.

  Schächen, 191.

  Schaffhausen, 242–247.

  Scheffel, Von, 276.

  Scheidegg, 132, 133.

  Schiller, 15, 36, 179, 181, 190.

  Schinznach, 167.

  Schnabelberg, 253.

  Schoellenen, 232.

  Schreckhorn, 133–135.

  Schwanau, 215, 216, 218, 219, 220.

  Schwartzhorn, 286–287.

  Schwesternborn, 218.

  Schwyz, 175, 181, 182, 191, 265, 266–269.

  Seealp, 123–125.

  Seeheim, 273.

  Seelisberg, 183, 184, 227–228.

  Seldenbüren, Conrad of, 222.

  Sempach, 195–196.

  Sentis, 143, 276–278.

  Seyon, 79.

  Siedelhorn, 131.

  Sils, 292, 293.

  Simplon, 52.

  Sintram, 101–102.

  Sion, 49–50.

  Snow Eyes, 135.

  Soleure, 140–143.

  Soye, La, 49.

  Spain, 87.

  Spalen, 148.

  Spalenberg, 148.

  Spalenthor, 148.

  Spiez, 112, 117.

  Spirit of the Alps, 36.

  Spirit of Evil, 235.

  Spirit of the Mountain, 53.

  Spirit of the Winds, 2.

  Stanz, 195, 221.

  Star of the Sea, 162.

  Staubbach, 138.

  Stauffacher, 182, 183.

  Steersbrook, 226.

  Stein, Brandolf von, 57–68.

  Stein Castle, 160.

  Strättlingen, 112–117.

  Styria, 180.

  Sulgen, Count of, 266.

  Sürenenalp, 221, 223–226.

  Sürenen Pass, 223.

  Swiss Sleepers, 185.

  Swiss Confederation, 104, 147, 181.


  Tamina, 278–280.

  Tell chapels, 183, 189, 190.

  Tellsplatte, 189.

  Tell, William, 181, 185, 189, 191, 192.

  Tessin, 238–241.

  Thebaid, 70.

  Theodore Weinzäpfli, 106.

  Three Finger Stone, 266.

  Three Marys, 160–161.

  Three Tells, 184–185.

  Thun, 106.

  Thun, Lake of, 106, 107, 114, 118, 120, 131.

  Thurgau, 270–273.

  Tiber, 200–201.

  Tiberius, 199.

  Titlis, 76, 221.

  Tobel, 282–283.

  Trèves, 140.

  Triphon, St., 13.

  Trubina, 298–299.

  Turicum, 248.

  Türl, Lake of, 253–254.

  Türlersee, 253–254.

  Turpin, 251.

  Tyrolean Mts., 276.


  Uetliberg, 174–175.

  Unterwald, 175, 181, 182, 191, 195, 196.

  Upper Engadine, 293–296.

  Upper Grindelwald Glacier, 133.

  Uri, 175, 180, 181, 182, 185, 186, 191, 221, 224, 226, 228–231, 233,
            237, 299.

  Urner Loch, 233.


  Valais, 6–68, 136, 233.

  Val de Ruz, 79–81.

  Vallengin, 79–81, 82.

  Vallorbes, 15, 18.

  Valteline Valley, 293–296.

  Vaud, 6–68.

  Vauxtravers, 80.

  Venice, 292.

  Verena, St., 140–143, 160, 254.

  Verenathal, 140–143.

  Verona, 102.

  Viege, 47.

  Vienne, 201, 206.

  Vindonissa, 170, 193.

  Virgin, 15, 72, 73, 152, 153, 208, 218, 266–269.

  Vreneli’s Garden, 254.

  Vufflens, 23–27.


  Waldenburg, 153–155.

  Walter of Rochefort, 86.

  Walter Fürst, 182, 183, 185.

  Wanderer, 162.

  Wandering Jew, 126–131.

  Wasserburg, 272–273.

  Wasserkirche, 252.

  Wasserthurm, 196.

  Weinzäpfli, Theodore, 106.

  Welfs, 254–257.

  Wengernalp, 125–126.

  Werner, 171–173.

  Werner Stauffacher, 182, 183.

  Werner von Strättlingen, 114–117.

  Wetterhorn, 131, 133.

  Wettingen, 161–162.

  Wild Huntsman, 100.

  Wilhelmine of Bergy, 82–85.

  William Tell, 181–192.

  Winterthur, 254.

  Wohlen, 169.

  Woods, Babes in the, 158.

  Wotan, 39–40.

  Wülpelsberg, 167–173.

  Wynigen, 101.


  Zähringen, 102–104.

  Zarera, 293–296.

  Zauchet, 50.

  Zermatt, 50–51.

  Zug, 261–269.

  Zug, Lake of, 261–269.

  Zürich, 174, 248–260, 265, 268–269.

  Zürich, Lake of, 248.




Transcriber’s Notes


Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation
marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left
unbalanced.

Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned between paragraphs
and outside quotations. In versions of this eBook that support
hyperlinks, the page references in the List of Illustrations lead to
the corresponding illustrations.

The Index was not checked for proper alphabetization or correct page
references. Spelling discrepancies between the Index and the referenced
text were resolved in favor of the referenced text.