Part 11
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.
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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.
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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.
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.