Part 8

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

“They are bringing another lord to the Valley!”

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

LEGENDS OF SOLEURE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BASEL

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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