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