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.