tenant, the Romans, remembering they owed a grudge to the inhabitants
of Vienne, in Gaul, carefully placed Pilate’s corpse upon a barge, and
sent it up the Rhône. Arrived at Vienne, the Roman envoys obediently
cast the body into the deepest spot in the river. But its presence
there caused such damages that the frightened inhabitants hastened to
forward it on to Lausanne. The same unpleasant phenomena recurring
there also, Pilate’s remains were finally sent out into the wilderness,
far from the haunts of men. After carrying them for many days up hill
and down dale, the bearers finally reached an almost inaccessible
mountain. Convinced that this point was sufficiently remote from
civilisation to satisfy all reasonable requirements, they cast their
uncanny burden into a small lake at the foot of a barren peak, and
hastened away as quickly as they could. Still, it was only with the
utmost difficulty that they managed to reach home, for no sooner had
Pilate’s body touched the waters of the lonely tarn, than it stirred up
such a tempest as had never before been seen in that region.
Night and day, year in and year out, the storm went on raging around
the lonely mountain-top, filling with awe the hearts of the simple
peasant-folk who dwelt in the neighbouring valleys. They too soon
longed to be rid of the unquiet spirit, but could find no people
willing to harbour a ghost which raged round the mountain, waded about
the lake until it overflowed, stormed up and down the jagged rocks
howling with fear and remorse, and which occasionally indulged in
fearful wrestling-bouts with the spirit of King Herod, or those of
other famous malefactors. Even in his comparatively quiet moments,
Pilate was dreaded, for then he sat aloft on the Güppe,--one of the
peaks of the mountain,--grimly conjuring new storms, washing his hands
in the dripping clouds, and shaking huge rain-drops from his trembling
fingers down upon the fertile pastures below him. None of the shepherds
dared venture near him, because he stampeded their flocks by his
violent gestures, and often hurled cows and goats over the precipices
and down on the sharp rocks, where they were dashed to pieces.
Years, therefore, passed by without Pilate’s being molested in any way;
but at last there came a travelling scholar, who, having mastered the
Black Art at Salamanca, was fully competent to deal with spirits of all
kinds. The people no sooner heard of his unusual accomplishments than
they crowded around him, eagerly imploring him to cast a quieting spell
upon Pilate’s restless ghost, and proffering rich rewards if he would
only put an end to their woes.
Thus urged, the magician consented to try his skill. Journeying up
the mountain, he came, after several hours of hard climbing, to the
foot of the peak upon which Pontius Pilate sat watching his approach
with lowering brows. Placing himself upon a large stone, the conjurer
drew a magic circle around him, and then began his incantations.
But even his most powerful formulas left Pilate unmoved, although
they made the rocks around him quiver and shake as if about to fall.
When the magician perceived this, he changed his position to a peak
directly opposite the one Pilate had chosen for his favourite seat,
and undismayed by his first failure, again began reciting all the most
potent exorcisms he knew. This time they were not without effect, for
Pilate suddenly rose in anger from his rocky throne and rushed toward
the intruder as if to sweep him off the face of the earth. But balked
of this amiable intention by the magic circle, instead of whisking the
magician off into space, Pilate could only rage around and around him,
trampling the ground with such fury that no grass can even now grow on
that spot. Indeed, his mere footprints laid such a curse upon the soil
that no dew has fallen upon it, nor any animal ventured to cross it
since that day!
After careering thus wildly around the scholar for some time, Pilate’s
ghost, weakening perceptibly, finally agreed to retire to the tarn high
up the mountain side. There he promised to remain in peace, provided
no one wantonly disturbed his rest, and he was allowed to range the
mountain at will one day in the year.
The exorcist having consented to this stipulation, Pilate further
proved he had not sojourned among the Jews in vain, by carefully
bargaining that a steed should be provided to bear him off in state
to his last resting-place. The Salamancan scholar therefore called up
from the depths a flame-breathing steed of the blackest hue, which bore
Pontius Pilate off at a truly infernal pace. As they dashed over the
rocks, the steed’s clattering hoofs struck out so many sparks that the
mountain was illumined from base to summit, and it stamped so hard that
the marks of its flying feet can still be seen in the rocks near the
tarn.
Arriving there, Pontius Pilate vanished in the depths of the lake, or
morass, where he quietly stayed, thus honestly keeping his part of the
agreement. Since then, unless disturbed by sceptics coming to mock at
him, or cast sticks and stones into his retreat, Pilate has quietly
reposed in the depths of his lake. But although sure to resent any mark
of disrespect, by rising to stir up a fearful storm, his spirit has
always been sufficiently discriminating to make no demonstration when
his rest is broken by accident or through ignorance.
Such was the dread of rousing Pilate’s wrath, that the magistrates of
Lucerne solemnly issued a decree forbidding all strangers to visit the
tarn. They also made all the herdsmen take a yearly oath not to guide
any foreigner thither, or to point out the road which led there. Any
infringement of this edict was punished with the utmost severity, as
can still be seen in the annals of Lucerne; and the law remained in
force until 1585, the time of the Reformation.
Then a doughty pastor prevailed upon the magistrates to repeal their
edict, and climbed up to the tarn. There he convinced all the people
that there was no further cause for their superstitious fears, by
flinging stones into the water, calling out every imaginable insult,
and boldly challenging Pilate’s ghost to rise and do its worst.
Pilate’s spirit, banned by the Salamancan student, has ever since
been said to rise only on Good Friday. Clad in purple, he then sits
upon a judgment seat, which comes up out of the lake, and repeats in
pantomime the actions he performed on the fatal and memorable day when
he sentenced Christ to the cross. Then, too, Pilate always washes
his shaking hands, in the futile effort to cleanse himself from all
share in that deadly sin; and any wanderer who, by choice or accident,
gazes at his distorted features at that time is sure to die within the
year. On Good Friday, too, Pilate often rages around the mountain in
despairing remorse, but at midnight he invariably sinks down again into
his morass.
There are numerous variations of this legend, one of which claims that
Pilate ruled in Vienne, where he committed suicide by casting himself
into the Rhône. Another version says that, full of remorse for his
crime, he wandered from place to place, until in despair he finally
drowned himself in the lake on the mountain bearing his name.
Such was the terror inspired by this mountain, and the difficulty of
reaching its summit, that the first ascension is said to have taken
place only in 1518. As one can seldom obtain a clear view even after
bearing the fatigue of such an arduous climb, it was rarely visited
by strangers until the wonderful railway was built which now enables
travellers to reach its top with the utmost ease. Since then Mount
Pilatus has become a favourite goal for excursions, and those who have
once beheld the extensive panorama visible from its crest can never
forget the marvellous view, which, extending as far as the eye can
reach, includes glaciers, mountains, valleys, streams, and lakes, not
to mention picturesque towns, villages, churches, and castles, which
abound in that section of the country.
* * * * *
BESIDES the legend from which Mount Pilatus is popularly supposed to
have derived its name, many others are told relating to various points
on the mountain. For instance, it is said that a cooper from Lucerne
once climbed up its rocky sides in quest of wood for barrel hoops and
staves, and fell into a deep gully whose sides were so high and steep
that he could not get out of it again. The soil at the bottom was so
soft and slimy that the cooper, uninjured by his fall, next tried to
make his way out by following the bottom of this cleft. He could find
no issue, however, but finally came to a sort of tunnel in the rocks.
Entering boldly, he suddenly found himself face to face with a couple
of huge, fire-breathing dragons. A hasty sign of the cross, and a
fervent, if trembling prayer for the Virgin’s protection, effectively
closed the mouths of the dragons already gaping wide to devour him, and
transformed them into gentle creatures which fawned upon him, humbly
licking his hands and feet. Their manners were so ingratiating that the
cooper soon ceased to fear them, and sitting down beside them, spent
six months in their company, feeding as they did upon a salty substance
which exuded from a crack in the rocks.
Winter over, the dragons, who had lain supine in the cave all that
time, wriggled slowly out into the gorge, where they began stretching
and shaking themselves, spreading and furling their wings, as if
to make sure their pliancy had not suffered from a long period of
inaction. Then the amazed cooper suddenly beheld one of the monsters
rise straight up into the air, and once out of the deep cleft, fly in
wide circles far above his head and finally pass out of sight.
The second dragon soon after showing signs of a desire to follow its
mate, the cooper promptly grasped it by the tail, and was whisked up
out of the abyss, but gently set down again on a soft grass plot near
the city of Lucerne. On entering that town, he was rapturously welcomed
by his friends, who, after vainly seeking him on the mountain, had
given him up as dead.
In token of gratitude for his marvellous preservation, and safe return
to his native city, the cooper gave a communion service to the church
of St. Leodegarius in 1420. On this service is a quaint representation
of his adventure with the dragons on Mount Pilatus. The legend
declares, however, that, unable to digest common viands after living so
long upon the dragons’ mysterious food, the cooper died of starvation
two months after his return to Lucerne.
* * * * *
ANOTHER legend claims that a peasant from Lucerne once beheld a dragon
rise slowly from the Rigi and fly heavily towards Mount Pilatus. Gazing
in open-mouthed astonishment at this wonderful sight, the peasant next
saw the monster drop something, and when sufficiently recovered from
his terror to investigate what it might be, he discovered it was a huge
clot of blood in which lay imbedded a precious stone.
This jewel was found in time to possess wonderful curative powers, for
a mere touch of it healed victims of the pest and of other equally
fatal diseases. The Dragonstone was, therefore, carefully preserved in
the city, where it can still be seen, although for some time past its
medicinal powers are said to have deserted it.
* * * * *
WHILE the summit of Mount Pilatus is quite barren, the lower slopes
provide pasture for large herds of cows and goats which graze there
under the care of their herdsmen. One of the highest and finest
pastures is the Bründlisalp, near which is a cave known as the
Dominikhöhle or Dominican’s Grotto. A huge rock bearing the rough
semblance of a human form stands at the entrance to this cave.
According to tradition, a mountain giant was once posted in this grotto
to keep watch over the region round about, and give the people due
notice of the approach of any foe. When an enemy drew near, he gave the
alarm; then, placing himself at the head of the natives, attacked the
foe with such strength and fury that he always secured the victory for
his country.
But a day finally came when the Swiss, who had never borne arms except
to defend themselves against the incursions of strangers, suddenly
found themselves unable to agree, and resorting to force, began a civil
war. Feeling strife in the air, the giant rushed out of his cave to
ascertain what was the matter. But when he beheld brother armed against
brother, saw the Swiss attack each other with rage, and viewed their
blood flow in torrents, he was so horror-struck that his cry died on
his lips, his blood froze in his veins, and he stood there immovable,
turned into stone! Ever since then, the petrified giant at the entrance
of the Dominican Cave is pointed out as an emblem of patriotism and as
a solemn warning against civil strife.
* * * * *
MOUNT PILATUS is said to have long been the home of countless little
gnomes who hid in every nook and crevice and under every stone. These
dwarfs were about eighteen inches high, and wore long green mantles to
conceal the fact that they had goose-shaped feet. Bright red caps were
jauntily perched on top of their snow-white hair, while long beards
of the same colour flowed down over their breasts. The gnomes not only
watched over the chamois, bounding from rock to rock, but tended the
fish sporting in the depths of the mountain streams, and protected all
game from the greed of wanton sportsmen.
These gnomes were so obliging that they cheerfully helped the herdsmen
watch and tend their cattle, milk the cows, make butter or cheese, and
in exchange for their manifold services merely required a small bowlful
of milk or cream. Gentle and helpful as long as they were treated
kindly, the gnomes were sure to revenge themselves upon any mortals who
ill-treated them or their protégés, or hurt their feelings by trying to
get a sight of their misshapen feet.
A rich peasant once pastured his cattle high up on the beautiful
Kastelnalp, on Mount Pilatus, where the grass was so rich that the cows
had to be milked three times a day. Magdalen, the only daughter of a
widowed cousin, once painfully made her way up to this alp to beg for a
little help for her sick mother, who had neither food nor medicine in
the house. The rich man, who had provisions in plenty, and who stored
away cheese after cheese in his cellars, nevertheless refused to help
his poor relatives, and sent Magdalen home empty-handed and in tears.
Overtaken on her way down the mountain by a sudden thunder-storm, the
girl sought shelter in the hut of her lover, a herdsman to whom she
confided all her sorrows. A generous, noble-hearted fellow, Alois
no sooner heard of his sweetheart’s destitution and disappointment
than he ran to get a small cheese, the only food he had in the house,
and forced her to accept it for her starving mother. The storm over,
Magdalen set out again with lightened heart, but her foot suddenly
slipping on the wet grass, she let go the precious cheese, which,
bounding from rock to rock, rolled over the edge of a precipice, into
whose depths it disappeared.
Magdalen’s tears now flowed afresh; but while she sat there wringing
her hands in despair, she suddenly felt a twitch at her dress. Looking
down, she there beheld one of the tiny mountain spirits, carrying a
small cheese upon his shoulder, and holding a bundle of medicinal herbs
in his hand.
“Weep no longer,” the little man gently said. “The hard-hearted owner
of the Kastelnalp shall be duly punished for his refusal to help you.
In the meantime take these herbs, which will restore your mother’s
health, and I am sure both you and she will enjoy this cheese.”
The little man then vanished, leaving his gifts behind him, and
Magdalen hastened joyfully home. Her first care was to prepare herb
tea for the patient, whose health was miraculously restored as soon
as she had tasted it. But when Magdalen tried to cut the cheese the
kind-hearted gnome had given her, she was amazed to find it was a solid
lump of pure gold! She and her mother were so rich with this treasure
that they soon purchased the Bründlisalp, where Magdalen and Alois, a
happy husband and wife, tended their flocks together.
As for the hard-hearted owner of the Kastelnalp, he was justly punished
for his lack of charity. The sudden rain-storm, loosening the rocks
above his pasture, started a landslide which covered his alp with such
a mass of loose stones that not a blade of grass has ever been seen on
it since. Besides this, a fragment of rock struck the owner as he fled,
and breaking both his legs, left him so badly crippled that he never
walked without crutches again.
* * * * *
AS picturesque as Mount Pilatus, although in a different way, and far
more accessible for pedestrians, the Rigi has long been a centre of
attraction for travellers from all parts of the world. Before the two
railways were built, which now carry passengers up to the mountain-top
in less than an hour and a half, ascensions were frequently made on
foot or on horseback. This climb was cheerfully undertaken in hopes
of enjoying the marvellous views obtainable from many points on the
mountain, and the vast panorama, with changing hues at sunset and
sunrise, which can best be seen from the mountain’s crest.
[Illustration: THE RIGI]
The slopes of the Rigi are now all covered with orchards and rich
pastures, for although snow frequently falls on its summit even in
mid-summer, it never lingers there long, owing to the warm rays of the
sun striking directly upon it. There are countless points of interest
to be seen on this mountain, but the most characteristic of all its
legends is connected with the gushing spring of ice-cold water at
Rigi-Kaltbad.
We are told that in the days when Austrian bailiffs still exercised
their tyranny over the land, three lovely sisters dwelt in the Arth
valley at the foot of the Rigi. Not content with despoiling these
defenceless maidens of all their worldly goods, the bailiff of
Schwanau, although aware that they loathed him, persecuted them with
his unwelcome attentions, and even attempted to rob them of their
honour.
In their terror lest they should become victims of this evil man’s
lust, the sisters fled from Arth one night, and boldly rushed into the
dense forest which then covered all the slopes of the mountain. The
wild beasts abounding in that region seemed to these helpless maidens
far less to be dreaded than the human beast whose pursuit they were
trying to escape. They therefore bravely threaded their way up the Rigi
by the dim light of the stars, nor paused in their flight until they
reached a sheltered plateau high up on the mountain.
Exposed to the southern sun, and provided with a spring of crystalline
water flowing plentifully from the rocks near by, this place seemed
so remote from mankind, and so fitted by nature to serve as a safe
retreat, that the three sisters determined to spend the rest of their
lives there. They therefore built a little hut of bark stripped from
the trunks of fallen trees and of wattled branches, and gathering moss
for their beds, spent summer and winter there in utter seclusion. The
berries and edible roots collected on the mountain side were their only
food, while the sparkling water from the fountain served as their sole
beverage. In their gratitude for escaping from their cruel persecutor,
the sisters, who had always been remarkable for their piety, spent
most of their days and part of their nights in praising God for their
deliverance, fervently praying that they might live and die in the
service of their Maker.
Although entirely cut off from mankind,--for no one ever ventured so
far up the mountain then,--and notwithstanding the cold and the other
privations they had to endure, the sisters dwelt here year after year,
without a murmur over their hard fate. Such was their piety, that the
angels kept constant watch over them, and finally bore their sinless
souls to heaven, leaving three lambent flames to hover over their
tenantless bodies.
In the meantime no one knew what had become of the three girls who
had vanished so mysteriously from the Arth valley, and their former
friends, gazing up at Mount Rigi, little suspected that those tender
maidens were even then living like hermits far above their heads. When
the sisters died, however, the miraculous lights hovering over their
bodies were distinctly perceived from various parts of the lake and
valley, greatly rousing the curiosity of all who saw them. Night after
night the lights twinkled up there in undiminished brightness, until
the stars paled and the sun rose, flooding mountain, lake, and valley
with its golden beams.
Thinking some holy hermit must have built his cell up there, and
wishing to satisfy their curiosity as well as secure his blessing,
some herdsmen determined to make their way up the mountain in spite of
pathless forests and dense undergrowth. After a long and arduous climb,
they finally reached the plateau, where they were amazed to find a hut
showing signs of prolonged occupation, but now fast falling into ruins.
In searching for further traces of the supposed hermit, they suddenly
discovered the bodies lying side by side near the ever-flowing spring,
and beheld the three flames float slowly upward and vanish into the
blue sky.
Awed by this miracle, the herdsmen reverently buried the three corpses,
and over the spot where they rested, built a rustic chapel which was
first dedicated to the Virgin Mary and then to the archangel St.
Michael. A church now stands on this hallowed spot, which is frequently
visited by pilgrims, as well as by those who come to Rigi-Kaltbad for
health or for pleasure. The spring, which still gushes from the rock,
was long known as the Schwesternborn, in memory of the pious sisters,
whose sinless lives and death cast a glamour of romance over that spot.
* * * * *
THE ruins of the Castle of Schwanau, on the island of the same name,
in the Lake of Lowertz, at the foot of the Rigi, are connected with
the above legend, because here lived the cruel persecutor from whom
the pious sisters fled. Not content with driving these girls away from
home, the Lord of Schwanau once kidnapped a maiden from Arth, whom he
carried by force into this castle, where she vainly tried to escape
from his clutches. This lady, however, was not entirely destitute of
male protectors, and when her brothers heard how she had been treated,
they sallied forth in anger and slew her ravisher. Then calling the
freemen of Schwyz to their aid, they captured and destroyed the castle,
leaving it a mass of smoking ruins, with only one tower standing to
serve as a monument of the Lord of Schwanau’s crimes and of their
revenge.
It is said that although the cruel kidnapper was slain nearly six
hundred years ago, his spirit can still find no rest. Every year, at
midnight, on the anniversary of the day when the frantic girl rushed
wildly through the castle to escape his pursuit, a flash of lightning
and a deep roll of thunder herald his return to the scene of his crime.
Suddenly he appears in the midst of the ruins, where he stands, quaking
with fear, until a maiden, clad in white and bearing a flaming torch,
rushes out of the tower. Then the bailiff utters a blood-curdling cry
of terror, and turning, races madly from one part of the castle to the
other, closely pursued by his innocent victim. Over crumbling stones,
up and down the ruined tower, through former passages and along ruined
battlements, pursuer and pursued hasten with flying steps, until,
seeing no other hope of escape, the Lord of Schwanau, with a last mad
shriek, plunges from the parapet into the lake, whose dark waters close
with a dull splash over his head. Then the avenging maiden vanishes,
not to be seen again until the hour strikes when she must once more
sally forth to torture the bailiff for his heinous crime.
* * * * *
ANOTHER legend, also connected with the Lake of Lowertz, claims that
a church once stood very near the edge of the water. There, while
the women and children of the neighbourhood knelt within its holy
precincts, Sunday after Sunday, dutifully reciting their prayers, the
men sat on the church steps, smoking, drinking, and gambling. Such was
their lack of respect for religion and the divine service, that they
even swore out loud, and flung their dice down upon the stones with
such violence that the noise often drowned all sounds of prayer and
praise.