practised the bloody rites of their religion at the Falls of the Rhine,
near Schaffhausen, and sacrificed many white horses to the god of the
Rhine. These steeds were driven into the water some distance above the
cataract, and in spite of their frantic efforts were swept over the
brink by the rapid current.
Not long ago, horse-shoes could still be seen in the cracks of the
rocks near the waterfall, and even now, on moonlight nights or on misty
days, the ghosts of these sacrificed steeds can still be seen, rearing
and plunging in the waters, and wildly tossing their snow-white manes.
These wraiths are most clearly discerned during the night from Friday
to Saturday, because it was then that they were offered up in sacrifice
to the old heathen gods.
[Illustration: THE FALLS OF THE RHINE.]
A ghostly chariot, drawn by white oxen, was also seen formerly driving
down the stream to Schaffhausen, where it went thrice around the town.
When this circuit took place from right to left, it was considered
an infallible sign of good fortune; but when it made the journey in an
opposite direction, bad luck was sure to ensue.
* * * * *
IN olden times, when nothing but a convent and boat-landing stood on
the present site of the city of Schaffhausen, a nobleman once came down
to the river to fish. Weary of his exertions, he finally fastened his
skiff, and lying down in the bottom of it, fell asleep.
But while thus oblivious of all that was taking place, his vessel
slipped its moorings, and drifting out into mid-current, was swept over
the falls. The passenger was so sound asleep, however, that he did not
even rouse when hurled down into the thundering abyss, and was greatly
amazed on awakening to find his boat had drifted ashore far below the
dreaded cataract.
In token of gratitude for this narrow escape, this nobleman is said to
have founded the Benedictine abbey at Rheinau, on the very spot where
his skiff drifted ashore after its perilous journey down the Rhine.[12]
[12] For other legends of Schaffhausen, etc., see the
author’s “Legends of the Rhine.”
* * * * *
A YOUNG fisherman, who had a similar experience, fatuously imagined
that if his vessel went safely over the falls without being steered,
it could not fail to do the same when guided by an experienced hand.
He therefore loudly boasted that he was about to go over the cataract
again, and in spite of all remonstrances on the part of friends and
relatives, actually made the attempt.
The skiff, however, was soon caught in the whirling waters, and in
spite of all the fisherman’s efforts, dashed against the rocks. For one
minute the horrified spectators saw the broken boat and clinging youth
pause on the brink of the abyss, then they were swept over into the
whirlpool, whence they never emerged! Since then, on the anniversary
of this foolhardy attempt, the ghost of the reckless youth can be seen
drifting down the stream, and with a blood-curdling cry of despair it
invariably plunges over into the vortex at the foot of the Rhine Falls.
* * * * *
WHEN noble knights still dwelt on the Randenberg, a pious maiden set
out from there before dawn every morning to walk to the convent of All
Saints at Schaffhausen, where it was her custom to attend early mass.
Her sole escort on this daily walk was a faithful stag, which patiently
awaited her coming at the castle gates every morning. When it was
very dark, this faithful animal walked lightly ahead of her, proudly
carrying a flaming torch between its branching antlers, and it always
waited at the city gates to accompany her home.
One day when the pious maiden and her attendant stag were nearing the
city, they were suddenly attacked by wayside thieves. With a cry of
terror, the maiden sped on as fast as her trembling limbs would carry
her; but when she came to the city gates she saw with terror that they
were still shut. Knowing no human help could reach her in time to save
her from the hands of the miscreants, she now had recourse to a short
but fervent prayer, and the last words were scarcely uttered when an
angel darted down from heaven, keys in hand, and led the maiden into
the city, closing and locking the gates in the very face of the cruel
highwaymen.
Ever since the pious maiden was thus miraculously saved by angelic
intervention, that gate of Schaffhausen has been known as the
Engelbrechtsthor, or the gate broken open by an angel.
* * * * *
WHERE the recently restored castle of Munot now stands, there was
once an older building occupied by a noble lord, who set out for a
pilgrimage to the Holy Land, leaving wife and children safe at home.
Those were the days of slow travel and no mail; so months became years
without the Lady of Munot’s receiving any tidings of her absent spouse.
She therefore began to fear that he was dead, or that he had entirely
forgotten wife and children at home. But such was not the case, for
the knight, having surmounted many perils, was now very near home, and
spurring on with all haste, in spite of the darkness, to see his family
sooner.
Only a short stretch of wood, and the torrent of the Mühlenthal lay
between him and his castle; but although the knight fancied he knew
every inch of the ground, he soon lost his way. Instead of crossing
the swollen stream at the usual place, he plunged into its waters at
the most dangerous point, only to find a watery grave within sight
and sound of home. One of his faithful retainers, however, managed to
escape from the torrent, and sadly bore the sorrowful tidings to the
poor widow.
When the Lady of Munot learned how her spouse had perished, she put
on mourning which she never laid aside, and to prevent other belated
travellers from meeting a similar fate, hung a silver bell in the
castle tower and had it rung for an hour every night.
The mournful toll of this little bell at nightfall not only served
to guide travellers safely through the forest, and keep the knight’s
memory green, but also reminded his former vassals to say a prayer for
the rest of their dead master’s soul.
LEGENDS OF ZÜRICH.
Zürich, the old Roman Turicum, on either side of the Limmat at the
point where it flows out of the green-hued lake, is the capital of
the canton of the same name, and noted alike for the beauty of its
situation and for its famous University.
In the days of the early Christian persecution, Felix and Regula, the
patron saints of Zürich, were beheaded near this town. Strange to
relate, though, immediately after the execution, both martyrs picked
up their severed heads, tucked them under their arms, and stalked off
to the spot where the minster now stands, where they wound up their
marvellous performances by burying themselves comfortably! On the spot
where they suffered martyrdom Charlemagne erected a memorial pillar,
above which he hung a bell, saying that it could be rung by any one who
had been wronged, and that they should receive immediate justice.
During one of his visits to Zürich, Charlemagne took up his abode in
the Choristers’ House, and while he sat there at table one day he
suddenly heard a loud peal from the bell of justice. He immediately
despatched a servant to see what wrong had been done, and was greatly
annoyed when the man reported that careful search had failed to reveal
the presence of any living creature. A few moments later the bell
rang again, but when the servant once more announced that no one was
there, the emperor bade his guards hide near the pillar, and seize the
miscreant who dared to pull the bell of justice in mere fun.
Before long the bell sounded a third time, and a few moments later the
guards rushed into the emperor’s presence with faces blanched with
fear, to report that a snake had coiled itself around the pillar, and
seizing the rope in its teeth, tugged until the bell rang forth loud
and clear. The emperor immediately rose from table, saying he must see
this phenomenon with his own eyes, and followed by all his court went
down to the pillar. As he drew near, the snake came forward to meet
him, and rising upon its coiled tail, bowed low before the monarch in
evident recognition of his exalted station. Then, dropping down to the
earth once more, it crept away, turning from time to time, and making
signs as if to invite the emperor to follow. The serpent’s actions
were so eloquent that Charlemagne, understanding them, obediently
followed it down to the edge of the water, where, parting the reeds,
the snake showed him its nest, in which sat an enormous toad.
Charlemagne now bade his guards seize and kill the intruder, and when
the snake had bowed its thanks and contentedly coiled itself around its
eggs, he went back to his interrupted meal, loudly praising the bell by
means of which even dumb animals could appeal for justice.
The next day, while the emperor again sat at dinner, the guards
rushed in breathlessly to announce the coming of the strange snake.
Charlemagne quickly bade them stand aside and not try to hinder the
reptile, which now crawled into the room where he sat, climbed up on
the table, did obeisance to the emperor, and delicately lifting the
cover of his drinking-cup, dropped into it a jewel of fabulous price.
Then, replacing the cover of the vessel, the snake bowed low again, and
creeping down, left the cloister to return to its nest by the lake.
[Illustration: CHARLEMAGNE AND THE SERPENT.]
According to one version of this legend, Charlemagne set this precious
stone in a ring which he gave to his wife, Frastrada.[13] Unknown to
him, however, the stone had the magic power of fixing his affections
upon its wearer. When the queen, therefore, thought she was about to
die, she slipped the ring into her mouth to prevent its falling into
the hands of some rival. For eighteen years Charlemagne refused to part
with his wife’s body, and carried it with him wherever he went. But at
the end of that time his minister Turpin discovered the secret of his
infatuation, and obtaining possession of the magic stone, soon saw all
Charlemagne’s affections fixed upon him.
[13] For other version, see the author’s “Legends of the
Rhine.”
As the emperor’s devotion proved somewhat of a bore to the old
minister, he tried to get rid of the spell by casting the ring into the
mineral springs at Aix-la-Chapelle. While out hunting the next day,
Charlemagne urged his steed to drink of that water, and when the animal
hastily withdrew its foot and refused to approach the pool again, the
emperor dismounted to investigate the cause.
Touching the imprint of the horse’s hoof, Charlemagne discovered that
the mud was very warm, for he was near the hottest of these thermal
springs. While resting near that pool, he was seized with such an
affection for the spot that he soon founded there his capital of
Aix-la-Chapelle.
In memory of the horse which guided him hither, the Cathedral was
built in the shape of a horseshoe, and as Charlemagne could not endure
the thought of ever leaving this enchanted neighbourhood, he left
orders to bury him in the minster of Aix-la-Chapelle.
On the spot where Charlemagne’s famous bell once hung, at Zürich,
stands the Wasserkirche, which now contains a large library with
valuable and interesting manuscripts. Charlemagne’s great-grandson
Louis II. often visited Zürich, where his two pious daughters induced
him to build a convent and the Frauenmünster.
It is said that the place for these buildings was staked out by angel
hands, and that the stakes were connected by a silken string of the
finest make. This rope was hung above the altar of the new church,
where it remained until the Reformation. It was then removed with many
other relics, and served for years as ordinary bell-rope in a private
house.
The king’s daughters, who both became abbesses, long dwelt at Baldern
Castle, whence, however, they went down to the Frauenmünster whenever
the bell rang for prayers. They even attended the midnight services
there, and when it was very dark a stately stag invariably walked
before them carrying a flaming torch between its antlers.
At the foot of the southern slope of the Albis--a green mountain near
Zürich--lies the little lake of Türl or the Türlersee. Tradition claims
that this valley once belonged to the lords of Schnabelberg, whose
castle stood on the height still bearing that name. They intrusted the
care of their lands to an unprincipled steward who once induced a miser
to sell his daughter for a piece of rich land down in the valley. This
iniquitous bargain had no sooner been concluded than the inhuman father
hastened down to view his new farm; but while he was inspecting it, a
fearful storm arose. Thunder-bolts, repeatedly striking the mountain,
detached great masses of stone, which, in falling, made a dam across
the valley.
In a few moments the rain, pouring down the mountain side in swift
torrents, filled all the hollow made by this dam, covering every inch
of land the miser had received in exchange for his child. Terrified by
this visitation from Heaven, the unjust steward not only let the maiden
go unharmed, but paid a rich dower to the convent she entered, and
mended his evil ways as much as he could.
* * * * *
NEAR the Lake of Türl once lived a lady named Kriemhild, who was
jealous because her neighbours’ lands were more productive than her
own. In hopes of ruining their crops, she bade a Salamancan student
flood their fields. The latter, scorning magic arts for so simple a
task, dug a deep ditch, which, allowing the waters of the lake to
escape, would accomplish his evil purpose just as well.
St. Verena, passing by there accidentally, discovered his purpose, and
before he could complete his task whisked him and Kriemhild off to the
Glarnisch in Glarus, where both are condemned to dig in the ice and
snow until they have made plants bloom in the desolate spot still known
as St. Verena’s or Vreneli’s garden. As for the ditch it is still to be
seen, and in memory of Kriemhild’s evil intentions it still bears her
name.
* * * * *
ONLY a short railway journey from Zürich is the ancient castle of
Kyburg, which rises between Winterthur and Frauenfeld. It once belonged
to a family of the same name, a side branch of the famous house of
Welfs or Guelfs. To account for this name, tradition relates that a
Kyburg having married Irmentrude, Charlemagne’s sister-in-law, went to
live with her in a castle near Altorf.
One day, a poor woman came to this castle begging for food, and sadly
yet proudly exhibited triplets, whose recent arrival into the world
prevented her working as usual for her living. The Countess of Kyburg,
seeing these children, sternly refused all help to the woman, declaring
no faithful wife had ever been known to bear so many children at once,
and that she would not encourage vice in her lands by giving alms to
women of bad lives.
The virtuous peasant woman, justly offended at this harsh speech,
turned angrily away. But she paused a moment at the gate, to call
Heaven to prove that she had always been true to her marriage vows
by giving the Countess twelve children at a birth. The Countess paid
little heed to this curse, but many months later she was terrified by
the simultaneous arrival of twelve sons, all exactly alike, and all
unmistakable Kyburgs.
Now it happened that her husband was away when these babes came into
the world, and the Countess, fearing he might take the same view of the
affair as she had taken of the poor woman’s triplets, bade her faithful
old nurse drown eleven of the babes in a neighbouring pond. The nurse,
for whom the Countess of Kyburg’s words were law, immediately bundled
eleven of the boys into her apron, and stealing out of the castle by a
postern gate, made her way towards the pool. She had nearly reached
it when she was suddenly confronted by her master just returning home,
and he immediately inquired what she had in her apron, and what she was
going to do.
The poor woman, hoping to shield her mistress, stammered that she was
on her way to drown a litter of wolf cubs; then she tried to slip past
him, but he insisted on seeing the cubs, and when she resisted, laid
violent hands upon the apron she held so tightly together. A mere
glimpse of its contents made him hotly demand a full explanation, and
when posted about every detail of the affair, he bound the nurse over
to secrecy, took charge of the boys, and had them carefully brought up,
unknown to his wife, who fancied they were all dead.
For six years the Count of Kyburg kept this secret, but at the end
of that time he gave a great banquet, to which he invited all his
relatives and friends. In the middle of this meal, the eleven boys,
richly dressed, were shown into the hall by his order. The guests all
stared in amazement at these children, who were so exactly like one
another, and like the supposedly only son of their host, that no one
could doubt their parentage.
While they were still speechless, the Count of Kyburg suddenly
inquired, in terrible tones, what punishment should be awarded to
the person who had tried to murder eleven such promising young Welfs
(Wolves)? At these words the guilty Countess suddenly fainted, and the
guests were informed of the part she had played. When she recovered her
senses, her husband generously forgave her, but the children he had
rescued were known ever after by the name their father gave them when
he first introduced them to his friends.
* * * * *
KING LOUIS II. of France is said to have promised one of the Welfs as
much land as he could ride around in a golden wagon in one day. This
Welf immediately decided to secure the boon by a subterfuge, since he
could not get it otherwise.
By his orders, a tiny golden wagon was made, and sitting upon this toy,
placed in a wagon to which were harnessed his quickest pacing oxen, he
rode around a tract of land on either side of the Rhine, which included
the site of Kyburg Castle. Thus he won the Kyburg estate where his
three sons were born. In due time two of these became bishops, equally
renowned for their learning and great piety.
One of them, in serving Mass at Easter, saw a huge poisonous spider
fall into the chalice. Loath to disturb the communion service, he
swallowed the spider with the wine, and after Mass sat down to table,
where, however, he refused to partake of any food. Exhausted by a long
spell of fasting, he soon fell asleep, and his drowsy head rested on
the table, while his breath passed softly between his parted lips.
His friends, watching him, suddenly saw the spider--an emissary of
Satan--creep out of his mouth and slink away, having been unable to
injure so good a man.
The two bishops once sat in the castle, before a well-spread board,
on the eve of a solemn fast-day. Although food and wine lay in plenty
before them, they partook of them but sparingly, and were so absorbed
in pious conversation that they remained there hour after hour, quite
unmindful of the flight of time. The castle clock had just pealed
forth the midnight hour, and the solemn fast had begun, when their
secretary stepped into the hall to inquire whether they still had
need of his services. This man, envious of their reputation, had long
been jealous of them, and anxious to catch them tripping so he could
publish the fact abroad. When he therefore beheld them seated before a
huge roast of boar’s flesh, with several bottles full of wine still
before them, his eyes flashed with malicious pleasure. A moment later,
however, he stood with lowered eyes and in subservient attitude before
his superiors, who bade him go to rest, and, in the kindness of their
hearts, gave him a big portion of meat and a bottle of wine to carry
away with him.
The secretary meekly thanked the bishops, and took leave of them with
apparent humility; but no sooner had he closed the door behind him,
than he rushed off to a neighbouring convent, his heart dancing with
fiendish glee. Rousing the brethren, he told them, with every mark of
sanctimonious regret, that their shepherds were faithless, for they
were even now, on a solemn fast-day, partaking of forbidden meat and
drink!
He added that when they found themselves detected in this wrong-doing,
they tried to silence him by giving him a portion of their viands, thus
making him a partaker in their sin. In proof of this assertion, he
produced the food they had given him, and the monks all crowded around,
with long-drawn faces, to see and smell these evidences of their
superiors’ guilt.
To the secretary’s surprise, however, they soon turned indignantly upon
him, declaring that the so-called boar’s flesh was the fish served on
the monastery table every fast-day; and the rich wine nothing but the
small beer which invariably accompanied it. The secretary protested
wrathfully, but when he, too, examined those articles carefully, he was
forced to acknowledge the monks right, and to confess that Providence
had worked a miracle to prevent two absent-minded saints from
inadvertently committing a grievous sin.
LEGENDS OF ZUG
The Lake of Zug, the home of prehistoric lake-builders, is beautifully
situated at the foot of the Rigi, and separated from the Lake of
Lucerne by a narrow strip of land. At one end of this small sheet of
water is the city of Zug, the capital of the canton of the same name,
and at the other extremity, the pretty city of Arth, at the foot of the
Rossberg.
This mountain is famous for its landslides, which have cost many lives
and buried whole villages at its foot. The legend ascribes these
cataclysms to the hard-heartedness of the people, who incurred the
anger of the dwarfs by refusing them hospitality, as was the case at
Roll on the Lake of Thun. The city of Zug has twice been undermined by
the lake. The first time, in 1435, two whole streets sank down into the
water; but while science attributes such accidents to perfectly natural
causes, legend tries to account for them in a more poetic way.
In the centre of the lake, far down below the surface of the water,
nixies and water-nymphs are supposed to dwell in a marvellous palace
all hung with gleaming crystal stalactites, paved with silver and gold,
and brightly lighted by the sparkle of precious stones encrusting its
walls. The dainty inhabitants of this sub-aqueous palace seldom rise
to the surface of the lake, except at night, when they are seen in
the moonlight, dancing here and there over the waves, floating gently
ashore, or hovering along grassy banks, where they love to spread out
their mist like veils.
These nymphs occasionally appear at village dances, where they can be
distinguished from mortal maidens by their superior beauty, and by
the ever wet hem of their long white gowns. One of these nymphs fell
violently in love with the handsome young son of a magistrate of Zug,
and besides meeting him at dances on the green, held nightly trysts
with him on the edge of the lake.
The youth was deeply enamoured with the dainty nymph, and when she
rose out of the waves one evening with reddened eyelids, he insisted
upon knowing the cause of her grief. The sprite now told him that
her father, having discovered her infatuation for a mere mortal, had
forbidden her to have any further intercourse with him, unless he were
willing to follow her down into her father’s abode and live with
her there in happy wedlock. The young man, on hearing this, vowed he
would be only too happy were such a course possible to him, but gently
explained that the element in which she lived was not adapted to human
lungs. The nymph, however, declared such an obstacle could easily be
removed, and immediately proffered a magic draught, which would enable
him to breathe in the water as easily as in the air. The enamoured
youth quickly seized the cup she tendered, and after quaffing the
crystal clear, tasteless fluid it contained, sank with her down into
the depths of the lake.
Delighted with his new powers, and with the wonders he saw on all
sides, the youth was very happy for a while, but homesickness finally
seized him in the crystal palace. When the nymph tenderly inquired what
was the matter, he sadly confessed that he longed to see his parents
and friends once more, and that he would never be entirely happy unless
he could attend divine service regularly in his parish church.