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.

“Rite, rite Rössli,

Ze Bade stoht e Schlössli,

Ze Bade stoht e güldi Hus,

Es lueged drei Mareie drus.

Die eine spinnt Side,

Die andere schnützelt Chride,

Die dritt schnit Haberstrau,

B’hüet mir Gott das Chindle au!”

* * * * *

AT Wettingen, the building now occupied by the Normal School was once

an old abbey founded in 1227 by Henry, Count of Rapperswyl. This

nobleman was so good and pious that he spent most of his time in

pilgrimages, thereby winning the nickname of The Wanderer. Returning

from the Holy Land, he once found himself in imminent danger of

perishing in the waves, and fixing his eyes upon a bright star which

suddenly shone through a break in the stormy sky, he made a solemn vow

to build a monastery at Wettingen should his life be spared.

This prayer was evidently heard, for the storm soon abated and the ship

came safely to land. When the Count of Rapperswyl therefore reached

home, he founded the abbey, which, in memory of his vow, and of the

star he saw at sea, was called Maria Stella, or Meer Stern, the Star of

the Sea.

* * * * *

THE handsome old castle of Hallwyl, the ancestral home of a noble

Swiss family of the same name, stands on the road between Lucerne and

Lenzburg, near the Lake of Hallwyl.

A lord of Hallwyl had three sons, and as the two elder ones died early,

the third had to drop his clerical studies and prepare to fulfil his

duties as future head of his house. Although this young man duly

married and had a fine son, it seems that he never ceased to regret

his interrupted priestly career, but, surrounded by monks of all kinds,

spent his time in religious practices and in poring over homilies and

church records.

None too strong to begin with, these long vigils and fasts so

undermined his health, that he finally became dangerously ill. One

day, fearing that he was about to die, he vowed he would send his

son on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land should he recover. True to this

promise, the lord of Hallwyl no sooner left his bed than he recalled

his son, who was fighting under Rudolf of Hapsburg, and bade him set

out immediately for the Holy Sepulchre. The young man, who thought his

services more needed at home, nevertheless prepared to obey, for a

vow was a sacred matter and children in those days rarely ventured to

question parental orders.

At parting the old lord of Hallwyl broke his ring in two, telling the

young man that when death overtook him he would leave his half to his

father confessor. The latter would administer the estates carefully,

giving them up to none but the man who established his right to them by

producing the other half of the broken ring.

It took twenty years for John of Hallwyl to fulfil his father’s vow.

During that time the old man died, and the monks took possession of

castle and estates. They were so determined not to give them up again,

however, that they not only announced the death of young Hallwyl, but

turned out of his castle an orphaned relative to whom he had been

betrothed in her infancy according to his mother’s wish. Alone and

friendless,--for she refused to yield to the monks’ suggestions and

enter a convent,--this young girl would have died of want, had not the

lord of Müllinen, a friend of her betrothed, offered her a home with

his mother and sister in his own castle.

Clémence gratefully accepted this kind proposal, and as she had been a

mere babe when John of Hallwyl started out on his perilous journey, she

did not prove faithless to him when she unconsciously fell in love with

his noble friend.

Now it happened that John of Hallwyl was not dead, as many supposed. On

the contrary, he was even then on his way home to claim his estates.

The monks, hearing this by accident, and determined to keep his

property, hired highwaymen to lie in wait for him and murder him before

he could reach Hallwyl and make himself known. This bold plan might

have succeeded, had not the lord of Müllinen chanced to hunt near

the place where the highwaymen were ambushed. Hearing the noise of a

fight, he spurred rapidly forward, and perceiving a knight on the point

of succumbing to a large force, made such a gallant charge that the

robbers fled.

When Müllinen bent over the prostrate form of the man he had rescued,

he found him grievously wounded, and had him carefully carried home.

There, when the traces of blood had been gently removed, he recognised

in the stranger his long-absent friend. Of course, he and the ladies

now vied with each other in caring for Hallwyl, who, becoming aware

during his convalescence of the affection existing between his friend

and betrothed, generously released her and bade them be happy together.

As soon as he was sufficiently recovered he presented himself before

the monks to claim his inheritance. They, however, pretended not

to recognise him, but politely declared that if he could produce a

fragment of ring exactly fitting the one entrusted to their keeping by

the last lord of Hallwyl, they would gladly surrender the castle to him.

Hearing this, John of Hallwyl immediately presented the broken ring,

and the monks sent for the casket in which they preserved the token

left by the deceased. To John’s surprise and indignation, however, it

failed to fit his half of the circlet, and the monks called him an

impostor and dismissed him empty-handed.

Hallwyl and his friend now rode back to Müllinen, determined to appeal

to the feudal court of Aargau for justice. There, both parties were

called upon to expose their case and take their oath, but as the judge

was entirely at a loss to decide which was right, he decreed the matter

should be settled by a judiciary duel between John of Hallwyl and a

champion selected by the monks.

On the appointed day, and in the presence of all the lords and ladies

of the country, Hallwyl met his opponent in the lists, and after a

fearful struggle and the display of almost fabulous strength and

courage succeeded in defeating him. Then, while the monks’ champion lay

where he had fallen, slowly dying from his many wounds, he suddenly

confessed aloud that he and a band of assassins had been hired to

waylay and kill Hallwyl on his return home.

Before he could add another word he expired, but the monks one and all

solemnly declared that the poor man was raving, for they had always

been willing to relinquish possession of the Hallwyl estates to any one

who produced the right token. The mendacity of this statement was soon

proved, however, for a dying jeweller confessed that he had been hired

to make an exact copy of the broken ring, but altering its shape in

such a way that the fragment in the young man’s possession would fail

to fit it.

John of Hallwyl, having thus recovered his estates, soon went off to

war again, and only when weary of fighting came home, married, and

brought up several sons whose descendants still live in different parts

of the country to-day.

The ring of Hallwyl is noted in Swiss art and literature, and the above

story forms the theme of poems, paintings, and historical romances,

which, bearing an unmistakable mediæval imprint, have a peculiar and

enduring charm of their own.

* * * * *

AT the foot of the Wülpelsberg, on the right of the beautiful Aare

valley, are the Schinznach sulphur baths, so frequently visited by

French and Swiss sufferers from skin diseases.

One of the favourite walks from this point leads up the mountain to the

ruins of Hapsburg Castle, the most famous of all Swiss strongholds.

Founded in 1020, it is the cradle of the imperial family of Austria,

in whose hands it remained for more than two centuries. Then, by

papal decree, it passed out of their keeping, and was Swiss property

until the Canton of Aargau presented it as a wedding gift to Rudolf,

the prince imperial, on his marriage with a Belgian princess. Only one

crumbling tower of the famous castle now stands, but the ruins are

surrounded by such a halo of history, legend, and romance, that they

are particularly attractive to all visitors.

The founders of this castle, the Counts of Altenburg, trace their

genealogy back to the seventh century, when their ancestors ruled in

Alsacia and Alemannia. Rich and influential even at this early date,

these noblemen sought to extend their possessions by every means in

their power. Their repeated encroachments upon their neighbours’

dominions were not accepted without protest, however, and when the

emperor, in answer to frantic appeals for justice, bade them relinquish

the territory to which they could lay no rightful claim, they assumed

so defiant an attitude that an armed struggle soon ensued. The upshot

of this conflict was that the grasping noblemen were despoiled of

the main part of their estates, forced to leave Alsacia, and they

took refuge in Helvetia, where they had already acquired some

property. There they built new homes at Wohlen, Altenburg, and Muri,

where, by fair means and by foul, they continued their policy of

self-aggrandisement until their shattered fortunes were fully restored.

The sun of prosperity shining brightly over their heads once more,

these noblemen again openly defied the imperial authority. But, taught

by experience, they wisely resolved to prepare for future emergencies

by erecting an impregnable fortress, in which they and their dependents

could successfully resist even the emperor’s forces.

Gazing about them for the most favourable site for their projected

stronghold, the Altenburgs finally decided upon the Wülpelsberg.

Tradition relates, however, that while they were still hesitating

where to build their future castle, Count Radbod of Altenburg went out

hawking one day. While he was flying his birds in the Aare valley,

one of them got away, and refusing to obey his call, flew off to a

neighbouring height. Loath to lose his favourite bird, Count Radbod

set out in pursuit of it, scrambled up the wooded slopes of the

Wülpelsberg, nor paused until he caught the truant hawk, which was

perched on the topmost ridge of the mountain.

The bird duly secured and hooded, Count Radbod--who had been too intent

upon its capture to pay any attention to his surroundings--looked

about him to find his bearings, and remained spell-bound before the

magnificent view he now beheld.

At his feet lay the Birrfeld,--a plain where Constantius Chlorus fought

a bloody battle against the Alemans in 303. Many thriving villages

now dot this part of the country, and their gables and church spires

rise here and there among flourishing fruit trees. But the modern

traveller’s glance rests by preference upon the peaceful hamlet where

Pestalozzi, founder of the kindergarten and prince of educators, spent

the last few years of a useful life.

Count Radbod gazed enraptured at the extensive forests, and the

picturesque valleys of the Aare, the Limmat, and the Reuss, tracing the

course of these mountain streams to the point where they meet and merge

into one, near the site of the old Roman station, Vindonissa. Then his

eyes rested upon the green hills rising in ever widening circles around

him, while above and behind them towered the Alps, like a host of

snow-clad angels mounting silent guard over the matchless landscape.

Charmed with the prospect before him, and quickly perceiving the

strategic value of the location, Count Radbod immediately determined to

build his fortress on the spot where he had caught his hawk, calling

it the Hawk’s Castle, or Habichtsburg, in memory of the circumstances

under which this decision had been reached.

The castle was therefore duly begun, the walls being built strong and

thick so as to resist every attack. Still, only a small part of the

funds furnished by the family for the erection of the stronghold was

devoted to that purpose, for Radbod wisely used the main portion to

acquire numerous friends, vassals, and servants, who promised to stand

by him and his in time of danger.

The castle was not entirely finished when Radbod’s brother, Bishop

Werner, announced his visit to inspect the work. Upon receipt of this

news, Count Radbod summoned his dependents, bade them hide in the

neighbourhood, and noiselessly surround the fortress at a given signal.

Then he went to meet the Bishop and escort him up to the new castle.

Werner sincerely admired the location and strength of the building, but

found fault because it was not flanked by outer walls and towers, and

because the interior was so bare of all ornamentation. He finally asked

Radbod somewhat testily what had become of all the money sent him,

for it was self-evident it had not all been expended on the fortress.

Radbod good-naturedly bade the bishop cease his grumbling and go to

bed, promising to prove on the morrow that every penny had been wisely

invested in making the castle impregnable and in strengthening their

position in the land.

At sunrise, on the following day, Werner rose from his couch, and going

to the window gazed in speechless admiration at the view. But while

he stood there, feasting his eyes upon the flame-tipped glaciers, his

attention was suddenly attracted by shadowy forms, which, starting

up from behind every rock, shrub, and tree at his feet, stealthily

surrounded the castle. In terror lest the imperial forces--whose coming

he always dreaded--should have stolen a march upon him, and lest he and

his brother should fall into the enemy’s hands, the bishop rushed to

the door to give the alarm. But on the threshold he met Count Radbod,

who, smiling at his fright, quietly said,--

“Rest without fear, my brother. The men you see yonder are your vassals

and mine, fully armed for our defence. I acquired their services with

the funds entrusted to my care, for I knew strong walls would prove of

little avail, unless defended by stout hearts and willing hands.”

This answer, and the sight of the brave men now drawn up in military

array for his inspection, more than satisfied the bishop, who,

accepting Radbod’s invitation, betook himself to the great hall of the

castle, where he received the oath of fealty and the respectful homage

of the new retainers of his race. Since then, all the members of the

old Altenburg family have been known as the counts of Habsburg, or

Hapsburg, a modification of the old Habichtsburg.[9]

[9] See the author’s “Legends of the Rhine.”

The Hapsburgs throve apace in their new home, their power increasing

until even the freemen of the land humbly besought their protection

in exchange for the payment of certain taxes. But the ascendency thus

gained by these noblemen made them more arrogant and tyrannical than

ever, so that they finally considered themselves owners of the land,

and lords of the free people they were gradually exasperating by their

arbitrary treatment.

In those days, the greatest of all the Hapsburg race, Rudolf III., was

born in the castle, the emperor being his sponsor. At twenty-one, owing

to the early death of his father, Rudolf became head of the family,

and began that career of warfare and conquest for which he is noted

in history. Afraid of nothing, and ready to grasp at everything, his

neighbours soon learned to dread him, and the Bishop of Basel--with

whom he had a feud--expressed the general opinion of his congeners by

crying out once in comical dismay,--

“Sit firm upon Thy throne, O Lord God, or the Count of Hapsburg will

crowd Thee, too, out of it!”

Still, Rudolf was so frank and genial, that he won many friends and

adherents, and his sturdy warriors were particularly devoted to him,

because he shared all their fatigues, cheerfully partook of their

frugal fare, and was even seen by their camp fire diligently mending

his worn garments.

When Rudolf could not compass his ends by force, he frequently resorted

to ruse. For instance, wishing to take a castle on the Uetliberg near

Zürich, which was owned by a Robber-Knight who despoiled all the

citizens passing along that way, he devised the following stratagem.

Thirty tall and strong horsemen, mounted upon sturdy steeds, were

directed each to take a companion behind him, and ride up the mountain.

A force of thirty men had no terrors for the Robber-Knight, who

boldly sallied forth with his garrison to attack them. But when he

found himself face to face with double that number, he fled in terror

followed by all his retainers. Rudolf’s small force now entered the

wide-open gates of the castle, and after disposing of its occupants and

riches, razed it to the ground.

While administering his affairs in person, Rudolf proved a kind and

just master, and often sat under the linden-tree at Altorf, to award

justice to the freemen of Uri, who had chosen him as their umpire.

But while he was away, upholding the tottering fortunes of the

Hohenstauffens, or extending his domains, his bailiffs and stewards

ruled with a rod of iron over the estates he had won. Such were their

exactions, that the people of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwald, who had

long prided themselves upon their independence, finally determined to

recover their freedom. In 1245 they openly rebelled, but while Uri

recovered its lost liberty, and was again allowed to depend directly

from the crown, Schwyz and Unterwald were compelled to remain under the

overlordship of the Hapsburg race.