The Forest Cantons

Rudolf von Hapsburg’s many possessions included an old castle on the

Ramflue, which, although it is said to have been founded by the Romans,

was known as Neu Hapsburg. Charmingly located on the banks of the Lake

of Lucerne, this castle was a favourite resort of Rudolf, who went

thither, in the intervals of fighting, to hunt the chamois and the deer.

Tradition claims that Rudolf once set out for the chase from Neu

Hapsburg, mounted upon his favourite steed, and followed by one squire,

who rode an inferior horse, and therefore had some trouble in keeping

up with his rapid pace. While crossing a beautiful green meadow,

Rudolf’s attention was suddenly attracted by a tinkling sound. His

curiosity aroused, he spurred ahead in the direction of the noise,

and soon beheld a priest carrying the Sacrament, and preceded by a

sacristan dutifully ringing a little bell.

At this sight, Rudolf immediately dismounted. Then, kneeling, he did

respectful homage to the Blessed Body of our Lord, and in that humble

posture watched the little procession pass along its way. A few moments

later, he sprang up surprised, for the priest had come to a sudden

standstill. After a brief period of evident hesitation, Rudolf saw him

set the Host down upon a neighbouring stone, and begin to remove his

sandals and gird up his cassock. Hastening toward him, Rudolf perceived

that recent heavy rains had so swollen the mountain torrent which

flowed through the meadow, that the rude bridge had been entirely swept

away. No other means of crossing being available for many miles, the

priest had determined to wade through the ice-cold waters, for that was

his only chance of reaching the dying man who had begged for the last

sacrament.

After vainly trying to dissuade the priest from a struggle with the

cold and rushing stream, Rudolf, impressed by the good man’s devotion

to duty, suddenly offered him his steed. The priest demurred at first,

but realising he might not reach his parishioner in time if he had to

wade through every torrent, he gratefully accepted the offer. Rudolf

then helped him mount the fiery steed, and, once safely across the

torrent, saw him speed away to the dying man, whom he reached just in

time to bestow the last consolations of religion and thus smooth his

path to the grave.

In the meantime, Rudolf patiently awaited the coming of his squire,

then mounting the latter’s palfrey went on his way. But, early next

morning, the priest appeared at Neu Hapsburg, leading the borrowed

steed by the bridle, and he warmly expressed his gratitude for the

timely loan of a mount whose strength and speed had enabled him to

reach and comfort a dying man. When he added, however, that he had come

to restore the animal to its owner, Rudolf impetuously cried: “God

forbid that I, or any of my men, should ever use again for war or the

chase the steed which bore the sacred Body and Blood of our Blessed

Lord!” Then he formally presented the horse to the priest, to have and

to hold for ever, bidding him use it for the fulfilment of his holy

duties.

Later, on that selfsame day, Rudolf visited a convent, where a nun

suddenly addressed him saying: “My lord, you honoured the Almighty

by the timely gift of your horse. This good deed will not remain

unrewarded, for it has been revealed to me that you and yours will

attain the highest temporal honors.”

The castle of Neu Hapsburg was destroyed by the inhabitants of Lucerne

in 1352, but since then the peasants have declared that the ruins are

haunted by the spirits of departed knights and ladies. A peasant girl,

rowing past there early in the morning and late at night, said she

often saw a gayly dressed company. Sometimes the knights and ladies

made friendly signs to her, but at others the men were all in armour

and terrified her by their threatening gestures. Encouraged by their

signs, she once stepped ashore to watch them play on the grassy slope

with disks of bright gold, which she vainly tried to catch in her apron

and carry home.

The nun’s prediction to Rudolf was duly fulfilled, for the priest

who had received his steed, having become chaplain to the Bishop of

Mayence, used his influence to such good purpose that he secured

Rudolf’s election to the imperial crown of Germany, in 1273. Schiller,

in his poem “The Count of Habsburg,” claims that at the coronation

feast at Aix-la-Chapelle an aged minstrel brought tears to the eyes of

all the guests by singing a touching ballad, describing the good deed

performed by the new emperor, when he was only a count.

Rudolf proved as successful as ambitious while seated on the German

throne, but as the imperial crown was elective and not hereditary, he

secured for his descendants Austria, Styria, and Carinthia. These

lands were won during a war with the king of Bohemia, and have ever

since formed the patrimony of the Hapsburg race, which has provided

many rulers for Europe, America, and India.

When Rudolf died in 1291, the imperial crown was disputed by two

candidates, until, by the death of one of them, it finally fell

into the hands of Albert of Hapsburg, Rudolf’s son. As grasping and

tyrannical as any of his race, Albert refused to let his nephew

John--the son of an older brother--have the Castle of Hapsburg, which

was his by right of inheritance. Embittered by this act of injustice,

and despairing of redress since the wrong was committed by the emperor

himself, John began to plot with several malcontents, biding his time

until he could take his revenge by slaying his uncle.

John was not the only one who complained of injustice. The freemen of

Helvetia also had good cause for resentment. On mounting the imperial

throne, Rudolf had refused to confirm Uri’s charter, and his bailiffs

and stewards ruthlessly exerted the power entrusted to them. Thus,

they gradually alienated the peaceful peasants, and drove them to the

verge of despair. Mindful of their former independence, and weary of

tyranny and extortion, the principal citizens of the cantons of Uri,

Schwyz, and Unterwald met, seventeen days after Rudolf’s death, and on

the 1st of August, 1291, took a solemn oath to stand by each other and

resist all foreign intervention, until they had recovered their former

freedom. This oath--the corner-stone of the Swiss Confederation--was

duly sworn by all the principal inhabitants, among which figure men

whose names are noted in legend as well as in history.

Tradition has richly supplemented the meagre historical data of this

epoch, thus giving us one of the most romantic, if not authentic,

chapters of Swiss history. The legend, which gradually arose, has been

the theme of Schiller’s tragedy of “William Tell,” of Rossini’s opera

of the same name, and a source of inspiration for countless poems,

pictures, and statues. Such is the popular belief in the tale, that

all the most famous places mentioned in it are always pointed out to

strangers, and kept alive in the memory of the public by more or less

picturesque monuments.

* * * * *

THE famous Tell legend runs as follows: The stewards and bailiffs of

the House of Austria, encouraged by immunity, daily grew more and more

cruel, until, under the slightest pretext, they thrust Swiss freemen

into damp and dark prisons, keeping them there for life. Fearful

stories of the heartlessness of these bailiffs were noised abroad, and

no one could speak strongly enough of their greed, cruelty, and total

lack of principle.

The Swiss bore this oppression as patiently as they could, and until

their position became so unbearable that they perceived they must

assert and maintain their rights to freedom, or they would soon be

reduced to a state of such abject slavery as to be deprived of all

power of resistance. Walter Fürst, Arnold von Melchthal, and Werner

Stauffacher, the wealthiest and most respected citizens of the

cantons of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwald, therefore met to discuss the

advisability of an uprisal, and, in support of their views, quoted

recent acts of wanton cruelty perpetrated by Austrian bailiffs. For

instance, one of these men had grievously insulted the wife of a

peaceful citizen, who, to defend her, slew the oppressor and was now a

hunted fugitive.

A young man of Uri was told he must surrender the fine team of oxen

with which he was ploughing, because the bailiff wanted them. As the

messenger coolly proceeded to taunt him and unyoke his oxen, the young

peasant, in a frantic effort to save the cattle, dealt a blow which

raised a terrible outcry among the bailiff’s servants. Knowing that

such an offence would be punished by life-long imprisonment in some

foul dungeon, if not by prolonged torture and cruel death, the young

man hastily fled. But the blow so thoughtlessly given was visited upon

his aged father, whose eyes were put out by order of the vindictive

bailiff.

Countless other examples of fiendish cruelty and wanton oppression

were not lacking, and when the three men parted, it was with the

understanding that they were to ascertain how many of their countrymen

were willing to help them. They furthermore arranged to meet again,

October 17, 1307, on the Grütli or Rütli, a plateau at the foot of the

Seelisberg, close by the Mythenstein, on the Lake of Lucerne.

One moonlight night, therefore, three bands of ten picked men, led by

Fürst, Stauffacher, and Melchthal wended their way to the Grütli, and

there beneath the open sky, and in sight of the snow-crowned mountains

tipped by the first glow of dawn, the leaders, clasping hands, raised

three fingers to heaven. In that position they solemnly swore to shake

off the yoke of the oppressor, their motto being, “One for all and all

for one.” This oath was fervently echoed by the thirty companions they

had brought thither, and ere they parted all agreed to be ready to rise

at a given signal on New Year’s Day, to drive the tyrants out of the

land for ever.

On the traditional spot where the Swiss patriots stood while

registering this solemn oath, three springs of crystal clear water

are said to have sprung. The legend further claims that in one of the

clefts of the Seelisberg the patriots sit, wrapped in slumbers which

will remain undisturbed until their country again has need of their

services.

Swiss peasants say that the Three Tells--for such is their popular

designation--have been seen several times. A young shepherd, for

instance, seeking a stray goat, once came to the entrance of this

mysterious cave, and beheld three men fast asleep. While staring in

speechless amazement at their old-fashioned garb and venerable faces,

one of the sleepers suddenly awoke and asked, “What time is it up in

the world?”

“High noon,” stammered the shepherd, remembering that the sun stood

directly overhead when he entered the cave.

“Then it is not yet time for us to appear,” drowsily remarked the

aged man, dropping off to sleep again.

The shepherd gazed in silent awe upon the three Tells, then, stealing

noiselessly out of the cave, carefully marked the spot, so he could

find it again when he wished to return. These precautions were vain,

however, for he and his companions searched every nook and cranny in

the mountain, without ever being able to find the entrance to the

cave of the Swiss Sleepers. But the natives declare that some simple

herdsman may again stumble upon it by accident, and many believe that

the guardians of their country’s liberties will come forth to defend

them in case of need.

Among the patriots who took the oath upon the Rütli, was a man named

Tell, son-in-law of Walter Fürst, and noted far and wide for his skill

as a marksman. Strong and sure-footed, Tell delighted in pursuing the

chamois over almost inaccessible heights, and along the jagged edges of

dangerous precipices, where a moment’s dizziness or a single misstep

would have hurled him down on the rocks hundreds of feet below. Tell

lived, with his wife and two little sons, in a hut at Bürglen, in Uri,

on the very spot where a chapel was built in his honour in 1522.

It came to pass, shortly after the patriots had met on the Grütli,

and before the time set for their uprisal, that Gessler, an Austrian

bailiff, one of whose castles rose in sight of Hapsburg, determined

to ascertain by a clever device how many men in Uri were loyal to his

master. He therefore set up a pole in the market-place at Altorf, upon

which he hung a hat,--the emblem of Austrian power,--bidding a herald

proclaim aloud that all must do homage to it under penalty of death or

life-long imprisonment.

The freemen of Uri were justly incensed when they heard this decree,

and by common consent avoided passing through the square. When

compelled to do so, they resorted to various stratagems to avoid

obeying Gessler’s orders without forfeiting life or liberty. One of

their devices was to send the priest to take up his position with the

Host directly under the obnoxious Austrian emblem. Of course, all who

now passed by reverently bent the knee; but it was quite evident, even

to the guards, that the homage was paid to the Sacrament alone, and not

to the imperial hat.

Living only a short distance from Altorf, but ignorant of all that

had recently happened there, Tell came down to the village one day,

leading his little son by the hand. Unconscious alike of pole, hat,

and guards, he strolled across the square, and was greatly surprised

to find himself suddenly arrested for defying Gessler’s orders. While

protesting his innocence, and striving to make the guards release him,

Tell saw Gessler ride by; so, turning toward him, he loudly called for

justice. The bailiff immediately drew near, and standing in the midst

of the crowd composed of his attendants and of the startled inhabitants

of Altorf, he sneeringly listened to Tell’s account of his unjust

arrest.

Now, it happened that Gessler had often heard Tell’s skill as a

marksman loudly praised, and that he had long wished to see an

exhibition of it. He therefore seized this opportunity for gratifying

both his curiosity and his cruelty, and promised to set the prisoner

free, if he shot an apple from the head of his child at a distance of

one hundred and fifty paces.

At these words a murmur of indignation arose in the crowd, but such was

the fear inspired by the cruel Gessler that none ventured to interfere

in behalf of Tell, whose prayers and protestations proved alike vain.

Seeing no other means of escape, and urged by his child, who of his own

accord ran to place himself against a linden-tree on the spot where

the fountain now stands, Tell tremblingly selected two arrows from

his quiver. One he hastily thrust in his bosom, the other he carefully

adjusted in his crossbow; but when he would fain have taken aim, the

weapon fell from his nerveless hand. Still, a sneer from the bailiff,

and an encouraging call from his boy, steeled Tell’s heart for this

awful test of skill. A moment later the child came bounding forward,

proudly exhibiting the apple transfixed by his father’s dart.

Just as Tell, still dazed by emotion, was about to turn away, Gessler

called him back to inquire why he had drawn two arrows from his

quiver, when only one shot was required to prove his proficiency. Tell

hesitated; but when Gessler assured him that he could speak without any

fear for his life, he hoarsely answered,--

“Had I injured my child, this arrow would have found its goal in your

heart, for my hand would not have trembled a second time!”

Beside himself with rage at these bold words, Gessler now bade his

guards bind Tell fast, and convey him immediately down to his waiting

boat at Flühlen, adding that while he would keep his promise not to

kill Tell, he would nevertheless thrust him into a dungeon where

neither sun nor moon would ever shine upon him, and where snakes would

prey upon his living body.

Placed in the boat, with fast-bound hands and feet, his useless

weapons close beside him, Tell despairingly watched the bailiff embark

and the shore near Altorf slowly recede. But when the rowers tried to

round the Axenstein, a sudden tempest swept down on the lake, whipping

its waters to foam, and bringing skiff and passengers in such imminent

danger that there seemed no hope of escape. The boatmen, remembering

that Tell was the most clever steersman on the lakeside, now implored

Gessler to let him help, and the prisoner, freed from his bonds,

quickly seized the rudder.

With strong arm and fearless gaze he stood there, and boldly directed

the boat toward a broad ledge of rock forming a natural landing-place

at the foot of the Axenberg, at a point where the lake is nearly seven

hundred feet deep.

As the boat drew near this place, Tell suddenly let go the rudder,

and seizing his bow and arrows, sprang ashore! This spot, since known

as Tellsplatte, is one of the most interesting sites on the Lake of

Lucerne, and in the chapel commemorating this feat there are several

paintings representing various phases of the legend.

Gessler’s boat, hurled back among the seething waves, tossed about in

great danger, although his boatmen now made frantic efforts to save

their own lives. Dreading the bailiff’s vengeance should he manage to

escape, Tell hastened over the mountains to the Hohle Gasse, or Hollow

Way, a narrow road between Küssnacht and Immensee, along which Gessler

would have to pass to reach home.

There, crouching in the bushes on the steep bank, Tell patiently waited

to see whether his enemy would escape from the perils of the storm.

Before long the bailiff appeared, riding at the head of his troop,

and evidently meditating in what way he could best effect his revenge

upon Tell. His wicked plans were all cut short, however, for an arrow

from Tell’s bow put a sudden end to his tyrannical career. The spot

where Tell stood and where Gessler fell has long been marked by a

small chapel, decorated with a painting representing this scene. After

ascertaining that Gessler was really dead, Tell fled, making his way

back to Bürglen, where he cheered friends and family by the assurance

that the tyrant could never trouble them again.

The story of Swiss independence and of Tell’s brave deeds has been so

ably dramatised by Schiller, that a grateful people have carved his

name on the Mythenstein, where it may be seen by passengers on the

boats constantly plying to and fro on the Lake of Lucerne.

Besides the three picturesque chapels known by the name of Tell, where

anniversary services are held every year, and the huge statue erected

at Altorf, on the very spot where he shot the apple from the head of

his son, Tell’s name has been honoured in poetry, painting, sculpture,

and song. His death was on a par with the rest of his life, for when

far advanced in age, he fearlessly sprang into the Schächen to save

a drowning child. The sudden plunge into the ice-cold waters of this

mountain stream, and the great exertion required to stem its current,

so enfeebled the old man that he soon died.

“And thus the great life ended;

God!--was it not the best

Of all the deeds of valour

That won a hero’s rest?

So mused I by the Schächen;

So say we, true and well

That the last deed was the best deed

That closed the life of Tell!”

Henry Morford.[10]

[10] Poems of Places--Switzerland: Longfellow.

Tradition claims that Gessler’s cruel treatment of Tell precipitated

historical events, for when the men of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwald

heard that Gessler was dead, they gave the agreed signal for a general

uprising. Then they simultaneously attacked all the Austrian bailiffs,

slew or drove them away, and razed their castles to the ground, after

freeing their captive countrymen.

This rebellion roused the wrath of the Emperor Albert, who immediately

set out from Hapsburg Castle to put it down with a heavy hand. But

while crossing the Reuss, in full view of his castle and retainers,

Albert was murdered by his nephew John and by four Swiss noblemen, the

only persons who were with him. Then the murderers fled, leaving the

emperor to breathe his last in the arms of a peasant woman who happened

to be near.

It is said that, wandering among the mountains, John finally reached

Tell’s cottage at Bürglen, where he stopped to beg food. Here he

confessed what he had done, and was sternly reproved by Tell, who

proved to him that murdering a relative in revenge for personal

injuries and for the sake of selfish gain, was very different from

killing a tyrant in self-defence and for the good of one’s country.

All but one of Albert’s murderers escaped justice; but not content with

slaying that victim in the most barbarous way, his wife and daughter

persecuted all the friends and relatives of those who had taken part

in the crime. More than a thousand of these unfortunates are said to

have perished, and it is claimed that Agnes, the emperor’s daughter,

personally superintended some of the executions, and rapturously

exclaimed, “Now I am bathing in May dew!” when she saw their blood flow

in torrents.

On the spot where Albert died--the site of the old Roman

Vindonissa--his widow and daughter erected the famous Abbey of

Königsfelden, which was richly decorated with historical paintings

and stained-glass windows. About two centuries later the abbey was

secularised, and it is now used as an insane asylum; but the principal

objects of interest there are still shown to admiring tourists.

* * * * *

ALBERT was succeeded by two emperors who, not belonging to the Hapsburg

race, were inclined to help the Swiss. But their brief reigns having

come to an end, another Hapsburg was raised to the imperial throne, and

on the 15th of November, 1315, made a determined attempt to conquer the

Swiss. The latter, however, were lying in wait for his army, which they

suddenly attacked while it was hemmed in between Lake Ægeri and the

mountain at Morgarten. Far from expecting such an impetuous onslaught,

the imperial forces, notwithstanding all their boasted panoply of war,

were completely routed by an inferior number of poorly armed patriots.

The latter, impelled by long-pent fury for all the wrongs they had

endured at the hands of the Austrians, fairly swept them into the lake,

where many of the knights were drowned.

Ever since then, at midnight on the anniversary of the battle, it is

said the lake suddenly begins to boil, and that its seething waters

assume a bloody hue. Then, from the depths of the lake, the spirits

of all these drowned warriors arise, still clad in full armour and

bestriding their huge battle steeds. Led by Death on his pale horse,

brandishing his scythe and hour-glass, the dead knights march in solemn

procession around the lake, plunging back into its waters when the

clocks in the neighbouring villages strike one.

A memorial chapel, containing a painting representing the famous

encounter at Morgarten, marks the spot where the battle was fought, and

solemn anniversary services are held there every year. This memorable

victory won so many adherents for the Swiss in their own land, that

before long the Confederation numbered eight instead of three cantons.

* * * * *

SEVENTY years after Morgarten, the Austrians made a second attempt to

conquer the Swiss, but they were again defeated at Sempach, on the

lake of the same name, near Lucerne. At first it seemed as if this

battle would prove fatal to the Swiss, for the Austrians were armed

with long pikes, which enabled them to make havoc in the ranks of their

opponents, whose weapons were too short to reach them.

Perceiving his companions fall around him, without being able to strike

a single blow, Arnold von Winkelried suddenly determined to break the

enemy’s ranks. Calling loudly to his friends to look after his wife and

children, this hero seized an armful of the long Austrian spears, and

driving them into his own breast, fell, crying, “Make way for liberty!”

His countrymen, pouring into the breach he had thus made at the expense

of his life, attacked the enemy with such fury that they soon won a

brilliant victory.

The battle of Sempach is commemorated by a monument, upon which stands

the simple inscription: “Hier hat Winkelried den seinen eine Gasse

gemacht.” 1386. (Winkelried here made a way for his friends).

At Stanz, in Unterwald, the birthplace of Winkelried, a fine statue

represents his heroic death. The Austrian spears clasped in a last

embrace, he turns his dying glance upon his countrymen, urging them

to rush over his prostrate body against their country’s foe. On the

anniversary of the battle a ghostly voice is heard in the castle at

Richensee, dolefully calling, “Conrad! Conrad!” In answer to this cry,

a knight in black armour, with ghastly wounds in head and breast,

suddenly appears on the ruined tower, and as though responding to a

roll-call, gruffly answers, “Here, Austria!”

This apparition is said to be a lord of the castle, who fell at

Sempach, fighting for Austria as bravely as one of his ancestors who

lost his life in that cause at Morgarten.

* * * * *

AN outpost of the mighty Alps, Mount Pilatus, on the boundary of the

cantons of Lucerne and Unterwald, is one of the most picturesque

features of that region.

(Old View.)]

In the days of Roman occupation a light-house (_lucerna_) is said to

have shone on the spot where the Wasserthurm now stands, and to have

given its name to canton, lake, and town. At that epoch Mount Pilatus

was known as Mons Fractus, Fracmont, or the Broken Mountain, owing to

the jagged crag-like appearance of its summit. This descriptive name,

however, was gradually supplanted by another, equally appropriate, that

height--seldom free from clouds--being called Mons Pileatus, or the

Capped Mountain. Every storm coming from the north or west gathers

around this majestic peak, which serves as a natural barometer for all

the people dwelling within sight of it. According to a very old and

equally popular rhyme, the weather probabilities are that the day will

be fair if the clouds merely rest upon the mountain top; when they

extend part way down, it is well to be prepared for sudden changes;

but should trails of mist reach far down Pilatus’ rugged sides, it is

considered an infallible sign of a coming storm. In its oldest form

this rhyme runs:--

“Das Wetter fein und gut

Wann Pilatus hat ’nen Hut;

Trägt er einen Degen

So gibt es Regen.”

In the course of time this jingle has undergone sundry modifications,

until the English version now reads:--

“If Pilatus wears his cap, serene will be the day;

If his collar he puts on, you may venture on the way;

But if his sword he wields, at home you’d better stay.”

With the introduction of Christianity, and the substitution of the

vernacular for the Latin language, the original meaning of _pileatus_

was entirely forgotten. The natives therefore soon began to claim

that the mountain was named after Pontius Pilate, the unscrupulous

governor of Judea who sentenced our Saviour to death. Little by little

this belief gave rise to the picturesque legend connected with this

locality, which, owing to numerous accretions, is singularly complete

and interesting.

In the second century after Christ, there already existed an apocryphal

Epistle of Pilate, containing his account of the trial and condemnation

of Jesus Christ.[11] Warned by his wife, Procla, who had “suffered many

things in a dream because of him,” and by sundry miracles enumerated

in his epistle, Pilate, convinced of the divine origin as well as of

the innocence of the Prisoner brought before him, nevertheless weakly

yielded to the threats of a few among the Jews, and condemned our Lord

to an ignominious death. A moral coward, Pilate next sought to escape

the natural consequences of his pusillanimous compliance by publicly

washing his hands, and solemnly crying, “I am innocent of the blood of

this just person; see ye to it.”

[11] For the Pilate legend see the author’s “Legends of the

Virgin and Christ.”

Pilate’s report and various other rumours concerning the death and

resurrection of Christ, together with frequent bitter complaints of

extortion and misgovernment, finally reached the ears of Tiberius.

Moved by anger and curiosity, this emperor immediately summoned the

accused official to Rome to render a minute account of his stewardship.

But before Pilate could reach the Eternal City, Tiberius died and was

succeeded by Caligula, who, equally incensed against the faithless

governor, loudly boasted that he would make very short work of his

trial. The Roman courtiers were therefore seized with unbounded

astonishment when they beheld their savage master treat Pontius Pilate

with every mark of extreme courtesy, and heard the mild and gentle

tones in which he addressed him. But no sooner had Pilate left the

tribunal than all Caligula’s wrath flamed up anew, and he peremptorily

ordered the delinquent governor to be brought in again.

When Pilate stood before his irate judge, the latter, suddenly and

mysteriously soothed, once more overwhelmed him with tokens of the

highest favour instead of punishing him as he wished. The courtiers’

wonder grew apace, nor did it diminish when, after Pilate’s second

exit, the emperor breathed forth curses and threats even more violent

than before. Summoned a third time with the same baffling result,

Caligula, convinced that Pilate must be protected by some amulet of

great power, bade his courtiers carefully search the Judean governor

ere they brought him into his presence for a fourth and last time.

In executing these orders, the courtiers discovered that Pilate wore

under his usual garments the “seamless robe” of Our Lord, which he had

purchased from the soldier to whom it had fallen by lot. Stripped of

this talisman, Pilate stood before Caligula, who, no longer restrained

from anger and vituperation by the presence of the holy relic, poured

out all the vials of his wrath upon the prisoner’s head, and sentenced

him to an ignominious death.

To avoid the jeers of the Roman mob, and the disgrace of a public

execution, Pilate is said to have committed suicide in his prison

by stabbing himself with his table-knife. His corpse--as was then

customary in cases of self-murder--was cast into the Tiber. But the

waters, refusing to suffer such pollution, rose with unprecedented fury

and overflowed their banks, while the thunder rolled, the lightning

flashed, and the earth shook with such violence that all hearts were

filled with awe. The terrified Romans therefore hastened to consult

their oracles, and learning that the dreadful tumult was occasioned by

Pilate’s corpse, they quickly withdrew it from the Tiber, whose fury

immediately subsided as if by magic. To dispose of the body,--which

could not be buried in the usual way,--it was now cast into the

Mediterranean Sea. But there, too, its presence caused such dire

commotion that to ward off further misfortunes it was again removed.

Finding earth and water equally loath to harbour such an abhorred

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.

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.

These wicked men, who mocked at the priest whenever he tried to make

them change their evil ways, were, however, to be sorely punished for

their sacrilegious behaviour. One Sunday, while gambling on the church

steps as usual, a sudden storm swept over the little lake, and before

they could gather up their dice or scramble to their feet, a huge wave

swept right over their heads. At the same moment the church sank down

into the depths of the lake, where it still lies many fathoms under

water. Some of the local boatmen claim that the top of the church spire

can still be seen when the water is clear, and that at the wonted hour

for worship the bells can always be heard ringing a soft and musical

peal. Then the sound of prayer and praise becomes faintly audible,

and very keen ears can distinguish a rattle of dice and muttered

oaths. The women and children are said to be perfectly happy in their

endless adoration, but the men are compelled to continue for ever the

sacrilegious game which has become prolonged and unbearable torture.

* * * * *

LEAVING the city of Stanz and going up the Aa valley, toward the

Titlis, which forms the boundary between the cantons of Uri and

Bern, you pass Engelberg, and the Sürenenalp, of which the following

characteristic legends are told.

Count Conrad von Seldenbüren, in a moment of great danger, made a

solemn vow that he would build a monastery should he escape unharmed.

Saved from his imminent peril, he immediately prepared to keep his

promise, and with that purpose in view, set out with a number of his

friends and retainers to select a site for the projected building.

Riding along the valley, he drew rein from time to time to admire the

lovely landscape, and to inhale the perfumed breezes wafted down from

the surrounding mountains. There were so many charming spots that

Conrad, quite bewildered by the choice, finally breathed a fervent

inward prayer for divine guidance. Looking up a moment later, he

suddenly beheld an angel host sweep down through the blue sky. They

alighted on a neighbouring eminence, where the celestial choir intoned

a hymn of praise, their voices faintly reaching Conrad’s ear and

filling his heart with ineffable bliss.

The hymn ended, the angels again rose up into heaven; but Conrad,

overjoyed by the miracle vouchsafed him, loudly declared that not only

should the monastery be built on the hill upon which the angels had

rested, but that it should ever after be known as the Engelberg, or

Angels’ Mountain.

Founded in 1119, the Engelberg Abbey soon became rich and prosperous,

for the monks owned all the pastures around there, and had so many

head of cattle that they stored away countless cheeses in their great

cellars. The choicest of all their grazing grounds were, however, on

the Sürenenalp, where they sent their herdsmen with their finest cattle.

One of these men is said to have developed a special affection for a

silvery-white sheep entrusted to his care, which followed him wherever

he went, and so became a great pet. His fondness for the creature

became such that he finally baptized it with holy water stolen from

the monastery chapel. He did this, hoping to preserve it from all

harm; but no sooner was the sacrilegious ceremony accomplished than

the silvery-fleeced sheep, transformed into a raging monster, fiercely

attacked shepherds and flocks, and drove them away from the rich

pastures. Such was the fear inspired by this creature--which no weapon

could wound--that the peasants, one and all, refused to venture up

the mountain, and even the much frequented Sürenen Pass was entirely

deserted.

The monks of Engelberg, unable to use their pastures themselves, or to

derive any income by renting them out to others, finally sold them for

a mere song to the people of Uri. The latter, thrifty in the extreme,

could not bear the thought that the fine grass on the Sürenenalp was

going to waste, so they tried various devices to kill or capture the

demoniacal sheep. Weapons, prayers, and exorcisms proving equally

unavailing, they finally bespoke the good offices of a travelling

scholar, who had studied the Black Art under no less capable an

instructor than Satan himself.

After sundry liberal potations of the warm southern wine brought by the

Urners from Italy over the famous St. Gothard and Furka passes, and

after duly securing a pocketful of gold, the magician gave the people

minute directions, assuring them that if carefully carried out they

would settle the obnoxious sheep for ever.

By his directions, the Urners selected a snow-white bull, which was fed

with the milk of one cow during the first year, and with that of two

during the second. Increasing the rations of this animal at the rate

of a cow per year, the bull in the ninth year was consuming the entire

produce of nine cows, and had grown to a prodigious size.

The ninth year ended, a virgin from Attinghausen, carefully arrayed in

bridal white, was told to lead the chosen bull to the Sürenenalp. Her

little hand passed through the ring set in the bull’s nose, this maiden

slowly wended her way up the mountain, followed by the bull, which

obeyed her slightest touch. When they reached the choicest pasture, the

maiden suddenly let go her charge, for the monster sheep stood very

near and about to attack her. At the same moment the bull thundered

past her with lowered horns, and rushing toward the christened sheep

began a terrible fight. The mountain shook and groaned beneath the

trampling feet of the animals, which wrestled together with locked

horns, while black clouds loomed up over the pasture, blotting out the

bright sunshine, and making the air oppressively hot and close.

The darkness soon grew so intense that the people in the valley could

no longer distinguish either trembling maiden or struggling monsters.

All at once a dazzling flash of lightning rent the black clouds

asunder, and it was instantly followed by a peal of thunder so loud and

prolonged that the peasants, ducking their heads between their knees in

terror, tightly closed their eyes.

When they again ventured to look up, they fairly gasped with amazement,

for the blue sky again arched above the alp, the storm clouds were

rapidly drifting away, and golden sunbeams flooded the spot where bull

and sheep had met.

No trace of cattle or maiden being visible, the peasants, after some

hesitation, timidly ventured up the mountain to see what had become of

both. On the grass they found a bloody and trampled mound of flesh,

which upon investigation proved to be the remains of the accursed

sheep, but the maiden had vanished for ever, leaving no trace. On the

banks of the Aawasser, quite near its source, they further discovered

the body of the snow-white bull, which, having drank too greedily of

the ice-cold waters while overheated from his exertions, had met with a

sudden but natural death.

Since then, the place where the bull expired has been known as the

Bull’s Stream, or the Steersbrook, and cows, sheep, and goats have

feasted unmolested upon the luscious pastures on the Sürenenalp.

Besides, in grateful recognition for the white bull’s services, the

people of Uri placed his head upon a shield, decreeing that ever after

the head of a bull should grace the official seal of the canton of Uri

and form its sole coat of arms.

* * * * *

AT the northern extremity of the canton of Uri, and at the point

where the Lake of Lucerne makes a sudden southward bend, rises the

Seelisberg, renowned alike for its beautiful scenery and rich pastures.

Here once dwelt a peasant who, having won the good-will of the mountain

dwarfs, often received their help. The herdsman, in return for their

favours, lavished upon them the best of all he had, and when called

away by urgent business, often left them in charge of châlet and herd.

The mountain dwarfs could always be trusted to see to everything,

provided the Föhn, or south wind, did not blow. But whenever the breath

of that strong wind swept over the glaciers, they one and all crept far

down into the bowels of the earth; whence they did not emerge until it

ceased to rage.

Once, while the herdsman was on the opposite side of the lake, the

Föhn suddenly broke loose with such fury that although he made frantic

efforts to cross the water, it was four whole days before the waves

subsided enough to enable him to return home. During all that time the

dwarfs had cowered down in the depths of the earth; so nearly all the

cattle had perished from hunger and thirst. When the peasant entered

his stables and saw this sad state of affairs, he tore his hair, and

in his despair even cursed his little friends. The latter, who in

ordinary times would have resented the slightest approach to bad

language, patiently bore all his reviling, and when he was somewhat

cooler, offered to teach him the art of making cheese from sweet milk.

This would enable him to use much produce generally lost because it did

not thicken in time for use.

The herdsmen, on hearing this offer, reluctantly admitted that if it

were possible to make cheese from sweet milk, he might yet retrieve

his fortunes. So the dwarfs bade him kill his old goat, showed him how

to curdle milk by using its stomach, as rennet, and taught him to make

the excellent cheese for which the Seelisberg is still noted. Thanks to

the secret revealed by the repentant dwarfs, the peasant soon became

rich again, and when he died at a good old age, he left behind him fine

pastures, countless heads of cattle, and the invaluable receipt which

he had learned from his little friends, and which his descendants still

use.

* * * * *

IN going over the Klausen Pass, and in crossing the boundary of the

cantons of Glarus and Uri, one is reminded of the famous old quarrel

concerning this frontier. Both cantons once claimed the best pastures

along it, and as the herdsmen often came to blows over this matter, it

was finally arranged to settle the dispute once for all.

The jury before whom the matter was laid, composed of the most honest

and influential citizens in both cantons, decreed that as the matter

could not be settled satisfactorily otherwise, it should be decided by

a race. According to their minute directions, each canton was to select

a cock and a champion. On an appointed day, at their respective cocks’

first crow, these champions were to start from Altorf and the Linth

valley, and running with all their might, fix the boundary line for

ever on the spot where they finally met. This wise decree pleased both

cantons; cocks and champions were duly chosen, and the day for the race

was eagerly expected.

The people of Glarus, thinking their rooster would be most likely to

wake early if well fed and tended, lavished every care upon him, while

those of Uri kept theirs half starved, declaring he would sleep little

if hungry and thirsty.

When fall came and the time appointed for the race, the Urner’s

conjectures proved correct, for their skinny rooster awoke at the very

first gleam of dawn. His hoarse crow had scarcely been uttered, when

their champion set out from Altorf for his race to the frontier.

Over in Glarus, however, matters were less promising, for while all

the people of the Linth valley stood in expectant silence around

their cock, he slept on and on, until all the changing tints of dawn

had coloured the sky in turn, and the sun rose triumphant above the

horizon. Then he gave a lusty crow; but although the Glarus champion

ran his best, he had set out so long after his rival that he soon saw

him coming rapidly down the Grat.

When they met, the Urner triumphantly cried: “Here is the boundary!”

But the Glarner, pleading for his community, said: “Neighbour, I pray

thee, be so just as to grant me a bit of the fine pasture land thou

hast acquired by good luck.”

At first the Urner would not consent, but as his antagonist continued

to plead with gentle importunity, he finally exclaimed: “Well, friend,

thou shalt have as much ground as thou canst carry me over!”

The overjoyed man from Glarus now picked up his opponent, and although

the latter was heavy, and the road led up a steep hill, toiled

valiantly onward until he sank down lifeless far up the slope. By his

heroic efforts this man thus won a considerable piece of pasture land

for his fellow-citizens, who, in grateful memory of his efforts in

their behalf, buried him on the spot where he fell, and still speak of

his feat of strength with wonder and admiration.

* * * * *

THE marvellous St. Gothard Railway, which cost ten years of persistent

labour, crosses almost countless tunnels and bridges, and gives the

traveller an opportunity to see some of the finest and wildest scenery

in the world. At Altorf it passes the Capuchin Monastery, in connection

with which the following story is told.

The monks, in olden times, lived on a very friendly footing with the

people all around there, until one of them, meeting a pretty girl on

a lonely path, declared he must have the bunch of Alpine flowers she

wore on her breast, and a kiss besides. The peasant maiden, who had

picked the flowers for her lover, and who was far from expecting such

behaviour on the part of one of the monks, gave a loud shriek when he

attempted to secure the bouquet and salute her by force.

At the same instant the ground shook, a wide crevice appeared, whence

rose a cloud of smoke. Then a slip knot suddenly closed around the

neck of the monk, who was dragged down into the abyss, which closed

over him with an ominous crash! Since then, if we are to believe

the chronicles, no monk from the Capuchin convent has ever dared

raise his eyes to any of the girls of the town, or to exchange even a

conventional greeting with them.

* * * * *

ONE of the tunnels crossed by the railroad, is near a ravine which is

known as the Pfaffensprung or the Monk’s Leap, and owes its name to the

following legend. A wicked monk once kidnapped a young girl, and was

fleeing with her through the mountains, when he suddenly discovered

that he was pursued. To escape from his would-be captors, and retain

possession of the girl he had carried off, this monk ran to the edge of

the Reuss. There, seizing her in his arms, he took a desperate leap,

and--helped by the Devil--landed safely on the other side! According to

some versions of the story, the monk was none other than the Evil One

himself, for it is claimed no one else could have leaped across a chasm

which measures no less than twenty-two feet at this place.

* * * * *

THE old-fashioned stage road which winds its way over the St. Gothard,

passes through Schoellenen, Goeschenen (the entrance to the St. Gothard

tunnel), and over the new Devil’s Bridge. This is built across the

Reuss at a point where steep rocks tower above and below it on all

sides, and where the scenery is extremely wild and impressive.

From the new bridge one can see the remains of a more ancient

structure, of which the following legend is told, as well as of all

old bridges built in dangerous or difficult places, such as that of

Pont-la-Ville over the Sarine in Fribourg, and the one in the ravine of

the Morge in the Valais.

Already in very olden times the people of Uri had discovered that if

they could only establish a safe road over the St. Gothard mountain

they would be able to earn many a penny by trading with Italy. They

therefore spared neither pains nor expense, and built one foot after

another of the road, even piercing the hard rock in one spot to make

what is still known as the Urner Loch, or Hole of Uri. Countless

apparently insurmountable obstacles were gradually overcome, and the

road, which had been begun on both sides of the mountain, was rapidly

drawing close together near the banks of Reuss. There, however, the

builders paused appalled on either bank, for it seemed quite impossible

to bridge the awful chasm near the falls.

A meeting was therefore called at Goeschenen, where, although there

was no lack of talking, smoking, and drinking, no satisfactory decision

could be reached. A stranger, clad in black, with broad-brimmed hat

and bold heron feather, sat at a neighbouring table and listened

attentively to this discussion. Finally, seeing the meeting about

to break up, he drew near the talkers, and taking a seat beside the

principal magistrate in front of the fire, announced that he was a

famous builder, and could span the stream before morning. He even

offered to show them a fine bridge there at dawn, on the next day,

provided they were willing to pay his price.

One and all now exclaimed that nothing he could ask would seem too

much, so the stranger in black quickly responded,--

“Very well, then, it is a bargain! To-morrow you shall have your

bridge, but in payment I shall claim the first living creature which

passes over it. Here is my hand upon it!”

Saying these words, he seized the hand of the astonished magistrate

beside him, and before any one could add another word, disappeared. The

people gazed at one another in silence for a moment, then made furtive

signs of the cross. As soon as the chief magistrate could speak, he

loudly declared the stranger must be his Satanic Majesty in person! In

support of this assertion, he declared that the stranger, while sitting

in front of the fire, had boldly thrust his feet right into the red-hot

coals, where he kept them while talking, as if the heat were agreeable

to him; and added that he had distinctly felt sharp claws when the man

in black shook hands with him to close the bargain.

All now shuddered with fear, and a general wail of terror arose.

But a tailor who was present at the meeting, promptly bade his

fellow-citizens fear naught, for he would settle the bill with their

architect on the morrow. This offer was gladly accepted, the meeting

was speedily dissolved, and all hastened home, because none of them

cared to be out after dark while still under the spell of their recent

encounter with the Spirit of Evil. That night no one slept in the

neighbourhood, for although the sky had been clear when they went to

bed, a sudden storm arose and raged with fury until morning.

Amid the roll of thunder, incessant flashes of vivid lightning, and

violent gusts of wind, they heard the splitting and falling of rocks,

which seemed to roll all the way down the steep mountain side and crash

into the valley. But when morning came, no signs of storm were left,

and as soon as the sun had risen and they again dared venture out,

all rushed forth in a body to see what had happened. When they drew

near the Reuss, they could not sufficiently express their wonder and

admiration, for a fine stone bridge arched boldly over the swift stream.

On the opposite side stood the black-garbed stranger, grinning

fiendishly and encouraging the people by word and gesture to test his

bridge by walking across it. Just then the tailor appeared, carrying

a large bag. He advanced as if to cross first, but instead of setting

foot upon the structure, deftly opened his bag, from which escaped rats

and mice, closely followed by a few cats.

The Devil, for it was he, gave a yell of rage when he saw himself thus

outwitted, and, forgetting the part he had played until then, cast off

his disguise and ran down Goeschenen for a huge rock, which he intended

to hurl at the bridge so as to wreck it entirely before any other

living creature could cross.

On his way back, however, Satan met a little old woman, who, frightened

by his black looks, made a sign of the cross which caused him to drop

his burden and beat a hasty retreat into his own realm. To this day,

however, the people still point out the huge boulder in which the

marks of Satan’s claws are still visible, and which is known as the

Devil’s Stone.

According to another version, the Devil no sooner saw himself outwitted

than he seized handfuls of rock which he hurled at the bridge. But

these missiles were all deflected by a cross which the tailor planted

in the middle of the structure as soon as the animals reached the other

side. These big stones now lie scattered in the bed of the Reuss,

and around the pillars of the bridge, where, to the Devil’s constant

chagrin, they only serve to strengthen his construction.

To avenge himself in a slight measure, however, the Evil One posted

one of his own imps in this valley. When travellers pass, this demon

pounces down upon them unseen, snatches their hats off their heads,

and with a slight mocking whistle tosses them into the middle of the

stream. This imp, known as the Hat Fiend, or Hut Schelm, still haunts

the valley, although centuries have passed since the Devil played the

part of engineer for the people of Uri.