Legends of Zürich

Zürich, the old Roman Turicum, on either side of the Limmat at the

point where it flows out of the green-hued lake, is the capital of

the canton of the same name, and noted alike for the beauty of its

situation and for its famous University.

In the days of the early Christian persecution, Felix and Regula, the

patron saints of Zürich, were beheaded near this town. Strange to

relate, though, immediately after the execution, both martyrs picked

up their severed heads, tucked them under their arms, and stalked off

to the spot where the minster now stands, where they wound up their

marvellous performances by burying themselves comfortably! On the spot

where they suffered martyrdom Charlemagne erected a memorial pillar,

above which he hung a bell, saying that it could be rung by any one who

had been wronged, and that they should receive immediate justice.

During one of his visits to Zürich, Charlemagne took up his abode in

the Choristers’ House, and while he sat there at table one day he

suddenly heard a loud peal from the bell of justice. He immediately

despatched a servant to see what wrong had been done, and was greatly

annoyed when the man reported that careful search had failed to reveal

the presence of any living creature. A few moments later the bell

rang again, but when the servant once more announced that no one was

there, the emperor bade his guards hide near the pillar, and seize the

miscreant who dared to pull the bell of justice in mere fun.

Before long the bell sounded a third time, and a few moments later the

guards rushed into the emperor’s presence with faces blanched with

fear, to report that a snake had coiled itself around the pillar, and

seizing the rope in its teeth, tugged until the bell rang forth loud

and clear. The emperor immediately rose from table, saying he must see

this phenomenon with his own eyes, and followed by all his court went

down to the pillar. As he drew near, the snake came forward to meet

him, and rising upon its coiled tail, bowed low before the monarch in

evident recognition of his exalted station. Then, dropping down to the

earth once more, it crept away, turning from time to time, and making

signs as if to invite the emperor to follow. The serpent’s actions

were so eloquent that Charlemagne, understanding them, obediently

followed it down to the edge of the water, where, parting the reeds,

the snake showed him its nest, in which sat an enormous toad.

Charlemagne now bade his guards seize and kill the intruder, and when

the snake had bowed its thanks and contentedly coiled itself around its

eggs, he went back to his interrupted meal, loudly praising the bell by

means of which even dumb animals could appeal for justice.

The next day, while the emperor again sat at dinner, the guards

rushed in breathlessly to announce the coming of the strange snake.

Charlemagne quickly bade them stand aside and not try to hinder the

reptile, which now crawled into the room where he sat, climbed up on

the table, did obeisance to the emperor, and delicately lifting the

cover of his drinking-cup, dropped into it a jewel of fabulous price.

Then, replacing the cover of the vessel, the snake bowed low again, and

creeping down, left the cloister to return to its nest by the lake.

According to one version of this legend, Charlemagne set this precious

stone in a ring which he gave to his wife, Frastrada.[13] Unknown to

him, however, the stone had the magic power of fixing his affections

upon its wearer. When the queen, therefore, thought she was about to

die, she slipped the ring into her mouth to prevent its falling into

the hands of some rival. For eighteen years Charlemagne refused to part

with his wife’s body, and carried it with him wherever he went. But at

the end of that time his minister Turpin discovered the secret of his

infatuation, and obtaining possession of the magic stone, soon saw all

Charlemagne’s affections fixed upon him.

[13] For other version, see the author’s “Legends of the

Rhine.”

As the emperor’s devotion proved somewhat of a bore to the old

minister, he tried to get rid of the spell by casting the ring into the

mineral springs at Aix-la-Chapelle. While out hunting the next day,

Charlemagne urged his steed to drink of that water, and when the animal

hastily withdrew its foot and refused to approach the pool again, the

emperor dismounted to investigate the cause.

Touching the imprint of the horse’s hoof, Charlemagne discovered that

the mud was very warm, for he was near the hottest of these thermal

springs. While resting near that pool, he was seized with such an

affection for the spot that he soon founded there his capital of

Aix-la-Chapelle.

In memory of the horse which guided him hither, the Cathedral was

built in the shape of a horseshoe, and as Charlemagne could not endure

the thought of ever leaving this enchanted neighbourhood, he left

orders to bury him in the minster of Aix-la-Chapelle.

On the spot where Charlemagne’s famous bell once hung, at Zürich,

stands the Wasserkirche, which now contains a large library with

valuable and interesting manuscripts. Charlemagne’s great-grandson

Louis II. often visited Zürich, where his two pious daughters induced

him to build a convent and the Frauenmünster.

It is said that the place for these buildings was staked out by angel

hands, and that the stakes were connected by a silken string of the

finest make. This rope was hung above the altar of the new church,

where it remained until the Reformation. It was then removed with many

other relics, and served for years as ordinary bell-rope in a private

house.

The king’s daughters, who both became abbesses, long dwelt at Baldern

Castle, whence, however, they went down to the Frauenmünster whenever

the bell rang for prayers. They even attended the midnight services

there, and when it was very dark a stately stag invariably walked

before them carrying a flaming torch between its antlers.

At the foot of the southern slope of the Albis--a green mountain near

Zürich--lies the little lake of Türl or the Türlersee. Tradition claims

that this valley once belonged to the lords of Schnabelberg, whose

castle stood on the height still bearing that name. They intrusted the

care of their lands to an unprincipled steward who once induced a miser

to sell his daughter for a piece of rich land down in the valley. This

iniquitous bargain had no sooner been concluded than the inhuman father

hastened down to view his new farm; but while he was inspecting it, a

fearful storm arose. Thunder-bolts, repeatedly striking the mountain,

detached great masses of stone, which, in falling, made a dam across

the valley.

In a few moments the rain, pouring down the mountain side in swift

torrents, filled all the hollow made by this dam, covering every inch

of land the miser had received in exchange for his child. Terrified by

this visitation from Heaven, the unjust steward not only let the maiden

go unharmed, but paid a rich dower to the convent she entered, and

mended his evil ways as much as he could.

* * * * *

NEAR the Lake of Türl once lived a lady named Kriemhild, who was

jealous because her neighbours’ lands were more productive than her

own. In hopes of ruining their crops, she bade a Salamancan student

flood their fields. The latter, scorning magic arts for so simple a

task, dug a deep ditch, which, allowing the waters of the lake to

escape, would accomplish his evil purpose just as well.

St. Verena, passing by there accidentally, discovered his purpose, and

before he could complete his task whisked him and Kriemhild off to the

Glarnisch in Glarus, where both are condemned to dig in the ice and

snow until they have made plants bloom in the desolate spot still known

as St. Verena’s or Vreneli’s garden. As for the ditch it is still to be

seen, and in memory of Kriemhild’s evil intentions it still bears her

name.

* * * * *

ONLY a short railway journey from Zürich is the ancient castle of

Kyburg, which rises between Winterthur and Frauenfeld. It once belonged

to a family of the same name, a side branch of the famous house of

Welfs or Guelfs. To account for this name, tradition relates that a

Kyburg having married Irmentrude, Charlemagne’s sister-in-law, went to

live with her in a castle near Altorf.

One day, a poor woman came to this castle begging for food, and sadly

yet proudly exhibited triplets, whose recent arrival into the world

prevented her working as usual for her living. The Countess of Kyburg,

seeing these children, sternly refused all help to the woman, declaring

no faithful wife had ever been known to bear so many children at once,

and that she would not encourage vice in her lands by giving alms to

women of bad lives.

The virtuous peasant woman, justly offended at this harsh speech,

turned angrily away. But she paused a moment at the gate, to call

Heaven to prove that she had always been true to her marriage vows

by giving the Countess twelve children at a birth. The Countess paid

little heed to this curse, but many months later she was terrified by

the simultaneous arrival of twelve sons, all exactly alike, and all

unmistakable Kyburgs.

Now it happened that her husband was away when these babes came into

the world, and the Countess, fearing he might take the same view of the

affair as she had taken of the poor woman’s triplets, bade her faithful

old nurse drown eleven of the babes in a neighbouring pond. The nurse,

for whom the Countess of Kyburg’s words were law, immediately bundled

eleven of the boys into her apron, and stealing out of the castle by a

postern gate, made her way towards the pool. She had nearly reached

it when she was suddenly confronted by her master just returning home,

and he immediately inquired what she had in her apron, and what she was

going to do.

The poor woman, hoping to shield her mistress, stammered that she was

on her way to drown a litter of wolf cubs; then she tried to slip past

him, but he insisted on seeing the cubs, and when she resisted, laid

violent hands upon the apron she held so tightly together. A mere

glimpse of its contents made him hotly demand a full explanation, and

when posted about every detail of the affair, he bound the nurse over

to secrecy, took charge of the boys, and had them carefully brought up,

unknown to his wife, who fancied they were all dead.

For six years the Count of Kyburg kept this secret, but at the end

of that time he gave a great banquet, to which he invited all his

relatives and friends. In the middle of this meal, the eleven boys,

richly dressed, were shown into the hall by his order. The guests all

stared in amazement at these children, who were so exactly like one

another, and like the supposedly only son of their host, that no one

could doubt their parentage.

While they were still speechless, the Count of Kyburg suddenly

inquired, in terrible tones, what punishment should be awarded to

the person who had tried to murder eleven such promising young Welfs

(Wolves)? At these words the guilty Countess suddenly fainted, and the

guests were informed of the part she had played. When she recovered her

senses, her husband generously forgave her, but the children he had

rescued were known ever after by the name their father gave them when

he first introduced them to his friends.

* * * * *

KING LOUIS II. of France is said to have promised one of the Welfs as

much land as he could ride around in a golden wagon in one day. This

Welf immediately decided to secure the boon by a subterfuge, since he

could not get it otherwise.

By his orders, a tiny golden wagon was made, and sitting upon this toy,

placed in a wagon to which were harnessed his quickest pacing oxen, he

rode around a tract of land on either side of the Rhine, which included

the site of Kyburg Castle. Thus he won the Kyburg estate where his

three sons were born. In due time two of these became bishops, equally

renowned for their learning and great piety.

One of them, in serving Mass at Easter, saw a huge poisonous spider

fall into the chalice. Loath to disturb the communion service, he

swallowed the spider with the wine, and after Mass sat down to table,

where, however, he refused to partake of any food. Exhausted by a long

spell of fasting, he soon fell asleep, and his drowsy head rested on

the table, while his breath passed softly between his parted lips.

His friends, watching him, suddenly saw the spider--an emissary of

Satan--creep out of his mouth and slink away, having been unable to

injure so good a man.

The two bishops once sat in the castle, before a well-spread board,

on the eve of a solemn fast-day. Although food and wine lay in plenty

before them, they partook of them but sparingly, and were so absorbed

in pious conversation that they remained there hour after hour, quite

unmindful of the flight of time. The castle clock had just pealed

forth the midnight hour, and the solemn fast had begun, when their

secretary stepped into the hall to inquire whether they still had

need of his services. This man, envious of their reputation, had long

been jealous of them, and anxious to catch them tripping so he could

publish the fact abroad. When he therefore beheld them seated before a

huge roast of boar’s flesh, with several bottles full of wine still

before them, his eyes flashed with malicious pleasure. A moment later,

however, he stood with lowered eyes and in subservient attitude before

his superiors, who bade him go to rest, and, in the kindness of their

hearts, gave him a big portion of meat and a bottle of wine to carry

away with him.

The secretary meekly thanked the bishops, and took leave of them with

apparent humility; but no sooner had he closed the door behind him,

than he rushed off to a neighbouring convent, his heart dancing with

fiendish glee. Rousing the brethren, he told them, with every mark of

sanctimonious regret, that their shepherds were faithless, for they

were even now, on a solemn fast-day, partaking of forbidden meat and

drink!

He added that when they found themselves detected in this wrong-doing,

they tried to silence him by giving him a portion of their viands, thus

making him a partaker in their sin. In proof of this assertion, he

produced the food they had given him, and the monks all crowded around,

with long-drawn faces, to see and smell these evidences of their

superiors’ guilt.

To the secretary’s surprise, however, they soon turned indignantly upon

him, declaring that the so-called boar’s flesh was the fish served on

the monastery table every fast-day; and the rich wine nothing but the

small beer which invariably accompanied it. The secretary protested

wrathfully, but when he, too, examined those articles carefully, he was

forced to acknowledge the monks right, and to confess that Providence

had worked a miracle to prevent two absent-minded saints from

inadvertently committing a grievous sin.