Fribourg

The city of Fribourg, capital of the canton of the same name, is

picturesquely situated on a rocky height almost surrounded by the

Sarine, one of the tributaries of the Aare. A mediæval town, it boasts

of many interesting relics, while in its cathedral stands the great

modern organ known the world over.

When Charles the Bold experienced his second appalling defeat at Morat,

in 1476, one of the Swiss soldiers volunteered to carry the joyful

tidings to Fribourg, his native city. Although he had fought bravely

and was very weary after his almost superhuman efforts, he snatched

a green twig from a neighbouring lime-tree, stuck it in his hat so

that his people could see from afar this sign of victory, and quickly

started for home. Tradition claims that he ran every step of the

way; the fact is, he reached the city so exhausted that he sank down

lifeless as soon as the one word “Victory” had escaped from his parched

lips.

His fellow-citizens were so proud of this victory, and of the messenger

who brought the news so quickly to them, that they planted the

lime twig on the very spot where he had fallen. There it throve and

grew, until it is now a mighty tree, with a boll fourteen feet in

circumference; and it still serves as a green monument of this famous

triumph of the Swiss army.

The whole valley of the Sarine and its tributaries is most picturesque,

and the soil so fertile that it supports countless heads of the finest

cattle in the world. After passing the quaint little mediæval town of

Romont, with its old castle and fortifications, you come to a hill in

the middle of the Sarine valley on which rises the famous castle of

Gruyère, recently restored, and now one of the most beautiful show

places in Switzerland.

The view from Gruyère is most charming, and includes not only the

winding course of the Sarine, and the green hills dotted with the

herds,--which furnish the renowned Swiss or Gruyère cheese,--but beyond

rise rocky pine-clad mountains, the most important of which is the

Moléson.

The founding of the castle of Gruyère is attributed to Gruerius, a

captain in the Thebaid legion, who, escaping martyrdom in the days of

Diocletian, fled into the mountains. After threading his way through

the dense forests which then clothed these grassy hills, he finally

reached the point where the castle now stands. There, helped by other

fugitive Christians, he began to clear away the primeval forest, and

founded the castle and town which bear his name.

Gruyère thus became the cradle of a new race, which, constantly

increasing in wealth and power, soon ruled over a vast extent of land

peopled by many vassals. The Counts of Gruyère were in general good

masters; and the land, carefully tilled by their dependants, grew more

and more productive, until many villages dotted the country, while the

tinkle of cow-bells was heard for miles around.

In the days of the Crusades, many knights passed this castle on their

way to the Holy Land; and the Counts of Gruyère, assuming the cross

too, joined them with the fatalistic cry, “Go we must, return who may!”

(“S’agit d’aller, reviendra qui pourra!”)

In spite of their wealth and extensive possessions, the Counts of

Gruyère were none too well informed, for we are told they naïvely asked

their companions whether the sea they had to cross on their way to

Palestine could possibly be as large as the stretch of water they had

seen in making a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Lucerne.

Toward the end of the fourteenth century, Margaret, Countess of

Gruyère, was very sad, because, although she had already been married

several years, Providence had not yet vouchsafed her a child. In

her anxiety to obtain offspring, this fair Countess consulted the

astrologers and other fortune-tellers who visited the castle; but as

their promises afforded her very little satisfaction, she soon resorted

to pilgrimages, fasting, and long seasons of fervent prayer.

All the pilgrims who stopped at the castle, on their way to and from

the shrines at Einsiedlen and Lucerne, were entertained with the utmost

hospitality at Gruyère, and when they departed the Countess invariably

loaded them with gifts, gently begging them to intercede for her when

they reached the goal of their pilgrimage.

Garbed like a nun, in the plainest of homespun dresses, the Countess

diligently visited the poor and sick, helped the needy, and was so good

and charitable to all that she was revered throughout the country like

a saint. Besides, every night and morning, she spent hours on her knees

in the castle chapel, imploring the Virgin and all the saints to grant

her her heart’s desire.

One evening, when twilight was fast merging into darkness, she still

lingered there on her knees, weeping bitterly because hitherto all her

prayers had remained unanswered. Absorbed in sorrowful thoughts, and

uttering broken words of supplication between her sobs, the Countess

failed to notice the entrance of a lame beggar who had often been the

recipient of her bounty.

The sound of suppressed weeping and convulsive prayer soon attracted

the beggar’s attention, and peering through the gloom,--which the

taper burning on the altar only seemed to intensify,--he soon descried

a woman clad in rough homespun. Lame Hans, whose sorest trial was an

occasional lack of food, immediately concluded that this poor woman

must be needy, and catching the word “children,” he hastily drew some

coarse bread and cheese out of his wallet, and laid it beside her,

saying,--

“This is all I have, my poor woman, but the Holy Virgin’s blessing

resting upon it will enable it to dry your tears.”

Then, before the astonished Countess could say a word, the lame man

hobbled off; and although he went to bed hungry, he felt a warm glow in

the region of his heart whenever he pictured the zest with which the

hungry children would devour his bread and cheese.

The Countess came out of the chapel a few moments after Hans, and as

she returned to her apartments her servants marvelled at the radiant

expression of her face, although it bore marks of recent tears. They

were still more surprised when they saw her come forth in her richest

apparel to welcome her husband and his friends on their return from

the chase. Their amazement was shared by the hunters, who gazed with

unconcealed wonder at the hostess whom they had left in the morning

pale, silent, and dejected, but who now seemed radiant with life and

hope.

Her unwonted vivacity charmed both husband and guests; and when toward

the end of the evening meal she begged leave to lay before them a new

dish, they all received the proposal with joyful acclamations. At a

sign from the fair châtelaine, her aged nurse and favourite page then

brought in two covered silver dishes, which they gravely set before

their master.

All eyes were riveted on these vessels when the Count of Gruyère

simultaneously raised both covers; and his expression of disappointment

was mirrored on every face, when instead of choice dainties nothing

was seen but the coarse bread and cheese of the peasant population.

Interrogative glances were therefore soon directed to the Countess,

who with charming grace and simplicity related her adventure in the

chapel and repeated the lame beggar’s words. She concluded by saying

that she now believed her prayers would be answered, and begged all

present to partake with her of the food which had come to her in such

a strange way. Touched by the tale she told, one and all solemnly

ate the bread and cheese she gave them; but her old nurse laid her

share carefully aside, saying she would partake of it only when her

mistress’s dearest wish had been fulfilled.

Then the castle chaplain arose, filled all the beakers with wine,

blessed them as solemnly as if he were about to celebrate a communion

service, and all drank to the health of the gracious Countess and the

speedy coming of a son and heir to the castle of Gruyère.

Within a year from that day the Stork brought a beautiful boy to the

Countess, and at his christening feast many noble guests merrily drank

his health. The Countess, radiant with happiness, bestowed bountiful

alms upon all the poor, giving lame Hans a new suit of clothes, and a

pension to prevent his ever feeling the pangs of hunger again.

In the midst of this feast the old nurse came in and solemnly ate her

carefully treasured share of Hans’s bread and cheese. Then she made a

deep curtsey to her mistress, saying,--

“Gracious Lady, you see it is just as I always told you. To the one who

gives freely, much will be given. May God preserve you and your husband

and grant your son a long, happy, and useful life at Gruyère!”

* * * * *

FROM the castle and town of Gruyère one can enjoy a fine view of

the Moléson, the highest peak in that region, from whose summit can

be seen the Lake of Geneva with Mont Blanc, the Dent du Midi, and

the Diablerets to the south. West and east are the Jura and Titlis

mountains, while to the north extends the fertile valley of the Sarine.

Here on the Moléson, as well as on most mountain pastures in

Switzerland, you can often hear the famous Ranz des Vaches, Kuhreihen,

or musical call, which the cattle no sooner hear than they crowd around

their herdsmen.

This melody, repeated by the echoes, and accompanied by the ripple and

splash of running waters, the tintinnabulations of cow-bells, and the

lowing of the kine, has a peculiar charm for all who hear it, and in

words runs about as follows:--

“The herdsmen of the Colombettes

At the dawn of day have risen;

Ha, ah! ha, ah!

Cows, cows, to the milking come!

Come here, all of you.

White ones and black ones,

Red and brindled,

Young ones, old ones,

Under this oak-tree,

Where I will milk you;

Under this poplar,

Where I will drain you!

Cows, cows! to the milking come!”[1]

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

The Moléson was long the favourite field of the chamois-hunters in

Fribourg. One of these men having been overtaken by darkness high up on

the mountain, once sought refuge in a deserted herdsmen’s hut. Drawing

near it, he was surprised to hear the tinkle of bells, the lowing and

stamping of cattle, and the voices of herdsmen, for he knew the cows

had already left the high pastures. Entering the hut, he was further

amazed to see four queer, wizened-looking men, whose thumb and first

and second fingers were missing. Besides, one of these men was lame,

the second hunchbacked, the third had but one eye, and the fourth was

apparently a leper.

These men signed to him to take a seat near the fire, where they were

busy making green cheese, of which, however, they had already a large

store in the hut.

The hunchback herdsman offered the guest bread and meat which looked

so unpalatable that the hunter took but one mouthful and set the food

aside, muttering that they must have forgotten the salt when preparing

it. This remark so incensed his hosts that they began to gnash their

teeth, and came toward him making such threatening gestures that in

sudden terror the hunter made a sign of the cross. At that moment

herdsmen, cheese, cows, and fire vanished, and the chamois-hunter found

himself alone in the deserted hut.

But when he told his night adventure at home, he learned that a small

piece of meat had been cut out of the left hind quarter of his best

cow. One of the oldest inhabitants of the village, moreover, informed

him that the men whom he had seen were wicked herdsmen, who had

neglected their duties while in the flesh, and had besides been guilty

of perjury. In punishment for their wickedness, they had not only lost

the three fingers upheld in taking an oath, but were condemned to atone

for past laziness by working hard every night.