In early days when men were simple-minded and pious, two lovely children were often seen hovering over the Aargau grain fields when the ears were just beginning to form. A boy and a girl, with golden curls waving over plump white shoulders, and gleaming white garments flowing down to the tiny feet which barely touched the swaying grain, this little pair flitted on from field to field, with dimpled hands outstretched as if in blessing.

Wherever they passed a golden gleam rested like a halo upon the land, where they were generally known as the Grain Angels, and people knew that a fine harvest was assured. These radiant little cherubs were the spirits of two little children, who, straying into a harvest field, lost their way and died there like the fabled Babes in the Woods.

The people of Brugg once agreed to assemble on the next rainy day, and sallying forth in a body, plant an extensive oak forest near their quaint little city. As soon as the sky darkened, therefore, and the rain began to fall, they all went out, thrust sharp sticks into the damp ground, dropped acorns into the holes thus made, and pushing the dirt down with their feet, pressed it down hard. As men, women, and children took part in this sowing-bee, twelve acres were soon planted, and when the wet workers came back to town, the magistrates rewarded them by giving each a small wheaten roll.

The acorns thus consigned to the soil failed to grow because planted too deep, so the expedition was repeated on the following year, the seed being now laid in furrows instead of separate holes. This system of planting proving equally unsuccessful, the Brugg magistrates, on the third year, bade the inhabitants go forth into a neighbouring forest, dig up promising young trees, and plant them carefully on the spot where the future forest was to stand.

This third attempt, made in 1532, was turned into a sort of picnic by the merry children, who, singing in chorus, carried the young oaks to the appointed place, where each carefully planted the chosen tree. When they came home, the magistrates again gave each child a roll, and invited the older people to a grand public banquet where all drank to the success of the young oaks.

This time the trees throve apace, and on every anniversary of this famous oak-planting, the little ones march in gay procession all around the woods and come home brandishing green branches, to prove to their parents that the forest is doing well. This quaint procession of wands, or Ruthenzug, has been kept up for centuries, and we are told the Brugg school-children enjoy it to-day as much as any of their ancestors.

The mineral springs at Baden were once under the protection of three wise women, who, although no one knew who they were or whence they came, were generally supposed to have inhabited the old castle of Stein.

Although usually on duty near the springs, these wise dames avoided being seen by the bathers, but if the water were defiled in any way, or if any of the rules were disregarded, they suddenly and mysteriously checked the flow of the healing waters, and did not allow another drop to run until the impurities were removed, or the wrong-doing ceased.

The wise women of Baden were particularly careful of the Verena spring, so called because the saint of that name once bathed in its waters. Into that basin they directed a stream of mineral waters of special potency when used by women and children. Sick babies plunged into this healing flood emerged rosy and well, and the women who came here to recover lost health or to secure the blessing of offspring, were sure soon to see the fulfilment of their dearest hopes.

The three guardian spirits of the Baden springs were so beautiful and benevolent that the people likened them to the Virgin, and at a loss for another appellation designated them the three Marys. Their memory is not only treasured at Baden, but it is also enshrined in a nursery rhyme, to which all German-speaking children are trotted in Switzerland.

At Wettingen, the building now occupied by the Normal School was once an old abbey founded in 1227 by Henry, Count of Rapperswyl. This nobleman was so good and pious that he spent most of his time in pilgrimages, thereby winning the nickname of The Wanderer. Returning from the Holy Land, he once found himself in imminent danger of perishing in the waves, and fixing his eyes upon a bright star which suddenly shone through a break in the stormy sky, he made a solemn vow to build a monastery at Wettingen should his life be spared.

This prayer was evidently heard, for the storm soon abated and the ship came safely to land. When the Count of Rapperswyl therefore reached home, he founded the abbey, which, in memory of his vow, and of the star he saw at sea, was called Maria Stella, or Meer Stern, the Star of the Sea.

The handsome old castle of Hallwyl, the ancestral home of a noble Swiss family of the same name, stands on the road between Lucerne and Lenzburg, near the Lake of Hallwyl.

A lord of Hallwyl had three sons, and as the two elder ones died early, the third had to drop his clerical studies and prepare to fulfil his duties as future head of his house. Although this young man duly married and had a fine son, it seems that he never ceased to regret his interrupted priestly career, but, surrounded by monks of all kinds, spent his time in religious practices and in poring over homilies and church records.

None too strong to begin with, these long vigils and fasts so undermined his health, that he finally became dangerously ill. One day, fearing that he was about to die, he vowed he would send his son on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land should he recover. True to this promise, the lord of Hallwyl no sooner left his bed than he recalled his son, who was fighting under Rudolf of Hapsburg, and bade him set out immediately for the Holy Sepulchre. The young man, who thought his services more needed at home, nevertheless prepared to obey, for a vow was a sacred matter and children in those days rarely ventured to question parental orders.

At parting the old lord of Hallwyl broke his ring in two, telling the young man that when death overtook him he would leave his half to his father confessor. The latter would administer the estates carefully, giving them up to none but the man who established his right to them by producing the other half of the broken ring.

It took twenty years for John of Hallwyl to fulfil his father’s vow. During that time the old man died, and the monks took possession of castle and estates. They were so determined not to give them up again, however, that they not only announced the death of young Hallwyl, but turned out of his castle an orphaned relative to whom he had been betrothed in her infancy according to his mother’s wish. Alone and friendless,—for she refused to yield to the monks’ suggestions and enter a convent,—this young girl would have died of want, had not the lord of MÜllinen, a friend of her betrothed, offered her a home with his mother and sister in his own castle.

ClÉmence gratefully accepted this kind proposal, and as she had been a mere babe when John of Hallwyl started out on his perilous journey, she did not prove faithless to him when she unconsciously fell in love with his noble friend.

Now it happened that John of Hallwyl was not dead, as many supposed. On the contrary, he was even then on his way home to claim his estates. The monks, hearing this by accident, and determined to keep his property, hired highwaymen to lie in wait for him and murder him before he could reach Hallwyl and make himself known. This bold plan might have succeeded, had not the lord of MÜllinen chanced to hunt near the place where the highwaymen were ambushed. Hearing the noise of a fight, he spurred rapidly forward, and perceiving a knight on the point of succumbing to a large force, made such a gallant charge that the robbers fled.

When MÜllinen bent over the prostrate form of the man he had rescued, he found him grievously wounded, and had him carefully carried home. There, when the traces of blood had been gently removed, he recognised in the stranger his long-absent friend. Of course, he and the ladies now vied with each other in caring for Hallwyl, who, becoming aware during his convalescence of the affection existing between his friend and betrothed, generously released her and bade them be happy together.

As soon as he was sufficiently recovered he presented himself before the monks to claim his inheritance. They, however, pretended not to recognise him, but politely declared that if he could produce a fragment of ring exactly fitting the one entrusted to their keeping by the last lord of Hallwyl, they would gladly surrender the castle to him.

Hearing this, John of Hallwyl immediately presented the broken ring, and the monks sent for the casket in which they preserved the token left by the deceased. To John’s surprise and indignation, however, it failed to fit his half of the circlet, and the monks called him an impostor and dismissed him empty-handed.

Hallwyl and his friend now rode back to MÜllinen, determined to appeal to the feudal court of Aargau for justice. There, both parties were called upon to expose their case and take their oath, but as the judge was entirely at a loss to decide which was right, he decreed the matter should be settled by a judiciary duel between John of Hallwyl and a champion selected by the monks.

On the appointed day, and in the presence of all the lords and ladies of the country, Hallwyl met his opponent in the lists, and after a fearful struggle and the display of almost fabulous strength and courage succeeded in defeating him. Then, while the monks’ champion lay where he had fallen, slowly dying from his many wounds, he suddenly confessed aloud that he and a band of assassins had been hired to waylay and kill Hallwyl on his return home.

Before he could add another word he expired, but the monks one and all solemnly declared that the poor man was raving, for they had always been willing to relinquish possession of the Hallwyl estates to any one who produced the right token. The mendacity of this statement was soon proved, however, for a dying jeweller confessed that he had been hired to make an exact copy of the broken ring, but altering its shape in such a way that the fragment in the young man’s possession would fail to fit it.

John of Hallwyl, having thus recovered his estates, soon went off to war again, and only when weary of fighting came home, married, and brought up several sons whose descendants still live in different parts of the country to-day.

The ring of Hallwyl is noted in Swiss art and literature, and the above story forms the theme of poems, paintings, and historical romances, which, bearing an unmistakable mediÆval imprint, have a peculiar and enduring charm of their own.

At the foot of the WÜlpelsberg, on the right of the beautiful Aare valley, are the Schinznach sulphur baths, so frequently visited by French and Swiss sufferers from skin diseases.

One of the favourite walks from this point leads up the mountain to the ruins of Hapsburg Castle, the most famous of all Swiss strongholds. Founded in 1020, it is the cradle of the imperial family of Austria, in whose hands it remained for more than two centuries. Then, by papal decree, it passed out of their keeping, and was Swiss property until the Canton of Aargau presented it as a wedding gift to Rudolf, the prince imperial, on his marriage with a Belgian princess. Only one crumbling tower of the famous castle now stands, but the ruins are surrounded by such a halo of history, legend, and romance, that they are particularly attractive to all visitors.

The founders of this castle, the Counts of Altenburg, trace their genealogy back to the seventh century, when their ancestors ruled in Alsacia and Alemannia. Rich and influential even at this early date, these noblemen sought to extend their possessions by every means in their power. Their repeated encroachments upon their neighbours’ dominions were not accepted without protest, however, and when the emperor, in answer to frantic appeals for justice, bade them relinquish the territory to which they could lay no rightful claim, they assumed so defiant an attitude that an armed struggle soon ensued. The upshot of this conflict was that the grasping noblemen were despoiled of the main part of their estates, forced to leave Alsacia, and they took refuge in Helvetia, where they had already acquired some property. There they built new homes at Wohlen, Altenburg, and Muri, where, by fair means and by foul, they continued their policy of self-aggrandisement until their shattered fortunes were fully restored.

The sun of prosperity shining brightly over their heads once more, these noblemen again openly defied the imperial authority. But, taught by experience, they wisely resolved to prepare for future emergencies by erecting an impregnable fortress, in which they and their dependents could successfully resist even the emperor’s forces.

Gazing about them for the most favourable site for their projected stronghold, the Altenburgs finally decided upon the WÜlpelsberg. Tradition relates, however, that while they were still hesitating where to build their future castle, Count Radbod of Altenburg went out hawking one day. While he was flying his birds in the Aare valley, one of them got away, and refusing to obey his call, flew off to a neighbouring height. Loath to lose his favourite bird, Count Radbod set out in pursuit of it, scrambled up the wooded slopes of the WÜlpelsberg, nor paused until he caught the truant hawk, which was perched on the topmost ridge of the mountain.

The bird duly secured and hooded, Count Radbod—who had been too intent upon its capture to pay any attention to his surroundings—looked about him to find his bearings, and remained spell-bound before the magnificent view he now beheld.

At his feet lay the Birrfeld,—a plain where Constantius Chlorus fought a bloody battle against the Alemans in 303. Many thriving villages now dot this part of the country, and their gables and church spires rise here and there among flourishing fruit trees. But the modern traveller’s glance rests by preference upon the peaceful hamlet where Pestalozzi, founder of the kindergarten and prince of educators, spent the last few years of a useful life.

Count Radbod gazed enraptured at the extensive forests, and the picturesque valleys of the Aare, the Limmat, and the Reuss, tracing the course of these mountain streams to the point where they meet and merge into one, near the site of the old Roman station, Vindonissa. Then his eyes rested upon the green hills rising in ever widening circles around him, while above and behind them towered the Alps, like a host of snow-clad angels mounting silent guard over the matchless landscape.

Charmed with the prospect before him, and quickly perceiving the strategic value of the location, Count Radbod immediately determined to build his fortress on the spot where he had caught his hawk, calling it the Hawk’s Castle, or Habichtsburg, in memory of the circumstances under which this decision had been reached.

The castle was therefore duly begun, the walls being built strong and thick so as to resist every attack. Still, only a small part of the funds furnished by the family for the erection of the stronghold was devoted to that purpose, for Radbod wisely used the main portion to acquire numerous friends, vassals, and servants, who promised to stand by him and his in time of danger.

The castle was not entirely finished when Radbod’s brother, Bishop Werner, announced his visit to inspect the work. Upon receipt of this news, Count Radbod summoned his dependents, bade them hide in the neighbourhood, and noiselessly surround the fortress at a given signal. Then he went to meet the Bishop and escort him up to the new castle. Werner sincerely admired the location and strength of the building, but found fault because it was not flanked by outer walls and towers, and because the interior was so bare of all ornamentation. He finally asked Radbod somewhat testily what had become of all the money sent him, for it was self-evident it had not all been expended on the fortress. Radbod good-naturedly bade the bishop cease his grumbling and go to bed, promising to prove on the morrow that every penny had been wisely invested in making the castle impregnable and in strengthening their position in the land.

At sunrise, on the following day, Werner rose from his couch, and going to the window gazed in speechless admiration at the view. But while he stood there, feasting his eyes upon the flame-tipped glaciers, his attention was suddenly attracted by shadowy forms, which, starting up from behind every rock, shrub, and tree at his feet, stealthily surrounded the castle. In terror lest the imperial forces—whose coming he always dreaded—should have stolen a march upon him, and lest he and his brother should fall into the enemy’s hands, the bishop rushed to the door to give the alarm. But on the threshold he met Count Radbod, who, smiling at his fright, quietly said,—

“Rest without fear, my brother. The men you see yonder are your vassals and mine, fully armed for our defence. I acquired their services with the funds entrusted to my care, for I knew strong walls would prove of little avail, unless defended by stout hearts and willing hands.”

This answer, and the sight of the brave men now drawn up in military array for his inspection, more than satisfied the bishop, who, accepting Radbod’s invitation, betook himself to the great hall of the castle, where he received the oath of fealty and the respectful homage of the new retainers of his race. Since then, all the members of the old Altenburg family have been known as the counts of Habsburg, or Hapsburg, a modification of the old Habichtsburg.9

The Hapsburgs throve apace in their new home, their power increasing until even the freemen of the land humbly besought their protection in exchange for the payment of certain taxes. But the ascendency thus gained by these noblemen made them more arrogant and tyrannical than ever, so that they finally considered themselves owners of the land, and lords of the free people they were gradually exasperating by their arbitrary treatment.

In those days, the greatest of all the Hapsburg race, Rudolf III., was born in the castle, the emperor being his sponsor. At twenty-one, owing to the early death of his father, Rudolf became head of the family, and began that career of warfare and conquest for which he is noted in history. Afraid of nothing, and ready to grasp at everything, his neighbours soon learned to dread him, and the Bishop of Basel—with whom he had a feud—expressed the general opinion of his congeners by crying out once in comical dismay,—

“Sit firm upon Thy throne, O Lord God, or the Count of Hapsburg will crowd Thee, too, out of it!”

Still, Rudolf was so frank and genial, that he won many friends and adherents, and his sturdy warriors were particularly devoted to him, because he shared all their fatigues, cheerfully partook of their frugal fare, and was even seen by their camp fire diligently mending his worn garments.

When Rudolf could not compass his ends by force, he frequently resorted to ruse. For instance, wishing to take a castle on the Uetliberg near ZÜrich, which was owned by a Robber-Knight who despoiled all the citizens passing along that way, he devised the following stratagem. Thirty tall and strong horsemen, mounted upon sturdy steeds, were directed each to take a companion behind him, and ride up the mountain. A force of thirty men had no terrors for the Robber-Knight, who boldly sallied forth with his garrison to attack them. But when he found himself face to face with double that number, he fled in terror followed by all his retainers. Rudolf’s small force now entered the wide-open gates of the castle, and after disposing of its occupants and riches, razed it to the ground.

While administering his affairs in person, Rudolf proved a kind and just master, and often sat under the linden-tree at Altorf, to award justice to the freemen of Uri, who had chosen him as their umpire. But while he was away, upholding the tottering fortunes of the Hohenstauffens, or extending his domains, his bailiffs and stewards ruled with a rod of iron over the estates he had won. Such were their exactions, that the people of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwald, who had long prided themselves upon their independence, finally determined to recover their freedom. In 1245 they openly rebelled, but while Uri recovered its lost liberty, and was again allowed to depend directly from the crown, Schwyz and Unterwald were compelled to remain under the overlordship of the Hapsburg race.