Basel, the capital of the canton of the same name, was founded by the Romans before Christ. After serving as one of their military posts, it became a free town under the empire, and at the very beginning of the sixteenth century joined the Swiss Confederation.

The centre of a bishopric founded by Charlemagne, this city was already famous in his day for its churches, monasteries, and schools, although the present cathedral was built only two hundred years later. It suffered sorely from the great earthquake of 1356, when tradition asserts that the building rocked so portentously that a huge bell of pure silver was hurled from its spire straight into the Rhine. There it still lies, and on clear days can be seen shining deep down under the water. Sometimes, too, its sound can be heard there, for the Rhine spirits—who are all good Christians—ring it regularly at the appointed hours for prayer.

The old fortifications of the town have nearly all vanished, but the fourteenth-century Spalenthor still stands. Between that gate and the Spalenberg, the Spalen, a ghostly creature, is said to rush every stormy night. None of the inhabitants can describe it exactly, for they have only caught fleeting glimpses of it, although they have frequently heard it pass.

This ghost is variously designated as a sea-horse, a pig, a dragon, or a griffin, but if any one attempts to ascertain its exact nature, by looking out of the window when the sound of its flying footsteps is heard, he is duly punished by waking up on the morrow with a very swollen face. A bold spirit, who once recklessly thrust his head far out of the window to satisfy his curiosity, is said to have been stricken with such sudden and exaggerated inflammation that the window frame had to be removed before he could again draw in his head!

The two divisions of the town, on either side of the river, were long at feud, and this division was commemorated by a statue on the old bridge, which by means of a curious mechanism continually stuck out a derisive tongue at the people on the other side. This image, locally known as the “LÄllenkÖnig” is now in the city museum. In reply to this insult the people of the opposite side are said to have set up a rival statue, which turned its back in the most contemptuous way to the famous LÄllenkÖnig.8

Not far from the Summer Casino stands the St. Jacob monument, commemorating a battle of the same name fought in 1444. Tradition declares that thirty days before this fight, the people of Basel were warned of its approach by sudden noises high up in the air above them. First came a rush, as of mailed steeds; then a clash like that of contending armies, followed by a din of cries and groans. Although nothing was visible, the people knew full well that Satan’s ghostly train was already fighting in the air above them in anticipation of the coming carnage.

When the fight at St. Jacob really took place, Burkard of Landskron—whose ruined castle stands near Basel—sided with the French. He fought all day with such fury that when evening came and the battle was ended, he and his milk-white battle steed were all covered with blood. Gazing around him, Burkard saw the ground strewn with corpses, the grass and bushes drenched with blood, while the very brook ran red with gore.

The warrior, who delighted in warfare, gazed enraptured at this awful scene; then, patting his horse, he joyfully cried,—

“Ah, old fellow! you and I are bathing in roses to-day, are we not?”

These unfeeling words, which were answered by a gentle neigh from the weary steed, fell upon the dying ears of a brave Swiss, who had gone into battle echoing his companions’ dauntless cry, “Our souls to God, our bodies to the enemy!”

Raising himself feebly, he fixed dim, resentful eyes upon the cruel victor; then, recognising in him a bitter foe of his country, his heart swelled once more in violent anger. Too weak to rise and strike another blow with the sword which had done such good service that day, the Swiss fumbled around for a moment, then, seizing a stone dyed red with patriot blood, hurled it straight at Landskron, saying,—

“There, eat one of your roses, you fiend!”

The stone, flung with unerring aim, struck the warrior in the middle of his forehead, and he fell with a crash to the ground, bathed in his own life-blood. This last effort, however, entirely exhausted the patriot, who, after seeing his enemy fall, sank back on the blood-stained sward, where he breathed his last sigh.

The bravery of the small Swiss force which held out here, hour after hour, against an army twenty or thirty times greater, so surprised Louis XI. that he gladly made peace with the Swiss, who still consider this battle their ThermopylÆ.

Not far from the ruined castle of Landskron, and near the village of Ettingen on one of the spurs of the Jura mountains, are the remains of the old castle of FÜrstenstein, the home of a lord of Rothberg in the fourteenth century.

A thoroughly virtuous knight, this nobleman married a good wife, and both were equally devoted to their only child, a charming little girl of about four years of age. One day the mother took the little maiden out into the forest, where she let her run about to fill her basket with wood-flowers, and with the tiny wild strawberries whose perfume and flavour are so delicious. The mother sat down in the shade of a big tree, where the little one came every few moments to exhibit some new treasure; but the Lady of Rothberg sprang to her feet in terror when a sharp cry rang suddenly through the air.

Rushing to the place where her child had stood a moment before, she now beheld a frightfully steep precipice, but when she leaned far over the edge, frantically calling the child, nothing but a loud echo replied.

Beside herself with grief, the unhappy mother rushed down the mountain path, wildly imploring the Virgin to protect her babe. On reaching the foot of the mountain, and the entrance to the ravine, she almost fainted with joy, for her little girl came running joyfully forward to meet her. The mother clasped the child rapturously to her breast, and when the first emotion was over, and she had assured herself that her darling was uninjured, she gently began to question her. The little maiden artlessly related that she had gone very near the edge of the precipice to pick a beautiful flower, and had suddenly fallen. But before she could touch the ground, she was caught in the arms of a beautiful woman, who gently set her down upon the soft grass, pointing out the red strawberries which grew there in profusion and which she had begun to pick for her father.

This miraculous rescue of their only child filled the parents’ hearts with such gratitude that they built a rock chapel on the spot where the little one fell. An image of the Virgin was placed in this building, which soon became a resort for pilgrims coming from far and from near to pray at the shrine of Maria im Stein. Later on, a Benedictine abbey, Mariastein, was erected near here; and a fine church now rises on the crag just above the rock-hewn commemorative chapel.

The ruined castle of Waldenburg, near the village of the same name, was once the home of an exacting nobleman, who required such hard and continual labour from his numerous vassals, that they had no time to till the fields destined to supply their families with food.

One poor man had been kept so persistently at work for his lord, that his wife and children were in sore need. When a messenger came to require further service, he desperately seized a dish, and holding it out to him, declared he would work no more, unless that vessel were filled thrice a day with wholesome food for his starving family.

When the messenger gave this answer to the cruel lord, the latter immediately clapped the recalcitrant vassal into a damp prison, vowing he should remain there until he died miserably among the toads and other vermin which infested it.

The poor wife, driven almost frantic by the cries of her hungry children, painfully wended her way up to the castle one cold winter day, and meeting her master as he rode out of the gate on his way to the chase, fell on her knees in front of him, begging for her husband’s release.

The lord of Waldenburg, who did not even know the meaning of the word compassion, roughly bade her rise, threatening to trample her under foot like the rest of the dirt if she did not immediately get out of his way. But the woman still knelt on, pleading for her husband and for the hungry children who had no bread.

Motioning to his huntsman to give her one of the stones by the wayside, the lord now mockingly cried,—

“There is bread for your children. It will last all the longer because it is so hard; but when they have eaten it, you may come again, and I will give you some more of the same kind.”

This unfeeling remark proved too much for the outraged mother and wife. She sprang indignantly to her feet and cursed her master with trembling lips, saying that she wished his whole body might be turned into stone as hard and cold as his heart.

At that instant, the lord of Waldenburg felt a strange chill run through his veins, his muscles suddenly stiffened, and before he could move or even utter a sound, he and his steed were petrified. His vassals, seeing Heaven had avenged them, now rushed into the castle, freed the prisoners, took possession of all the money and food, and in passing out again taunted the stone image of the man who had wronged them so persistently.

This stone knight still mounts solemn guard near the entrance of his former castle, although wind and weather have so disintegrated the once hard rock that its primitive shape is now almost unrecognisable.

In many parts of Switzerland, the noisy June bugs are known as thunder bugs. Near Basel, as well as at Ormond, the following amusing story is told of some simple peasants who dwelt in a deep valley. A long drought had made the soil so hard and dry that the people feared their harvests would be ruined unless they soon had rain. As their prayers and processions proved alike unavailing, they longed to try some more efficacious means of rain-making.

A joker, hearing their quandary, now gravely bade them go to Basel and buy a little thunder at the drug-store there, assuring them that if they only let it loose in their valley, the rain would soon follow. The peasants, hearing this, immediately sent a deputation to the city, and entering the largest and most fashionable apothecary shop, the rustic spokesman confidentially informed the clerk that he had come to buy some thunder.

The clerk, who was not devoid of humour, gravely asked a few leading questions, then went into the rear of the store, saying he would get what they wanted. Stepping out into the garden unseen, he caught a few June bugs, and packed them carefully in a large pill-box. This he wrapped up and solemnly delivered to the waiting peasants, making such a very small charge that they openly regretted not having known sooner that thunder could be purchased so cheap in Basel.

The men now set out on their return journey to the Frickthal, and as the apothecary had gravely charged them not to open the box until they reached their village, they passed the little parcel from hand to hand, weighed and shook it, and grinned at each other with delight when they heard a faint rumbling noise within it.

Their impatience to see what this thunder might look like so engaged their attention that they did not notice dark clouds looming up behind them, and when they reached the top of the mountain at the foot of which lay their village, they determined to wait no longer and opened the box. With a loud buzz and a bang, the June bugs, resenting their imprisonment and violent shaking, now flew, as luck would have it, directly over the village, while the deputation raced wildly down the mountain side with empty pill-box!

The people were all on the market-place ready to receive them, and as soon as they appeared, clamoured to see the thunder they had purchased. The men sheepishly confessed what they had done, but declared all would yet be right, because the thunder bugs had flown straight over the village, and the rain would doubtless soon follow. Fortunately for them, the first black cloud just then appeared over the top of the mountain, and the people, perceiving it, gave a loud shout of joy. In an almost incredibly short space of time, all the Frickthalers were obliged to take refuge in their dwellings, for the rain came down in torrents, drenching the soil which had been so parched, and thus saving all the people from the threatened famine.