The little city of Erlach, or Cerlier, on the Lake of Bienne, is romantically situated at the foot of the Jolimont, on which stand great rocks known as the Devil’s Burden. We are told that his Infernal Highness brought these stones hither to crush the Christians at the foot of the mountain. But, turned aside by the hand of God, the blocks fell where they could do no damage, and now serve as picturesque features in the landscape.

The castle of Erlach, founded in 1100 by a bishop of Basel, was entrusted to the care of a governor, or bailiff, who made ruthless demands upon the time and strength of his master’s vassals. No servant was ever strong and diligent enough to suit him; and when a tall foreigner came to offer his services, the bailiff, noting his well-developed muscles, immediately said he would engage him provided he could lift the huge rock which stood at the castle gate.

Picking up the stone with the utmost ease, the newcomer tossed it up as if it were a mere pebble, although its weight was such that it sank deep into the ground on the spot where it fell. This proof of strength fully satisfied the bailiff, who at first treated his new servant quite fairly. But as time went on, he exacted more and more, and once bade him take four horses and bring back to the castle a load of wood which twelve horses could not have drawn without great effort.

The muscular servant nevertheless set out undaunted to fulfil this task, and finding one pair of horses inclined to balk, unharnessed them, tied them to the tail of the cart, and taking their place, pulled so vigorously that the load safely reached the foot of the hill leading to the castle. There, however, the second pair of horses stopped short, and refused to advance another step. The servant quickly unharnessed these, too, bound them on top of the wood, and single-handed drew wood, wagon, and horses up the hill, although the load was so heavy that the deep ruts it made in the rock road can still be seen to this day.

When the bailiff beheld this new and startling proof of great strength, he was duly awed, and fearing the servant might prove troublesome some day, determined to get rid of him. With that purpose in view, he ordered a well dug, and when it was quite deep, made his men throw a huge stone down upon the strong servant’s head. To the general surprise, this man tossed the stone up out of the well again, muttering, “Don’t throw any more sand down into my eyes, or I’ll get mad.”

But looking up just then, he caught such an evil expression in the bailiff’s eyes that he was seized with a sudden fit of blind rage. Scrambling out of the hole, he pursued the conscience-stricken bailiff into the castle; and as neither man nor master were ever seen again, people suppose that the strong servant must have been an emissary of Satan, sent to carry their cruel master off to Hades, to receive due punishment for all his crimes.

On the way from Basel to Bern, the train passes through a long tunnel piercing a hill upon which stand the ruins of Castle Grimmenstein. This was once the home of so enthusiastic a hunter, that he even broke the Sabbath to indulge in his favourite sport. His wife, a gentle and pious soul, once vainly besought him not to desecrate a particularly holy day of rest, but he nevertheless sallied forth, and after a long search came across a doe with its young.

Although this gentle animal bravely tried to defend her offspring, the cruel hunter slew them all one after another. But, just as the doe breathed her last, a giant sprang out of the ground, shook his fist vehemently at the Sabbath-breaker, and exclaiming that the harmless animals were already avenged, vanished with them underground!

The lord of Grimmenstein, awed in spite of himself by these mysterious words and by the sudden disappearance of the quarry he had slain, gave up all thought of further hunting for that day and rode slowly home. But when he entered his wife’s apartment, he found her and his children dying from the very wounds he had inflicted upon the gentle doe and her young.

Ever since then, when war or pestilence threaten the land, the lord of Grimmenstein rises from his grave, blows a resonant blast upon his hunting-horn, and again sets out to range through woods and valleys in quest of game.

Besides this hunter and Sabbath-breaker, almost every valley and hillside in Switzerland is said to be visited at times by some similar wraith, sweeping by on the wings of the wind. But the apparition which makes the most noise and causes most damage is undoubtedly that of Odin, the Wild Huntsman himself, who often rushes through the land with all his ghostly train of heathen deities.2

After passing through the Wynigen tunnel, the train soon comes to Burgdorf, an ancient and picturesque little city, with an old castle in which Pestalozzi established a school toward the end of the eighteenth century.

Tradition relates that dense forests once covered all this region, which was infested by wild beasts of all kinds, not omitting an immense, fire-breathing dragon, which had its abode in a cave in the hill on which Burgdorf castle now stands.

Sintram and Baltram, the two sons of the Duke of Lenzburg, once penetrated into this wilderness in pursuit of game, and discovering the trail of this dragon, resolved to track him into his lair and rid the country of such a pest. But when they drew near the mouth of the cave, the dragon suddenly darted forth, and seizing Baltram, swallowed him at one gulp! At this sight Sintram boldly dismounted, drew his sword, and attacked the monster with such fury that he finally laid him low. Then, slitting him open, he had the good fortune to find his brother still alive and quite unharmed, thanks to the strong armour he wore.

The brothers were so proud of their victory over the monster, and so grateful for their miraculous escape from its teeth and claws, that they built a chapel on this spot, dedicating it to St. Margaret, because she too once met and defeated a dragon. In this chapel they placed a picture representing their fight with the Burgdorf monster, and as they soon founded the town and castle, their name and fame still endures in that section of the country.

In the twelfth century, Burgdorf was the home of Berthold V. of ZÄhringen, who conquered and brought into subjection the various nobles in the Bernese Oberland. He built Fribourg on his own land, and founded a new city on a rocky height almost entirely surrounded by the Aare. History claims that he called this town Bern, in honour of his favourite hero and ancestor, Dietrich of Bern (Verona).3 But legend states that, not knowing what name to bestow upon the new city, he decided to call it after the first animal he slew in the chase.

Sallying forth one day, he met and slew some bears (BÄren), and therefore called the city Bern. It is because the city is popularly supposed to have thus obtained its name, that there is a bear in its shield, and that these animals are conspicuous there in every form. The most famous and imposing bears in Bern are the stone effigies which long stood on either side of the city gates, and which now guard the entrance to the Historical Museum; but the most amusing are undoubtedly the live bears kept in a special pit.

According to some authorities these animals are the descendants of a cub which the Duke of ZÄhringen brought back from his memorable hunting expedition; according to others of a pair given to the town by RenÉ, Duke of Lorraine. Besides, you may also hear it stated that a Swiss soldier brought home a couple of cubs as trophy after the battle of Novarre, in 1513, which were preserved in the city. In 1798, General Brune carried off the Bern bears to the Jardin des Plantes in Paris, and the present bruins are also said to have descended from those or from a pair imported from Russia.

The city of Bern was laid out for the Duke by his henchman von Bubenberg, who, foreseeing its importance, made it twice as large as he was told. The Duke in wrath then demanded what he meant by this disobedience, but von Bubenberg soon proved that he was right, for so many settlers poured into the new place that only a narrow space could be allotted for each house. All the buildings were made from the wood growing within the new city limits, which gave rise to the distich,—

Bern became independent soon after its foundation, bravely withstood two sieges made by the redoubtable Rudolf von Hapsburg, and some time after defeating the Burgundian forces at Laupen, in 1339, joined the Swiss Confederation, of which it is now the head.

In the middle of the fifteenth century, the citizens began the construction of the beautiful cathedral, which, owing to lack of funds, remained incomplete for centuries and has only recently been crowned by its wonderful spire. In front of this building now stands the equestrian statue of Rudolph von Erlach, the hero of Laupen; but here, too, once stood a large wooden statue of St. Christopher. It was placed there after a silver communion service had been stolen from the cathedral, for the people believed that the giant saint would mount faithful guard over ecclesiastical property. But when in spite of his presence there, the communion service again fell a prey to thieves, great indignation was felt in town.

To punish St. Christopher for his lack of vigilance, he was banished to a niche in a tower bearing his name, where, as a further mark of disgrace, and because he stood directly opposite the fountain of David, he was dubbed Goliath. At that time a tradition was current in Bern that when St. Christopher heard the town clock strike the noon hour, he invariably rained weckli (local rolls) down upon the people. To fix this saying in the minds of a younger generation, a lady of the town ordered a large number of weckli cast down upon the waiting school children at the stroke of twelve, one day before the tower was razed and the statue removed. The benevolent woman who played this innocent trick upon the delighted little ones, celebrated her one-hundredth birthday at Bern, in 1897, when the cathedral chimes pealed forth at noon a gay carillon in her honour.

When the quaint Christopher tower was torn down, in the middle of the nineteenth century, the head of the gaudily coloured statue of the saint was removed to the city Museum, where it now forms part of a collection of local antiquities.

South of the Cathedral, and extending all along one side of the building, is a beautiful broad terrace, commanding a marvellous view of the whole range of the Bernese Alps. On this shady place stands a fine statue of the founder of the city, with Bruin as his shield-bearer. At the edge of the terrace, set deep in the wall, is a tablet commemorating the miraculous escape of a student, whose frightened horse vaulted over the parapet in 1654. Theobald WeinzÄpfli, for such was the student’s name, not only survived the fall which killed his steed, but became pastor of Kerzerz, where he died forty years later.

From the terrace, besides the matchless background of glaciers, there is a fine view of the pyramidal Niesen, darkly outlined against them, and of the winding Aare, which passes through the Lake of Brienz and that of Thun at the foot of this mountain. At one end of the Lake of Thun, where the Aare has its outlet, and less than an hour’s railway journey from Bern, stands the picturesque little city of Thun, with its ancient castle. At the other extremity, on a narrow strip of land between the two lakes, rises Interlaken, the goal of all Swiss tourists.

Legend claims that in the days when St. Peter was preaching in Rome, he converted there an English traveller, who received in baptism the name of Beatus. Longing to publish the good tidings he had received, this pious man set out from Rome, and preaching as he went, finally came to the shores of the Lake of Thun. There he found a large population of thrifty people still devoted to the Scandinavian religion practised by their ancestors.

The spot was so lovely, and the task awaiting him so urgent, that Beatus resolved to make a prolonged sojourn; but he was so busy caring for souls that he had no time to build himself a hut. He therefore determined to take up his abode in some cave, and searching for one which might answer his purpose, climbed the mountain on the north side of the lake. Far up the slope, he descried a large cavern, which he was about to enter. But he suddenly found himself face to face with a huge dragon, whose eyes were as big and round as cart-wheels, whose claws were as long and as hard as grappling-hooks, and whose long, tapering body and tail were covered with scales so thick that no weapon could pierce them! This monster lashed its tail, opened wide its capacious jaws, and spat forth such a torrent of fire and smoke that Beatus thought his last hour had surely come. Alone and unarmed, resistance was impossible, and as flight would have been equally vain, Beatus commended his soul to God and made a hasty sign of the cross.

At the same moment the monster crept back into its den with a cry of rage and terror; and Beatus, perceiving that it had quailed at the sign of the cross, immediately determined to use so potent a weapon to rid the country of this emissary of Satan. He therefore took up his post at the mouth of the BeatushÖhle, where he mounted guard night and day, fasting and praying persistently. The presence of this holy man, the constant sound of fervent supplication, and the sight of the awe-inspiring sign of the cross every time it moved, so worked upon the dragon’s nerves, that it exploded on the eighth day, and vanished in a cloud of stinking smoke.

The Evil One having thus departed, Beatus took possession of the cave, which he fitted out to serve as a hermitage. From one of the trees on the bank of the lake, he fashioned a rude skiff, in which he rowed from point to point along the shore, often preaching from his boat as his Master had done on the Sea of Galilee.

By the blessing of God, Beatus’ words bore rich fruit, and conversions became so numerous that Satan was alarmed, and determined to make another attempt to kill or drive away the zealous missionary. He therefore stirred up fearful storms every time Beatus left his cave, caused brooks to swell and overflow whenever he tried to cross them, rolled rocks down the mountain to obstruct his pathway, and after many vain trials, succeeded in breaking his oars and making his poor skiff almost useless.

One day, when Beatus came down to the lakeside, he perceived that the waves rose to such a height that it would be impossible for him to cross the lake to officiate at Einigen as he had promised. Loath to disappoint the faithful anxiously awaiting him, Beatus spread out his cloak upon the bank and sat down upon it, hoping that the storm stirred up by the Evil One would soon abate sufficiently to enable him to cross without imminent danger.

While sitting there, inwardly praying, a gust of wind suddenly stole under his outspread cloak; and a moment later Beatus found himself soaring through the air, high over the tossing lake, and was soon gently deposited on the greensward near the little church. The people welcomed him gladly, listened to his teachings, and practised the Christian virtues so diligently that the place where they assembled for worship was soon known far and wide as Paradise.

The concourse of people there became daily greater, and as Beatus was often busy elsewhere, he bade his disciple Justus take charge of the services whenever he failed to appear at the appointed time. Now, it seems that while Beatus himself was very eloquent, his disciple was extremely prosy and long-winded; and Satan, perceiving this, determined to claim, on the judgment day, the souls of all those who slept through the sermon and thus missed the final benediction. He therefore entered the little church at Einigen one Easter morning, seated himself directly under the pulpit, and spreading out a ram-skin on his lap, prepared to take down the names of all who dozed during the service. Although Beatus was expected to preach on that day, and an unusually large congregation was present, he had not yet appeared when the little bell ceased ringing; so Justus mounted the pulpit and began to expound the Scriptures in his stead.

The place was overcrowded, the weather quite warm; and as the worthy man’s teachings were even more uninteresting than usual, one auditor after another nodded and slept. Beatus, who had been detained by a work of mercy, slipped unperceived into the church shortly after the sermon had begun, and seating himself modestly in a corner, lent a reverent and attentive ear to his colleague’s halting discourse.

Looking up, however, he suddenly became aware of the fact that the whole congregation was fast asleep, and that the Evil One was jotting down their names with fiendish glee. While Beatus was hesitating whether to be guilty of the sin of disturbing divine service by making a noise which would wake the imprudent sleepers, or whether he should leave their souls in such a dangerous predicament without making an effort to save them, he perceived that the Devil had almost reached the bottom of his ram-skin, and had not space enough left to inscribe all the remaining names.

At that very moment the Devil became aware of the selfsame fact, but, notoriously quick at devising expedients, he immediately seized the skin between his teeth, and began tugging at it with all his might so as to stretch it sufficiently to serve his purpose. In his haste he gave a jerk which, tearing the skin, threw his head backward, hitting the pulpit such a resonant bang that every man, woman, and child in the congregation awoke with a start.

Beatus, the only one who had seen the accident, disgraced himself by laughing aloud; and the Devil, perceiving he had defeated his own ends, flounced angrily out of the church, and vanished with a yell, while the people sank on their knees and frantically prayed to be forgiven for yielding to fatigue.

Beatus, we are told, was duly punished for laughing in church, for when he again spread out his mantle, expecting to be wafted across the lake, as usual, it remained stationary, and although he ultimately died in the odour of sanctity and was duly canonised, he ever after had to resort to ordinary means of transportation. The cave in which Beatus dwelt on the Beatenberg, and which still bears his name, has been uninhabitable since his day. From its mouth now pours forth a noisy stream during the spring months, and after heavy falls of rain.

Many steamboats daily furrow the lake over which St. Beatus was wont to fly on his mantle; and after passing the romantic town of Oberhofen, directly opposite Einigen, where Justus preached, they come to Spiez, where stands a tower of the old castle of StrÄttlingen. A lord of that name is said to have been suddenly converted, while out hunting, by the sight of a stag bearing a luminous crucifix between its wide antlers. During the Christian persecutions under Hadrian, this StrÄttlingen took refuge in Burgundy, where he greatly distinguished himself during a quarrel with France.

It seems that the two kings had decided that their difference should be settled by a duel between champions of their selection. The king of France, however, produced a giant so strong that no Burgundian dared meet him; and when StrÄttlingen volunteered to fight, the king of Burgundy was duly grateful.

Reaching the lists before his antagonist, StrÄttlingen sat down to await his coming, which he dreaded so little that he quietly fell asleep. When the giant came, he gazed in angry astonishment at a rival snoring as peacefully five minutes before the redoubtable encounter as if he were merely taking a nap before dinner. Convinced that some miracle lay behind this marvellous composure, the giant gazed at his foe more closely still, and declared himself ready to acknowledge his defeat without striking a blow, because the Archangel Michael stood beside the sleeping champion, ready to battle for him.

In reward for the great victory thus won in his sleep, the Burgundian king gave StrÄttlingen his daughter’s hand in marriage, a large estate on the Lake of Thun, and great treasures. Part of this wealth was employed by StrÄttlingen in erecting the castle which still bears his name, and which long remained in the possession of his family. One of his descendants, Wernhardt von StrÄttlingen, was known far and wide for his great charity, and when a shivering pilgrim knocked at his gate one cold winter morning, he unhesitatingly bestowed upon him a brand-new cloak and bade him enter and spend the night in the castle.

When morning came, pilgrim and cloak had vanished, and the lady of StrÄttlingen, who was very economical and far less charitable than her spouse, reproached him bitterly for wasting such a good cloak upon an ungrateful scamp. Although her scolding was vehement and oft renewed, the husband bore it patiently, and when about to set out on a pilgrimage, parted amicably with her, giving her half his ring and telling her she might marry again at the end of five years, if in the meantime he did not return to claim her by producing the other half of the circlet.

This arrangement made, StrÄttlingen set out for Garganum, where he had heard that St. Michael, his patron saint, had recently alighted. Arriving there, he had a vision of St. Michael himself, who gave him his blessing. But on the way home, StrÄttlingen was cast into a prison in Lombardy, where he languished four whole years. Throughout this long captivity StrÄttlingen’s faith never wavered; and when came the time set for his wife’s remarriage should he not return, he fervently prayed that she might be preserved from bigamy.

At that moment the pilgrim appeared in his cell, wrapped in the mantle he had given him, and humbly confessed that he was a demon sent to StrÄttlingen to entrap him into a reckless act of charity, in hopes that the scolding his wife was sure to administer would cause him to sin. The demon next went on to explain that he was now sent by St. Michael to convey him home. Then he proceeded to carry out the orders he had received from the archangel, and did it so skilfully that a few minutes later the lord of StrÄttlingen stood at his castle gate, wrapped in the cloak he had given the pilgrim five years before.

Returning thus unexpectedly and unrecognised, StrÄttlingen perceived that wedding preparations were even then being made. Amid the throng of guests, he stepped up to the table unseen and dropped his half of the ring into his wife’s cup. When she raised it to her lips to drink, she found this pledge, and looking eagerly around her, recognised her husband in his pilgrim’s garb and fell upon his neck. Instead of a wedding feast, a banquet of reunion was now held in the great hall at StrÄttlingen, and as thank-offering for his miraculous return, the count built the church of St. Michael at Einigen.

This church was secretly dedicated by the archangel himself, who graciously made that fact known to the noble builder. The latter is said to have founded a dozen other churches in the neighbourhood, besides one large monastery. After a time, however, he began to pride himself upon his piety and great gifts to the church, and in punishment for this sin, fell desperately ill.

During this illness he saw the archangels Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel wrestling with the Devil for the possession of his soul. But they finally agreed to decide the matter in a strictly impartial way by weighing StrÄttlingen’s good and bad deeds in opposite scales. Held by one saint and filled by another and by the Devil, the scales wavered for a moment. Then the one containing the virtues seemed inclined to kick the beam, until St. Michael rested his hand heavily upon it. Seeing this, the Devil slyly clung to the bottom of the scale in which he was specially interested. But his black and claw-like fingers appearing over the edge of the scale, betrayed his stratagem to St. Michael, who, drawing his sword, drove him away.

This curious legend is illustrated by a painting which long graced the church in Lauterbrunnen, and the various legends told above are carefully preserved in the curious chronicle of the church at Einigen.

Opposite Spiez, at the foot of the Ralligenstock, and near the present town of Ralligen, there was once a village named Roll, whose inhabitants were noted all along the lake shore for their selfishness and pride.

One night when the wind was blowing very hard and after it had rained persistently for several days, a little dwarf came into the village, and knocking at every door humbly begged for shelter. All rudely refused to receive him, except an aged couple living at the end of the village. They bade him enter, gave him the best food that they had in the house, and would gladly have let him sleep in their own bed, had he only been willing to tarry with them over night. But the dwarf told them he still had much to do, and bidding them farewell, ran through the place again, crying that it would soon disappear.

Before morning a terrible storm broke, the lightning struck the top of the Ralligenstock, and all at once the awestruck people heard the rumbling sound of a great landslide. Peering hastily out of their window, the charitable couple saw their little guest gliding rapidly down the mountain side on a huge rock, which he seemed to steer like a sled. Guiding this rock close to their hut, he brought it to a sudden standstill there, making it serve as a bulwark for the tiny house where he had been so hospitably entertained. The rest of the earth and stones swept all the other houses and inhabitants of Roll into the lake, in punishment for their pride and lack of hospitality. But we are told that the little cabin so miraculously spared, stood on the very site of the present castle of Ralligen.

On the same side of the Lake of Thun, and not very far from Ralligen, is the charmingly situated town of Merligen. According to somewhat malicious legends, the people there were none too intelligent. They once built a beautiful City Hall, but discovered only too late that they had forgotten to provide any windows, and that it was pitch dark inside. As it was impossible to transact business in utter obscurity, the city council immediately declared light must be brought in without delay, and bade each of the councillors procure a bagful. All therefore betook themselves in a body to a sunny meadow, opened wide their sacks, and when they saw them full of sunlight, closed them tight and bore them off to the City Hall. But although one bagful after another of golden sunshine was carried in there, and all were opened at once, the hall, to their great surprise and disappointment, remained as dark as ever.

There once stood a nut tree close by the lake at Merligen. It bent so far over the water that the people fancied the topmost branches wanted a drink, so they determined to help it reach the water. The chief magistrate climbed the tree, and seizing the highest bough, bade another citizen catch hold of his legs. This done, a third clung to the second, and continuing thus the people formed a living chain which reached down into the lake. The last man now cried,—

“Are you all ready? Shall we pull?”

“No!” cried the chief magistrate, “wait a minute; I want to spit in my hands!”

Saying this, he suddenly let go, and the whole chain of men splashed into the lake, where they were drowned!

At the end of the eighteenth century, after the French had carried off the treasure of Bern to meet the expenses of the Egyptian war, the other cities decided it might be well to hide or bury their valuables, lest they too should fall into their enemies’ hands. The people of Merligen therefore put all their treasures on board a boat, rowed out to the middle of the lake, and sank them in the deepest spot. To make sure, however, that they would be able to find again the exact spot where the valuables were lying, they carefully drew a heavy mark on their boat directly above the sunken treasure. Unfortunately, this streak did not remain on the spot where the treasure was hidden, but to the dismay of the people accompanied them back to Merligen; and it is said no one has ever yet been able to locate these valuables, whose loss is still mourned.

The strip of land between the lakes of Thun and Brienz is watered by the Aare, which, flowing through both these bodies of water, also serves as a connecting link between them. Interlaken, as its name indicates, is situated between the two lakes.

From the steamboats on the Lake of Brienz, one can see the wooded slopes and charming village of Iseltwald. Here, we are told, you often hear sounds such as might be produced by a huge Æolian harp. Sometimes loud, sometimes low, the melancholy, ghost-like melody quivers softly through the summer air.

Tradition assures us that a huntsman of this region had his right arm disabled by a stroke of lightning; so, taking up his hunting horn, he wandered from place to place, playing wonderful tunes for a living. His admiring auditors rewarded him for his music by small gifts, and all delighted in his constant tunes. Early in the morning, when the first lark rose to the sky, the stirring notes of “Awake, my heart, and sing!” roused the sleeping inhabitants; and far into the night gentle reveries lulled them to sleep. All day long the music played strong, brisk, helpful accompaniments to their labours, and when a thief prowled about their huts at night, ready to seize their property, a sharp danger signal from the ever-ready horn pealed through the quiet air.

Every one loved the wandering huntsman,—no feast or funeral was complete without him, and wherever he went he invariably met with an enthusiastic welcome. The time came, however, when the poor man felt his last hour was near; and seating himself near the edge of the lake he played a melodious farewell to life, and to the land he loved. Then, addressing a lame beggar who had stolen up to listen to his music, he gave him all the money he had, on condition that he would promise to bury him in the Iseltwald.

“But,” he added, “be sure to place my beloved hunting horn in my hand. It has been my friend and comforter for many a year; and if the dead can still feel and move, I shall be glad to beguile the dark and lonely hours spent in my grave. There I shall play soft tunes, until released by the peal of Gabriel’s trump on the day of judgment, when I, too, shall arise to take part in the grand concert played before the throne of God.”

The old huntsman had scarcely finished these words when he died; and true to his promise the beggar laid him to rest at the foot of a mighty oak, with his beloved horn clasped tight in his dead hand. Since then, belated boatmen have often heard a musical call guiding them safely homeward; and the still summer air often pulsates with the sweet, weird melody the huntsman softly plays to himself while waiting to join in the grand Hallelujah Chorus on the judgment day.

After leaving Iseltwald the steamers on the Lake of Brienz stop at the Giessbach, part of which famous falls can be seen from its deck, and thence run on to Brienz, where one can take the train to Meiringen and see the beautiful Reichenbach.

Near the last-named town, on the way to the Hohenstollen, whence a magnificent view is obtainable, one passes the Balisalp, of which the following picturesque legend is told. A shepherd named Res used to tend his cattle here; and after they were duly cared for every evening, he was wont to take the huge funnel through which he poured his milk into his pans, and reversing it, step out on a projecting ledge of rock to call out a loving good-night to his sweetheart, who spent the summer on the Seealp. Then, when it was too dark to see the place where she stood, he would quietly enter his hut, climb up into the loft, and lying down on his pallet, would sleep soundly until the next day, when his first morning greeting was also shouted to the girl he loved.

One night the herdsman suddenly awoke, and hearing a crackling sound, peered down into the chÂlet to see what it might be. To his surprise he saw three strange-looking men sitting around a bright fire they had kindled on his hearth, busy making cheese in a giant kettle. The largest of the three kept stirring the milk, the next one brought more to add to it, while the third kept up a bright blaze by adding fuel to the fire from time to time.

Watching these men, the owner of the hut saw the cheesemaker pour a reddish fluid into the kettle. Then the second stepped to the door, and taking a huge horn, began to play a weird melody. Low at first, it gradually roused all the echoes, and had a magical effect, for all the cows came running up to him and soon stood around in a circle as if to listen. This musical performance ended, the third man poured the contents of the huge kettle into three vessels, and the watching herdsman noted with surprise that the liquid in each receptacle was of a different hue.

Just then, the tallest man looked up, and bade the herdsman come down and drink from any vessel he pleased,—explaining that if he partook of the red liquid he would be as strong as a giant and receive one hundred cows; if he tasted of the green, he would have a large fortune; while if he chose the white, he would receive the magic horn and be able to play the weird tune, which, as he had seen, would charm cows as well as men.

The young dairyman had been so enraptured by the music he had heard, that he unhesitatingly snatched the bowl containing the white liquid and took a deep draught. When he set it down again, his strange visitors warmly congratulated him upon his selection, for had he drunk out of either of the other vessels he would surely have died, and centuries would have elapsed before the Alphorn would again have been offered to mankind. This explanation given, the three strangers suddenly vanished, leaving no trace of their presence save the Alphorn, which the young man put to his lips just as the first gleams of light appeared in the east. Then, to his delight, he found he could play as well as the mysterious stranger.

He soon made a second horn just like the one he had received from his night visitors, and taught his beloved to use it. They kept up a lively musical intercourse all summer, although too far apart to hear each other’s words. In the autumn they were married, and their descendants inherited their wonderful musical instruments, and still play the peculiar air, which has, as yet, lost none of its primitive charm.

A similar story is told of the Wengernalp, where, however, on the eve of the wedding, the young herdsman’s musical call was answered by a ghostly voice announcing the death of his betrothed. The expectant bridegroom was so shocked by these tidings that he dropped his wonderful horn, which was shattered on the rocks below him. Then, maddened by grief, he ranged the mountain, until, in a fit of despair, he committed suicide.

Since then, many imitations have been made of the magic horn, but none has ever reproduced any of its best high notes, and all the present instruments are remarkable for their deep, sad tones, which produce an indescribably mournful impression upon all those who hear them for the first time.

On the way from Meiringen to the famous RhÔne glacier, one sees some of the most beautiful and varied scenery in the world. After passing charming points too numerous to mention, the road, which rises rapidly, leads over the barren Grimsel Pass, where stands a famous refuge for poor travellers, the well-known Grimsel Hospice.

A legend claims that in olden times this region blossomed like the rose, and that the highest mountains were as fertile as any valley nestling in a sheltered location at their foot. When Our Lord bade the Wandering Jew4 begin the never-ending journey for which he is so noted, he immediately set out, and tramping incessantly, started to cross the Alps at the Grimsel. Although constantly urged along by a power he could not resist, Ahasuerus, the Jew, marked the happy people dwelling on the banks of the Aare and the RhÔne, and marvelled at the extreme fertility of the pass, where grapes and figs grew in abundance, where no barren spot could be seen, and where mighty oaks covered the tops of mountains now crowned by eternal snows.

The air was mild and balmy, even at the greatest altitude; and hosts of birds in bright plumage flitted about, twittering and singing in the merriest way. Ahasuerus also noticed that the people were gentle and hospitable, for wherever he asked for food or drink it was quickly granted, and he was warmly invited to tarry with them and rest his weary limbs. This invitation, however, he could not accept; but hurried on, unconscious of the fact that a blight fell over every place through which he passed; for the curse laid upon him not only condemned him to move on for ever, but enhanced his punishment by making cold, want, and pestilence follow in his train.

Many years passed by before the Wandering Jew again found himself near the Alps; but weary as he was, he somewhat quickened his footsteps, hoping to feast his eyes upon the landscape which had so charmed him the first time, and to meet again the warm-hearted people who had been so kind to him once before.

As he drew near the mountains, however, sad forebodings wrung his heart, for they were enveloped in a dense fog, which seemed to him particularly cold and clammy. Hurrying on up the pass, he eagerly looked from side to side, yet saw nothing but dark pines wildly tossing their sombre branches against a gray sky, while ravens and owls flew past him, croaking and hooting. Vines, figs, and oaks had vanished, and the happy people, driven away by the constant windstorms which swept the mountains, had taken refuge in the sheltered valleys. But although all else was changed, the spirit of hospitality still lingered on the heights, for the charcoal-burners gladly shared their meagre supply of coarse food with the Wandering Jew, and warmly invited him to be seated at their campfire.

The Jew, however, had to hasten on; and many long years elapsed before he again trod the Grimsel Pass. For a while he still perceived dark firs and smouldering fires, but it seemed to him that they were much nearer the foot of the mountain than they had been at his second visit. As he climbed upward he also noticed that the path was much more rugged than before, for rocks and stones had fallen down upon it from above, making it almost impassable in certain places. As no obstacle could stop this involuntary traveller, he went on over rolling stones and jagged rocks, and nearing the top of the pass discovered that every trace of vegetation had vanished, and that the place formerly so fertile was now covered with barren rocks and vast fields of snow. Raising his eyes to the peaks all around him he perceived that oaks, beeches, and pines had all vanished, and that the steep mountain sides were heavily coated with ice, which ran far down into the valleys in great frozen streams.

The sight of all this desolation, which had taken the place of such luxuriant vegetation, proved too much for poor Ahasuerus, who sank down on a rock by the wayside and burst into tears. There he sat and sobbed, as he realised for the first time the blighting effect of his passage. His tears flowed so freely that they trickled down into a rocky basin, and when he rose to pursue his way down into the Hasli valley, he left a little lake behind him.

In spite of the masses of snow and ice all around, and of the cold winds which constantly sweep over that region, the waters of the lake still remain as warm as the tears which fell from Ahasuerus’s eyes; and no fish are ever found in this pool.

Still, notwithstanding the desolate landscape, Ahasuerus found the spirit of hospitality not quite dead, for far up on the pass rose a shelter for weary travellers, where they were carefully tended by pious monks. But even here he could not rest, and as he passed along down the mountain, he heard the thunder of falling avalanches behind him. It is during this last journey that he is supposed to have lost the queer old shoe which was long treasured in one of the vaults of the Bern Library.

It is also said that when pausing at one of the huts in the Hasli valley, he sorrowfully foretold that when fate brought him there for the fourth and last time, the whole fruitful valley, from the top of the mountains down to the Lake of Brienz, would be transformed into a huge unbroken field of ice, where he would wander alone in quest of the final resting-place which until now has been denied him, although Eugene Field claims he found it in the New World.5

This account of the passage of the Wandering Jew is told with slight variations of all the passes between Switzerland and Italy. Every particularly barren spot in the former country is supposed to have been blighted because he passed through there, or because mortals sinned so grievously that they brought a curse down upon it.

Although travellers coming over the Grimsel often make their way from there to Grindelwald, in the heart of the Oberland, this point is most easily reached from Interlaken, by means of the railroad following the course of an Alpine stream, the LÜtchine, which flows in a rocky bed between tall cliffs and steep pine-clad hills. After passing Burglauenen, of which the same story is told as of Roll on the Lake of Thun, you come to Grindelwald, where you have the best view of the Wetterhorn.

A picturesque legend claims that in the Golden Age, when no snow or ice had ever been seen in Switzerland, rich pastures lay between the Faulhorn and the Siedelhorn. A fine brook flowing through there supplied the cattle with all the water they needed, and enabled the herdsmen to keep all their pails and pans in a state of dazzling whiteness and immaculate purity. The pasture was so rich, and the cows gave such quantities of milk, that the men were always tired of milking long before they were through. Spoiled by too great plenty, and over-inclined to take their ease, these men cursed cows and pasture, so a great change soon took place, which at first struck them as very welcome, because as the kine’s milk decreased their work diminished.

But one day a maiden came to Gidi, the principal herdsman, and breathlessly announced that a very strange thing had happened, for the brook was all covered with a very thin sheet of glass! When Gidi heard this, he cried,—

“Then it is high time we should change our pasture!”

He therefore immediately drove his herd down into the valley, where, clearing away the dense forest, he built the little village Gidisdorf, which still bears his name. Since then, that place—more generally known as Grindelwald—has become a great resort for tourists, who are attracted thither by the healthful situation, and by the marvellous views obtainable on all sides. From this place many interesting excursions are possible, among others that to the Scheidegg.

It seems that the possession of the Great or Hasli Scheidegg was once the cause of a serious dispute between the people of Hasli and Grindelwald. As the matter could not be settled otherwise, it was to be decided by oath. The people of Grindelwald, who could not swear truthfully that it belonged to them, nevertheless won it by stratagem, for their champion, filling his shoes with earth from his garden at Grindelwald, boldly presented himself before the judge on the disputed land. There he swore in a tone of such intense conviction that he stood upon Grindelwald soil, that the judge, persuaded of the rectitude of his claim, awarded the disputed land to his community.

The perjurer was, however, duly punished for this crime, for even now his soul can find no rest. Mounted the wrong way round upon a ghostly steed, he rides every night from the spot where he committed perjury down to Meiringen; and if one listens attentively one can often hear his sighs and groans as he takes this nightly jaunt.

On either side of the Upper Grindelwald Glacier tower the Wetterhorn and the two Schreckhorn peaks. The latter mountains are said to be haunted by an unhappy chamois-hunter, who insisted on going in pursuit of game, although a terrible storm was raging and his wife frantically implored him to stay at home.

After climbing far up among the rocks, he detected a fine chamois, and crouching near the edge of a fearful abyss, took careful aim and fired. But just then his gun recoiled, and losing his insecure footing, he slipped over the edge. Instead of falling all the way down, however, the hunter landed on a narrow ledge of rock, whence he could not stir, for the cliff rose straight above and fell sheer below him hundreds of feet.

The poor man, unable to move, remained almost in the same position for three days and two nights, when, seeing no hope of escape, and unable to endure his sufferings any longer, he resolved to commit suicide. Writing the story of the accident which had befallen him and of his fatal resolve, he threw the scrap of paper down into the abyss at his feet. Then, reloading his gun, which he had held fast in his fall, he sent an unerring bullet straight through his brain.

Months later the paper was found close by his shattered corpse; and since then, whenever a storm rages, one can hear the sudden report of a gun, a crashing fall, prolonged heart-rending groans, and the people declare it is the suicide repeating the awful tragedy which ended his life.

It seems that there was once a convent at Interlaken where the nuns, unmindful of their vows, led anything but pure lives. Banished after death to the Schreckhorn, these nuns lie buried deep in the snow; but the spots where they rest glitter in a peculiar way, and are known as Snow Eyes. People say that they are placed there to serve as a constant warning to the valley maidens not to follow the example of those dissolute nuns.

A legend claims that St. Martin once came to Grindelwald, and finding a valley too narrow to admit as much sunshine as he deemed necessary for the good of the people, determined to widen it. He therefore resolutely braced his back against the Mettenberg, and jamming his stick hard against the Eiger, pushed with such force that he partly accomplished his purpose. Such was the effort he made, that the imprint of his back can still be seen in the Mettenberg and a final thrust of his staff punched a hole through the Eiger! This perforation, far up the mountain, is known as the Heiterloch or Martinsloch, and the sun always shines through it on St. Martin’s Day, to keep bright the memory of the saint who made it.

Far up on the southwestern side of the Jungfrau, or Virgin Mountain, is a desolate, icy place, known as the Rothenthal, or Red Valley. In olden times this was one of the most fertile pastures that had ever been seen. And as it was all gemmed over with delicate Alpine flowers, it was generally known as the Alp of the Little Flowers, or the BlÜmelis Alp.

A beautiful winding road leading right through this valley formed a convenient pass between the cantons of Bern and Valais, and the people there would have been perfectly happy had they not been subject to tyrannical lords. These noblemen were grasping and unprincipled, as well as cruel, and built a castle near the highway so that they could conveniently despoil all travellers and levy supplies from the peasants in the neighbourhood. Not content with these depredations, they cultivated every vice they could think of, and often kidnapped the maidens who happened to please their taste or catch their lustful eyes.

A beautiful and innocent maiden was once tending her cows upon the fragrant BlÜmelis Alp when the lord of Rothenthal suddenly perceived her, and inflamed by passion suddenly tried to seize her. The poor girl uttered a wild shriek of terror, and looked around her for help. No one was in sight, however, and she already deemed herself lost, when a big black goat suddenly appeared, and rushing against her assailant with lowered horns, bucked him repeatedly, and finally hurled him over the edge of the precipice. The maiden, who had fled when the nobleman let go of her to defend himself against his horned antagonist, turned around just in time to see her persecutor fall. At the same moment the mountains shook violently, and huge masses of ice and rock came crashing down upon the blooming pasture, which, in the twinkling of an eye, was converted into the icy waste you can see there to-day.

Although now seldom trodden by human feet, the Rothenthal is still said to be haunted by the spirits of all those who have oppressed their fellow-men. Here they wander, up and down, bewailing their fate with sighs and groans which can be heard far and wide. Whenever the demons bring a new spirit thither to share their punishment, there is a grand commotion in the Rothenthal,—stones roll, avalanches fall, and the cries and groans become so loud and sustained that the people in the neighbouring valleys, awakening with a start, hide their heads under their blankets and murmur,—

“They are bringing another lord to the Valley!”

A moment later a sudden and stronger gust of wind sweeps past their dwellings; and when it is over, they timidly emerge from their coverings, making the sign of the cross to ward off evil, or softly breathing a prayer to be preserved from harm.

Interlaken is also the usual point of departure for those who wish to visit the valley of Lauterbrunnen, the famous Falls of the Staubbach, and the pastures of MÜrren, whence such a beautiful view of the Alps can be obtained, and whence the sunset effects on the glaciers are particularly grand. As Mr. Samuel Longfellow says,—

We are informed that in olden times, before the stream here had hollowed out its deep ravine, a herdsman used to exchange long conversations with his beloved, who tended her cattle on the opposite side of the Sausbach. One day when there was a great freshet, and the noise of the roaring waters drowned their voices, the young people, in a playful mood, began to fling handfuls of grass and sod at each other, laughing merrily and making mocking signs whenever one of the harmless missiles reached its goal. In the excitement of the game, however, the young man finally tore up a great lump of loose earth, and unconscious of the fact that a sharp stone lay imbedded deep in it, hurled it with accurate aim straight at the head of his sweetheart. Instead of the half-laughing, half-indignant outcry he fully expected, he suddenly saw the maiden sink lifeless to the ground, for the sharp stone had run straight into her temple!

The broken-hearted youth gave up his herd, withdrew from the company of his former associates, and building a hut on the very spot where the girl he loved had perished, spent the rest of his life in penance and prayer. It is also said that he finally died there, without having known another happy moment, and without ever smiling again.