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 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.