ZÜrich, the old Roman Turicum, on either side of the Limmat at the point where it flows out of the green-hued lake, is the capital of the canton of the same name, and noted alike for the beauty of its situation and for its famous University.

In the days of the early Christian persecution, Felix and Regula, the patron saints of ZÜrich, were beheaded near this town. Strange to relate, though, immediately after the execution, both martyrs picked up their severed heads, tucked them under their arms, and stalked off to the spot where the minster now stands, where they wound up their marvellous performances by burying themselves comfortably! On the spot where they suffered martyrdom Charlemagne erected a memorial pillar, above which he hung a bell, saying that it could be rung by any one who had been wronged, and that they should receive immediate justice.

During one of his visits to ZÜrich, Charlemagne took up his abode in the Choristers’ House, and while he sat there at table one day he suddenly heard a loud peal from the bell of justice. He immediately despatched a servant to see what wrong had been done, and was greatly annoyed when the man reported that careful search had failed to reveal the presence of any living creature. A few moments later the bell rang again, but when the servant once more announced that no one was there, the emperor bade his guards hide near the pillar, and seize the miscreant who dared to pull the bell of justice in mere fun.

Before long the bell sounded a third time, and a few moments later the guards rushed into the emperor’s presence with faces blanched with fear, to report that a snake had coiled itself around the pillar, and seizing the rope in its teeth, tugged until the bell rang forth loud and clear. The emperor immediately rose from table, saying he must see this phenomenon with his own eyes, and followed by all his court went down to the pillar. As he drew near, the snake came forward to meet him, and rising upon its coiled tail, bowed low before the monarch in evident recognition of his exalted station. Then, dropping down to the earth once more, it crept away, turning from time to time, and making signs as if to invite the emperor to follow. The serpent’s actions were so eloquent that Charlemagne, understanding them, obediently followed it down to the edge of the water, where, parting the reeds, the snake showed him its nest, in which sat an enormous toad.

Charlemagne now bade his guards seize and kill the intruder, and when the snake had bowed its thanks and contentedly coiled itself around its eggs, he went back to his interrupted meal, loudly praising the bell by means of which even dumb animals could appeal for justice.

The next day, while the emperor again sat at dinner, the guards rushed in breathlessly to announce the coming of the strange snake. Charlemagne quickly bade them stand aside and not try to hinder the reptile, which now crawled into the room where he sat, climbed up on the table, did obeisance to the emperor, and delicately lifting the cover of his drinking-cup, dropped into it a jewel of fabulous price. Then, replacing the cover of the vessel, the snake bowed low again, and creeping down, left the cloister to return to its nest by the lake.

According to one version of this legend, Charlemagne set this precious stone in a ring which he gave to his wife, Frastrada.13 Unknown to him, however, the stone had the magic power of fixing his affections upon its wearer. When the queen, therefore, thought she was about to die, she slipped the ring into her mouth to prevent its falling into the hands of some rival. For eighteen years Charlemagne refused to part with his wife’s body, and carried it with him wherever he went. But at the end of that time his minister Turpin discovered the secret of his infatuation, and obtaining possession of the magic stone, soon saw all Charlemagne’s affections fixed upon him.

As the emperor’s devotion proved somewhat of a bore to the old minister, he tried to get rid of the spell by casting the ring into the mineral springs at Aix-la-Chapelle. While out hunting the next day, Charlemagne urged his steed to drink of that water, and when the animal hastily withdrew its foot and refused to approach the pool again, the emperor dismounted to investigate the cause.

Touching the imprint of the horse’s hoof, Charlemagne discovered that the mud was very warm, for he was near the hottest of these thermal springs. While resting near that pool, he was seized with such an affection for the spot that he soon founded there his capital of Aix-la-Chapelle.

In memory of the horse which guided him hither, the Cathedral was built in the shape of a horseshoe, and as Charlemagne could not endure the thought of ever leaving this enchanted neighbourhood, he left orders to bury him in the minster of Aix-la-Chapelle.

On the spot where Charlemagne’s famous bell once hung, at ZÜrich, stands the Wasserkirche, which now contains a large library with valuable and interesting manuscripts. Charlemagne’s great-grandson Louis II. often visited ZÜrich, where his two pious daughters induced him to build a convent and the FrauenmÜnster.

It is said that the place for these buildings was staked out by angel hands, and that the stakes were connected by a silken string of the finest make. This rope was hung above the altar of the new church, where it remained until the Reformation. It was then removed with many other relics, and served for years as ordinary bell-rope in a private house.

The king’s daughters, who both became abbesses, long dwelt at Baldern Castle, whence, however, they went down to the FrauenmÜnster whenever the bell rang for prayers. They even attended the midnight services there, and when it was very dark a stately stag invariably walked before them carrying a flaming torch between its antlers.

At the foot of the southern slope of the Albis—a green mountain near ZÜrich—lies the little lake of TÜrl or the TÜrlersee. Tradition claims that this valley once belonged to the lords of Schnabelberg, whose castle stood on the height still bearing that name. They intrusted the care of their lands to an unprincipled steward who once induced a miser to sell his daughter for a piece of rich land down in the valley. This iniquitous bargain had no sooner been concluded than the inhuman father hastened down to view his new farm; but while he was inspecting it, a fearful storm arose. Thunder-bolts, repeatedly striking the mountain, detached great masses of stone, which, in falling, made a dam across the valley.

In a few moments the rain, pouring down the mountain side in swift torrents, filled all the hollow made by this dam, covering every inch of land the miser had received in exchange for his child. Terrified by this visitation from Heaven, the unjust steward not only let the maiden go unharmed, but paid a rich dower to the convent she entered, and mended his evil ways as much as he could.

Near the Lake of TÜrl once lived a lady named Kriemhild, who was jealous because her neighbours’ lands were more productive than her own. In hopes of ruining their crops, she bade a Salamancan student flood their fields. The latter, scorning magic arts for so simple a task, dug a deep ditch, which, allowing the waters of the lake to escape, would accomplish his evil purpose just as well.

St. Verena, passing by there accidentally, discovered his purpose, and before he could complete his task whisked him and Kriemhild off to the Glarnisch in Glarus, where both are condemned to dig in the ice and snow until they have made plants bloom in the desolate spot still known as St. Verena’s or Vreneli’s garden. As for the ditch it is still to be seen, and in memory of Kriemhild’s evil intentions it still bears her name.

Only a short railway journey from ZÜrich is the ancient castle of Kyburg, which rises between Winterthur and Frauenfeld. It once belonged to a family of the same name, a side branch of the famous house of Welfs or Guelfs. To account for this name, tradition relates that a Kyburg having married Irmentrude, Charlemagne’s sister-in-law, went to live with her in a castle near Altorf.

One day, a poor woman came to this castle begging for food, and sadly yet proudly exhibited triplets, whose recent arrival into the world prevented her working as usual for her living. The Countess of Kyburg, seeing these children, sternly refused all help to the woman, declaring no faithful wife had ever been known to bear so many children at once, and that she would not encourage vice in her lands by giving alms to women of bad lives.

The virtuous peasant woman, justly offended at this harsh speech, turned angrily away. But she paused a moment at the gate, to call Heaven to prove that she had always been true to her marriage vows by giving the Countess twelve children at a birth. The Countess paid little heed to this curse, but many months later she was terrified by the simultaneous arrival of twelve sons, all exactly alike, and all unmistakable Kyburgs.

Now it happened that her husband was away when these babes came into the world, and the Countess, fearing he might take the same view of the affair as she had taken of the poor woman’s triplets, bade her faithful old nurse drown eleven of the babes in a neighbouring pond. The nurse, for whom the Countess of Kyburg’s words were law, immediately bundled eleven of the boys into her apron, and stealing out of the castle by a postern gate, made her way towards the pool. She had nearly reached it when she was suddenly confronted by her master just returning home, and he immediately inquired what she had in her apron, and what she was going to do.

The poor woman, hoping to shield her mistress, stammered that she was on her way to drown a litter of wolf cubs; then she tried to slip past him, but he insisted on seeing the cubs, and when she resisted, laid violent hands upon the apron she held so tightly together. A mere glimpse of its contents made him hotly demand a full explanation, and when posted about every detail of the affair, he bound the nurse over to secrecy, took charge of the boys, and had them carefully brought up, unknown to his wife, who fancied they were all dead.

For six years the Count of Kyburg kept this secret, but at the end of that time he gave a great banquet, to which he invited all his relatives and friends. In the middle of this meal, the eleven boys, richly dressed, were shown into the hall by his order. The guests all stared in amazement at these children, who were so exactly like one another, and like the supposedly only son of their host, that no one could doubt their parentage.

While they were still speechless, the Count of Kyburg suddenly inquired, in terrible tones, what punishment should be awarded to the person who had tried to murder eleven such promising young Welfs (Wolves)? At these words the guilty Countess suddenly fainted, and the guests were informed of the part she had played. When she recovered her senses, her husband generously forgave her, but the children he had rescued were known ever after by the name their father gave them when he first introduced them to his friends.

King Louis II. of France is said to have promised one of the Welfs as much land as he could ride around in a golden wagon in one day. This Welf immediately decided to secure the boon by a subterfuge, since he could not get it otherwise.

By his orders, a tiny golden wagon was made, and sitting upon this toy, placed in a wagon to which were harnessed his quickest pacing oxen, he rode around a tract of land on either side of the Rhine, which included the site of Kyburg Castle. Thus he won the Kyburg estate where his three sons were born. In due time two of these became bishops, equally renowned for their learning and great piety.

One of them, in serving Mass at Easter, saw a huge poisonous spider fall into the chalice. Loath to disturb the communion service, he swallowed the spider with the wine, and after Mass sat down to table, where, however, he refused to partake of any food. Exhausted by a long spell of fasting, he soon fell asleep, and his drowsy head rested on the table, while his breath passed softly between his parted lips. His friends, watching him, suddenly saw the spider—an emissary of Satan—creep out of his mouth and slink away, having been unable to injure so good a man.

The two bishops once sat in the castle, before a well-spread board, on the eve of a solemn fast-day. Although food and wine lay in plenty before them, they partook of them but sparingly, and were so absorbed in pious conversation that they remained there hour after hour, quite unmindful of the flight of time. The castle clock had just pealed forth the midnight hour, and the solemn fast had begun, when their secretary stepped into the hall to inquire whether they still had need of his services. This man, envious of their reputation, had long been jealous of them, and anxious to catch them tripping so he could publish the fact abroad. When he therefore beheld them seated before a huge roast of boar’s flesh, with several bottles full of wine still before them, his eyes flashed with malicious pleasure. A moment later, however, he stood with lowered eyes and in subservient attitude before his superiors, who bade him go to rest, and, in the kindness of their hearts, gave him a big portion of meat and a bottle of wine to carry away with him.

The secretary meekly thanked the bishops, and took leave of them with apparent humility; but no sooner had he closed the door behind him, than he rushed off to a neighbouring convent, his heart dancing with fiendish glee. Rousing the brethren, he told them, with every mark of sanctimonious regret, that their shepherds were faithless, for they were even now, on a solemn fast-day, partaking of forbidden meat and drink!

He added that when they found themselves detected in this wrong-doing, they tried to silence him by giving him a portion of their viands, thus making him a partaker in their sin. In proof of this assertion, he produced the food they had given him, and the monks all crowded around, with long-drawn faces, to see and smell these evidences of their superiors’ guilt.

To the secretary’s surprise, however, they soon turned indignantly upon him, declaring that the so-called boar’s flesh was the fish served on the monastery table every fast-day; and the rich wine nothing but the small beer which invariably accompanied it. The secretary protested wrathfully, but when he, too, examined those articles carefully, he was forced to acknowledge the monks right, and to confess that Providence had worked a miracle to prevent two absent-minded saints from inadvertently committing a grievous sin.