Letters from Switzerland
Samuel Irenæus Prime
eBook
(Transcript, July 10, 2014)
Letters from Switzerland by Samuel Irenæus PrimeSwitzerland, to be seen aright, must be entered from Germany. Many travellers rush from Paris to Geneva, and beginning with Chamouni and Mont Blanc come down from the greater to the less, tapering off with the beautiful instead of rising to the sublime. One lovely summer day in the early part of the month of August, we left Baden Baden, where we had been resting after a tour in Belgium, Holland, Prussia, Saxony, Saxon Switzerland, Austria, Bavaria, and Bohemia, and came by the Duke of Baden’s railroad to Basle.The hotel de Trois Rois, or, Three Kings, was reluctant to receive us, so great was the rush of company. Large as some of our own first class hotels, it was crowded to overflowing, but we found lodgings for three at the top of the house. It stands on the very borders of the river Rhine, which rushes by with a powerful current, and the verandah in front overhanging the stream is a pleasant lounge after a weary day of travel. Lodgings for three gentlemen, or in German, “fur drei Herren,” we had so often asked for, that we came to be called the “Drei Herren,” or “dry herring,” as it sounded in our English ears.The river forms a broad and noble stream along the sloping bank on which the city stands; the Jura mountains rise on one side, and the hills of the Black Forest on the other, while the intermediate region is richly covered with vegetation, and the villas of a wealthy class of people who have retired from the city, or who own the soil. Basle is a goodly town, and if the people have some rigid notions of morality in the judgment of travellers of easy virtue, it is refreshing to come into a city where the shops are closed of a Sunday, and every one is required to be at home by eleven o’clock at night. A city that bore so conspicuous a part in the Reformation, and still cherishes the ashes of so many great and good men, ought not to lose its veneration for the spirit and principles of the past. In the Cathedral, now in process of renovation, we stood over the dust of the learned Erasmus, read his epitaph in Latin, walked among the beautiful cloisters which have been burial places for the wise and good for more than six hundred years! where the monuments stand of Grynæus, and Meyer, and Œcolampadius, men who were mighty in the Scriptures, in the days when such men were few. We walked through the portal of St. Gallus, under the statues of Christ and Peter, and the wise and foolish Virgins, and admired the pulpit of three pieces of stone, carved with great skill and effect; and then we were led to the chamber where the Council of Basle held its sessions, beginning in 1436, and lasting eight years. It has undergone no alterations in the four hundred years which have since elapsed. In the Library are preserved manuscripts of Luther, Melancthon, Erasmus and Zwingle, and a huge volume in which illustrious visitors had inscribed their names for two hundred years. The celebrated pictures of the Dance of Death once adorned the walls of the Dominican church in Basle, and a few of them still preserved are now hung up in this collection, among others of greater merit but less fame, by Holbein. A beautiful picture, which I have seen attempted with far less success before, presents a Venus sleeping by the side of a stream, and a skull lying near her, and flowers blooming around, to illustrate the lines: Mortis imago sopor: velut amnis labitur ætas, vix forma reliquium pulvis et ossa manent. “The image of death is sleep: like the river life glides away, and dust and bones, the only relics of departed beauty, are left behind.” In the next room the same sentiment is more impressively taught from an uncovered sarcophagus, in which a female mummy grins horribly at you, as you look into the narrow house which she has slept in for two or three thousand years.