as slips through a mountain gorge, and which dashes through these streets as swiftly, and stood in the square alone with the one-spired cathedral, a few early fruit women, and a few early worshippers who passed in to pray. Nothing but the most general outline of the building suggested the resemblance, yet the noble church built 800 years ago, with its single spire 513 feet high, recalled a New England meeting-house. Of course the likeness was much like that of my friend in the cars to Bacchus, and yet when fancy was once on the scent, away it went, and in the square around the church with its quaint German houses, its fruit stands, and old men and women, saw the bare common about the village meeting-house, where fairs and the general training take place.

Clearly showing," said Annad, to whom I communicated this absurd whim, "the essential unity of the human race, and the subtle relation between the medieval Gothic genius and Yankee shrewdness. When we reach Greece I have no doubt you will find the Parthenon reminding you of a log cabin on the prairies."

"Or in Italy pure Falernian of hard cider," chimed in Franz.

A completed Gothic cathedral! The only one in Germany, and the only really great European church that I remember fully completed according to the original design except the Madeleine in Paris, and St. Paul's in London. Neither St. Peter's (which is not Gothic), nor the Milan Cathedral, nor the Florence Duomo, nor St. Stephen's at Vienna, nor Notre Dame in Paris, nor the Cathedral of Strasbourg, nor that of Cologne is finished yet, nor ever will be. Although the king of Prussia, a great lover of Art and a great hater of Liberty-announces every little while a magnificent project for the completion of the Cathedral of Cologne.

The "Dome" of Freibourg is a large church of florid Gothic. The base of the spire is massive and plain, with only one or two statues. But it becomes gradually richer as it rises, refining more and more, until finally it wreathes away into the blue air in aerial stone-work. The tower and spire are pyramidal from the base to the point. The building is of a rusty gray color, and stands sad and lonely in the midst of the little town of unsympathizing buildings, for there are only 10,000 people in Freibourg. The sentiment of Gothic architecture is always aspiration, but in no example is it more impressive than at Freibourg, where the Cathedral, all its parts consenting, soars into the sky,-a grand old mystic rapt in sublime devotion, raising his soul in prayer.

We followed the pious pilgrims of the early morning, and entered the Cathedral. A reverent group knelt at a side altar, and a priest-fasting, as the church requires-said morning mass. Handsome boys, the acolytes, passed rapidly to and from the door of the Sacristy, or knelt in white robes, holding candles and ringing the silver bell. Yielding to the same feeling which in the New England meeting-house makes the worshipper rise in prayer, I knelt upon the stone floor of the Cathedral, as the sweet voice of the bell announced the moment of transubstantiation, and a fragrant cloud of incense softened the fervor of the sun. Annad, of course, pulled his whiskers and looked at the pictures, waiting for the end of the mummery, that he might inspect the church. Franz sedately bent his head,— his principles forbade him to bend his knee.

Near me knelt a young girl, not bent over, with her face concealed, but with her hands lying upon her knees, and her face turned upward toward the altar like the Magdalen of Canova. She was, perhaps, nineteen years old, but the lines upon her face, the sharply-cut features, and the wan sadness of the eye, showed clearly enough that her knowledge of life had not been gathered from description, but had been wearily worn into her heart. Her light hair was loosely pushed under a cap, and a few locks straggled down her hollow cheeks. The blue of her eyes was lustreless; it had no longer that soft, swimming richness which is so alluring in the blue eyes of youth, health and happiness, and her whole aspect and position indicated a heart-breaking despair that fell like a cloud upon the beauty of the day. The girl shed no tears. It seemed as if she wondered whether she should be touched by the service, whether in the church, in the sunshine, in the cool, sweet morning, there was any succor or consolation for her. But as the low sound of the bell fell like trickling music upon her car and heart,- -was it the bell, or the face of the boy who rang it, or the sun that reached through the rainbow window and laid his warm hand upon her head, or the sudden thought of youth before grief, or the comfortable conviction that there was a love warmer than the sunshine, and a forgiveness more efficacious than that of men,-the girl passionately clasped her hands, and bent forward in an agony of tears, and the few fair locks that straggled down her hollow cheeks, seemed in the sunlight a halo around the head of a repentant Magdalen.

The Cathedral of eight centuries was

square, and 120 feet high; then succeeds a twelve-cornered story, ending in a gallery, and from this to the summit, 415 feet from the ground, rises the octagonal shaft of stone filagree. It is the darling of the early Gothic. "Whoever," says Wiebeking, in his work upon German architecture, "wishes to know the true greatness of the early German architects, must study the tower of Freibourg Cathedral."

It was during the Schleswig-Holstein war that we were in Freibourg, and as we emerged into the square the rappel, or general military call, was beating. From every lane and street, and, as it seemed, from all the doors, came soldiers with heavy knapsacks accoutred for a march. Few others were yet stirring. They fell into rank rapidly. Officers moved among them uttering sharp crisp orders. There was the rattle of shouldering arms, a roll call, a sudden silence, and then with a loud-it seemed mocking-burst of music, the troops moved at a rapid rate out of the square and out of the town, and marched with equal rapidity toward glory.

We sauntered through the streets, and the whole air of the town and of the towns-people was that of tranquil, domestic, provincial life. There was honey for breakfast at the hotel. It was a. strain of Switzerland, for honey belongs to Helvetia as much as to Hymettus. Annad declared that he tasted the Righi and the Finsteraarhorn in his, and I confess a flavor of Mont Blanc in mine. Franz cracking his teeth upon a crust, swore that it was worse than nibbling the Rhone glacier, while Binge, in whom nature had combined Apollo and Peter the Hermit, moistened his crust in water, and said nothing.

The brilliant morning was still flashing through the airy spire of the Cathedral as we stepped into the cars, and entered upon the last stage to Switzerland. The shriek of the locomotive rang through the air like the impatient snorts of a charger snuffing victory. We, knights of more balanced temper, lay, as Franz said, quoting from an old college theme, "cased in the glittering armor of hope, and put the lance of expectation in rest.'

We darted on. The gray spire nestled down among the hills as we left it, and was soon seen no more. The hills upon the left of our way rose rapidly into mountains as we neared them, and opened into alluring valleys. Heavy clouds loomed jealously over them, settled deep into them and hung along the ridges, a roof of night, while the sun-stricken grain at the base of the hills, lined that

sullen gloom with gold. Little showers skimmed along the hills, blotting out their dark line against the sky. April redivivus was wreaking his most characteristic whims upon the mountains of the Black Forest at our left, while far over the plain upon our right beamed a calm June morning.

The clouds passed. June triumphed over April at the base of the hills, and drove it far over their summits. The cars stopped. We were at the end of the railroad, and mounting the top of the post-coach we pushed forward again, up -up-up a hill so steep that the horses could scarcely draw us. But still higher and still forward, until we reached the ridge of the long hill, and a fresh wind blew a welcome from Switzerland. day was cool and clear, nothing was wilted, there was none of the sereness of late summer; nothing was sad. There were no low wailing airs, but a vigorous wind; no sighing leaves, but trees that rustled bravely in the blast; no long, dreamy vapors floating in the sky, but stately and rounded cloud masses.

The

Conversation gradually ceased as we bowled along. Our eager eyes were like mariners' eyes at sea, watching for a promised land; when-suddenly-seen from the highest point of the hill, Switzerland lay sketched in tumultuous outline against the distant horizon. Soft as shadows were the Alps upon the sky, or rather the Jura, for it was the Jura we saw.

We dashed down the hill toward that shadowy land. Directly beneath us was the Rhine again, glittering sinuous among the gardens. Swiftly down the hill, through vineyards trained high, and waving glossy in the breeze; through country scenery so tranquil, and fertile, and refined, that even John Bull would have rememberingly smiled, singing with unanimous and energetic chorus all the scraps of old songs we could remember, and humming the Schleswig Holstein march, we rattled down the hill, crossed the Rhine which dashes under the bridge at its foot, of a briny hue, like sea-water, and along whose bank, picturesque and cheerful, is grouped the town of Basle, into whose gate we clattered-our first Swiss station.

II.

THE TOWN OF BASLE.

IN such gallant style we charged into the ancient town of Basle, and naturally dashed up to the "Gasthof Zum Wilden Mann," the Hotel of the Wild Man

But the meek and well-ordered host had evidently put all his ferocity into his signboard, for I have not met a milder man. Over his hospitable door hangs a dreadful presentment of a fierce fellow-creature, and below the image are the ominous words, "The Savage Hotel." It seemed a very resonant prelude to the pastoral enjoyment of Switzerland; like Don Giovanni opening with a midnight tragedy, and gradually dwindling toward Zerlina and the peasants' dancing.

Here in the Savage Hotel we made the final arrangements for walking. All our young and active friends who had been in Switzerland had tried walking, but we could not learn from any of them that they had long continued the habit. Usually there is a brave beginning. From the embrace of some "Wild Man" at Basle or elsewhere, the proud young pedestrian sets forth toward Mont Blanc and the eternal glaciers, with his knapsack slung over his shoulders, a heavy alpen-stock or walking-stick in his hand, and great resolutions and heroisms in his heart. He thinks with a kind of pity of his fellowcountrymen tamely accepting the conveniences of civilization, and, as he puts his foot forward, and his chin up, he snuffs Switzerland afar off, and glories in being young, well, and a pedestrian. have I seen at morning, "when the sun was low," and the dews of sleep lay sweet upon the brow, and the hard road was as yet untrodden. But as noon scorched the face, and the hard road blistered the feet, and the soft south wind melted all that energy into languor, I have seen that hero quail, and lay his knapsack upon the guide's shoulders, and long for the luxury of tea and bed. And the next morn, how often have I seen him setting forth upon the diligence, or in a hired carriage, vowed to eternal silence upon the charms of "walking through Switzerland."

Such

A yellow leather bag held all the wardrobe that was to be divided among four knapsacks. But how much a yellow leather bag can hold! At least one-fourth of it is no feather weight. Whatever was deemed not absolutely necessary was restored to the bag, which was committed to the charge of the gentle host of the Savage Hotel, until, Switzerland accomplished, we should return and claim it. These arrangements made, and some vealcutlets and stewed prunes consumed, we stepped forth to "do" Basle.

The mind of this town, notwithstanding the Great Council of Basle, and the residence of Erasmus, who died here in 1536, and the University founded by Pope Pius Second, in 1460, and notwith

standing, the claim of the Basilians to the discovery of the manufacture of paper in 1417, and that of the art of printing in 1418, appears to have great difficulty in expressing itself in the English idiom. For not only did our courteous host astonish English eyes with his "Savage Hotel," but the sacristan of the cathedral informs an inquiring public that "the Interior is to be applied for," at a neighboring house.

The said Interior contains the tomb of Erasmus and of the Queen of Rudolph of Hapsburg, the founder of the present Austrian Dynasty. But as we did not apply for the Interior, we failed to see them. We saw, instead, the broad rich prospect from the terrace beneath the two towers of the cathedral, and the quaint devices of charging knights upon the front of the building, and found, upon consulting the guide-book (merely, of course, to refresh our memories), that in the 15th century Basle was the largest free city upon the upper Rhine. The books say that the battle of St. Jacob, near Basle, was the Thermopyla of the Swiss. Probably it was; but few travellers could say what the battle of St. Jacob won or lost, while every man with eyes could see the picturesque beauty of the old town, and feel the charm of its dull streets, and enjoy the irregular straggle of its quaint buildings along the banks of the river.

It is a cheerful town, and the streets are clean and still. Its 14,000 people are gradually growing fewer and fewer, for the Basilians are as proud as they are republican, and so much enjoy the privilege of citizenship, that they will not confer it upon strangers, who have therefore no inducement to come to Basle and settle. And as the original Basilians are fond of emigration, there are not many to fill their places, and the once most populous town of Switzerland is slowly rusting away. There is a sadness inseparable from these old places. They have culminated; the freshness of morning, the glory of noon, have passed. Nothing remains but respectable decay. So you feel here, as in so many other European towns, and all the more if you are an American, as you pace the quiet streets and observe the neat and comfortable houses. It is the same in Nuremberg. The life of such towns has a touching solemnity. There are cleanliness and silence in the 'streets. There is gravity in the aspects and manners of the citizens. In Nuremberg the statue of Albert Durer, sedate, almost austere, typifies the life of the town. Its sobriety and quaint dignity are summed up in that flowing beard. Here in Basle, Erasmus in his scholar's cap and gown,

1

belongs to these high and dingy streets. Let some learned correspondent from Bologna, Padua or Oxford, in all of which towns he has been, reverently encounter him, and enter the curious library where hang Holbein's masterpieces. Or farther on they may visit Paracelsus, greatest of that learned brotherhood of Basle, who lives again for us with all his fiery ambition, his grand, great hopes, his scorn and tenderness, in Robert Browning's poem. Paracelsus speaks of learned Erasmus in that poem.

"Those shelves support a pile

Of patents, licenses, diplomas, titles,
From Germany, France, Spain and Italy;
They authorize some honor: ne'ertheless,
I set more store by this Erasmus sent:
He trusts me."

But even these large figures, that make Basle famous, look sadly out upon us as they turn from their folios and crucibles, and as those phantoms of old scholars glide shadowy along the street this August morning, it is so still that we can hear them saying:

"That truth is just as far from me as ever:
That I have thrown my life away; that sorrow
On that account is vain, and further effort

To mend and patch what's marred beyond repairing,
As useless; and all this was taught to me
By the convincing good old-fashioned method
Of force, by sheer compulsion. Is that plain ?"

Alas! poor ghosts!

The pleasant morning shifted with the mood of our fancy, and a rain drove us home to the Wild Man. But it was a weeping shower-Aprile's tears, perhaps, as she mused of Paracelsus. There were no ghosts, but a party of very substantial travellers at the table d'hôte of the Savage Hotel, who went solemnly and unpleasantly through the whole, thrusting their knives into their mouths, dispensing with the ceremony of fresh plates and knives and forks for the different courses, and concluding by carefully scraping their plates with their knives and mopping them with pieces of bread, as if the Wild Man had no scullion to wash the dishes.

After dinner we looked our last upon the yellow leather bag, strapped our new knapsacks on our shoulders, took sticks in hand-I holding one with which I had stirred Vesuvian lava, and whose point I hoped to cool in the snows of Mont Blanc or the Finster Aarhorn. But when we reached the door we unstrapped the knapsacks and slung them up to the top of the diligence, and mounted into the banquette, the covered seat behind the driver. This was not a surrender, nor any want of heart for pedestrianism. But the point of departure for walking was a little village in the shadow of the Jura.

We passed out of old Basle in a soft summer shower. The heavy, moist clouds

hung about the horizon, and glimpses of pure sunny blue broke through them at intervals and finally shattered them all to pieces. The sun reigned supreme over Switzerland, and we bowled up the Münster-thal in the golden afternoon, the valley of the river Birs and the finest vale of the Jura. To us it was a winding avenue to untold delights. With what curious regret the old and blasé traveller looks upon the fresh enthusiasm of first travel! "It's very pretty," said a compassionate old gentleman by the side of the driver just below us, in assent to our suggestion that, like the outer room of a picture-gallery hung with various paintings, as hints of the magnificence beyond, so precipices and mountains, and green reaches and gurgling streams, of a mild and moderate grandeur, were heaped along this exquisite valley as earnests of the Bernese Alps and the wild landscape of mid-Switzerland. "Oh! certainly, certainly, it's very pretty," said the compassionate old gentleman.

The smooth fields lay to the edge of the merry little stream, and fine large trees stood separate and stately upon the green. They were true Swiss trees, worthy to stand in the soil in which Mont Blanc is rooted. Out of this smooth green started the bare, rocky, battlemented mountainsides, that went deepening and curving down the valley, holding up, far above the clustering foliage whose wet moss flashed with diamond sheen in the setting sunlight, sharp, rocky peaks, that drew the rosiness from the light, and stood poetic as the mountain peaks of story. The little villages were uninteresting. The people were not handsome, nor strikingly picturesque, yet from one open window as we rolled along, looked a face of characteristic Swiss beauty,-a drop of nourishment to expectation in articulo mortis— and bowing and kissing hands to that astonished damsel, we passed on and left her far, and now utterly forgotten, in the Münster-thal and the past. A few groups were mowing upon the hillsides, a few cattle grazing, and a few peasants passed, lifting their broad hats to the diligence.

Toward evening the valley opened into a broad open space, level as the bed of a dried lake, and walled by the mountains. The sunset streamed full up the valley, and golden light flashed responsive from the windows of convents and castles scattered upon the plain and the hill-sides. The diligence rattled up to the door of a little inn. We jumped down, and said Wie gehts to the chambermaid at the window. She looked hurt, and disappeared. The old gentleman watched compassionately our exuberant spirits. Our windows look