Basil.
There has been an interval of three days since I had the conversation
with my ingenious acquaintance from Amsterdam. We are assured that the
chaise, which has been accommodated with a new axle-tree, will be ready
this afternoon. In the interim, I shall write you a few remarks on this
town.
Basil is larger than any town in Switzerland, but not so populous for its
size as Geneva. The inhabitants seem to be uncommonly afraid of thieves,
most of the windows being guarded by iron bars or grates, like those of
convents or prisons.
I observed at the lower end of many windows a kind of wooden box,
projecting towards the street, with a round glass, of about half a foot
diameter, in the middle. I was told this was for the conveniency of
people within; who, without being seen, choose to sit at the windows,
and amuse themselves by looking at the passengers;—that they were mostly
occupied by the ladies, who are taught to think it indecent to appear at
the windows.
The inhabitants of Basil seem to be of a reserved and saturnine
disposition; whether it is natural or affected I cannot tell, but the few
I conversed with, had something uncommonly serious and formal in their
manner. How an unremitting gravity and solemnity of manner in the common
affairs of life, comes to be considered as an indication of wisdom,
or of extraordinary parts, is what I never could understand.—So many
ridiculous things occur every day in this world, that men who are endowed
with that degree of sensibility which usually accompanies genius, find
it very difficult to maintain a continued gravity. This difficulty is
abundantly felt even in the grave and learned professions of law, physic,
and divinity; and the individuals who have been most successful in
surmounting it, and who never deviate from the solemnity of established
forms, have not always been the most distinguished for real knowledge
or genius; though they generally are most admired by the multitude, who
are very apt to mistake that gravity for wisdom, which proceeds from a
literal weight of brain, and muddiness of understanding. Mistakes of the
same kind are frequently made in forming a judgment of books, as well
as men. Those which profess a formal design to instruct and reform, and
carry on the work methodically till the reader is lulled into repose,
have passed for deep and useful performances; while others, replete
with original observation and real instruction, have been treated as
frivolous, because they are written in a familiar style, and the precepts
conveyed in a sprightly and indirect manner.
Works which are composed with the laborious desire of being thought
profound, have so very often the misfortune to be dull, that some people
have considered the two terms as synonymous; and the men who receive it
as a rule, that one set of books are profound because they are dull,
may naturally conclude that others are superficial because they are
entertaining. With respect to books, however, matters are soon set to
rights; those of puffed and false pretensions die neglected, while
those of real merit live and flourish. But with regard to the men, the
catastrophe is often different; we daily see formal assuming blockheads
flourish and enjoy the fruits of their pompous impositions, while
many men of talents who disdain such arts, live in obscurity, and die
neglected.—I ask you pardon, I have just recollected that I was giving
you some account of Basil.
The library here is much esteemed.—It is reckoned particularly rich in
manuscripts. They showed us one of a Greek New Testament, with which you
may believe H——y and I were greatly edified. We are told it is above a
thousand years old.
At the arsenal is shown, the armour in which Charles Duke of Burgundy
was killed. That unfortunate prince has ornamented all the arsenals in
Switzerland with trophies.
We visited the hall where the famous Council sat so many years, and
voted so intrepidly against the Pope. Not satisfied with condemning
his conduct, they actually damned him in effigy. A famous painting, in
the town-house, is supposed to have been executed under their auspices.
In this piece the Devil is represented driving the Pope and several
ecclesiastics before him to Hell.—Why they should suppose the Devil
should be so very active against his Holiness, I know no reason.
Here are many pictures of Hans Holben’s (who was a native of Basil, and
the favourite painter of Henry VIII. to whom he was first recommended
by Erasmus); particularly, several portraits of Erasmus, and one sketch
of Sir Thomas More’s family. Though portraits are in general the most
insipid of all kinds of paintings, yet those of such celebrated persons,
done by such a painter, are certainly very interesting pieces.
The most admired of all Holben’s works, is a suite of small pieces in
different compartments, representing the passion and sufferings of our
Saviour. In these the colours remain with wonderful vivacity.
We were also conducted to the dismal gallery, upon whose walls, what is
called Holben’s Death’s Dance, is represented. The colours having been
long exposed to the air, are now quite faded, which I can scarce think is
much to be regretted, for the plan of the piece is so wretched, that the
finest execution could hardly prevent it from giving disgust.
A skeleton, which represents Death, leads off, in a dancing attitude,
people of both sexes, of all ages, and of every condition, from the
emperor to the beggar. All of them display the greatest unwillingness
to accompany their hideous partner, who, regardless of tears,
expostulations, and bribes, draws them along.
You will take notice, that there is a Death for each character, which
occasions a nauseous repetition of the same figure; and the reluctance
marked by the different people who are forced to this hated minuet, is
in some accompanied with grimaces so very ridiculous, that one cannot
refrain from smiling, which surely is not the effect the painter intended
to produce.—If he did, of all the contrivances that ever were thought of
to put people in good-humour, his must be allowed the most extraordinary.
To this piece, such as it is, Prior alludes in his ode to the memory of
Colonel Villers.
Nor aw’d by foresight, nor misled by chance,
Imperious Death directs his ebon lance,
Peoples great Henry’s tomb, and leads up Holben’s dance.
In this city all the clocks are an hour advanced. When it is but one
o’clock in all the towns and villages around, it is exactly two at Basil.
This singularity is of three or four hundred years standing; and what is
as singular as the custom itself, the origin of it is not known. This is
plain, by their giving quite different accounts of it.
The most popular story is, that, about four hundred years ago, the city
was threatened with an assault by surprise. The enemy was to begin the
attack when the large clock of the tower at one end of the bridge should
strike one after midnight. The artist who had the care of the clock,
being informed that this was the expected signal, caused the clock to be
altered, and it struck two instead of one; so the enemy thinking they
were an hour too late, gave up the attempt; and in commemoration of this
deliverance, all the clocks in Basil have ever since struck two at one
o’clock, and so on.
In case this account of the matter should not be satisfactory, they show,
by way of confirmation, a head, which is placed near to this patriotic
clock, with the face turned to the road by which the enemy was to have
entered. This same head lolls out its tongue every minute, in the most
insulting manner possible. This was originally a piece of mechanical
wit of the famous clockmaker’s who saved the town. He framed it in
derision of the enemy, whom he had so dexterously deceived. It has been
repaired, renewed, and enabled to thrust out its tongue every minute, for
these four hundred years, by the care of the magistrates, who think so
excellent a joke cannot be too often repeated.