There stands at a short distance from Basle, and not far from the road, a beautiful lime tree, at the foot of which is a stone of memorial. It is in commemoration of thirteen hundred Swiss from nine different cantons, who fought at St. Jacques with an army of thirty thousand French and Austrians, and perished on the field. But their brave defense excited such high esteem in the mind of the French Dauphin, who commanded the enemy's forces, that he did not venture further into the country, but soon afterwards made peace with its people at Einsisheim. The grateful fatherland raised this memorial to its heroic sons, with the following inscription:
“Our souls with God, our bodies with the enemy.
Here fell, the 26th August, 1444, unconquered, wearied
of conquering, 1300 Sworn Confederates and
Companions in arms, against united France and Austria.”
Magnanimous, affecting words! No one would be
dear to me who could tread, without reverence, a soil
where the stones thus cry out.
The memory of these brave men is still annually celebrated here by songs and orations.
I commenced my journey to Berne in a thick fog which made it all as one whether I had been traveling over the heaths of North Germany, or the most glorious Alpine region; there was nothing to be seen but mist. Thus I reached Berne. What I there experienced, as well as what you have just read, I noted down afterwards. It was in Lausanne that I commenced my Diary.
