ll. 75, 76--

So all we know of what they do above Is that they happy are, and that they love.

Also, ll. 10-12 of his song, beginning, "While I listen to thy voice"--

For all we know Of what the Blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love.

ED. ]

XVII

ENGELBERG, THE HILL OF ANGELS[504]

For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes The work of Fancy from her willing hands; And such a[505] beautiful creation makes As renders needless spells and magic wands, And for the boldest tale belief commands. 5 When first mine eyes beheld that famous Hill The sacred ENGELBERG, celestial Bands, With intermingling motions soft and still, Hung round its top, on wings that changed their hues at will.

Clouds do not name those Visitants; they were 10 The very Angels whose authentic lays, Sung from that heavenly ground in middle air, Made known the spot where piety should raise A holy Structure to the Almighty's praise. Resplendent Apparition! if in vain 15 My ears did listen, 'twas enough to gaze; And watch the slow departure of the train, Whose skirts the glowing Mountain thirsted to detain.

Engelberg, the Hill of Angels, as the name implies. The Convent whose site was pointed out, according to tradition, in this manner, is seated at its base. The Architecture of the Building is unimpressive, but the situation is worthy of the honour which the imagination of the Mountaineers has conferred upon it.--W. W. 1822.

"Monday, August 14.--At sunset we reached the edge of the flat green area, sublimely guarded; from its head rose Engelberg (whence the angels sang), Tittlesberg,[HS] the highest of these Alps. But between these two stood another more fantastically shaped rocky hill with a broken jagged crest, and without snow.... All around the Vale is completely enclosed by lofty barriers, piercing or supporting the clouds. From the eminence whence we first had a sight of the mists curling in the glowing sun upon the heights of Engelberg, the white convent with its own, and its lesser attendant chapels; the pensive moving figures, in their gay attire, that as we approached saluted us; and before we gained our harbour for the night, the convent bell calling to vespers, seemed to summon my ears to listen for the angels' voices from that celestial mount. All these impressions could not but excite in us thankfulness that we had been led to this Abyssinian Vale (as D. appropriately termed it)." (Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)

"Monday, 14th August. Sarnen.--It was a little past seven o'clock when (having passed round the neck of the hill, or promontory, as I may call it) we perceived that the object of our delightful day's journey could not be far distant. A stately mass of crag, a mountain composed of stone of a soft yellow hue irregularly piled up, and between pyramid and tower-shaped, appeared before us. It could be no other than the Hill of _Engelberg_, the Angel's Hill, where, it is believed, the angels sang songs of approval, while holy men laid the foundation of the abbey. Others say that the Founders were led to _choose_ that spot because the Rock of Engelberg was the place those happy spirits were accustomed to haunt, and that their melodies were heard while the work was going on. It is no wonder that such traditions are believed by some of the good Catholics even at this day; for never was there on earth a more beautiful pinnacle for happy spirits than the Rock of Engelberg, as we first beheld it, gilded with the beams of the declining sun. Light clouds, as white as snow, yet melting into the thinnest substance, and tinged with heavenly light, were floating around and below its summit. We exclaimed, 'There you see the wings of the Angels!'----. Our recollections of that moment cannot be effaced; and some time afterwards my Brother expressed his feelings in the following little Poem." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. i.)--ED.

VARIANTS:

[Footnote 504: 1827.

ENGELBERG. 1822. ]

[Footnote 505: 1827.

And even such ... 1822. ]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote HS: The Titlis.--ED.]

XVIII

OUR LADY OF THE SNOW

Meek Virgin Mother, more benign Than fairest Star, upon the height Of thy own mountain,[HT] set to keep Lone vigils through the hours of sleep, What eye can look upon thy shrine 5 Untroubled at the sight?

These crowded offerings as they hang In sign of misery relieved, Even these, without intent of theirs, Report of comfortless despairs, 10 Of many a deep and cureless pang And confidence deceived.

To Thee, in this aërial cleft, As to a common centre, tend All sufferers that no more rely[506] 15 On mortal succour--all who sigh[507] And pine,[508] of human hope bereft, Nor wish for earthly friend.

And hence, O Virgin Mother mild! Though plenteous flowers around thee blow,[HU] 20 Not only from the dreary strife Of Winter, but the storms of life, Thee have thy Votaries aptly styled, OUR LADY OF THE SNOW.

Even for the Man who stops not here, 25 But down the irriguous valley hies, Thy very name, O Lady! flings, O'er blooming fields and gushing springs A tender sense of shadowy fear, And chastening sympathies![509] 30

Nor falls that intermingling shade To summer-gladsomeness unkind: It chastens only to requite With gleams of fresher, purer, light; While, o'er the flower-enamelled glade, 35 More sweetly breathes the wind.

But on!--a tempting downward way, A verdant path before us lies; Clear shines the glorious sun above; Then give free course to joy and love, 40 Deeming the evil of the day Sufficient for the wise.

"August, Saturday 19th. Top of the Rigi.--... Eastern sky rich with golden streaks, clouds floating around in all directions _below us_: then driving eastwards, we expecting momently to be enveloped in the condensing mist, but the breezes again and again took it away, through the channel between the Rigi and the opposite mountains. At length the bright sun just showed itself, lighted up the tips of the Alps with a rosy splendour, silvered the edges of, and gave angels' wings to the neighbouring clouds for a moment, then shrouded himself up, and the glory faded away.... A tall cross is finely placed upon the top of this hill.... Set forward on our descent from this remarkable place. Pleasant green mountain track led us soon to the Parish Church of Rigiberg, dedicated to 'Our Lady of the Snow.' It was crammed with pictures of the Virgin and Child, in various situations, setting forth her miraculous powers, and how they had been exercised: small convent of Capuchins close by: easy and beautiful road down for some time; high Crosses with pictures all the way; Chapels with frightful figures, enough to terrify the Religious on their way to 'Our Lady of the Snow': met several peasants before we reached the foot of the hill; Houses for them to rest on their way: beautiful _steep thin_ waterfalls; lofty wooded and pine-clad crags accompanied us all the way on our descent...." (From Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)

"Saturday, 19th August. Top of Rigi.--With hearts not less joyous than those of the young men with whom we had just parted, we began our journey. How delicious was the descent over the velvet turf, towards the Chapel of Our Lady of the Snow! seen below within a narrow steep glen. The air still fresh and cool, we gradually find ourselves enclosed by the declivities of the glen, those rugged steeps are hung with pine trees, narrow cataracts come down the clefts in unbroken white lines--or over the facings of rock, in drops and stages. Side by side with the central rivulet, we go on still descending, though with far slower pace, and come to the Village of Rigi, and our Lady's Chapel cradled in the slip of the dell, and, at this tranquil time, _lulled_ by the voices of the streams. The interior of the Chapel is hung with hundreds of offerings--staffs, crutches, etc. etc., and pictures representing marvellous escapes, with written records of vows performed--and dangers averted through the gracious protection of Our Lady of the Snow. Near the Chapel is a small religious House, where a few Monks reside, probably in attendance upon the chapel, which continues to draw together numerous worshippers from the distant Vales on days of penitence or of festival." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. i.)--ED.

VARIANTS:

[Footnote 506: 1837.

All sufferings that no longer rest 1822. ]

[Footnote 507: 1837.

... succour, all distrest 1822. ]

[Footnote 508: 1837.

That pine ... 1822. ]

[Footnote HU: Compare Coleridge's _Hymn before Sunrise, in the Vale of Chamouni_--

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!

ED. ]

[Footnote 509: 1832.

A holy Shadow soft and dear Of chastening sympathies! 1822. ]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote HT: Mount Righi.--W. W. 1822.]

XIX

EFFUSION,

IN PRESENCE OF THE PAINTED TOWER OF TELL, AT ALTORF

This Tower stands upon the spot where grew the Linden Tree against which his Son is said to have been placed, when the Father's archery was put to proof under circumstances so famous in Swiss Story.

What though the Italian pencil wrought not here, Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow[510] On Marathonian valour,[HV] yet the tear Springs forth in presence of this gaudy show, While narrow cares their limits overflow. 5 Thrice happy, burghers, peasants, warriors old, Infants in arms, and ye, that as ye go Home-ward or school-ward, ape what ye behold Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy bold!

And[511] when that calm Spectatress from on high 10 Looks down--the bright and solitary Moon, Who never gazes but to beautify; And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of noon Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune That fosters peace, and gentleness recals; 15 _Then_ might the passing Monk receive a boon Of saintly pleasure from these pictured walls, While, on the warlike groups, the mellowing lustre falls.

How blest the souls who when their trials come Yield not to terror or despondency, 20 But face like that sweet Boy their mortal doom, Whose head the ruddy apple tops, while he Expectant stands beneath the linden tree: He quakes not[512] like the timid forest game, But smiles[513]--the hesitating shaft to free; 25 Assured that Heaven its justice will proclaim, And to his Father give its own unerring aim.[HW]

In Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal the following occurs, under date August 21.--"Altorf.... Visited a Painter, who follows his Art, and instructs pupils in 'Tell's Tower': fine prospect from the Tower, and from the Church beautiful almost beyond description. The towers of Altorf, the Vale beyond, and Fluellin on the margin of the lake; the pine-clad barriers, with here and there a fantastic marked rock, or a snowy forehead reared above all.... I have called this place a village, but I insult the capital of the canton of Uri by so doing: neither _is it like a village_. A small Town, with stately houses, Fountains--Tell's Fountain, Church, a large Painted Tower, that gives Tell's story, is built upon the very spot where the famous Tree grew. The tree is there represented, and under it the pretty little boy with the apple upon his head...."

* * * * *

"Monday, 20th August. Altorf.--We found our own comfortable Inn, THE OX, near the fountain of William Tell. The buildings here are fortunately disposed with a pleasing irregularity. Opposite to our Inn stands the Tower of the Arsenal, built upon the spot where grew the Linden-tree to which Tell's son is reported to have been bound when the arrow was shot. This Tower was spared by the fire which consumed an adjoining building, _happily_ spared, if only for the sake of the rude paintings on its walls. I studied them with infinite satisfaction, especially the face of the innocent little Boy with the apple on his head. After dinner we walked up the valley to the reputed birthplace of Tell: it is a small village at the foot of a glen, rich, yet very wild. A rude unroofed modern bridge crosses the boisterous river, and, beside the bridge is a fantastic mill-race, constructed in the same rustic style--uncramped by apprehensions of committing waste upon the woods. At the top of a steep rising directly from the river, stands a square tower of grey stone, partly covered with ivy, in itself rather a striking object from the bridge, even if not pointed out for notice as being built on the site of the dwelling where William Tell was born. Near it, upon the same eminence, stands the white church, and a small chapel called by Tell's name, where we again found rough paintings of his exploits, mixed with symbols of the Roman Catholic faith. Our walk from Altorf to this romantic spot had been stifling; along a narrow road between old stone walls--nothing to be seen above them but the tops of fruit trees, and the imprisoning hills. No doubt when those walls were built, the lands belonged to the churches and monasteries. Happy were we when we came to the glen and rushing river, and still happier when, having clomb the eminence, we sate beside the churchyard, where kindly breezes visited us--the warm breezes of Italy! We had here a Volunteer guide, a ragged child, voluble with his story, trimmed up for the stranger. He could tell the history of the Hero of Uri, and declare the import of each memorial;--while (not neglecting the saints) he proudly pointed out to our notice (what indeed could not have escaped it) a gigantic daubing of the figure of St. Christopher on the wall of the church steeple. But our smart young maiden was to introduce us to the interior of the ivied Tower, so romantic in its situation above the roaring stream, at the mouth of the glen, which, behind, is buried beneath overhanging woods. We ascended to the upper rooms by a blind staircase, that might have belonged to a turret of one of our ancient castles, which conducted us into a gothic room, where we found neither the ghost nor the armour of William Tell; but an artist at work with the pencil; with two or three young men, his pupils, from Altorf--no better introduction to the favour of one of those young men was required than that of our sprightly female attendant. From this little academy of the arts, drawings are dispersed, probably, to every country of the continent of Europe." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. ii.)--ED.

VARIANTS:

[Footnote 510: 1827.

Nor such as did the public meed bestow 1822. ]

[Footnote 511: 1837.

But . . . . . . . 1822. ]

[Footnote 512: 1832.

Not quaking . . . . . . 1822. ]

[Footnote 513: 1832.

He smiles . . . . . . . . 1822. ]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote HV: This probably refers to the painting in the Poecile at Athens of the battle of Marathon, referred to in Pausanius, i. 15. The painting was perhaps by Polygnotus. Compare the _Ode_, January 1816 (p. 101)--

... arrayed With second life the deed of Marathon Upon Athenian walls.

ED. ]

[Footnote HW: In the edition of 1822, this _Effusion_ is printed in a note to the second of the DESULTORY STANZAS, which conclude the series of "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent," and with this sentence prefixed to it: "The following stanzas were suggested by the 'TOWER of TELL' at ALTORF, on the outside walls of which the chief exploits of the hero are painted; it is said to stand upon the very ground where grew the Lime Tree against which his Son was placed when the Father's archery was put to proof under the circumstances so famous in Swiss History."--ED.]

XX

THE TOWN OF SCHWYTZ

By antique Fancy trimmed--though lowly, bred To dignity--in thee, O SCHWYTZ! are seen The genuine features of the golden mean; Equality by Prudence governèd, Or jealous Nature ruling in her stead; 5 And, therefore, art thou blest with peace, serene As that of the sweet fields and meadows green In unambitious compass round thee spread. Majestic BERNE, high on her guardian steep, Holding a central station of command, 10 Might well be styled this noble body's HEAD, Thou, lodged 'mid mountainous entrenchments deep, Its HEART;[HX] and ever may the heroic Land, Thy name, O SCHWYTZ, in happy freedom keep!

"Seewen, Sunday, 20th August.--... Wm. and I walked the direct way to Brunnen; the rest, viz. Mr. R., T. M., and Dorothy, by way of Schwytz. Our course lay along the brook that runs through, and I believe gives its name to the village of Seewen; that by Schwytz forms two sides of the triangle, and carried them considerably above us on our left. We had a fine view all the way of the town of Schwytz, which is beautifully situated, and looked stately under its protecting screen of mountains, green and woody to the very top. They bend around and tower above it; one rising higher than the rest, in the very centre of the crescent, and directly above the church spire, has a fine effect. I was sorry to pass without going into this important tower, which gives its name to the delightful country of which it is the capital, and its _station_ is well worthy of that honour. The _pastoral sylvan_ character of Switzerland is happily exemplified here, and the mountains and lakes lead you gently into the more solemn and awful scenes. _Our_ path led us through soft verdant meadows, where we met and were overtaken by the peasants with their books and nosegays in their hands...." (From Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)

* * * * *

"Sunday, 20th August. Sieven.--... If Berne, with its spacious survey of Alps, and widely-spreading Vales, and magnificent River, may be called the _head_, this Town [Schwytz], intrenched among mountains, may be called the _heart_ of Switzerland; to which the Canton is worthy of giving its name. Of records or curiosities that may be shut up from view, I know nothing; but in our half hour's sauntering through the town, we were in a state of perpetual excitement--not that there is anything beautiful, or even picturesque, in the Buildings, but altogether something romantic--with gaiety....

"Our way was down the Vale, toward the Lake Waldstädte,[HY] nearly at right angles to that by which we had come to Schwytz. We asked who were the owners of a handsome large house, on our right hand, and were told a Family of the name of Reding. There was no one to tell us whether it was the Birth-place, or had been the residence of Aloys Reding; but have since had the satisfaction of learning from my Friend, Mr. Rogers, that it _was_, and that he had seen him there: but I will copy Mr. R.'s own words from a letter written by him to me some years ago.[HZ]

"'When at Schwytz in 1802, we paid him a visit, and at the gate were surprised by a little girl coming from school, who first took my hand, and then my sister's--leading her upstairs, and supporting her by the elbow, into a large old-fashioned room, where we found him drinking coffee with his Family, after dinner, the clock striking two. There was a noble simplicity in his manners, and a courtesy, a cordiality in the reception they all gave us that sent us away enchanted.'

"Leaving the high-road, we turned along one of those pretty paths that look as if they were only made for going to Church, and for Fetes and Festivals. Numerous were the companies who passed, or followed us on this path, through spacious, level, and mostly _verdant_ fields--mountains on all sides, with craggy summits. Behind us was the Town of Schwytz at the foot of the forest steep, overtopped by the two naked Pikes; and to our left what sublime dark clefts!" (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. i.)--ED.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote HX: "Nearly 500 years (says Ebel, speaking of the French Invasion) had elapsed, when, for the first time, foreign Soldiers were seen upon the frontiers of this small Canton, to impose upon it the laws of their Governors."--W. W. 1822.

Compare the phraseology of Wordsworth's line with a sentence in Dorothy's Journal, given below.--ED.]

[Footnote HY: The Lake of the Four Cantons.--D. W. The Vierwald-stätter See.--ED.]

XXI

ON HEARING THE "RANZ DES VACHES" ON THE TOP OF THE PASS OF ST. GOTHARD

I listen--but no faculty of mine Avails those modulations to detect, Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swiss affect With tenderest passion; leaving him to pine (So fame reports) and die,--his sweet-breath'd kine Remembering, and green Alpine pastures decked 6 With vernal flowers. Yet may we not reject The tale as fabulous.--Here while I recline, Mindful how others by this simple Strain Are moved, for me--upon this Mountain named[514] 10 Of God himself from dread pre-eminence-- Aspiring thoughts, by memory reclaimed, Yield to the Music's touching influence; And joys[515] of distant home my heart enchain.

"Thursday, Aug. 24.--... On the banks of the infant Ticino, which has its source in the pools above, within a few hundred yards of that which gives birth to the Reuss, D. and I resolved to reject all political boundaries, and thenceforth consider ourselves in _Italy_. With the pure stream we descended; but first were joined by Mr. R., J. M., and Wm., with a young German, whom Mr. R. had picked up in the morning; a Heidelberg student, travelling on foot to Rome. He sang and played to us upon the flute, airs from Rossini, the Swiss Cow Song, etc. Then on we went, wending our way over the grass between the paved road and the brook wherever we could. The Brook dashing down its stony channel, now over rocks, now under shelving snow, and its banks seen clothed with underwood and pines. Passed by its first wooden bridge, leading to the cottages, not unmindful of _our own Duddon_; and presently did it grace such an assemblage of rocks, dells, and woods, forming waterfalls, pools, and all the various charms that a mountain stream can show." (Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)

"Thursday, 23rd August. Hopital.--I found Mary sitting on the lowest of a long flight of steps. She had lost her companions (my Brother and a young Swiss who had joined us on the road). We mounted the steps, and, from within, their voices answered our call. Went along a dark, stone, _banditti_ passage, into a small chamber little less gloomy, where we found them seated with food before them, bread and cheese, with sour red wine--no milk. Hunger satisfied, Mary and I hastened to warm ourselves in the sunshine; for the house was as cold as a dungeon. We straightway greeted with joy the infant TICINO which has its sources in the pools above. The gentlemen joined us, and we placed ourselves on a sunny bank, looking towards Italy; and the Swiss took out his flute, and played, and afterwards sang, the _Ranz des Vaches_, and other airs of his country. We, and especially our sociable friend R. (with his inexhaustible stock of kindness, and his German tongue) found him a pleasant companion. He was from the University of Heidelberg, and bound for Rome, on a visit to a Brother, in the holidays; and, our mode of travelling, for a short way, being the same, it was agreed we should go on together: but before we reached Airola he left us, and we saw no more of him." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. ii.)--ED.

VARIANTS:

[Footnote 514: 1837.

... how others love this simple Strain, Even here, upon this glorious Mountain (named 1822. ]

[Footnote 515: 1827.

... by memory are reclaimed; And, thro' the Music's touching influence, The joys ... 1822. ]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote HZ: This Journal copied (and the extract added) in 1828.--D. W.]

XXII

FORT FUENTES[516]

The Ruins of Fort Fuentes form the crest of a rocky eminence that rises from the plain at the head of the Lake of Como, commanding views up the Valteline, and toward the town of Chiavenna. The prospect in the latter direction is characterised by melancholy sublimity. We rejoiced at being favoured with a distinct view of those Alpine heights; not, as we had expected from the breaking up of the storm, steeped in celestial glory, yet in communion with clouds floating or stationary--scatterings from heaven. The Ruin is interesting both in mass and in detail. An Inscription, upon elaborately-sculptured marble lying on the ground, records that the Fort had been erected by Count Fuentes in the year 1600, during the reign of Philip the Third; and the Chapel, about twenty years after, by one of his Descendants. Marble pillars of gateways are yet standing, and a considerable part of the Chapel walls: a smooth green turf has taken place of the pavement, and we could see no trace of altar or image; but every where something to remind one of former splendour, and of devastation and tumult. In our ascent we had passed abundance of wild vines intermingled with bushes: near the ruins were some ill tended, but growing willingly; and rock, turf, and fragments of the pile, are alike covered or adorned with a variety of flowers, among which the rose-coloured pink was growing in great beauty. While descending, we discovered on the ground, apart from the path, and at a considerable distance from the ruined Chapel, a statue of a Child in pure white marble, uninjured by the explosion that had driven it so far down the hill. "How little," we exclaimed, "are these things valued here! Could we but transport this pretty Image to our own garden!"--Yet it seemed it would have been a pity any one should remove it from its couch in the wilderness, which may be its own for hundreds of years. (Extract from Journal.)--W. W. 1827.

Dread hour! when, upheaved by war's sulphurous blast, This sweet-visaged Cherub of Parian stone So far from the holy enclosure was cast, To couch in this thicket of brambles alone,

To rest where the lizard may bask in the palm 5 Of his half-open hand pure from blemish or speck; And the green, gilded snake, without troubling the calm Of the beautiful countenance, twine round his neck;

Where haply (kind service to Piety due!) When winter the grove of its mantle bereaves, 10 Some bird (like our own honoured redbreast) may strew The desolate Slumberer with moss and with leaves.

FUENTES once harboured the good and the brave, Nor to her was the dance of soft pleasure unknown; Her banners for festal enjoyment did wave 15 While the thrill of her fifes thro' the mountains was blown:

Now gads the wild vine o'er the pathless ascent;-- O silence of Nature, how deep is thy sway, When the whirlwind of human destruction is spent, 19 Our tumults appeased, and our strifes passed away!

"Wed., Sept. 6.--... Crossed the plain of Colico to FUENTES, a ruined Fort on the summit of a group of Rocks, abruptly rising from the plain, and overlooking the head of the Lake towards Chiavenna; up the nearer and larger valley, whence comes the Adda, a river bearing the same name as that which flows out of the Lake at Lecco; and into the clefts and recesses among the savage Rocks; over the plain; upon the Lake. Wm. had gone on before D. and myself, and had gained the top of this picturesque eminence, by a rough and difficult way. _We_ had determined to be satisfied with what we had seen below, when two civil peasants joined us, and kindly led us by an easy path to Wm. on the summit. He pointed out to us where he had been lost, and separated from Jones; we were enchanted by the mountain scenery. The whole spot excited the deepest interest; and, from the very point where we were, this rocky station, with its ruined fort, church, dwellings, all desolated by those barbarians the French, it was very affecting to see vines--which no doubt had heretofore been carefully supported by trellises upon these terraces--now running wild, and gadding about among the underwood that clothed the banks. Lumps and masses of marble--architectural ravages--strewn about. Apart from the path, and at a considerable distance from the grassy glade where the church had stood, lay the beautiful statue of a Child, in pure white marble. It seemed strange that this had not been removed; yet scarcely less strange than that, among the grass should be left an inscription upon marble, together with richly carved ornaments, expressing that the Fort had been erected by a Spanish Count Fuentes, in the time of Philip the third...." (Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)

"Wednesday, 5th September. Cadenabbia.--Bent our course toward Fuentes--and after a wearisome walk through damp and breathless heat (a full league or more) over a perfect level, we reached the foot of the eminence, which from the lake had appeared to be at a small distance, but it seemed to have retreated as we advanced. We had left the high road, and trudged over the swampy plain, through which the road must have been made with great expense and labour, as it is raised considerably all the way. The picturesque ruins of the Castle of Fuentes are at the top of the eminence--wild vines, the bramble and the clematis cling to the bushes; and beautiful flowers grow in the chinks of the rocks, and on every bed of grass. A _tempting_ though rugged ascent--yet (with the towers in sight above our heads, and two-thirds of the labour accomplished) Mary and I (Wm. having gone before to discover the nearest and least difficult way for us) sate down determined not to go a step further. We had a grand prospect; and, being exhausted by the damp heat, were willing for once to leave our final object unattained. However, while seated on the ground, two stout hard-laboured peasants chancing to come close to us on the path, invited us forward, and we could not resist--they led the way--two rough creatures.

"I said to Mary when we were climbing up among the rocks and bushes in that wild and lonely place, 'What, you have no fear of trusting yourself to a pair of Italian Banditti?' I knew not their occupation, but an accurate description of their persons would have fitted a novel-writer with ready-made attendants for a tribe of robbers--good-natured and kind, however they were, nay, even polite in their rustic way as others tutored to city civility. _Cultivated_ vines grew upon the top of the hill; and they took pains to pluck for us the ripest grapes. We now had a complete view up the great vale of the Adda, to which, the road that we had left conducts the Traveller. Below us, on the other side, lay a wide green marshy plain, between the hill of Fuentes and the shores of the lake; which plain, spreading upwards, divides the lake; the upper small reach being called Chiavenna. The path which my Brother had travelled, when bewildered in the night thirty years ago, was traceable through some parts of the forest on the opposite side:--and the very passage through which he had gone down to the shore of the lake--then most dismal with thunder, lightning, and rain. I hardly can conceive a place of more solitary aspect than the lake of Chiavenna: and the whole of the prospect on that direction is characterized by melancholy sublimity. We rejoiced, after our toil, at being favoured with a distinct view of those sublime heights, not, it is true, steeped in celestial hues of _sunny glory_, yet in communion with clouds, floating or stationary:--scatterings from heaven. The Ruin itself is very interesting, both in the mass and in detail--an inscription is lying on the ground which records that the Castle was built by the Count of Fuentes in the year 1600, and the Chapel about twenty years after by one of his descendants. Some of the gateways are yet standing with their marble pillars, and a considerable part of the walls of the Chapel. A smooth green turf has taken the place of the pavement; and we could see no trace of altar or sacred image, but everywhere something to remind one of former grandeur and of destruction and tumult, while there was, in contrast with the imaginations so excited, a melancholy pleasure in contemplating the wild quietness of the present day. The vines, near the ruin, though ill tended, grow willingly, and rock, turf, and fragments of the stately pile are alike covered or adorned with a variety of flowers, among which the rose-coloured pink was in great beauty. In our descent we found a fair white cherub, uninjured by the explosion which had driven it a great way down the hill. It lay bedded like an infant in its cradle among low green bushes.--W. said to us, 'Could we but carry this pretty Image to our moss summer-house at Rydal Mount!' yet it seemed as if it would have been a pity that any one should remove it from its couch in the wilderness, which may be its own for hundreds of years." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. ii.)

The "Extract from Journal," which Wordsworth prefixed to this poem in the edition of 1827 and subsequent ones, is, it will be observed, not an exact transcription from either of the two Journals written by his wife and his sister. It is a compilation from both of them; and, as it was doubtless written by himself, it may illustrate the wish, expressed in the Fenwick note to the poem _Between Namur and Liege_, that "some one would put together the notices contained in these Journals,... bringing the whole into a small compass," etc. Most readers will be of opinion, however, that something has been lost by the condensation, and that the poet's note of 1827 does not render the publication of the longer extracts from the two Journals superfluous. Another instance of Wordsworth's use of the materials of these Journals, while rewriting the extract, will be found in the note to the poem _Brugès_.--ED.

VARIANTS:

[Footnote 516: 1827.

FORT FUENTES--AT THE HEAD OF THE LAKE OF COMO. 1822. ]

XXIII

THE CHURCH OF SAN SALVADOR, SEEN FROM THE LAKE OF LUGANO

This Church was almost destroyed by lightning a few years ago, but the Altar and the Image of the Patron Saint were untouched. The Mount, upon the summit of which the Church is built, stands in the midst of the intricacies of the Lake of Lugano; and is, from a hundred points of view, its principal ornament, rising to the height of 2000 feet, and, on one side, nearly perpendicular. The ascent is toilsome; but the Traveller who performs it will be amply rewarded. Splendid fertility, rich woods and dazzling waters, seclusion and confinement of view contrasted with sea-like extent of plain fading into the sky; and this again, in an opposite quarter, with an horizon of the loftiest and boldest Alps--unite in composing a prospect more diversified by magnificence, beauty, and sublimity, than perhaps any other point in Europe, of so inconsiderable an elevation, commands.--W.W. 1822.

Thou sacred Pile! whose turrets rise From yon steep mountain's loftiest stage, Guarded by lone San Salvador; Sink (if thou must) as heretofore, To sulphurous bolts a sacrifice, 5 But ne'er to human rage!

On Horeb's top, on Sinai, deigned To rest the universal Lord: Why leap the fountains from their cells Where everlasting Bounty dwells?-- 10 That, while the Creature is sustained, His God may be adored.

Cliffs, fountains, rivers, seasons, times-- Let all remind the soul of heaven; Our slack devotion needs them all; 15 And Faith--so oft of sense the thrall, While she, by aid of Nature, climbs-- May hope to be forgiven.[517]

Glory, and patriotic Love, And all the Pomps of this frail "spot 20 Which men call Earth,"[IA] have yearned to seek, Associate with the simply meek, Religion in the sainted grove, And in the hallowed grot.

Thither, in time of adverse shocks, 25 Of fainting hopes and backward wills, Did mighty Tell repair of old-- A Hero cast in Nature's mould, Deliverer of the steadfast rocks And of the ancient hills! 30

_He_, too, of battle-martyrs chief! Who, to recal his daunted peers, For victory shaped an open space, By gathering with a wide embrace, Into his single breast,[518] a sheaf 35 Of fatal Austrian spears,[IB][519]

"Monday, 28th Aug. Lugano.--At half-past four o'clock, wishing it had been earlier, we started to see the sun rise from the top of San Salvador; found, at that dewy hour, the Peasants busy in their vineyards, as we passed in our ascent. Wm. and T.M. reached the top in an hour and twenty minutes. Mr. R. kindly lingered with us. _We_ ascended in about two hours, and much were we delighted. The Alps how glorious! The Rosa! the Simplon! and (as the guide told us) Mont Blanc! and I believe he was right. However, Mont Blanc, nor no other mount, could surpass the exquisite appearance of what belonged to earth, gleaming high up in the skies. This was the glory of our view--the _majesty_ lay to the left of these. There, by the naked eye, we saw the River Po, drawn out in silver line, along the horizon; and, with the telescope, towns and villages gleaming on its banks. Mountains, glens, and plains, the lake spreading at our feet this way and that, cutting off the portion of land upon which this favoured and favouring hill rises. A church and house upon the summit. Three years ago the sacred edifice was struck by lightning, and every part of it destroyed or greatly injured, except the altar. The holy place, containing the image of San Salvador, was left untouched. In that lofty chapel, now under repair, service is performed four times a year; and at these festivals the same merriment goes forward upon the mountain as in the villages and towns upon like occasions. Offerings are then brought to the patron saint.... We returned highly delighted with this adventure, for which we are indebted to Mr. R.'s Book, that determined us to climb San Salvador, one of the grandest feats we have accomplished." (Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)

"Sunday, 26th August. Locarno.--We had resolved to ascend St. Salvador before sunrise; and, a contrary wind having sprung up, the Boatmen wished to persuade us to stay all night at a town upon a low point of land pushed far into the Lake, which conceals from our view that portion of it, where, at the head of a large basin or bay, stands the town of Lugano. They told us we might thence ascend the mountain with more ease than from Lugano, a wile to induce us to stay; but we called upon them to push on. Having weathered this point, and left it some way behind, the place of our destination appears in view--(like Locarno and Luvino) within the semicircle of a bay--a wide basin of waters spread before it; and the reach of the lake towards Porlezza winding away to our right. That reach appeared to be of more grave and solemn character than any we had passed through--grey steeps enclosing it on each side. We now coasted beneath bare precipices at the foot of St. Salvador--shouted to the echoes--and were answered by travellers from the Road far above our heads. Thence tended towards the middle of the basin; and the town of Lugano appeared in front of us, low green woody hills rising above it. Mild lightning fluttered like the northern lights over the steeps of St. Salvador, yet without threatening clouds; the wind had fallen; and no apprehensions of a storm disturbed our pleasures. It was eight o'clock when we reached the inn, where all things were on a large scale-splendid yet shabby."

"Monday, 27th August. Lugano.--Roused from sleep at a quarter before four o'clock, the moon brightly shining. At a quarter _past_ four set off on foot to ascend Mount St. Salvador. Though so early, people were stirring in the streets; our walk was by the shore, round the fine bay--solemn yet cheerful in the morning twilight. At the beginning of the ascent, passed through gateways and sheds among picturesque old buildings with overhanging flat roofs--vines hanging from the walls, with the wildness of brambles or the untrained woodbine. The ascent from the beginning is exceedingly steep and without intermission to the very summit. Vines spreading from tree to tree, resting upon walls, or clinging to wooden poles, they creep up the steep sides of the hill, no boundary line between _them_ and the wild growth of the mountain, with which, at last, they are blended till no trace of cultivation appears. The road is narrow; but a path to the shrine of St. Salvador has been made with great pains, still trodden once in the year by crowds (probably, at this day, chiefly of peasantry) to keep the Festival of that Saint on the summit of the mount. It winds along the declivities of the rocks--and, all the way, the views are beautiful. To begin with, looking backward to the town of Lugano, surrounded by villas among trees--a rich vale beyond the Town, an ample tract bright with cultivation and fertility, scattered over with villages and spires--who could help pausing to look back on these enchanting scenes? Yet a still more interesting spectacle travels _with us_, at our side (but how far beneath us!) the Lake, winding at the base of the mountain, into which we looked from craggy forest precipices, apparently almost as steep as the walls of a castle, and a thousand times higher. We were bent on getting start of the rising sun, therefore none of the party rested longer than was sufficient to recover breath. I did so frequently, for a few minutes; it being my plan at all times to climb up with my best speed for the sake of those rests, whereas Mary, I believe, never once sate down this morning, perseveringly mounting upward. Meanwhile, many a beautiful flower was plucked among the mossy stones. One,[IC] in particular, there was (since found wherever we have been in Italy). I helped Miss Barker to plant that same flower in her garden brought from Mr. Clarke's hot-house. In spite of all our efforts the sun was beforehand with us. _We_ were two hours in ascending. W. and Mr. R. who had pushed on before, were one hour and forty minutes. When we stood on the crown of that glorious Mount, we seemed to have attained a spot which commanded pleasures equal to all that sight could give on this terrestrial world. We beheld the mountains of Simplon--two brilliant shapes on a throne of clouds--_Mont Blanc_ (as the guide told us[ID]) lifting his resplendent forehead above a vapoury sea--and the Monte Rosa, a bright pyramid, how high up in the sky! The vision did not _burst_ upon us suddenly; but was revealed by slow degrees, while we felt so satisfied and delighted with what lay distinctly outspread around us, that we had hardly begun to look for objects less defined, in the far-distant horizon. I cannot describe the green hollows, hills, slopes, and woody plains--the towns, villages, and towers--the crowds of secondary mountains, substantial in form and outline, bounding the prospect in other quarters--nor the bewitching loveliness of the lake of Lugano lying at the base of Mount Salvador, and thence stretching out its arms between the bold steeps. My brother said he had never in his life seen so extensive a prospect at the expense only of two hours' climbing: but it must be remembered that the whole of the ascent is almost a precipice. Beyond the town of Lugano, the hills and wide vale are thickly sprinkled with towns and houses. Small lakes (to us their names unknown) were glittering among the woody steeps, and beneath lay the broad neck of the Peninsula of St. Salvador--a tract of hill and valley, woods and waters. Far in the distance on the other side, the towers of Milan might be descried. The river Po, a ghostly serpent-line, rested on the brown plains of Lombardy; and there again we traced the Ticino, departed from his mountain solitudes, where we had been his happy companions.

"But I have yet only looked _beyond_ the mount. There is a house beside the Chapel, probably in former times inhabited by persons devoted to religious services--or it might be only destined for the same use for which it serves at present, a shelter for them who flock from the vallies to the yearly Festival. Repairs are going on in the Chapel, which was struck by lightning a few years ago, and all but the altar and its holy things, with the image of the patron saint, destroyed. Their preservation is an established miracle, and the surrounding peasantry consider the memorials as sanctified anew by that visitation from heaven." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. ii.) See note to stanzas _Composed in one of the Catholic Cantons_, p. 313.--ED.

VARIANTS:

[Footnote 517: In 1822 only.

I love, where spreads the village lawn, Upon some knee-worn cell to gaze; Hail to the firm unmoving cross, Aloft, where pines their branches toss! And to the Chapel far withdrawn, That lurks by lonely ways! Short-sighted children of the dust, We live and move in sorrow's power; Extinguish that unblest disdain That scorns the altar, mocks the fane, Where patient Sufferers bend--in trust To win a happier hour. ]

[Footnote 518: 1837.

... heart, ... 1827. ]

[Footnote 519: In 1822 only.

/* Ye Alps, in many a rugged link Far-stretched, and Thou, majestic Po, Dimly from yon tall Mount descried, Where'er I wander be my Guide, Sweet Charity!--that bids us think, And feel, if we would know! */ ]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote IA: See _Comus_, l. 5.--ED.]

[Footnote IB: Arnold Winkelried, at the battle of Sempach, broke an Austrian phalanx in this manner. The event is one of the most famous in the annals of Swiss heroism; and pictures and prints of it are frequent throughout the country.--W.W. 1822.]

[Footnote IC: Cyclamen.--D. W.]

[Footnote ID: It was _not_ Mont Blanc. He was mistaken, or wanted to deceive us to give pleasure; but however we might have wished to believe that what he asserted was true, we could not think it possible.--D. W.]

XXIV

THE ITALIAN ITINERANT, AND THE SWISS GOATHERD