XXI

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

"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:

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.

"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.

VARIANT:

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.

"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.

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FOOTNOTES:

XXIV THE ITALIAN ITINERANT, AND THE SWISS GOATHERD

PART I

I

II

III

PART II

I

II

VARIANTS:

FOOTNOTES: