DEDICATION
(Sent with these Poems, in MS., to ——)[467]
Dear Fellow-travellers![GZ] think not that the Muse,
To You presenting these memorial Lays,
Can hope the general eye thereon would gaze,[468]
As on a mirror that gives back the hues
Of living Nature; no—though free to choose
The greenest bowers, the most inviting ways,
The fairest landscapes and the brightest days—
Her skill she tried with less ambitious views.[469]
For You she wrought: Ye only can supply
The life, the truth, the beauty: she confides
In that enjoyment which with You abides,
Trusts to your love and vivid memory;
Thus far contented, that for You her verse
Shall lack not power the "meeting soul to pierce!"[HA]
W. Wordsworth.
Rydal Mount, Nov. 1821[470]
VARIANTS:
[467] Not in the editions of 1822-1832.
[468] 1837.
Presents to notice these memorial Lays,
Hoping the general eye thereon will gaze,
[469] 1827.
1822.
She felt too deeply what her skill must lose.
[470] 1837.
1822.
Rydal Mount, January 1822.
FOOTNOTES:
[GZ] The Fellow-travellers were Mrs. Wordsworth, Dorothy Wordsworth, Mr. and Mrs. Monkhouse, Miss Horrocks, and Henry Crabb Robinson.—Ed.
[HA] Compare L'Allegro, l. 138.—Ed.
I
FISH-WOMEN—ON LANDING AT CALAIS
'Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold
The likeness of whate'er on land is seen;
But, if the Nereid Sisters and their Queen,[HB]
Above whose heads the tide so long hath rolled,
The Dames resemble whom we here behold,
How fearful were it down through opening waves[471]
To sink, and meet them in their fretted caves,
Withered, grotesque, immeasurably old,
And shrill and fierce in accent!—Fear it not:
For they Earth's fairest daughters do excel;[472]
Pure undecaying[473] beauty is their lot;
Their voices into liquid music swell,
Thrilling each pearly cleft and sparry grot,
The undisturbed abodes where Sea-nymphs dwell!
"If in this Sonnet I should seem to have borne a little too hard upon the personal appearance of the worthy Poissardes of Calais, let me take shelter under the authority of my lamented friend, the late Sir George Beaumont. He, a most accurate observer, used to say of them, that their features and countenances seemed to have conformed to those of the creatures they dealt in; at all events the resemblance was striking."—W. W. 1822.
In Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal of this Tour on the Continent,—which, in a letter to her daughter Dorothy (dated 20th February 1821), she calls "hasty notes made by snatches during our journey,"—the following occurs:—"Passing through the gates of the city, we had before us a line of white-capped Fish-women, with thin brown faces. The fish very foul, yet at dinner the same sort proved excellent."
In Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal of the same Tour, the following occurs:—"Tuesday, 11th July. Calais.—With one consent we stopped to gaze at a group—rather a line of women and girls, seated beside dirty fish baskets under the old gate-way and ramparts—their white night caps, brown and puckered faces, bright eyes, etc. etc., very striking. The arrangements—how unlike those of a fish-market in the South of England!...
"Every one is struck with the excessive ugliness (if I may apply the word to any human creatures) of the fish-women of Calais, and that no one can forget."—Ed.
Henry Crabb Robinson wrote of this sonnet:—"Of the sonnets there is one remarkable and unique; the humour and naïveté, and the exquisitely refined sentiment of the Calais fish-women, are a combination of excellencies quite novel." (Diary, etc., vol. ii. p. 224.)—Ed.
VARIANTS:
[471] 1837.
1822.
How terrible beneath the opening waves
[472] 1822.
1837.
In grace Earth's fairest Daughters they excel;
The text of 1840 returns to that of 1822.
[473] 1827.
1822.
Pure unmolested . . .
FOOTNOTE:
[HB] Amphitrite, herself a daughter of Nereus, was married to Posidon, and was therefore Queen of the Sea. The name Amphitrite is probably derived from the noise of waters pouring through the rifts of rocks, and there may be an allusion to this in the concluding lines of the sonnet.—Ed.
II
BRUGÈS
Brugès I saw attired with golden light
(Streamed from the west) as with a robe of power:
The splendour fled; and now the sunless hour,
That, slowly making way for peaceful night,[474]
Best suits with fallen grandeur, to my sight
Offers the beauty, the magnificence,[475]
And sober graces,[476] left her for defence
Against the injuries of time, the spite
Of fortune, and the desolating storms
Of future war. Advance not—spare to hide,
O gentle Power of darkness! these mild hues;
Obscure not yet these silent avenues
Of stateliest architecture, where the Forms
Of nun-like females, with soft motion, glide!
This is not the first poetical tribute which in our times has been paid to this beautiful City. Mr. Southey, in the Poet's Pilgrimage, speaks of it in lines which I cannot deny myself the pleasure of connecting with my own.
"Time hath not wronged her, nor hath Ruin sought
Rudely her splendid Structures to destroy,
Save in those recent days, with evil fraught,
When Mutability, in drunken joy
Triumphant, and from all restraint released,
Let loose her fierce and many-headed beast.
"But for the scars in that unhappy rage
Inflicted, firm she stands and undecayed;
Like our first Sires, a beautiful old age
Is hers in venerable years arrayed;
And yet, to her, benignant stars may bring,
What fate denies to man,—a second spring.
"When I may read of tilts in days of old,
And tourneys graced by Chieftains of renown,
Fair dames, grave citizens, and warriors bold,
If fancy would pourtray some stately town,
Which for such pomp fit theatre should be,
Fair Bruges, I shall then remember thee."
W. W. 1822.
"In this city are many vestiges of the splendour of the Burgundian Dukedom, and the long black mantle universally worn by the females is probably a remnant of the old Spanish connection, which, if I do not much deceive myself, is traceable in the grave deportment of its inhabitants. Bruges is comparatively little disturbed by that curious contest, or rather conflict, of Flemish with French propensities in matters of taste, so conspicuous through other parts of Flanders. The hotel to which we drove at Ghent furnished an odd instance. In the passages were paintings and statues, after the antique, of Hebe and Apollo; and in the garden, a little pond, about a yard and a half in diameter, with a weeping willow bending over it, and under the shade of that tree, in the centre of the pond a wooden painted statue of a Dutch or Flemish boor, looking ineffably tender upon his mistress, and embracing her. A living duck, tethered at the feet of the sculptured lovers, alternately tormented a miserable eel and itself with endeavours to escape from its bonds and prison. Had we chanced to espy the hostess of the hotel in this quaint rural retreat, the exhibition would have been complete. She was a true Flemish figure, in the dress of the days of Holbein; her symbol of office, a weighty bunch of keys, pendent from her portly waist. In Brussels, the modern taste in costume, architecture, etc., has got the mastery; in Ghent there is a struggle: but in Bruges old images are still paramount, and an air of monastic life among the quiet goings-on of a thinly-peopled city is inexpressibly soothing; a pensive grace seems to be cast over all, even the very children." (Extract from Journal.)—W. W. 1822.
From Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal:—"Thursday, 13th July....—Bruges. What a place. D. and I walked out as soon as we could after our arrival.... Went into the old church. The nuns, the different worshippers, the pictures, the place, the quiet stately streets, grand buildings, graceful nun-like women in their long cloaks, treading with swan-like motions those silent avenues of majestic architecture, I must leave to D. to describe. My own mind was uplifted by a sort of devotional elevation as if striving to fit itself to become worthy of what these temples would lead to."
"... Friday, 14th.—At Bruges all is silence, grace, and unmixed dignity.... You felt a sort of veneration for everything you looked upon. Nothing of this here" [i.e. at Ghent]; "yet what a splendid place! The evening too suited its character, for the sun went down in brightness. Yesterday was not a sunny day, and Bruges wanted no sunshine, its own outline in the gloom of evening needed no golden lustre. Yet this William witnessed, when D. and I were not with him, the great Tower of the Market House bathed in gold!"
The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal:—"Thursday, 13th July. Dunkirk.—We entered Bruges by a long gently-winding street, and were so animated with pleasure in our hasty course that it seemed we too soon reached the inn. W. and Mr. M. walked out immediately, eager to view the city in the warm light of the setting sun....
"Continued to walk through the silent town till ten o'clock—no carts—no chaises—a cloistral silence felt in every corner and every open space, yet the large square was scattered over with groups of people; or passengers walking to and fro, no lights in the houses!"—Ed.
VARIANTS:
[474] 1837.
'Tis passed away;—and now the sunless hour,
That slowly introducing peaceful night
'Tis past; and now the grave and sunless hour,
That, slowly making way for peaceful night,
[475] 1827.
1822.
Offers her beauty, her magnificence,
[476] 1827.
1822.
And all the graces . . .
III
BRUGÈS
The Spirit of Antiquity—enshrined
In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song,
In picture, speaking with heroic tongue,[477]
And with devout solemnities entwined—
Mounts to[478] the seat of grace within the mind:
Hence Forms that glide[479] with swan-like ease along,
Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng,
To an harmonious decency confined:
As if the streets were consecrated ground,
The city one vast temple, dedicate
To mutual respect in thought and deed;
To leisure, to forbearances sedate;
To social cares from jarring passions freed;
A deeper[480] peace than that in deserts found!
See the note to the last sonnet. The following is from Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal:—"Friday, 14th. Bruges.—Rose at five o'clock, paced the town again, and visited, but with disturbed mind (for I had left William in bed hurting himself with a sonnet), the churches of St. Salvador and Notre Dame.... I joined W. in our carriage, and have here written down the sonnet, Jones' Parsonage, so I hope he will be at rest."
The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal:—"Friday, 14th July. Bruges.—The morning was bright, sunshine and shade falling upon the lines of houses, and the out-juttings of the more noble buildings. In the bright light of morning the same tender melancholy was over the city as in the sober time of twilight, yet with intervening images of rural life. A few peasants were now entering the town, and the rattling of a rustic cart, prettily laden with vegetables fresh from the soil, gave a gentle stirring to the fancy. Early as it was, people of all ages were abroad chiefly on their way to the churches: the figure, gait, and motions of the women in harmony with the collegiate air of the streets, and the processions and solemnities of Catholic worship. Such figures might have walked through these streets, two hundred years ago; streets bearing no stamp of progress or of decay. One might fancy that as the city had been built so it had remained. We first went to the Church of St. Salvador, a venerable Gothic edifice. Within the Church, our walk between the lofty pillars was very solemn. We saw in perspective the marble floor scattered over, at irregular distances, with people of all ages—standing, or upon their knees, silent, yet making such motions as the order of their devotions prescribed, crossing themselves, beating their breasts, or telling their beads. Such the general appearance of the worshippers: but the gestures of some were more impassioned....
"We spent some time in admiring the beauty of the choir, and every other part of this noble building, adorned as it is with statues; and pictures not in the paltry style of the Churches at Calais and Fernes; but works of art that would be interesting anywhere, and are much more so in these sacred places, where the wretched and the happy, the poor and the rich are alike invited to cast away worldly feelings, and may be elevated by the representations of Scripture history, or of the sufferings and glory of martyrs and saints."
In the final arrangement of his poems, Wordsworth placed the one entitled Incident at Brugès—which belonged to the year 1828—after the two sonnets on Brugès in these "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent in 1820." In the present edition the former poem is restored to its chronological place (see vol. vii.), where it is associated with A Jewish Family. As a consequence the numbering of the poems differs slightly from that which Wordsworth finally adopted.—Ed.
VARIANTS:
[477] 1827.
1822.
And Tales transmitted through the popular tongue,
[478] 1837.
1822.
Strikes at . . .
1827.
Strikes to . . .
[479] 1827.
1822.
. . . slide . . .
[480] 1837.
1822.
A nobler . . .
IV
AFTER VISITING THE FIELD OF WATERLOO
A wingèd Goddess—clothed in vesture wrought
Of rainbow colours; One whose port was bold,
Whose overburthened hand could scarcely hold
The glittering crowns and garlands which it brought—
Hovered in air above the far-famed Spot.
She vanished; leaving prospect blank and cold
Of wind-swept corn that wide around us rolled
In dreary billows, wood, and meagre cot,
And monuments that soon must disappear:
Yet a dread local recompense we found;
While glory seemed betrayed, while patriot-zeal
Sank in our hearts, we felt as men should feel[481]
With such vast hoards of hidden carnage near,
And horror breathing from the silent ground!
"Namur, Tuesday 18th.—Our ride yesterday, except for the intervention of Waterloo, and its interests, which were so melancholy that I do not like to touch upon them, was a dull one, though the road was pleasant through the forest of Soignies. Waterloo, its pretty chapel, the walls within covered with monuments, recording the fall of many of our brave countrymen, and some few others as brave, La Haye Sainte, La Belle Alliance, Quatre Bras. Dined at Genappe; two bullet shots in the wainscot of the room, which, during the battle, had been heaped with dead and dying." (From Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)
"Monday, 17th July, Brussels.—I could understand little till we got to the field of battle, where we stood upon an elevation; and thence, looking round upon every memorable spot, by help of gesture and action, and the sounds 'les Anglois, les Francois,' etc. etc., I gathered up a small portion of the story, helped out by a few monuments erected to the memory of the slain; but all round, there was no other visible record of slaughter: the wide fields were covered with luxuriant crops, just as they had been before the battles, except that now the corn was nearly ripe, and then it was green. We stood upon grass, and corn fields where heaps of our countrymen lay buried beneath our feet. There was little to be seen, but much to be felt; sorrow and sadness, and even something like horror breathed out of the ground as we stood upon it!" (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. i.) Compare the two sonnets Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo, February, 1816, also the Thanksgiving Ode.—Ed.
VARIANT:
[481] 1827.
She vanished—All was joyless, blank, and cold;
But if from wind-swept fields of corn that roll'd
In dreary billows, from the meagre cot,
And monuments that soon may disappear,
Meanings we craved which could not there be found;
If the wide prospect seemed an envious seal
Of great exploits; we felt as Men should feel,
V
BETWEEN[482] NAMUR AND LIEGE
[The scenery on the Meuse pleases me more, upon the whole, than that of the Rhine, though the river itself is much inferior in grandeur. The rocks, both in form and colour, especially between Namur and Liege, surpass any upon the Rhine, though they are in several places disfigured by quarries, whence stones were taken for the new fortifications. This is much to be regretted, for they are useless, and the scars will remain perhaps for thousands of years. A like injury to a still greater degree has been inflicted, in my memory, upon the beautiful rocks of Clifton, on the banks of the Avon. There is probably in existence a very long letter of mine to Sir Uvedale Price, in which was given a description of the landscapes on the Meuse as compared with those on the Rhine.
Details in the spirit of these sonnets are given both in Mrs. Wordsworth's Journals and my Sister's, and the reperusal of them has strengthened a wish long entertained that somebody would put together, as in one work, the notices contained in them, omitting particulars that were written down merely to aid our memory, and bringing the whole into as small a compass as is consistent with the general interests belonging to the scenes, circumstances, and objects touched on by each writer.—I. F.]
What lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose?
Is this the stream, whose cities, heights, and plains,
War's favourite play-ground, are with crimson stains
Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews?
The Morn, that now, along the silver Meuse,
Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the swains
To tend their silent boats and ringing wains,
Or strip the bough whose mellow fruit bestrews
The ripening corn beneath it. As mine eyes
Turn from the fortified and threatening hill,
How sweet the prospect of yon watery glade,
With its grey rocks clustering in pensive shade—
That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise
From the smooth meadow-ground, serene and still!
The following extract from Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal illustrates this sonnet, and explains the Fenwick note. The "long entertained" "wish" of the poet, expressed in that note, has never yet been accomplished. It may be realised in one of the volumes which follow, in this edition.
"July 18. Departure from Namur, road out of the town beautiful, wide, disk-like valley, gardens, groves, town standing upon its two rivers. Ramparts towering above, very impressive to cast the eyes back upon. Market people flocking in in groups, variety of dresses, of all gay colours. Flowers seem to be the delight of the peasantry. They are worn in their hats, upon their breasts, carried in the mouth when their hands are at work sometimes, or stuck behind the ear. Road excellent all the way down the Meuse. Villages in all situations,—among the rocks, now one peeps out of a recess, again another upon a knoll with its spire rising from among trees. More and more beautiful as you proceed down the river—rocks on the banks of the most fantastic forms, something like those on the Wye. Sometimes the valley reminded us of the trough of the Clyde. Huy. Church handsome, the high tower struck by lightning fourteen years ago; new fortifications, most picturesque and romantic situation. Crossed the Meuse here, charming view from the bridge.... Road very delightful, rocks, woods, chateau, convent, vineyards, hanging gardens, orchards with profusion of fruit, shrubs, and flowers, and corn lands, all in the most luxuriant state. So beautiful a day's journey I never before travelled."
The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. i.:—"Tuesday, July 18. Namur.—Having traversed the Vale, we travel downwards, with the stately, though muddy, river to our left—pass under limestone rocks resembling abbeys or castles—the opening prospect still presenting something new. Backwards, a noble view of the vale, terminated by the city and fortifications of Namur at the distance of, perhaps, two miles or more—our last farewell view! Still, as we go on, the rocks change their shapes, in prospect far off; or as we roll swiftly away beneath them. Villages not to be numbered by the hasty traveller, rise up, with spires and towers; cottages embowered in gardens and orchards, and sometimes an old chateau or modern villa. All these (in succession or together) vary the scene, while, the abundance of flowers, fruit, vegetables, and corn, interbedded and intermingled, give an image of plenty and happy industry."—Ed.
VARIANT:
[482] 1837.
1822.
Scenery between . . .
VI
AIX-LA-CHAPELLE
Was it to disenchant, and to undo,
That we approached the Seat of Charlemaine?
To sweep from many an old romantic strain
That faith which no devotion may renew!
Why does this puny Church present to view
Her[483] feeble columns? and that scanty chair!
This sword that one of our weak times might wear!
Objects of false pretence, or meanly true!
If from a traveller's fortune I might claim
A palpable memorial of that day,
Then would I seek the Pyrenean Breach
That[484] Roland clove with huge two-handed sway,[HC]
And to the enormous labour left his name,
Where unremitting frosts the rocky crescent bleach.
Where unremitting frosts the rocky crescent bleach.
"Let a wall of rocks be imagined from three to six hundred feet in height, and rising between France and Spain, so as physically to separate the two kingdoms—let us fancy this wall curved like a crescent with its convexity towards France. Lastly, let us suppose, that in the very middle of the wall a breach of 300 feet wide has been beaten down by the famous Roland, and we may have a good idea of what the mountaineers call the 'Breche de Rolend.'" (Raymond's Pyrenees.)—W. W. 1822.
"Thursday, 20th July.—... Descend towards the town of Aix-la-Chapelle, a chapel on the opposite side of the vale upon a high knoll, overlooking the spires and towers.... Wm., T. M., and myself walked to the chapel we had seen on the heights, said to be built by Charlemagne: a very interesting view of the town, and over a large space of the country beyond, and into the country looking the other way. Wm. went higher to a monument recording that Buonaparte visited the spot with one attendant. We were too late to be satisfied here, the darkness only allowing us to form a notion of the outline, and to catch here and there a spire or a tower in the distance. The chapel here alluded to was not larger in appearance than the tiny rocky edifice at Buttermere. A Christ under the branches of a spreading oak, brought to my mind by contrast, a gay image of a brightly painted fox, on a sign board, among the branches of a flowing chestnut tree, which William and I saw gleaming in the setting sun, when walking through the village of Souldren." (From Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)
"Thursday, 20th July. Aix-la-Chapelle.—I went to the Cathedral, a curious Building where are to be seen the chair of Charlemagne, on which the Emperors were formerly crowned, some marble pillars much older than his time; and many pictures; but I could not stay to examine any of these curiosities, and gladly made my way alone back to the inn to rest there. The market-place is a fine old square; but at Aix-la-Chapelle there is always a mighty preponderance of poverty and dulness, except in a few of the showiest of the streets, and even there, a flashy meanness, a slight patchery of things falling to pieces is everywhere visible." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. i.)—Ed.
VARIANTS:
[483] 1837.
1822.
Its . . .
[484] 1837.
1822.
Which . . .
FOOTNOTE:
[HC] Compare Paradise Lost, book vi. l. 251—
Ed.
With huge two-handed sway.
VII
IN THE CATHEDRAL AT COLOGNE
O for the help of Angels to complete
This Temple[HD]—Angels governed by a plan
Thus far pursued (how gloriously!) by Man,[485]
Studious that He might not disdain the seat
Who dwells in heaven! But that aspiring heat
Hath failed; and now, ye Powers! whose gorgeous wings
And splendid aspect yon emblazonings
But faintly picture, 'twere an office meet
For you, on these unfinished shafts to try
The midnight virtues of your harmony:—
This vast design might tempt you to repeat
Strains[486] that call forth upon empyreal ground
Immortal Fabrics, rising to the sound
Of penetrating harps and voices sweet!
"Friday, July 21. Cologne.—... The Cathedral, a most magnificent edifice. Tower unfinished (this I perceived, but took it for a ruin at ten miles distance), built 700 years ago. The outside reminds you of Westminster Abbey in parts; and, had the Projector's wish been fulfilled, within and without, this would have been a much more sumptuous pile. It affectingly called to my mind William's lines—
Things incomplete and purposes betrayed
Make sadder transits o'er truth's mystic glass,
Than noblest objects utterly decayed.[HE]
Within the fluted Pillars are very grand; the dimensions, 180 German feet high, 700 long, and 500 broad. A curious old picture, 450 years old. Subject, the 3 Kings of Cologne in the centre (for it was divided into three parts, and kept shut up to protect it), and on the sides Ursula and the 11,000 virgins, by Ralfe; mounted 250 steps to the top of the unfinished Tower, and had a fine prospect of the river winding its way towards Dusseldorf.... The cathedral—that august and solemnly impressive Temple.... William in his musing way...." (From Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)
"Friday, 21st July. Cologne.—I cannot attempt to describe the Cathedral; nor indeed could any skill of mine do justice to that august pile, even if I might have lingered half a day among its walls. At our entrance, the evening sunshine rested upon portions of some of the hundred massy columns; while the shade and gloom, spread through the edifice, were deepened by those brilliant touches of golden light. Some of the painted windows were beautified by the melting together and the intermingling of colours, reflected upon the stone-work, colours and shapes, to the eye as unsubstantial as light itself, and visionary as the rainbow. The choir is hung with tapestry, designed by Rubens. It does, I think, to an unlearned eye somewhat resemble Henry the Seventh's chapel at Westminster, but is much loftier and larger. The long lancet-shaped painted windows are beautiful. The pillars and arches through the aisles of this Cathedral are of grey stone, sober, solemn, of great size, yet exquisitely proportioned; and no paltry images or tinselled altars disturb the one impression of awful magnificence, an impression received at once, and not to be overcome by regrets, that only the Choir and side aisles are finished. The nave, at half its destined height, is covered with a ceiling of boards. The exterior of this stupendous edifice is of massy, though most beautiful, architecture. Some of the lighter wreaths of stone-work (if great things may be compared with small) made me think of the Chapel of Roslin in its sequestered dell, where the adder's tongue and fern are mingled with green-grown flowers, and leaves of stone that neither fall nor fade. Flowers and bushes here grow out of the gigantic ruins—yet ruins they are not; for as the Builder's hand left the unfinished work, so it appears to have remained in firmness and strength unshakable, while Nature has made her own of ornaments framed in imitation of her works, having overspread them with her colouring, and blended them with the treasures of her lonely places." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. i.)—Ed.
VARIANTS:
[485] 1837.
1822.
How gloriously pursued by daring Man,
[486] 1827.
1822.
Charms . . .
FOOTNOTES:
[HD] The cathedral of Cologne was completed on October 15, 1880.—Ed.
[HE] The reference is to the sonnet on Malham Cove (see p. 185), and the Fenwick note to The Excursion.—Ed.
VIII
IN A CARRIAGE, UPON THE BANKS OF THE RHINE
Amid this dance of objects sadness steals
O'er the defrauded heart—while sweeping by,
As in a fit of Thespian jollity,[HF]
Beneath her vine-leaf crown the green Earth reels:
Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels
The venerable pageantry of Time,
Each beetling rampart, and each tower sublime,
And what the Dell unwillingly reveals
Of lurking cloistral arch, through trees espied
Near the bright River's edge. Yet why repine?
To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to gaze—
Such sweet way-faring—of life's spring the pride,
Her summer's faithful joy—that still is mine,
And in fit measure cheers autumnal days.[487]
"Saturday 22nd.—We were anxious, at least Wm. was, to be in Switzerland, and we must follow our destiny. Leaving the rich plain, came to the fine range of mountains we saw yesterday, and to the side of the glorious river, by which we have since travelled. Magnificent heights on its banks. The most abrupt and fantastic outlines; Convents (what an exquisite one that first which pushed itself forward on the green shore, where the river bends in its course); Ruined Castles, looking at each other from aloft, or down upon the convents, lurk in the woody clefts; picturesque Villages with their spires, at every turn of this stately winding river; beautiful road following its windings; every variety of form given to the rocks; and affecting intimations brought to mind, by the frequent oratories and crosses, here neither tawdry nor obtrusive. After changing horses at Remengen, lost sight for a while of our noble companion, which soon reappeared stretching along a more widely-spread vale; the green hills softly retiring, vineyards climbing up their sides, and into every crevice; corn yellow-green, the different crops richly filling the centre of the vale; the fine road, bordered now by apple-trees laden with fruit, now open to the undivided plain. Again the hills approached, and never was beheld a grander display of Nature's works and of human Art, than continued in succession to feast our eyes and imaginations. D. noted the objects individually, in one of the most beautiful passages" (of her journal). (Mrs. Wordsworth.)
"Saturday, 22nd July. Cologne.—For some miles, the traveller goes through the magnificent plain, which from its great width appears almost circular. Though unseen the river Rhine, we never can forget that it is there! When the vale becomes narrower, one of the most interesting and beautiful of prospects opens on the view from a gentle rising in the road. On an island stands a large grey convent, sadly pensive among its garden walls and embowering wood. The musket and cannon have spared that sanctuary, and we were told that, though the establishment is dissolved, a few of the nuns still remain there, attached to the spot; or probably having neither friends or other home to repair to. On the right bank of the river, opposite to us, is a bold precipice, bearing on its summit a ruined fortress which looks down upon the convent; and the warlike and religious Edifices are connected together by a chivalrous story of slighted or luckless love, which caused the withdrawing of a fair Damsel to the Island, where she founded the monastery. Another bold ruin stands upon an eminence adjoining, and all these monuments of former times combine with villages and churches, and dells (between the steeps) green or corn-clad, and with the majestic River (here spread out like a lake) to compose a most affectingly beautiful scene, whether viewed in prospect or in retrospect. Still we rolled along (ah! far too swiftly! and often did I wish that I were a youthful traveller on foot), still we rolled along, meeting the flowing River, smooth as glass, yet so rapid that the stream of motion is always perceptible, even from a great distance. The riches of this region are not easily fancied,—the pretty paths, the gardens among plots of vineyard and corn, cottages peeping from the shade, villages and spires, in never-ending variety." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. i.)—Ed.
VARIANT:
[487] 1837.
. . . Yet why repine?
Pedestrian liberty shall yet be mine
To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to gaze:
Freedom which youth with copious hand supplied,
May in fit measure bless my later days.
FOOTNOTE:
[HF] Thespis was the reputed inventor of tragedy, and he is said to have carried his rude stage and apparatus from village to village on waggons. Horace, Ars Poetica, 275.
Ignotum tragicae genus invenisse Camenae
Dicitur et plaustris vexisse poëmata Thespis
Quae canerent agerentque peruncti faecibus ora.
Thespis began the drama: rumour says
In travelling carts he carried round his plays,
When actors, smeared with lees, before the throng,
Performed their parts with gesture and with song!
(Conington.)
These celebrations became identified with the nine Dionysiac festivals. See Virgil, Georgics ii. 380.
There is a reference to the dignity of tragedy throughout the sonnet, and yet to the fact that it is a passing show.—Ed.
IX
HYMN,
FOR THE BOATMEN, AS THEY APPROACH THE RAPIDS UNDER THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG
Jesu! bless our slender Boat,
By the current swept along;
Loud its threatenings—let them not
Drown the music of a song
Breathed thy mercy to implore,
Where these troubled waters roar!
Saviour, for our warning, seen[488]
Bleeding on that precious Rood;
If, while through the meadows green
Gently wound the peaceful flood,
We forgot Thee, do not Thou
Disregard thy Suppliants now!
Hither, like yon ancient Tower
Watching o'er the River's bed,
Fling the shadow of thy power,
Else we sleep among the dead;
Thou who trod'st[489] the billowy sea,
Shield us in our jeopardy!
Guide our Bark among the waves;
Through the rocks our passage smooth;
Where the whirlpool frets and raves
Let thy love its anger soothe:
All our hope is placed in Thee;
Miserere Domine![HG]
VARIANTS:
[488] 1837.
1822.
Lord and Saviour! who art seen
1827.
Saviour, in thy image, seen
[489] 1827.
1822.
Traveller on . . .
FOOTNOTE:
[HG] Miserere Domine.
See the beautiful Song in Mr. Coleridge's Tragedy, "The Remorse." Why is the Harp of Quantock silent?—W. W. 1822.
The following is the song, Miserere Domine, from Coleridge's Remorse, act III. scene i.:—
Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell,
Lest a blacker charm compel!
So shall the midnight breezes swell
With thy deep long-lingering knell.
And at evening evermore,
In a Chapel on the shore,
Shall the Chaunters sad and saintly,
Yellow tapers burning faintly,
Doleful Masses chaunt for thee,
Miserere Domine!
Hark! the cadence dies away
On the quiet moonlight sea:
The boatmen rest their oars and say,
Miserere Domine!
This song was set to music by Mr. Carnaby in 1802.—Ed.
"26th July.—Reached Heidelberg.... We walked a while about the garden and ruins of the Castle. Looked down upon the grey-roofed Town, with its Cathedral running parallel with the river Neckar, over which, by a fine bridge, we had crossed on entering; boats shooting curiously over the rapids; vines, hanging gardens climbing up the hill, clothing the rocks, and creeping into their crevices, on every side of us, and up to the very point where we stood. The Town, with its squares and fountains, its narrow long streets, with arched gateways, towers, and spires, courts, and quaint flower gardens, fill the deep valley. The river disappears, winding away among the hills to the right. Before us it holds a direct course—through a widening tract of the same prolific country—to the Rhine, seen in the distance.... 27th... The passage through the bridge being somewhat dangerous, those who accompany the rafts, as they approach, fall down upon their knees to pray, then raise their voices and sing an appropriate anthem till the peril is past." (Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)
"Friday, 28th July. Heidelberg.—The River flows beside it calmly (though with strong motion as all these large rivers do), but after that point, to the Bridge, the channel is rocky, and therefore the stream turbulent. While passing under the garden-wall, the peasant sailor, before he trusts his boat or timber-raft to the rocks and rapids, kneels down and prays for protection from danger, and a safe passage through the arches of the Bridge. An Image of Jesus on the cross is the visible object of his worship, which Mr. Pickford, when he rebuilt his garden-wall, replaced in its station, out of respect to the piety or superstition of past and present times. During the passage an appropriate hymn is chaunted—the thought touched our poet's fancy, and he has since composed the following verses for the Heidelberg boatmen." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. i.)
In the edition of 1822 a sonnet followed this Hymn, entitled The Jung-Frau—and the Rhine at Shauffhausen. In the edition of 1827 it was transferred to the series of "Ecclesiastical Sonnets," under the title of its first line, "Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design," which place it retained in all subsequent editions (see Part III. No. xii.) The following note accompanied the sonnet in the edition of 1822:—"This Sonnet belongs to another publication, but from its fitness for this place is inserted here also.
'Voilà un énfer d'eau,' cried out a German Friend of Ramond, falling on his knees on the scaffold in front of this Waterfall. See Ramond's Translation of Coxe."—W. W.—Ed.
X
THE SOURCE OF THE DANUBE
Not, like his great Compeers, indignantly
Doth Danube spring to life![490] The wandering Stream
(Who loves the Cross, yet to the Crescent's gleam
Unfolds a willing breast)[HH] with infant glee
Slips from his prison walls: and Fancy, free
To follow in his track of silver light,
Mounts on rapt wing, and with a moment's flight
Hath reached the encincture of that gloomy sea[491][HI]
Whose waves the Orphean lyre[HJ] forbad to meet
In conflict; whose rough winds forgot their jars[492]
To waft the heroic progeny of Greece;
When the first Ship sailed for the Golden Fleece—
Argo—exalted for that daring feat
To fix in heaven her shape distinct with stars.[493][HK]
Not (like his great Compeers) indignantly
Doth Danube spring to light!
Before this quarter of the Black Forest was inhabited, the source of the Danube might have suggested some of those sublime images which Armstrong has so finely described; at present the contrast is most striking. The Spring appears in a capacious Stone Basin upon the front of a Ducal palace, with a pleasure-ground opposite; then, passing under the pavement, takes the form of a little, clear, bright, black, vigorous rill, barely wide enough to tempt the agility of a child five years old to leap over it,—and, entering the Garden, it joins, after a course of a few hundred yards, a Stream much more considerable than itself. The copiousness of the Spring at Doneschingen must have procured for it the honour of being named the Source of the Danube.—W. W. 1822.
"Monday, 31st July.—... We drew towards the town of Villingen, a foreign-looking place standing in the descent, and lifting up its metallic dome-like spires, without the accompaniment of a single tree.... The Church with its two-fold spire glittered in the hot sunshine, like pewter in a melting state. Our guide had told us that near this place the Danube took its rise; but not so.... At Doneschingen changed horses again. Here we laved in the water which flowed from the source of the majestic Danube, a little, clear, bright, black rill, that issuing from a capacious stone fountain, into which it springs, crosses the road, and glides rapidly along the side of a beautiful pleasure-ground.... We washed, drank, and luxuriated in the cool and pure waters of this rill, unwilling to quit what we were not again to see—a reality very different from the stately Danube, so long an image to the imagination." (Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)
"Tuesday, 1st August. Villingen.—The landlord seemed to entertain high ideas of this his native place—its modern improvements in gardens and its former grandeur—and told us that one of his servants should conduct us to the palace, the gardens, the baths, and last of all, though most the object of our curiosity, to the source of the Danube....
"But I seem to have forgotten the source of the Danube, which truly was 'another'[HL] Danube after we had seen it; or, more properly speaking, after we had seen the moor-land country surrounding the Town of Doneschingen, where we knew we should meet with the source of that famous river; and it is not only there (in that Hollow wild without grandeur), but actually within the walls of the Duke's courts adjoining the trim flower garden. The bountiful spring is received by a large square stone basin, and thence flows through the gardens in a narrow stream like a vigorous mill-race. Had an active boy been by our side he would have over-leapt it. That streamlet, after the course of a few hundred yards, falls into the bed of the united rivers the P—— and the P—— which take their rise in the moorish hills seen on the right in the road from Villingen, and which we looked upon from the gardens at the same time that we saw the new-born streamlet (called the source of the Danube) gush into their channel. I suppose it must be the remarkable strength of the spring which has caused it to be dignified with its title; for certainly those other two streams (united a little above the gardens) are the primary sources (of this branch at least) of the Danube." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. i.)
What Dorothy Wordsworth mentions in reference to the Danube occurs in many other rivers; e.g. the source of the Clyde, in Scotland, is a tiny burn in Lanarkshire, which, after a short moorland course, falls (near Elvanfoot) into the large stream of the Daur—the latter having come down for many miles from the Lead Hills district. The P—— and P—— is probably a mistake for B—— and B——. The mountain torrent of the Bregé in the Schwartzwald is joined by the Bregach, and when the stream receives the waters from the spring in the Castle Garden of Doneschingen it becomes the Danube.—Ed.
VARIANTS:
[490] 1822.
But in the note to the poem the reading is "light."
[491] 1840.
Reaches, with one brief moment's rapid flight,
The vast Encincture of that gloomy sea
[492] 1827.
Whose rough winds Orpheus soothed; whose waves did greet
So skilfully that they forgot their jars—
[493] 1837.
Argo exalted by that daring feat
To a conspicuous height among the stars!
Argo, exalted for that daring feat
To bear in heaven a shape distinct with stars.
FOOTNOTES:
[HH] Referring to the circumstance that the Danube rises in a country where the Catholic religion prevails, and flows eastwards through lands where the faith of Islam is professed.—Ed.
[HI] The Black Sea. Orpheus accompanied the Argonauts in their expedition to Colchis. In the earlier form of the legend, this lyre subdued the winds and waves, and fixed the Symplegades firm in the sea, so that the Argo passed through unharmed. (See the legends in Ovid and Virgil, and in the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius, 1. 23.)—Ed.
[HJ] See Paradise Lost, book iii. l. 17.—Ed.
[HK] According to the Greek astronomers, the lyre of Orpheus was placed by Zeus amongst the stars.—Ed.
For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
'Twill be another Yarrow.
(See vol. ii. p. 413).—Ed.
XI
ON APPROACHING THE STAUBBACH, LAUTERBRUNNEN
Uttered by whom, or how inspired—designed
For what strange service, does this concert reach
Our ears, and near the dwellings of mankind!
'Mid fields familiarized to human speech?—
No Mermaids warble—to allay the wind
Driving some vessel toward a dangerous beach—
More thrilling melodies; Witch answering Witch,
To chaunt a love-spell, never intertwined[494]
Notes shrill and wild with art more musical:
Alas! that from the lips of abject Want
Or[495] Idleness in tatters mendicant
The strain should flow-free Fancy to enthral,[496]
And with regret and useless pity haunt
This bold, this bright,[497] this sky-born, Waterfall!
The Staubbach is a narrow Stream, which, after a long course on the heights, comes to the sharp edge of a somewhat overhanging precipice, overleaps it with a bound, and, after a fall of 930 feet, forms again a rivulet. The vocal powers of these musical Beggars may seem to be exaggerated; but this wild and savage air was utterly unlike any sounds I had ever heard; the notes reached me from a distance, and on what occasion they were sung I could not guess, only they seemed to belong, in some way or other, to the Waterfall—and reminded me of religious services chaunted to Streams and Fountains in Pagan times.—W. W. 1822. Mr. Southey has thus accurately characterised the peculiarity of this music: "While we were at the Waterfall, some half-score peasants, chiefly women and girls, assembled just out of reach of the Spring, and set up—surely, the wildest chorus that ever was heard by human ears,—a song not of articulate sounds, but in which the voice was used as a mere instrument of music, more flexible than any which art could produce,—sweet, powerful, and thrilling beyond description." (See Notes to A Tale of Paraguay.)—W. W. 1837.
"Thursday, 10th Aug....—Walked to the Staubbach, the thin veil-like mist-besprinkled waterfall, that slips over the edge of an immensely high perpendicular rock—which, when we saw it by the morning light, was accompanied by a beautiful rainbow; spanning, like the arch of a bridge, the vapour at the base of the rock. Singing Girls. But I must not neglect to speak of the beauty of the early morning, in the magnificent pass between Interlachen and Lauterbrunnen. The river from Jungfrau bounding down with great force, bringing a very cold air from the snowy regions. Cottages with their green summer plots climbing up in all directions, to the very skirts of these icy regions. Two that looked so beautiful in the sunshine. Women and children busy with their little lot of hay. Men mowing." (Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)
"Thursday, 10th August. Interlachen.—The Staubbach is a narrow stream, which, after a long course on the heights, comes to the sharp edge of a somewhat overhanging precipice, overleaps it with a bound, and, after a fall of 930 feet, forms again a rivulet, that passing through a green sloping pasture crosses the road, and thence through the heaving grounds, takes its clear waters to the grey torrent of the Leutshen. When tracking with my young guide the rivulet to its momentary resting-place, a small basin at the foot of the cataract, two women appeared before me singing a shrill and savage air; the tones were startling, and in connection with their wild yet quiet figures strangely combined with the sounds of dashing water and the silent aspect of the huge crag that seemed to reach the sky! The morning sun falling on this side of the valley, a circular rainbow was seen when we were there, between the Fall and the Rock, the space being several yards, and you stand within that space in a bath of dew. I was close to the women when they began to sing, and hence, probably, it was that I perceived nothing of sweetness in their tones. I cannot answer for the impression on the rest of the party except my brother, who being behind, heard the carol from a distance; and the description he gives of it is similar to Mr. Southey's in his Journal." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. i.)—Ed.
VARIANTS:
[494] 1837.
Tracks let me follow far from human-kind
Which these illusive greetings may not reach;
Where only Nature tunes her voice to teach
Careless pursuits, and raptures unconfined.
No Mermaid warbles (to allay the wind
That drives some vessel tow'rds a dangerous beach)
More thrilling melodies! no caverned Witch
Chaunting a love-spell, ever intertwined
1827.
. . . tow'rd a dangerous beach)
[495] 1837.
1822.
And . . .
[496] 1832.
1822.
They should proceed—enjoyment to enthral,
1827.
The strain should flow—enjoyment to enthral,
[497] 1837.
1822.
. . . this pure, . . .
XII
THE FALL OF THE AAR-HANDEC
From the fierce aspect of this River, throwing
His giant body o'er the steep rock's brink,
Back in astonishment and fear we shrink:
But, gradually a calmer look bestowing,
Flowers we espy beside the torrent growing;
Flowers that peep forth from many a cleft and chink,
And, from the whirlwind of his anger, drink
Hues ever fresh, in rocky fortress blowing:
They suck—from breath that, threatening to destroy,
Is more benignant than the dewy eve—
Beauty, and life, and motions as of joy:
Nor doubt but He to whom yon Pine-trees nod
Their heads in sign of worship,[HM] Nature's God,
These humbler adorations will receive.
"Saturday, Aug. 12.—It is now half-past twelve o'clock, and I am sitting upon a sort of myrtle bed under a pine grove among the rocks, down which the headlong Aar cleaves its way, having dined in the cabin at Handeck, in close neighbourhood with our steeds. All that we have hitherto seen seemed at the moment but a faint preparation for the delights of this day. The beautiful valley we left behind us, the groves, the forest of oak and pine, the glades, the one particularly in which we met that 'Hoifer,' as we called him, with his heron's crest proudly reared upon his head, a little page carrying his accoutrements. He with many others, but none like this Hero, there was repairing to shoot for a prize at Meyringen. Then, those lovely vales, that circular one, the pride of them all, which led us to the savage Pass and giant Pines, where lurks this King of Waterfalls. What delicious couches to rest upon. Here to linger out a long summer's day would be a luxury. A more sober passage home—our spirits a little, but very little, damped by the stretch of enjoyment." (Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)
"Saturday, 12th August. Meyringen.—Crossed the stream, and re-crossed it, and from a stony hollow, uninhabited, came into the gloom of a pine forest, which led us, by a steep ascent, to the rocks surrounding the Fall of the Aar. Long before our approach, we heard the roaring, while that sound was deadened by the intermediate rocks and trees; but when standing on a bank, in front of the cataract, I could have believed at the first moment, that it was louder even than that of the Rhine at Schaffhausen. This impression, no doubt, was owing chiefly to its being confined within a narrow space. The pine-clad precipices, especially on the opposite side, are very lofty, rising from the rocks of the Pass, kept bare by continual wetting. The gloom of the forest-mountains, in harmony with the sombrous hue of the water, would, of itself, make this first view of this cataract much more impressive than that of the Reichenbach; but again we looked in vain—not for delicate passages in the stream;—those could not be thought of;—but for some of those minute graces, and those overgrowings that detain us in admiration beside our own pellucid waterfalls.[HN] There is a grey furnace-like smoke of water, and a desperate motion and ferment, that make the head dizzy and stun the ears." ... "We clambered upon other rocks; and, at leisure, noticed the variety of shrubby plants and flowers, which here (being higher than the stream) grew securely, nursed by perpetual dews. Luxuriant tufts of a very large sedum were lodged on the ledges, or hung from dark crevices; those tufts, in form and motion, as they waved and fluttered in the breeze of the cataract, resembling the plumes of a hearse, were an ornament well suited to the pine-clad steeps, and the heavenly beauty of the rainbow." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. i.)—Ed.
FOOTNOTES:
[HM] Compare Coleridge's Hymn before Sunrise, in the Vale of Chamouni.—Ed.
[HN] Compare Wordsworth's remarks on Waterfalls, in his Description of the Scenery of the Lakes.—Ed.
XIII
MEMORIAL,
Near the Outlet of the Lake of Thun
"DEM
ANDENKEN
MEINES FREUNDES
ALOYS REDING
MDCCCXVIII"
Aloys Reding, it will be remembered, was Captain-General of the Swiss forces, which, with a courage and perseverance worthy of the cause, opposed the flagitious and too successful attempt of Buonaparte to subjugate their country.—W. W. 1822.
Around a wild and woody hill
A gravelled pathway treading,
We reached a votive Stone that bears
The name of Aloys Reding.
5
Well judged the Friend who placed it there
For silence and protection;
And haply with a finer care
Of dutiful affection.
The Sun regards it from the West;
And, while in summer glory
He sets, his sinking yields a type[498]
Of that pathetic story:
And oft he tempts the patriot Swiss
Amid the grove to linger;
Till all is dim, save this bright Stone
Touched by his golden finger.
"Aug. 7th. We reached this place, Thun. Walked or sate in the groves at the foot of the Lake, then crossed the river by a boat, and wandered in delightful pleasure groves on the other side. Then, passing a gravelled path, which is carried round the woody hill, we found among many interesting objects, one that was very impressive, a plain oval slab, raised upon a stone seat, directly fronting the setting sun, which at that moment was shedding his latest rays upon it. It was this inscription which spoke more than an elaborate panegyric:—
DEM
ANDENKEN
MEINES FREUNDES
ALOYS REDING
MDCCCXVIII."
(Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)
"Monday, 7th August. Berne.—One of the inscriptions (which I did not see) was to the memory of Aloys Reding, a Friend of the possessor of these grounds. A happy chance led my Companions to the spot; and here is the inscription copied by one of them:—
DEM
ANDENKEN
MEINES FREUNDES
ALOYS REDING
MDCCCXVIII."
The other bore away a store of interesting recollections which gave birth to the following little Poem:—
Memorial Verses
Around a wild and woody hill, etc."
(From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, 1820, vol. i.)
It will be observed from the dates given in the Journals, that the poet did not keep to the chronological order of the Journey, in arranging these "Memorials" of their Continental Tour. In the strict order of time, this memorial to Aloys Reding should have preceded the sonnet On approaching the Staubbach.—Ed.
VARIANT:
[498] 1837.
Sinking in summer glory;
And, while he sinks, affords a type
XIV
COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE CATHOLIC CANTONS[499]
Doomed as we are our native dust[500]
To wet with many a bitter shower,[501]
It ill befits us to disdain[502]
The altar, to deride the fane,
Where simple[503] Sufferers bend, in trust
To win a happier hour.
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!
Where'er we roam—along the brink
Of Rhine—or by the sweeping Po,
Through Alpine vale, or champain[HO] wide,
Whate'er we look on, at our side
Be Charity!—to bid us think,
And feel, if we would know.
The second stanza of this poem, entitled Composed in one of the Catholic Cantons, was in the original edition of 1822, a part of the poem entitled The Church of San Salvador, seen from the Lake of Lugano. The other stanzas were first published in 1827.
Numerous references to "the firm unmoving cross," and to
the chapel far withdrawn,
That lurks by lonely ways,
occur both in Mrs. Wordsworth's and in Dorothy's Journal. E.g. (Crossing the St. Gotthard Pass) "Aug. 24.—... Gained the top by a steep pull; snow before and behind; a crucifix, and oratories thicken upon our course as we draw near to the Hospice. 'Gales from Italy' blow fresh around. Snow on the roadside. Farther on a little cross under a rock.... We yesterday noticed five of these crosses, two placed under one rock, and three under another." "Aug. 15. (Engelberg.)—... Counted the wayside upright oratories; found no less than sixteen before we reached the house, where we resumed our char-à-bancs." "Aug. 8. (At Interlachen.)—... The view that takes in the length of the Vale, following the snaky river with its islands, through those croft-like, woody, orchard meadows to Unterseen, with its weir, church, bridges, cottages, and that spiral edifice in the midst: Lake of Thun beyond, girt by mountains: Neissen, a pyramidal giant, predominant. Turning to the left towards Brientz, Ringenberg old Church tower rising from a high woody knoll. William and I came to it. (I write on the spot. Wm. asleep.) No entrance into the ruin, good view of Brientz Lake, and a little Loughrigg Tarn above, close under where we are seated among groves of limes, hazels, beeches, etc.; clanking hammers, singing girl. 'Will no one tell me what she sings?'[HP] A little further on, among those sylvan crofts, a scattered group of day or summer-deserted cabins; plots of hemp spread in the sunshine tell us dwellers sometimes come here. Hence steps of rock led us to a temple of Nature's own framing, roofed with ancient beech trees. Under one was firmly fixed in the ground a little upright stone, about a span in width, and three times that length. Upon it was roughly chisled a cross, not exactly a Christ-cross, but something like this.... I could not but feel that it might have been placed there by the Peasants, as a point to meet from their scattered sheds for worship. Natural seats, mossy or bare, like those in our own sylvan parlour (upon Rydal Lake), all around in the rocks, kept up the idea; and a more lovely and silent spot could not have been selected for a holy purpose: the little Tarn too in sight, in time of drought, ready to supply their rocky font with fresh water."
"Friday, 14th September. Martigny.—Passing the turn of the ascent, we come to another Cross, (placed there to face the Traveller ascending from the other side), and, from the brow of the eminence, behold! to our left, the huge Form of Mont Blanc—pikes, towers, needles, and wide wastes of everlasting snow in dazzling brightness. Below is the river Arve, a grey-white line, winding to the village of Chamouny, dimly seen in the distance. Our station, though on a height so commanding, was on the lowest point of the eminence; and such as I have sketched (but how imperfectly!) was the scene uplifted and outspread before us. The higher parts of the mountain in our neighbourhood are sprinkled with brown Chalets. So they were thirty years ago, as my Brother well remembered; and he pointed out to us the very quarter from which a Boy greeted him and his companion with an Alpine cry—
The stranger seen below, the boy
Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy."[HQ]
(From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. ii.) See also note to Engelberg, the Hill of Angels, p. 317, and to Our Lady of the Snow, p. 320.—Ed.
VARIANTS:
[499] 1837.
1822.
. . . Cantons of Switzerland.
[500] 1827.
O Life! without thy chequered scene
Of right and wrong, of weal and woe,
Success and failure, could a ground
For magnanimity be found?
For faith, 'mid ruined hopes, serene?
Or whence could virtue flow?
1832.
Yet are we doomed our native dust
The edition of 1837 returns to the text of 1827.
[501] 1827.
1832.
. . . fruitless shower,
The edition of 1837 returns to the text of 1827.
[502] 1827.
1832.
And ill it suits us to disdain
The edition of 1837 returns to the text of 1827.
[503] 1832.
1827.
Where patient . . .
FOOTNOTES:
[HO] Wordsworth's spelling is retained.—Ed.
[HP] See The Solitary Reaper (vol. ii. p. 398).—Ed.
[HQ] See Descriptive Sketches (vol. i. p. 59).—Ed.
XV
AFTER-THOUGHT
Oh Life! without thy chequered scene
Of right and wrong, of weal and woe,
Success and failure, could a ground
For magnanimity be found;
For faith, 'mid ruin'd hopes, serene?
Or whence could virtue flow?
Pain entered through a ghastly breach—
Nor while sin lasts must effort cease;
Heaven upon earth's an empty boast;
But, for the bowers of Eden lost,
Mercy has placed within our reach
A portion of God's peace.
The first stanza of this After-Thought was first published in the edition of 1832, as the beginning of the poem Composed in one of the Catholic Cantons, and the second stanza in the edition of 1837 when the After-Thought first appeared.—Ed.
XVI
SCENE ON THE LAKE OF BRIENTZ
"What know we of the Blest above
But that they sing and that they love?"[HR]
Yet, if they ever did inspire
A mortal hymn, or shaped the choir,
Now, where those harvest Damsels float
Home-ward in their rugged Boat,
(While all the ruffling winds are fled—
Each slumbering on some mountain's head)
Now, surely, hath that gracious aid
Been felt, that influence is displayed.
Pupils of Heaven, in order stand
The rustic Maidens, every hand
Upon a Sister's shoulder laid,—
To chant, as glides the boat along,
A simple, but a touching, song;
To chant, as Angels do above,
The melodies of Peace in love!
The only reference to a "scene on the lake of Brientz" in Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal which could have given rise to the preceding poem is the following:—"William's desires extended to a promontory, whence he hoped to see the termination of the lake, and thither he is gone to look out for the Boat, our friends being upon the water. I am left to rest under the shade of some beeches. A fine walk we have had; bold immensely high limestone rocks above my head, grey hoary steeps, magnificent walnut trees, the favourite of the country; Swiss figures gliding among the trees, with their deep bright baskets on their backs; pines climbing up to the sky, fringing the rocks; scarlet barberries glittering, and tipping the pendent boughs of the beech or walnut trees below," etc. etc.
"Wednesday, 9th August. Interlachen.—Our minstrel peasants passed us on the water, no longer singing plaintive ditties such as inspired the little poem, which I shall transcribe in the following page; but with bursts of merriment they rowed lustily away. The poet has, however, transported the minstrels in their gentle mood from the Cottage door to the calm Lake." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. i.)—Ed.
FOOTNOTE:
[HR] Compare Edmund Waller, Upon the Death of my Lady Rich, 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.
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.
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.
10
Clouds do not name those Visitants; they were
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
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:
[504] 1827.
1822.
Engelberg.
[505] 1827.
1822.
And even such . . .
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
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,
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]
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]
Not only from the dreary strife
Of Winter, but the storms of life,
Thee have thy Votaries aptly styled,
Our Lady of the Snow.
25
Even for the Man who stops not here,
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]
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,
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,
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:
[506] 1837.
1822.
All sufferings that no longer rest
[507] 1837.
1822.
. . . succour, all distrest
[508] 1837.
1822.
That pine . . .
[509] 1832.
A holy Shadow soft and dear
Of chastening sympathies!
FOOTNOTES:
[HT] Mount Righi.—W. W. 1822.
[HU] Compare Coleridge's Hymn before Sunrise, in the Vale of Chamouni—
Ed.
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
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.
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!
10
And[511] when that calm Spectatress from on high
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;
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,
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;
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:
[510] 1827.
1822.
Nor such as did the public meed bestow
[511] 1837.
1822.
But . . . . . . .
[512] 1832.
1822.
Not quaking . . . . . .
[513] 1832.
1822.
He smiles . . . . . . . .
FOOTNOTES:
[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.
[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;
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,
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:
[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.
[HY] The Lake of the Four Cantons.—D. W. The Vierwald-stätter See.—Ed.
[HZ] This Journal copied (and the extract added) in 1828.—D. W.
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
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]
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:
[514] 1837.
. . . how others love this simple Strain,
Even here, upon this glorious Mountain (named
[515] 1827.
. . . by memory are reclaimed;
And, thro' the Music's touching influence,
The joys . . .
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,
5
To rest where the lizard may bask in the palm
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,
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
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,
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.
VARIANT:
[516] 1827.
1822.
Fort Fuentes—At the Head of the Lake of Como.
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,
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?—
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;
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
Which men call Earth,"[IA] have yearned to seek,
Associate with the simply meek,
Religion in the sainted grove,
And in the hallowed grot.
25
Thither, in time of adverse shocks,
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!
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
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:
[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.
[518] 1837.
1827.
. . . heart, . . .
[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:
[IA] See Comus, l. 5.—Ed.
[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.
[IC] Cyclamen.—D. W.
[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
PART I
I
Now that the farewell tear is dried,
Heaven prosper thee, be hope thy guide!
Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy;
The wages of thy travel, joy!
Whether for London bound—to trill
Thy mountain notes with simple skill;
Or on thy head to poise a show
Of Images[520] in seemly row;
The graceful form of milk-white Steed,
Or Bird that soared with Ganymede;[IE]
Or through our hamlets thou wilt bear
The sightless Milton, with his hair
Around his placid temples curled;
And Shakspeare at his side—a freight,
If clay could think and mind were weight,
For him who bore the world!
Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy;
The wages of thy travel, joy!
II
But thou, perhaps, (alert as free[521]
Though serving sage philosophy)
Wilt ramble over hill and dale,
A Vender of the well-wrought Scale,
Whose sentient tube instructs to time
A purpose to a fickle clime:
Whether thou choose this useful part,
Or minister to finer art,
Though robbed of many a cherished dream,
And crossed by many a shattered scheme,
What stirring wonders wilt thou see
In the proud Isle of liberty!
Yet will the Wanderer sometimes pine
With thoughts which no delights can chase,
Recal a Sister's last embrace,
His Mother's neck entwine;
Nor shall forget the Maiden coy
That would have loved the bright-haired Boy!
III
My Song, encouraged by the grace
That beams from his ingenuous face,
For this Adventurer scruples not
To prophesy a golden lot;
Due recompense, and safe return
To Como's steeps—his happy bourne!
Where he, aloft in garden glade,
Shall tend, with his own dark-eyed Maid,
The towering maize, and prop the twig
That ill supports the luscious fig;
Or feed his eye in paths sun-proof
With purple of the trellis-roof,
That through the jealous leaves escapes
From Cadenabbia's pendent grapes.
—Oh might he tempt that Goatherd-child
To share his wanderings! him whose look[522]
Even yet my heart can scarcely brook,
So touchingly he smiled—
As with a rapture caught from heaven—
For unasked alms in pity given.[523]
PART II
I
With nodding plumes, and lightly drest
Like foresters in leaf-green vest,
The Helvetian Mountaineers, on ground
For Tell's dread archery renowned,
Before the target stood—to claim
The guerdon of the steadiest aim.
Loud was the rifle-gun's report—
A startling thunder quick and short!
But, flying through the heights around,
Echo prolonged a tell-tale sound
Of hearts and hands alike "prepared
The treasures they enjoy to guard!"
And, if there be a favoured hour
When Heroes are allowed to quit
The tomb, and on the clouds to sit
With tutelary power,
On their Descendants shedding grace—
This was the hour, and that the place.
II
75
But Truth inspired the Bards of old
When of an iron age they told,
Which to unequal laws gave birth,
And[524] drove Astræa from the earth.[IF]
—A gentle Boy (perchance with blood
As noble as the best endued,
But seemingly a Thing despised;
Even by the sun and air unprized;
For not a tinge or flowery streak
Appeared upon his tender cheek)
Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes,
Apart, beside his silent goats,
Sate watching in a forest shed,
Pale, ragged, with bare feet and head;[525]
Mute as the snow upon the hill,
And, as the saint he prays to, still.
Ah, what avails heroic deed?
What liberty? if no defence
Be won for feeble Innocence.
Father of all! though wilful Manhood read[526]
His punishment in soul-distress,
Grant to the morn of life its natural blessedness![IG]
VARIANTS:
[520] 1827.
1822.
Of plaster-craft . . .
[521] 1837.
1822.
. . . and free
[522] 1827.
1822.
. . . he whose look
[523] 1827.
1822.
When Pity's unasked alms were given.
[524] 1837.
1822.
That . . .
[525] 1840.
Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes
Of pleasure, by his silent Goats—
Sate far apart in forest shed,
Pale, ragged, bare his feet and head,
Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes
Sate watching by his silent Goats,
Apart within a forest shed,
Pale, ragged, with bare feet and head;
He to those oft-rebounding notes
Heart-deaf, beside his silent goats
Sate watching in a forest shed,
Pale, ragged, with bare feet and head;
[526] 1827.
1822.
. . . if wilful Man must read
FOOTNOTES:
[IE] In the favourite representations of the carrying off of Ganymede, the eagle of Zeus bore him in its talons to the skies. There was a famous statue representing this by Leochares (B.C. 372), which is described in Pliny, Nat. Hist. xxxiv. 19, and of which there is a copy at the Vatican. See Perry's Greek and Roman Sculpture, p. 463.—Ed.
[IF] The gods in the golden age were wishing to abide on earth, but as degeneracy ensued, one by one they left. Astræa or Justice was the last to depart—
. . . Virgo caede madentes,
Ultima coelestum, terras Astraea reliquit.
Ovid, Metamorphoses, i. 149.
See also Virgil, Georgics, ii. 473.—Ed.
[IG] "Thursday, Sept. 7. Cadenabbia.—A glorious morning. Mists belting the mountains, and casting silvery garments of all shapes over and around them, now veiling and now unveiling the rocks, the Lake dancing below. All that this Paradise had lost yesterday, restored and more than restored. At about 7 o'clock, D. and I set forward to walk toward Menaggio. Wm. soon overtook us, and we were joined by an interesting man, an inhabitant of the neighbourhood, who walked by our side, and spoke in commendation of our countrymen in opposition to his own, whom he did not scruple to say had no honesty about them in their dealings with Foreigners; nor, indeed, in bargaining with each other.... He spoke English very well; had passed twenty years at different times in England, in the course of twenty-five years; his journeys there cost him about three guineas each time; had there realized £2000, by selling telescopes and weather glasses, etc.... Our travelling merchant joined us again, he pointed out his farm with much glee." This extract does not seem very relevant, but it is the only passage in Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal recording an incident which might have given rise to The Italian Itinerant.
Dorothy Wordsworth gives the following fuller account of the same person. "Thursday, 6th September. Cadenabbia.—After a night of heavy rain, a bright morning. W., M., and I set off toward Menaggio along the terrace bordering the water, which led us to the bay at the foot of the rocky green hill of the Church of our Lady; and there we came upon the track of the old road, the very same which my Brother had paced! for there was no other, nor the possibility of one. That track, continued from the foot of the mountain, leads behind the town of Cadenabbia, cutting off the bending of the shore by which we had come to this point. From the bare precipice, we pass through shade and sunshine, among spreading vines, slips of green turf, or gardens of melons, gourds, maize, and fig-trees among the rocks; it was but for a little space, yet enough to make our regret even more lively than before that it had not been in our power to coast one reach at least of the lake on foot. We had been overtaken by a fine tall man, who somewhat proudly addressed us in English. After twenty years' traffic in our country he had been settled near his native place on the Banks of Como, having purchased an estate near Cadenabbia with the large sum of two thousand pounds, acquired by selling barometers, looking-glasses, etc. He had been used to return to his wife every third year in the month of October. He made preparations during the winter for fresh travels in the spring, at the same time working with her on the small portion of land which they then possessed. Portsmouth and Plymouth were the grand marts for his wares. He amused us with recitals of adventures among the sailors who used to bully him with, 'Come, you rogue, you get your money easily enough; spend it freely!' and he did not care if he got rid of a guinea or two; for he was sure to have it back again after one of the frolics—and much more. They would often clear away his whole stock of nick-nacks. This industrious trader used to travel on foot at the rate of from thirty to forty miles a day, and his expenses from London to Como were but three guineas, though it cost him one third of that sum to get to Calais. He said he liked England because the people were honest, and told us some stories illustrative of English honesty and Italian over-reaching in bargains. This amusing and, I must say, interesting companion, turned from us by a side-path before we reached Menaggio, saying he would meet us again, as our road would lead us near his cottage on the heights, and he should see us from the fields. He had another dwelling on his estate beside Cadenabbia, where the land produced excellent wine. The produce of his farm on the hills was chiefly hay, which they were then gathering in."
The Swiss Goatherd was a boy met by the travellers at Brunnen. Mrs. Wordsworth thus wrote of him in her Journal:—"20th Aug.—... Mountains rising through vapour into the sky in front, and looking back, the two Mythen towering in great majesty. The Peasants, inhabitants of these paradisaical retreats, very civil, and seemed gratified by our eagerness in quest of the interests they live among. Young men, seated in one of these spacious sheds, making merry after having ended their diversions. The target seen everywhere. In one of the sheds as we ascended, found four goats chewing the cud, a little boy attending, all on the bench. He looked so pensive that we became much interested about him, but D. could not make him understand a single word. William gave him ½ a ——; for which unexpected and unsolicited gift the boy thanked him 'a hundred thousand times.' I afterwards gave him a second piece, and the same expression of thanks was repeated. The longer we looked at the subdued countenance of this little Boy, the more we felt for his solitary condition. Here, with those four mute companions, he had passed his day. The beauty of the scenery he was among was nothing to him; and no doubt he knew of and had heard the sound of the merriment in the vales below. When we repassed the shed, it was empty." (Journal, vol. ii.)
In Dorothy Wordsworth's briefer record of the same incident, the following occurs:—"In one of these [sheds] we found four goats (how bright in the cool shade) beside their keeper, then sitting on the bench, an elegant-featured Boy—dark like an Italian, ragged, silent, pensive, and timid. We gave him a few rapps, still he was silent; then a few more, and he pronounced in German four words intelligible to English ears, 'a hundred thousand thanks'; but his pale cheek wanted the ready smile of the beggar's. It seemed as if none of his pleasures were social, except what he might have with his dumb companions." (Journal, vol. ii.)
With this poem compare Smollett's Ode to Leven Water, and see note to l. 448 of Descriptive Sketches.—Ed.
XXV
THE LAST SUPPER, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI,
IN THE REFECTORY OF THE CONVENT
OF MARIA DELLA GRAZIA—MILAN
Tho' searching damps and many an envious flaw
Have marred this Work; the calm ethereal grace,
The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face,
The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe
The Elements; as they do melt and thaw
The heart of the Beholder—and erase
(At least for one rapt moment) every trace
Of disobedience to the primal law.
The annunciation of the dreadful truth
Made to the Twelve, survives: lip, forehead, cheek,[527]
And hand reposing on the board in ruth
Of what it utters,[IH] while the unguilty seek
Unquestionable meanings—still bespeak
A labour worthy of eternal youth!
Though searching damps and many an envious flaw
Have marred this Work;
This picture of the Last Supper has not only been grievously injured by time, but the greatest part of it, if not the whole, is said to have been retouched, or painted over again. These niceties may be left to connoisseurs,—I speak of it as I felt. The copy exhibited in London some years ago, and the engraving by Merghen, are both admirable; but in the original is a power which neither of those works has attained, or even approached.—W. W. 1837.
"Sunday, Sept. 3. Milan.—... Thence we went again to the Cathedral, and to I know not how many different churches: St. Ambrose, very old and interesting, fine frescoes. St. Maria della Grazia, where, in the Refectory, is the exquisite picture of Leonardo da Vinci; but how grievous that it should have been so injured by the brutality of the French soldiers; yet, in its state of decay, what a Treasure! and how little everything that we have seen of Pictures is to be compared to the truth, the chasteness, and the composure that you see, and not only see, but feel, when seated before that sublime work of human art. The countenance of our Saviour sinks into your soul. Happily this is uninjured, as are also the heads of several of the Apostles, but some are quite extinguished." (From Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)
"Sunday, 2nd September. Milan.—Went also to the convent of Maria della Grazia to view that most famous picture of the Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci, painted on the wall at one end of the refectory, a very large hall, hung along the sides with smaller pictures, and, at the other end, that painting of the crucifixion of which we had seen a copy at Lugano. This Refectory was used, in the days of Buonaparte, as a military store-house, and the mark of a musket ball, fired in wantonness by a French Soldier, is to be seen in one part of the painting of Leonardo da Vinci. Fortunately the ball hit where the injury was as small as it could have been; and it is only marvellous that this fine work was not wholly defaced during those times of military misrule and utter disregard of all sacred things.[II] Little conversant in pictures, I cannot take upon me to describe this, which impressed my feelings and imagination more than any picture I ever saw, though some of the figures are so injured by damp that they are only just traceable. The most important are, however, happily the least injured; and that of our Saviour has only suffered from a general fading in the colours, yet, alas! the fading and vanishing must go on year after year till, at length, the whole group must pass away. Through the cloisters of the monastery, which are shattered and defaced, pictures are found in all parts, and there are some curious monuments." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. ii.)—Ed.
VARIANT:
[527] 1827.
1822.
. . . survives; the brow, the cheek,
FOOTNOTES:
"The hand
Sang with the voice, and this the argument." Milton.
[II] The following note was added, by Henry Crabb Robinson, to Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal:—"It is perfectly notorious that this picture suffered more from the negligence of the monks than from the scorn of the French. A hole was broken thro' the lower part of the centre of the picture to admit hot dishes from the Kitchen into the Refectory.—H. C. R."—Ed.
XXVI
THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, 1820[528]
High on her speculative tower
Stood Science waiting for the hour
When Sol was destined to endure
That darkening of his radiant face
Which Superstition strove to chase,
Erewhile, with rites impure.
Afloat beneath Italian skies,
Through regions fair as Paradise
We gaily passed,—till Nature wrought
A silent and unlooked-for change,
That checked the desultory range
Of joy and sprightly thought.
Where'er was dipped the toiling oar,
The waves danced round us as before,
As lightly, though of altered hue,
'Mid recent coolness, such as falls
At noontide from umbrageous walls
That screen the morning dew.
No vapour stretched its wings; no cloud
Cast far or near a murky shroud;
The sky an azure field displayed;
'Twas sunlight sheathed and gently charmed,
Of all its sparkling rays disarmed,
And as in slumber laid,—
25
Or something night and day between,
Like moonshine—but the hue was green;
Still moonshine, without shadow, spread
On jutting rock, and curvèd shore,
Where gazed the peasant from his door
And on the mountain's head.
It tinged the Julian steeps[IJ]—it lay,
Lugano! on thy ample bay,[529]
The solemnizing veil was drawn
O'er villas, terraces, and towers;
To Albogasio's[IK] olive bowers,
Porlezza's verdant lawn.
But Fancy with the speed of fire
Hath past[530] to Milan's loftiest spire,
And there alights 'mid that aërial host
Of Figures human and divine,
White as the snows of Apennine
Indúrated by frost.
Awe-stricken she beholds the array
That guards the Temple night and day;
Angels she sees—that might from heaven have flown,
And Virgin-saints, who not in vain
Have striven by purity to gain
The beatific crown—
Sees long-drawn files,[531] concentric rings
Each narrowing above each;—the wings,
The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips
The starry zone of sovereign height—
All steeped in this portentous light!
All suffering dim eclipse!
55
Thus after Man had fallen (if aught
These perishable spheres have wrought
May with that issue be compared)
Throngs of celestial visages,
Darkening like water in the breeze,
A holy sadness shared.
Lo![532] while I speak, the labouring Sun
His glad deliverance has begun:
The cypress waves her[533] sombre plume
More cheerily; and town and tower,
The vineyard and the olive-bower,
Their lustre re-assume!
O Ye, who guard and grace my home
While in far-distant lands we roam,
What countenance hath this Day put on for you?
While we looked round with favoured eyes,
Did sullen mists hide lake and skies
And mountains from your view?[534]
Or was it given you to behold
Like vision, pensive though not cold,
From the smooth breast of gay Winandermere?[535]
Saw ye the soft yet awful veil
Spread over Grasmere's lovely dale,
Helvellyn's brow severe?[IL]
I ask in vain—and know far less
If sickness, sorrow, or distress
Have spared my Dwelling to this hour;
Sad blindness! but ordained to prove
Our faith in Heaven's unfailing love
And all-controlling power.
Of Figures human and Divine.
The Statues ranged round the Spire and along the roof of the Cathedral of Milan, have been found fault with by Persons whose exclusive taste is unfortunate for themselves. It is true that the same expense and labour judiciously directed to purposes more strictly architectural, might have much heightened the general effect of the building; for, seen from the ground, the Statues appear diminutive. But the coup-d'œil, from the best point of view, which is half way up the Spire, must strike an unprejudiced Person with admiration; and surely the selection and arrangement of the Figures is exquisitely fitted to support the religion of the Country in the imaginations and feelings of the Spectator. It was with great pleasure that I saw, during the two ascents which we made, several Children, of different ages, tripping up and down the slender spire, and pausing to look around them, with feelings much more animated than could have been derived from these, or the finest works of art, if placed within easy reach.—Remember also that you have the Alps on one side, and on the other the Apennines, with the Plain of Lombardy between!—W. W. 1822.
The starry zone of sovereign height.
Above the highest circle of figures is a zone of metallic stars.—W. W. 1837.
"Thursday, Sept. 7. Cadenabbia.—... Nothing could be more lovely than the milder scenes this morning: the little lake Piano: the sunny glades, enlivened by groups of Peasants, gathering in their various harvests, or seated under the shade of some tree taking refreshment, their simple breakfast, a piece of bread and a little fruit; then, the shadows of these trees upon green emerald lawns, between the little lake and that of Lugano, lay more softly than ever shadows rested before, cradled under those stupendous perpendicular barriers. Took boat at Porlezza. Eclipse of the Sun: could bear to look at the orb shorn of his beams, with the naked eye: the effect produced upon the scenery very fine, such a sombre greenness, like the effect of bright moonlight: only under a bright moon that very green colour generally diffused (as if you had on a pair of green spectacles) cannot be. On the right bank of the lake the woods were of a rich golden green, gloomy on the left shore, and looking back among the towering rocks, and black coves, the region was very solemn. The water, unillumined by sunshine, was of what I should call a sad green: the air cooler, indeed a coolish air gently agitated the lake, while the eclipse lasted. We congratulated ourselves in being undesignedly, and indeed unexpectedly, in so grand a situation to witness this phenomenon." (Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)
As reference is made in the poem to "Milan's loftiest spire," and its "Figures human and divine," the following extracts from the two Journals may be given in illustration:—"Sept. 2. Milan."—"The cathedral we have thoroughly seen this morning. It is a grand and imposing Edifice—we have been delighted both with the building, and with the material especially, all marble of the finest kind. 3000 statues of beautiful polished white marble are stationed upon this elegant Pile. We were upon the very top; the pinnacle so light, yet notwithstanding the height, and its slender appearance, feeling yourself perfectly secure.... The view of the Cathedral itself from this station is extraordinary; the pure graceful figures, streaming far before you, have a most interesting and curious effect; and, from the lower roofs also, you have many fine combinations." (Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)
"Saturday, 1st September. Milan.—Our object this morning was to ascend to the roof, where I remained alone, not venturing to follow the rest of the party to the top of the giddy, central spire, which is ascended by a narrow staircase twisted round the outside. Even W. was obliged to trust to a hand governed by a steadier head than his own. I wandered about, with space spread around me (on the roof on which I trod), for streets and even squares of no very diminutive Town. The floor on which I trod was all of polished marble, intensely hot, and as dazzling as snow; and instead of moving figures I was surrounded by groups and stationary processions of silent statues—saints, sages, and angels. It is impossible for me to describe the beautiful spectacle, or to give a notion of the delight I felt; therefore I will copy a sketch in verse composed from my Brother's recollections of the view from the central Spire." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. ii.)
Henry Crabb Robinson wrote thus of these memorial stanzas:—"Of the stanzas, I love most—loving all—'The Eclipse of the Sun.'" (Diary, etc., vol. ii. p. 224.)—Ed.
VARIANTS:
[528] 1827.
1822.
1821.
[529] 1827.
1822.
Upon Lugano's ample bay;
[530] 1837.
1822.
Hath fled . . .
[531] 1827.
1822.
Far-stretching files . . .
[532] 1827.
1822.
See! . . .
[533] 1832.
1822.
. . . its . . .
[534] 1837.
Enquiring thoughts are turned to you;
Does a clear ether meet your eyes?
Or have black vapours hid the skies
And mountains from your view?
Was such a vision given to you?
Or, while we looked with favoured eyes,
Did sullen mist hide lake and skies
And mountains from your view?
What countenance hath this day put on for you?
Do clouds surcharged with irksome rain,
Blackening the Eclipse, take hill and plain
From your benighted view?
[535] 1837.
1832.
Of gay Winandermere?
FOOTNOTES:
[IJ] The Julian Alps, also known as the Carnic Alps, bound the plains of Venetia, and curve round from Mount Terglu to the Dalmatian range, and the neighbourhood of Trieste.—Ed.
[IK] Six miles from Menaggio, on Lake Lugano.—Ed.
[IL] Compare Musings near Aquapendente (April 1837), l. 62. This stanza was first included in the 1832 edition of the poems.—Ed.
XXVII
THE THREE COTTAGE GIRLS
I
How blest the Maid whose heart—yet free
From Love's uneasy sovereignty—
Beats with a fancy running high,
Her simple cares to magnify;
Whom Labour, never urged to toil,
Hath cherished on a healthful soil;
Who knows not pomp, who heeds not pelf;
Whose heaviest sin it is to look
Askance upon her pretty Self
Reflected in some crystal brook;
Whom grief hath spared—who sheds no tear
But in sweet pity; and can hear
Another's praise from envy clear.
II
Such (but O lavish Nature! why
That dark unfathomable eye,
Where lurks a Spirit that replies
To stillest mood of softest skies,
Yet hints at peace to be o'erthrown,
Another's first, and then her own?)
Such, haply, yon Italian Maid,
Our Lady's laggard Votaress,
Halting beneath the chestnut shade
To accomplish there her loveliness:
Nice aid maternal fingers lend;
A Sister serves with slacker hand;
Then, glittering like a star, she joins the festal band.
III
How blest (if truth may entertain
Coy fancy with a bolder strain)
The Helvetian Girl—who daily braves,
In her light skiff, the tossing waves,
And quits the bosom of the deep
Only to climb the rugged steep!
—Say whence that modulated shout!
From Wood-nymph of Diana's throng?
Or does the greeting to a rout
Of giddy Bacchanals belong?
Jubilant outcry! rock and glade
Resounded—but the voice obeyed
The breath of an Helvetian Maid.
IV
40
Her beauty dazzles the thick wood;
Her courage animates the flood;
Her steps[536] the elastic green-sward meets
Returning unreluctant sweets;
The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice
Aloud, saluted by her voice!
Blithe Paragon of Alpine grace,
Be as thou art—for through thy veins
The blood of Heroes runs its race!
And nobly wilt thou brook the chains
That, for the virtuous, Life prepares;
The fetters which the Matron wears;
The patriot Mother's weight of anxious cares!
V
[IM]"Sweet Highland Girl! a very shower
Of beauty was thy earthly dower,"
When thou didst flit before mine eyes,[537]
Gay Vision under sullen skies,
While Hope and Love around thee played,
Near the rough falls of Inversneyd![IN]
Have they, who nursed the blossom, seen
No breach of promise in the fruit?
Was joy, in following joy, as keen
As grief can be in grief's pursuit?
When youth had flown did hope still bless
Thy goings[538]—or the cheerfulness
Of innocence survive to mitigate distress?
VI
But from our course why turn—to tread
A way with shadows overspread;
Where what we gladliest would believe
Is feared as what may most deceive?
Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crowned
But heath-bells from thy native ground.
Time[539] cannot thin thy flowing hair,
Nor take one ray of light from Thee;
For in my Fancy thou dost share
The gift of immortality;
And there shall bloom, with Thee allied,
The Votaress by Lugano's side;
And that intrepid Nymph, on Uri's steep, descried!
The following passage from Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal describes
The Votaress by Lugano's side.
"Lugano, Sept. 8, Friday.—... The evening was uncommonly fine; the road shady; bells ringing from the neighbouring chapels, that crested many a steep rock; birds too here, fitfully warbling from the groves; waters gushing through some rocky cleft among the thickets; and I, at my own pace and will, enjoyed a quiet and most refreshing walk. At every step up and down the well-made road, meeting something new, a different shaped mountain, or the same trees under different combinations, a tempting path winding to a village in a dell below, or to a nest of cottages gathered round a spire above, a tinkling stream, or a green glade without one; and all the way through a region of stately trees.... Here an elegant-looking peasant Girl was putting on her gay ornaments before she entered the Town, where also was a festival. Her dress was so pretty I could not help noticing it, a scarlet chintz frock with a deep figured border, a wide muslin apron, nearly wrapping her round, also with a deep richly wrought border, and slung by white straps over the shoulders, a gold chain round the neck, earrings, etc.; her hair, something like Dora's, nicely braided. Her companions were assisting to put a very beautiful silk handkerchief upon her neck. One of them, from the interest she seemed to take in the arrangements, might be the mother of the Maiden; the other, a younger Sister perhaps, who lent her aid more slackly, and would, I daresay, rather have been in the wild fields gathering flowers to deck a Mayday garland, or to wreath a coronal for Our Lady's head, on this her day of Festival."
The intrepid Nymph, on Uri's steep, descried!
is thus referred to by Mrs. Wordsworth:—
"Sunday, 20th Aug. Seewen.—... William and I returned later than the rest, having gone further. On reaching a knoll, before we descended into Brunnen, a pretty short-faced, bright-eyed Girl of eighteen or nineteen met us. We enquired the way. She answered; and we bid her good night, and turned from her. Presently she whistled very softly, then sent forth an uncouth sound, more as from the voice of a man than a maiden. It was not a deep sound, but one that might be heard in the Vale and across the Lake, and made the hills about us ring. This was followed by a series of Swiss airs, which she warbled without pause, one after the other, in an impassioned manner, hurrying through as if she wished to reach the utmost limits of her powers, before we were out of hearing; yet I cannot but think these modulated notes meant more than we could understand. They were probably addressed to some one at a distance. There she stood upon the naked rock; and, as a waterfall, the sound grew as we listened, so that I even fancied she was following us, in sight of the villages below and around, and her voice must have been known to those nearer dwellings, in one of which she probably found her home."
The "Sweet Highland Girl!" is thus described in Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland in 1803:—
"Sunday, Aug. 28, 1803.—After long waiting, the girls, who had been on the look-out, informed us that the boat was coming. I went to the waterside, and saw a cluster of people on the opposite shore; but being yet at a distance, they looked more like soldiers surrounding a carriage than a group of men and women; red and green were the distinguishable colours. We hastened to get ourselves ready as soon as we saw the party approach, but had longer to wait than we expected, the lake being wider than it appears to be. As they drew near we could distinguish men in tartan plaids, women in scarlet cloaks, and green umbrellas by the half-dozen. The landing was as pretty a sight as ever I saw. The bay, which had been so quiet two days before, was all in motion with small waves, while the swollen waterfall roared in our ears. The boat came steadily up, being pressed almost to the water's edge by the weight of its cargo; perhaps twenty people landed, one after another. It did not rain much, but the women held up their umbrellas; they were dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, and, with their scarlet cardinals, the tartan plaids of the men, and Scotch bonnets, made a gay appearance. There was a joyous bustle surrounding the boat, which even imparted something of the same character to the waterfall in its tumult, and the restless grey waves; the young men laughed and shouted, the lasses laughed, and the elder folks seemed to be in a bustle to be away. I remember well with what haste the mistress of the house where we were ran up to seek after her child, and seeing us, how anxiously and kindly she inquired how we had fared, if we had had a good fire, had been well waited upon, etc. etc. All this in three minutes—for the boatman had another party to bring from the other side, and hurried us off.
"The hospitality we had met with at the two cottages and Mr. Macfarlane's gave us very favourable impressions on this our first entrance into the Highlands, and at this day the innocent merriment of the girls, with their kindness to us, and the beautiful figure and face of the elder, come to my mind whenever I think of the ferry-house and waterfall of Loch Lomond, and I never think of the two girls but the whole image of that romantic spot is before me, a living image, as it will be to my dying day."
See The Poetical Works, vol. ii. pp. 389, 390, and the Fenwick note.—Ed.
VARIANTS:
[536] 1832.
1822.
Her step . . .
[537] 1837.
1822.
. . . pass before my eyes,
1832.
. . . flit before my eyes,
[538] 1840.
1837.
Her goings . . .
[539] 1837.
. . . of Inversneyd!
Time . . .
In editions of 1822 to 1832, the first six lines of stanza v. were joined to the last seven of stanza vi., making up a single stanza (No. v.), and concluding the poem.
FOOTNOTES:
[IM] See the Author's Miscellaneous Poems, vol. ii.—W. W. 1822.
[IN] I retain Wordworth's spelling of the name of this place.—Ed.