Volume 6 — 1820 (continued 2)

* * * * * *

"Once, when I was very young, I had the pleasure of seeing and hearing that venerable old man in his 90th year, and even then, the calmness, the force, the perspicuity of his sermon, sanctified and adorned by the wisdom of grey hairs, and the authority of virtue, had such an effect upon my mind, that I never see a hoary-headed clergyman, without thinking of Mr. Walker.... He allowed no dissenter or methodist to interfere in the instruction of the souls committed to his cure: and so successful were his exertions, that he had not one dissenter of any denomination whatever in the whole parish. Though he avoided all religious controversies, yet when age had silvered his head, and virtuous piety had secured to his appearance reverence and silent honour, no one, however determined in his hatred of apostolic descent, could have listened to his discourse on ecclesiastical history and ancient times, without thinking, that one of the beloved apostles had returned to mortality, and in that vale of peace had come to exemplify the beauty of holiness in the life and character of Mr. Walker.

* * * * * *

"Until the sickness of his wife, a few months previous to her death, his health and spirits and faculties were unimpaired. But this misfortune gave him such a shock, that his constitution gradually decayed. His senses, except sight, still preserved their powers. He never preached with steadiness after his wife's death. His voice faltered: he always looked at the seat she had used. He could not pass her tomb without tears. He became, when alone, sad and melancholy, though still among his friends kind and good-humoured. He went to bed about twelve o'clock the night before his death. As his custom was, he went, tottering and leaning upon his daughter's arm, to examine the heavens, and meditate a few moments in the open air. 'How clear the moon shines to-night!' He said these words, sighed, and laid down. At six next morning he was found a corpse. Many a tear, and many a heavy heart, and many a grateful blessing followed him to the grave."[GY]

Having mentioned in this narrative the vale of Loweswater as a place where Mr. Walker taught school, I will add a few memoranda from its parish register, respecting a person apparently of desires as moderate, with whom he must have been intimate during his residence there.

"Henry Forest came to Loweswater, 1708, being twenty-five years of age."

"This curacy was twice augmented by Queen Anne's Bounty. The first payment, with great difficulty, was paid to Mr. John Curwen of London, on the 9th of May, 1724, deposited by me, Henry Forest, curate of Loweswater. Y^e said 9th of May, y^e said Mr. Curwen went to the office, and saw my name registered there, etc. This, by the Providence of God, came by lot to this poor place.

"Hæc testor H. Forest."

In another place he records, that the sycamore trees were planted in the churchyard in 1710.

He died in 1741, having been curate thirty-four years. It is not improbable that H. Forest was the gentleman who assisted Robert Walker in his classical studies at Loweswater.

To this parish register is prefixed a motto, of which the following verses are a part:—

FOOTNOTES:

MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 1820

Composed 1821-2.—Published 1822

[I set out in company with my wife and sister, and Mr. and Mrs. Monkhouse, then just married, and Miss Horrocks. These two ladies, sisters, we left at Berne, while Mr. Monkhouse took the opportunity of making an excursion with us among the Alps as far as Milan. Mr. H. C. Robinson joined us at Lucerne, and when this ramble was completed we rejoined at Geneva the two ladies we had left at Berne and proceeded to Paris, where Mr. Monkhouse and H. C. R. left us, and where we spent five weeks, of which there is not a record in these poems.—I. F.]

See Dorothy Wordsworth's itinerary (Note A) of this tour, and Henry Crabb Robinson's account of it in his Diary and Correspondence, vol. ii. pp. 166-192 (Note B to this volume).—Ed.

DEDICATION

(Sent with these Poems, in MS., to ——)[467]

Rydal Mount, Nov. 1821[470]

VARIANTS:

FOOTNOTES:

I FISH-WOMEN—ON LANDING AT CALAIS

"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:

FOOTNOTE:

II BRUGÈS

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.

"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:

III BRUGÈS

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:

IV AFTER VISITING THE FIELD OF WATERLOO

"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:

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.]

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:

VI AIX-LA-CHAPELLE

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:

FOOTNOTE:

VII IN THE CATHEDRAL AT COLOGNE

"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—

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:

FOOTNOTES:

VIII IN A CARRIAGE, UPON THE BANKS OF THE RHINE

"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:

FOOTNOTE:

IX HYMN,

FOR THE BOATMEN, AS THEY APPROACH THE RAPIDS UNDER THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG

VARIANTS:

FOOTNOTE:

X THE SOURCE OF THE DANUBE

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:

FOOTNOTES:

XI ON APPROACHING THE STAUBBACH, LAUTERBRUNNEN

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:

XII THE FALL OF THE AAR-HANDEC

"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:

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.

"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:

XIV COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE CATHOLIC CANTONS[499]

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

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—

(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:

FOOTNOTES:

XV AFTER-THOUGHT

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

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:

XVII ENGELBERG, THE HILL OF ANGELS[504]

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

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

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

VARIANTS:

FOOTNOTE:

XVIII OUR LADY OF THE SNOW

"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:

FOOTNOTES:

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.

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:

FOOTNOTES:

XX THE TOWN OF SCHWYTZ

"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:

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

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

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

VARIANTS:

XXII FORT FUENTES[516]

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

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

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

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

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

VARIANT:

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

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

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

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

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