Chapter XIV: Conclusion (4)

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

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

VARIANTS:

[Footnote 517: In 1822 only.

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

[Footnote 518: 1837.

... heart, ... 1827.
]

[Footnote 519: In 1822 only.

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

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

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

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

XXIV

THE ITALIAN ITINERANT, AND THE SWISS GOATHERD