Sketches and Studies in Italy and Greece | Page 8

a Pisgah
view of the promised land, of the spring which they are foremost to
proclaim. Next come the clumsy gentians and yellow anemones,
covered with soft down like fledgling birds. These are among the
earliest and hardiest blossoms that embroider the high meadows with a
diaper of blue and gold. About the same time primroses and auriculas
begin to tuft the dripping rocks, while frail white fleur-de-lis, like
flakes of snow forgotten by the sun, and golden-balled ranunculuses
join with forget-me-nots and cranesbill in a never-ending dance upon
the grassy floor. Happy, too, is he who finds the lilies-of-the-valley
clustering about the chestnut boles upon the Colma, or in the
beechwood by the stream at Macugnaga, mixed with garnet-coloured
columbines and fragrant white narcissus, which the people of the
villages call 'Angiolini.' There, too, is Solomon's seal, with waxen bells
and leaves expanded like the wings of hovering butterflies. But these
lists of flowers are tiresome and cold; it would be better to draw the
portrait of one which is particularly fascinating. I think that botanists
have called it Saxifraga cotyledon; yet, in spite of its long name, it is
beautiful and poetic. London-pride is the commonest of all the

saxifrages; but the one of which I speak is as different from
London-pride as a Plantagenet upon his throne from that last
Plantagenet who died obscure and penniless some years ago. It is a
great majestic flower, which plumes the granite rocks of Monte Rosa in
the spring. At other times of the year you see a little tuft of fleshy
leaves set like a cushion on cold ledges and dark places of dripping
cliffs. You take it for a stonecrop--one of those weeds doomed to
obscurity, and safe from being picked because they are so
uninviting--and you pass it by incuriously. But about June it puts forth
its power, and from the cushion of pale leaves there springs a strong
pink stem, which rises upward for a while, and then curves down and
breaks into a shower of snow-white blossoms. Far away the splendour
gleams, hanging like a plume of ostrich-feathers from the roof of rock,
waving to the wind, or stooping down to touch the water of the
mountain stream that dashes it with dew. The snow at evening, glowing
with a sunset flush, is not more rosy-pure than this cascade of pendent
blossoms. It loves to be alone--inaccessible ledges, chasms where
winds combat, or moist caverns overarched near thundering falls, are
the places that it seeks. I will not compare it to a spirit of the mountains
or to a proud lonely soul, for such comparisons desecrate the simplicity
of nature, and no simile can add a glory to the flower. It seems to have
a conscious life of its own, so large and glorious it is, so sensitive to
every breath of air, so nobly placed upon its bending stem, so royal in
its solitude. I first saw it years ago on the Simplon, feathering the
drizzling crags above Isella. Then we found it near Baveno, in a crack
of sombre cliff beneath the mines. The other day we cut an armful
opposite Varallo, by the Sesia, and then felt like murderers; it was so
sad to hold in our hands the triumph of those many patient months, the
full expansive life of the flower, the splendour visible from valleys and
hillsides, the defenceless creature which had done its best to make the
gloomy places of the Alps most beautiful.
After passing many weeks among the high Alps it is a pleasure to
descend into the plains. The sunset, and sunrise, and the stars of
Lombardy, its level horizons and vague misty distances, are a source of
absolute relief after the narrow skies and embarrassed prospects of a
mountain valley. Nor are the Alps themselves ever more imposing than

when seen from Milan or the church-tower of Chivasso or the terrace of
Novara, with a foreground of Italian cornfields and old city towers and
rice-ground, golden-green beneath a Lombard sun. Half veiled by
clouds, the mountains rise like visionary fortress walls of a celestial
city--unapproachable, beyond the range of mortal feet. But those who
know by old experience what friendly châlets, and cool meadows, and
clear streams are hidden in their folds and valleys, send forth fond
thoughts and messages, like carrier-pigeons, from the marble parapets
of Milan, crying, 'Before another sun has set, I too shall rest beneath the
shadow of their pines!' It is in truth not more than a day's journey from
Milan to the brink of snow at Macugnaga. But very sad it is to leave the
Alps, to stand upon the terraces of Berne and waft ineffectual farewells.
The unsympathising Aar rushes beneath; and the snow-peaks, whom
we love like friends, abide