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XXIX

STANZAS

Composed in the Simplon Pass[541]

Wordsworth and his friends did not visit any of the places mentioned in the first two stanzas, but recrossed the Alps by the Simplon route after their brief visit to the Italian Lakes. Mrs. Wordsworth writes thus of their walk from Domo d'Ossola to the Simplon Hospice:—"Sunday, Sept. 20.—... We had great pleasure in discovering traces of a more difficult ascent (in one instance, with the remains of an oratory), down which William and Jones came thirty years ago. William pointed out to us an ancient, high, many windowed edifice, by the roadside, as the Hospital where they had lodged; a wild and solemn harbour! On the opposite side of the road, a neat little church, as clean as any English chapel, standing in its tiny enclosure of burial ground; below, the Tusa; but its murmur, or rather raving, could not be heard for the riotous din of a torrent, tumbling from the stupendous mountain above, a tumultuous sound, distinctly remembered by William, an unchangeable object! Bonaparte's words, 'Be thou fettered,' would have been of no avail here.... As we advance, Pines climbing up to the skies, in some places clothing the very pinnacles of the highest rocks. The road cut and carried through masses of the solid rock.... Symptoms of desolation as we advance. Mountains crumbling gradually, or brought down by force of waters. Blasted pines standing or torn up, and lying in a decaying state, in the torrent's bed. In the midst of such scenes to come in view of one of those lovely green Prairies is an enlivening sight, with its little cottage.... Watching as we did all the way snatches of the old road, we traced it as we thought across the river and up the ascent on the other side; and afterwards Wm. told us that there was the very point where he and Jones had committed the same mistake, had taken that road (as recorded in his poem) and had to retrace their steps—and bend downwards with the stream, under a sort of depression from the feeling that 'he had crossed the Alps.'..."

Compare The Prelude, book vi. 1. 562, etc.—Ed.

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XXX

ECHO, UPON THE GEMMI

They went up the Gemmi Pass from Leukerbad, passed the Dauben See and the Schwarenbach Inn, looked into the valley of Kandersteg, and returned to the baths of Leuk. Mrs. Wordsworth writes:—"Wed., 13th Sept. Baths of Leuk.—... On our right we looked down from an immense height into Gastern Thal, a huge cleft, between the snowy Giants, Altels and Blumlis Alp. The Kandor rises out of this rocky recess, makes a bend at the foot of our high station, and takes a direct course down the valley before us.... We were very loath to return, without measuring the tempting vale through which this river flows. Returned by the same path. On drawing towards the little mountain Inn, the mastiff, hearing our footsteps before we could see him, or hear his voice, raised such a tumult in the mountains as produced the effect of a large pack of well-toned hounds in full cry. It was a grand sound. And this reminds me of the fine echoes called forth by a traveller or his guide in the morning. They were before us, as we clomb the Gemmi. The voice was a universal one; and the prolonged and re-echoed notes could not have been more harmonious had they proceeded from the sweetest instrument."

"Wednesday, 12th September. Baths of Leuk.—The total absence of all sound of living creature was very striking: silent moths in abundance flew about in the sunshine, and the muddy Lake weltered below us; the only sound when we checked our voices to listen. Hence we continued to journey over rocky and barren ground till we suddenly looked down into a warm, green nook, into which we must descend. Twelve cattle were there enclosed by the crags, as in a field of their own choosing. We passed among them, giving no disturbance, and again came upon a tract as barren as before. After about two leagues from the top of the Gemmi crags, the summer Chalet, our promised resting-place, was seen facing us, reared against the stony mountain, and overlooking a desolate round hollow. Winding along the side of the hill (that deep hollow beneath us to the right) a long half-mile brought us to the platform before the door of the hut. It was a scene of wild gaiety. Half-a-score of youthful travellers (military students from the College of Thun) were there regaling themselves. Mr. Robinson became sociable; and we, while the party stood round us talking with him, had our repast spread upon the same table where they had finished theirs. They departed; and we saw them winding away towards the Gemmi on the side of the precipice above the dreary hollow—a long procession, not less interesting than the group at our approach. But every object connected with animated nature (and human life especially) is interesting on such a road as this; we meet no one with a stranger's heart! I cannot forget with what pleasure, soon after leaving the hut, we greeted two young matrons, one with a child in her arms, the other with hers, a lusty babe, ruddy with mountain air, asleep in its wicker cradle on her back. Thus laden they were to descend the Gemmi Rocks, and seemed to think it no hardship, returning us chearful looks while we noticed the happy burthens which they carried. Those peasant travellers out of sight, we go on over the same rocky ground, snowy pikes and craggy eminences still bounding the prospect. But ere long we approach the neighbourhood of trees, and overlooking a long smooth level covered with poor yellowish grass, saw at a distance, in the centre of the level, a group of Travellers of a different kind—a party of gentry, male and female, on mules. On meeting I spoke to the two Ladies in English, by way of trying their nation, and was pleased at being answered in the same tongue. The lawn here was prettily embayed, like a lake, among little eminences covered with dwarf trees, aged or blighted; thence, onward to another open space, where was an encampment of cattle sheds, the large plain spotted with heaps of stones at irregular distances.... The turf was very poor, yet so lavishly overspread with close-growing flowers it reminded us of a Persian Carpet. The silver thistle, as we then named it, had a singularly beautiful effect; a glistering star lying on the ground, as if enwrought upon it. An avalanche had covered the surface with stones many years ago, and many more will it require for nature, aided by the mountaineers' industry, to restore the soil to its former fertility. On approaching the destined termination of our descent, we were led among thickets of Alpine Shrubs, a rich covering of berry-bearing plants over-spreading the ground. We followed the ridge of this wildly beautiful tract, and it brought us to the brink of a precipice. On our right, when we looked into the savage valley of Gastron—upwards toward its head, and downwards to the point where the Gastron joins the Kandor, their united streams thence continuing a tumultuous course to the Lake of Thun. The head of the Kandor Thal was concealed from us, to our left, by the ridge of the hill on which we stood. By going about a mile further along the ridge to the brow of its northern extremity, we might have seen the junction of the two rivers, but were fearful of being overtaken by darkness in descending the Gemmi, and were, indeed, satisfied with the prospect already gained. The river Gastron winds in tumult over a stony channel, through the apparently level area of a grassless Vale, buried beneath stupendous mountains—not a house or hut to be seen. A roaring sound ascended to us on the eminence so high above the Vale. How awful the tumult when the River carries along with it the spring tide of melted snow! We had long viewed in our journey a snow-covered pike, in stateliness and height surpassing all the other eminences. The whole mass of the mountain now appeared before us, on the same side of the Gastron vale on which we were. It seemed very near to us, and as if a part of its base rose from that vale. We could hardly believe our Guide when he told us that pike was one of the summits of the Jungfrau, took out maps and books, and found it could be no other mountain. I never before had a conception of the space covered by the bases of these enormous piles. After lingering as long as time would allow, we began to remeasure our steps, thankful for the privilege of again feeling ourselves in the neighbourhood of the Jungfrau, and of looking upon those heights that border the Lake of Thun, at the feet of which we had first entered among the inner windings of Switzerland. Our journey back to the Chalet was not less pleasant than in the earlier part of the day. The Guide, hurrying on before us, roused the large house-dog to give us a welcoming bark, which echoed round the mountains like the tunable voices of a full pack of hounds—a heart-stirring concert in that silent place where no waters were heard at that time—no tinkling of cattle-bells; indeed, the barren soil offers small temptation for wandering cattle to linger there. In a few weeks our rugged path would be closed up with snow, the hut untenanted for the winter, and not a living creature left to rouse the echoes—echoes which our Bard would not suffer to die with us." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. ii.)—Ed.

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XXXI

PROCESSIONS

Suggested on a Sabbath Morning in the Vale Of Chamouny

Still, with those white-robed Shapes—a living Stream,
The glacier Pillars join in solemn guise.

This Procession is a part of the sacramental service performed once a month. In the valley of Engelberg we had the good fortune to be present at the Grand Festival of the Virgin—but the Procession on that day, though consisting of upwards of 1000 persons, assembled from all branches of the sequestered valley, was much less striking (notwithstanding the sublimity of the surrounding scenery): it wanted both the simplicity of the other and the accompaniment of the Glacier-columns, whose sisterly resemblance to the moving Figures gave it a most beautiful and solemn peculiarity.—W. W. 1837.

"Sunday, Sept. 17. Chamouny.—... As we passed one of the little clustering villages in the Vale of Chamouny, standing at the foot of one of the five glaciers (the Argentière I believe), its pretty white Church at that moment was encircled by a most interesting procession—bare-headed men first carried the symbols or banners, who were followed by a train of females: two and two winding round the building; white garments thrown over their heads and covering their shoulders, like so many nuns; but in that romantic place, the situation of the Church, and the costume so peculiar, it was quite impossible not to connect the moving belt of white pyramids with the snowy ones immediately above them. We were afterwards told by a young priest, as we passed along the green meadows of Orsina, whither he was going to do duty, and with whom D. fell into conversation, that it was sacrament day, and that the ceremony we had seen occurs once a month in all the valleys, and that those pure vestments do not belong to the Church, but to the Individuals who wear them. Our genial companion told D. that he lived upon the Trient, in a village high above its banks, and where, had he been at home, he would have been glad to have received us as his guests...." (Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)

"Sunday, 16th September. Chamouny.—There is no carriage-road further than to Argentière. When, having parted with our car and Guide, we were slowly pursuing our way to the footpath, between the mountains, which was to lead us to the Valorsine, and thence, by the Tête-Noire, to Trientz, we heard from the churchyard of Argentière, on the opposite side of the river, a sound of voices chanting a hymn, or prayer, and turning round, saw in the green enclosure a lengthening Procession,—the priest in his robes, the host, and banners uplifted, and men following two and two—and, last of all, a great number of females, in like order; the head and body of each covered with a white garment. The stream continued to flow on for a long time, till all had paced slowly round the church, the men gathering close together, to leave unencumbered space for the women, the chanting continuing, while the voice of the Arve joined in accordant solemnity. The procession was grave and simple, agreeing with the simple decorations of a village church:—the banners made no glittering show; the Females composed a moving girdle round the Church; their figures, from head to foot, covered with one piece of white cloth, resembled the small pyramids of the Glacier, which were before our eyes, and it was impossible to look at one and the other without fancifully connecting them together. Imagine the moving figures, like a stream of pyramids, the white Church, the half-concealed Village, and the Glacier close behind among pine-trees, a pure sun shining over all! and remember that these objects were seen at the base of those enormous mountains, and you may have some faint notion of the effect produced on us by that beautiful spectacle. It was a farewell to the Vale of Chamouny that can scarcely be less vividly remembered twenty years hence than when (that wondrous Vale[JD] being just out of sight) after ascending a little way between the mountains, through a grassy hollow, we came to a small hamlet under shade of trees in summer foliage. A very narrow clear rivulet, beside the cottages, was hastening with its tribute to the Arve. This simple scene transported us instantly to our valleys of Westmoreland. A few quiet children were near the doors, and we discovered a young woman in the darkest coolest nook of shade between two of the houses, seated on the ground, intent upon her prayer-book. The rest of the inhabitants were gone to join in the devotions at Argentière. The top of the ascent (not a long one) being gained, we had a second cheering companion in our downward way, another Westmoreland brook of larger size, as clear as crystal, open to the sun, and (bustling but not angry) it coursed by our side through a tract of craggy pastoral ground. I do not speak of the needles of Montanvert, behind; nor of other pikes up-rising before us. Such sights belong not to Westmoreland, and I could fancy that I then paid them little regard, it being for the sake of Westmoreland alone that I like to dwell on this short passage of our journey, which brought us in view of one of the most interesting of the valleys of the Alps. We descended with our little stream, and saw its brief life in a moment cut off, when it reached the Berard, the river of Black Water, which is seen falling, not in black but grey cataracts within the cove of a mountain that well deserves the former epithet, though a bed of snow and glacier ice is seen among its piky and jagged ridges. Below those bare summits, pine forests and crags are piled together, with lawns and cottages between.

"We enter at the side of the valley, crossing a wooden bridge; then, turning our backs on the scene just described, we bend our course downward with the River, that is hurrying away, fresh from its glacier fountains; how different a fellow-traveller from that little rivulet we had just parted from, which we had seen, still bright as silver, drop into the grey stream! The descending Vale before us beautiful, the high enclosing hills interspersed with woods, green pasturage, and cottages. The delight we had in journeying through the Valorsine is not to be imagined, sunshine and shade were alike cheering; while the very numerousness of the brown wood cottages (descried among trees, or outspread on the steep lawns), and the people enjoying their Sabbath leisure out of doors, seemed to make a quiet spot more quiet." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. ii.)

The following account of the festival of the Virgin, which occurred during the Wordsworths' visit to Engelberg, may further illustrate this poem:—"Knots of peasants going to and returning from church, all in holiday trim. We had learned the day to be a grand Festival—the Feast of the Virgin. After breakfast, the procession streamed out of church, a beautiful spectacle, as they begirt that and the monastery. Men, women, and children, Abbot, Monks, Priests, and Choristers, a thousand persons or upwards; the women as gay as glitter and colours could make them. Flat white hats, with ribbons and flowers, embroidered stomachers, red girdles, and their short black petticoats, embroidered with red ribbon, large shining pins in their hair, and lockets suspended from their necks. The men too, mostly, had some ornament upon their hats: the young generally a coloured ribbon, the elders black ones, tied with a bow: all well and curiously dressed; it was a festive scene, and the most important fête in the year. Seventeen monks belong to the convent of Engelberg, and the whole valley contains about 1700 inhabitants," etc. (Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)—ED.

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