Sunday, September 16th.—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 foot-path, between the mountains, which was to lead us to the Valorsine, and thence, by the Tète-noire, to Trient, 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 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 vallies 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 vallies 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.
Wednesday, September 19th.—Lausanne.—We met with some pleasant Englishmen, from whom we heard particulars concerning the melancholy fate of our young friend, the American, seen by us for the last time on the top of the Righi. The tidings of his death had been first communicated, but a few hours before, by Mr. Mulloch. We had the comfort of hearing that his friend had saved himself by swimming, and had paid the last duties to the stranger, so far from home and kindred, who lies quietly in the churchyard of Küsnacht on the shores of Zurich.
Saturday, September 29th.—Fontainbleau.—In the very heart of the Alps, I never saw a more wild and lonely spot—yet curious in the extreme, and even beautiful. Thousands of white bleached rocks, mostly in appearance not much larger than sheep, lay on the steep declivities of the dell among bushes and low trees, heather, bilberries, and other forest plants. The effect of loneliness and desert wildness was indescribably increased by the remembrance of the Palace we had left not an hour before. The spot on which we stood is said to have been frequented by Henry the IVth when he wished to retire from his court and attendants. A few steps more brought us in view of fresh ranges of the forest, hills, plains, and distant lonely dells. The sunset was brilliant—light clouds in the west, and overhead a spotless blue dome. As we wind along the top of the steep, the views are still changing—the plain expands eastward, and again appear the white buildings of Fontainbleau, with something of romantic brightness in the fading light; for we had tarried till a star or two reminded us it was time to move away. In descending, we followed one of the long straight tracks that intersect the forest in all directions. Bewildered among those tracks, we were set right by a party of wood-cutters, going home from their labour.
Monday, October 29th.—Boulogne.—We walked to Buonaparte's Pillar, which, on the day when he harangued his soldiers (pointing to the shores of England whither he should lead them to conquest), he decreed should be erected in commemoration of the Legion of Honour.[62] The pillar is seen far and wide, unfinished, as the intricate casing of a scaffolding, loftier than itself, shows at whatever distance it is seen. It is said the Bourbons intend to complete the work, and give it a new name; but I think it more probable that the scaffolding may be left to fall away, and the pile of marble remain strewn round, as it is, with unfinished blocks, an undisputed monument of the Founder's vanity and arrogance; and so it may stand as long as the brick towers of Caligula have done, a remnant of which yet appears on the cliffs. We walked on the ground which had been covered by the army that dreamt of conquering England, and were shown the very spot where their Leader made his boastful speech.
On the day fixed for our departure from Boulogne, the weather being boisterous and wind contrary, the Packet could not sail, and we trusted ourselves to a small vessel, with only one effective sailor on board. Even Mary was daunted by the breakers outside the Harbour, and I descended into the vessel as unwillingly as a criminal might go to execution, and hid myself in bed. Presently our little ship moved; and before ten minutes were gone she struck upon the sands. I felt that something disastrous had happened; but knew not what till poor Mary appeared in the cabin, having been thrown down from the top of the steps. There was again a frightful beating and grating of the bottom of the vessel—water rushing in very fast. A young man, an Italian, who had risen from a bed beside mine, as pale as ashes, groaned in agony, kneeling at his prayers. My condition was not much better than his; but I was more quiet. Never shall I forget the kindness of a little Irish woman who, though she herself, as she afterwards said, was much frightened, assured me even cheerfully that there was no danger. I cannot say that her words, as assurances of safety, had much effect upon me; but the example of her courage made me become more collected; and I felt her human kindness even at the moment when I believed that we might be all going to the bottom of the sea together; and the agonising thoughts of the distress at home were rushing on my mind.
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EXTRACTS FROM DOROTHY WORDSWORTH'S
TOUR IN SCOTLAND
1822