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Updated: May 9, 2025
But see how swift, advance and shift, Trees behind trees row by row, Now clift by clift, rocks bend and lift, Their frowning foreheads as we go; The giant-snouted crags, ho! ho! How they snort, and how they blow. Honour her to whom honour is due, Old mother Baubo, honour to you. An able sow with old Baubo upon her Is worthy of glory and worthy of honour.
Then, the bizarre outline of the rocks; well does Goethe call them "the giant-snouted crags;" and as the diligence winds slowly on, they seem to lean, and turn, and bend.
And then, does he not remember the pause, and the revulsion, and the feeling of sadness and littleness, almost of shame, as he looked up for the first time one can pardon his not having done so before and saw where he was, and the beauty of the hill-sides, with the lazy autumn clouds crawling about their tops, and the great sheets of screes, glaciers of stone covering acres and acres of the smooth hill-side, eating far into the woods below, bowing down the oak scrubs with their weight, and the circular sweeps of down, flecked with innumerable dark spots of gorse, each of them guarded where they open into the river chasm by two fortresses of "giant-snouted crags," delicate pink and grey sandstone, from which blocks and crumbling boulders have been toppling slowly down for ages, beneath the frost and the whirlwind, and now lie in long downward streams upon the slope, as if the mountain had been weeping tears of stone?
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