A VISIT TO THE GREAT ST. BERNARD.

THE ascent of the St. Bernard occupies ten hours; it is merely, what it has been called, “a secondary Alpine pass." There are, of course, objects of considerable interest on the route (for in what part of Switzerland are there none ?); and, besides peculiar attractions, the scenery here partakes of that majestic character which will be found more or less to distinguish all mountain districts. Here, to be sure, are not the glaciers of Chamouni or of the Oberland; but the eye lingers on many an Alpine torrent hurrying from mountain to rock, and from rock to hill; with some the amazing volumes of water come thundering at once down some declivity, rising again in the purest vapour; while others come frothing over ledges of rock thousands of feet in elevation, and you may see rainbows, coming and going with the sun, sit hovering in the spray. There, too, on the hill-side, repose the huge pines and mighty timbers, all rotting together in confusion, where they have been prostrated by the storm; and on every side are to be seen gigantic masses of rock, the natural supports of which having been undermined by ages, they have been precipitated by their own weight, and slid off bodily into the vale below. Now and then, too, a report from the rifle of the chamois-hunter breaks smartly upon the ear, re-echoed from a hundred points; and sometimes, though of course more rarely, the hunter himself may be seen descending from the heights in the dress peculiar to his vocation, and with the animal he has killed swung round his body. Even the numerous goats, and the stray cattle with their enormous bells bring with them the interest of association, adding life to the solitary grandeur of such a scene; and not unfrequently the imperial eagle of the Alps, that terror of the goatherd, darts forth into view from his lofty retreat, or sails impudently about your path.

About half-way lies the hamlet of St. Pierre; here it is usual for the traveller to seize the only opportunity that offers of rest and refreshment; unless, indeed, a desolate hovel, which the avarice of some individual has erected still higher up in the mountains, can be called a place of entertainment. On quitting St. Pierre you begin to feel the real mountain air, and to wrap your cloak more closely around you; for the elevation is already considerable, and becomes every moment progressively greater. Beyond this point, too, the path is more liable to be missed, as the great landmarks of mountains on either side no longer serve as

guides and preclude the wandering of travellers. The great danger now is the concealment of the track by snow, or, if there be any foul weather in this cold region, it will of course be a snowstorm. And now, at last, the head of the mountain is itself visible, towering some thousands of feet above the clouds, if clouds there should unluckily be; but if it could be seen as I saw it, on the clearest of October's days, with its snows beautifully set against a deep-blue sky in the back-ground, perhaps nature could not present a more sublime object than the St. Bernard, unless, indeed, it were its loftier neighbour, Mont Blanc itself.

Reaching the spot where the mountain rises more abruptly, the traveller must prepare himself for a rougher and more careful ascent; not unfrequently he will find himself compelled to climb up with hand and foot the different steeps that present themselves. There is much sameness and little interest in this occupation, but it does not last long before a low-roofed shed becomes visible on the right of the path, which is styled, "The Refuge." This hovel, which is nothing more than four bare walls with a roofing to them and without even a door to the entrance, was built for the temporary reception of such travellers as are too late to reach the Hospice that day, or are too fatigued to proceed further. The building, such as it is, is also useful in case of accidents; here the servants of the Hospice, accompanied by the dogs, lie in wait every day, when the season is unfavourable, for the relief of travellers; and should they not return at a certain and fixed hour, it is concluded at the Hospice that something is wrong, and the monks one and all go forth in a body with food and restoratives to their assistance.

About a stone's throw from the Refuge, but standing more off from the path, is another lonely shed; this is the bone-house; as the distance from this spot to the Hospice is somewhat considerable, it was found necessary to build here a receptacle for the bodies of those who had unhappily fallen asleep in the snow, or had been killed by avalanches.

The first view of the Hospice breaks suddenly upon the eye when but a stone's throw from its bleak-looking walls; it seems to start up suddenly, as it were, from the elevation on which it stands, having about it a comfortless, naked look, unrelieved of course by a single tree or even shrub. The materials of which it is composed are from the rock on which it has been built, and the only natural advantage which it possesses is the neighbourhood of a lake, which is ice more than three-fourths of the year. It is the highest habitation of the known world, and is said to be upwards of eight thousand feet above the level of the sea. The pass by it into Italy is a saving of two days.

On the steps of the door generally may be seen lying one of the celebrated dogs. The moment you are in view you are welcomed

with the deep and peculiar bark of these animals, and having once noticed him and thus introduced yourself, you are friends forthwith. It is even prudent to do this, for I was afterwards told that in the event of neglecting it you are sure to be watched by the animal during your stay, and perhaps suspected to be what you ought not to be. As I approached the building, my attention was particularly attracted to three or four Italian boys who were gazing about the premises with intense curiosity, though they were but lightly clad, and stood shivering in the pitiless blast of these mountains, with their arms folded over their breasts; they seemed to be feeling for the first time the immense difference between the atmosphere they were in and that of their own sunny Italy. One of them had a monkey for a companion, another a cage of white mice, and a third music; they informed me in the house that these boys came across the mountain in such shoals upon their way to England, that it had been found imperative, from the scantiness of provisions, to allot them only a certain portion of food each. They also sleep three or four together in one apartment.

A few yards from the Hospice itself stands the charnel-housea low, square building, distinguished only as to its exterior by a massy grated window. Here repose, and have reposed for centuries, the bodies or bones of all those who have met their fate on this mountain from frost or accident. Decomposition goes on, of course, very slowly here; and, though the floor of this apartment is covered to some depth with confused bones, yet the bodies which still stand against the walls or lie reclined in great numbers, are in a state of wonderful preservation. The flesh still remaining upon the bones has the appearance of shrivelled parchment; and, notwithstanding the number of bodies, the nicest sense of smelling could detect nothing offensive. But the eye is the organ that is offended upon entering this dead-house; the teeth, the hair, and even eyes still remain on all that have not actually fallen to pieces, and the expression of the countenance, yet more horrible in death, is still there which it had in the moment of dissolution. The more general expression is that of grinning (the effect of the extreme cold upon the jaws); but there are some faces among them not to be overlooked, which give horrible evidence of the acutest suffering.

There is one corpse in particular of a woman enfolding in her arms her infant child; she is in a kneeling attitude, aud the expression in the face of the dead betrays the most extreme mental anguish that could be conceived. Even in death the child is folded to the breast with a mother's last grasp, and it never was attempted to loosen it. In the centre of the room, upon a shell a little elevated, lies the last victim of death in his winding-sheet. The body at present there is that of a servant who died some years ago, there being no other burial-place even for the domestics of the

Hospice. The monks themselves are, of course, buried in the vaults of their chapel.

The fraternity consists of fifteen persons, including a principal. Their ranks are supplied, in case of death, from the priesthood in the canton below; and, though it would seem to be a change for the worst, yet it is looked upon as a promotion to become a brother of the convent.

The brethren are obliged to go down at intervals to recruit themselves in the valley, either at St. Pierre or Martigny; for otherwise it has been found that the human frame is incapable of standing such a continued siege of frost.

Certainly the existence of such an institution as this, and the fact that men can be found to live under it, speaks highly for humanity; for, in fact, to what higher effort can philanthropy be carried? The monks seem to spend the greater part of their day in prayer, and service appeared to be constantly going forward in the chapel. Their profession of faith is Catholic; but be their creed what it may, these ecclesiastics seem to comprehend the true spirit, and practice the best part, of religion-love towards one another. For the entertainment of their guests no charge whatever was made by these hospitable men, and, from the poorer or larger class no remuneration whatever is expected. There is, indeed, fitted up in the vestibule of the chapel, a box (having in its lid a small aperture) for the benefit of the unfortunate, and it is usual for the richer visitors to testify their gratitude in this way; but even if the proceeds of this collection were applied towards the supporting the expenses of this establishment, they would supply a very inadequate fund indeed. Provisions, and even fire-wood, are forwarded from Martigny, of course with great labour and considerable expense; and for such purposes the mules and servants of the society are under the necessity of descending the mountain every day. There is always an average number of guests to entertain, for even if the weather be too unfavourable for travellers to make the pass, then the persons already there are snowed up, and must, of course, be fed and catered for during their stay. The truth is, such an establishment is not and never could be maintained by the chance contributions of any passing strangers; a tax is laid in the first place upon the inhabitants of the Valais, perhaps in the shape of provisions; and secondly, it is supported by bequests and the liberal donations of patriotic individuals.

We must not forget to mention, casually at least, the dogs of the convent. The appearance of these celebrated animals, and the duties allotted to them have so often been described, that it is perhaps needless to be diffuse on the subject here. Many have been the lives reported to have been saved through their assistance; they effect, in short, what human aid never could have contrived. By their wonderful instinct they are enabled to disOct. 1845.-VOL. XLIV.—NO. CLXXIV.

cover and trace the path however concealed by snow. They roam over the mountain day and night; and should they fall in with any poor wretch who has wandered from the track, or who is disabled by accident, they either lead the way for him as a guide, or fly back alone for assistance. It is reported that the original breed is lost; but this is not admitted at the convent; and, at any rate, the present race seem sufficiently sagacious and efficient for the duties assigned to them. There are now but five of these animals employed, but they are far from being scarce, and when untrained may be bought by strangers for a sum varying from two to six Napoleons. The mountaineers, and even the peasants of the valleys below, are often seen with a dog of St Bernard attendant upon them, and do not at all scruple paying the value of so noble a companion. The dogs are never bred on the mountain, in consequence of the severity of its atmosphere; but there is a kennel for them at St. Pierre, and again another at Martigny.

On reaching the Hospice travellers are immediately received with the greatest hospitality, and every want is attended to. A bedchamber is allotted to each person, but in consequence of the extreme cold in these upper apartments the guests are cautioned not to remain there (unless it be for repose) any longer than is absolutely necessary. They are afterwards ushered into the antique-looking saloon, at the entrance of which stands a fine slab of black marble, having on it a Latin inscription, and erected by the public of the Valais in gratitude to Napoleon. The saloon or receiving-chamber is a curious wainscoted apartment, having about it a very monastic air, but a little spoiled, as it seemed to me, from the presence of several fantastic trifles from Brighton, the gift, probably, of some well-meaning lady who has reached the convent. In this apartment you are left to amuse yourself till six o'clockthe supper hour (should you arrive before that time)—and there are not wanting several objects of interest to engage the attention.

The album of St. Bernard, or travellers' book, is a curious record of facts and opinions. In this it is usual for every one to write his name, and whatever else his fancy or gratitude may dictate. It does not seem to have been kept for more than three years, or if it has, there has been sad depredation committed upon its leaves by the autograph hunters.

Adjoining the saloon is a small room or cabinet containing coins and other Roman antiquities. These were all dug up near the lake or on the site of the present building, where, it seems, in the time of the Romans, there was a temple to Jupiter. Among the coins I noticed a gold piece with the head and superscription of Romulus. Here are also a few good pictures, and I perceived in one of the frames Landseer's fine engraving of the dogs of St. Bernard, which the holy fathers are not a little proud of. It is clear, however (as they themselves observe), that the artist could