the visitation occurred in the day time, or the loss of life would have been much greater.

It was not my intention to take the St. Bernard Pass, but one of our party being unwell, and obliged to keep quiet for a few days at Martigny, I was induced to occupy the time by a visit to that far-famed spot. Being aware that it was very inferior in point of scenery to many other passes that I had seen, my expectation was not raised unduly; and, indeed, it is the romance of the thing rather than the striking scenery which constitutes its peculiar interest. It is a long and very wearying day's work to the convent, but I had no regrets to augment my fatigue, for the excursion was made peculiarly pleasant from incidental circumstances. We went in a char-a-banc to Lyddes, about half way, and then on mules. Though there are no points of first-rate sublimity and grandeur, yet there is not a part of the road which is devoid of the picturesque. After going through lovely valley scenery to Orsieres, the route improves in wildness, and the deep gorge immediately below the road, and the snowy Alps before you, are very grand. The road through the forest of St. Pierre was formerly very difficult, and so steep and tortuous, that Napoleon found it the most impracticable spot for the transporting of his artillery during his extraordinary expedition in 1800 across these Alps. It is almost incredible that he should have been able to conduct an army of 60,000 men or more through such a pass. Lately the spirited

Vallaisans have cut an excellent road along the precipices which overhang the deep course of the Drance, thus leading the traveller by a safe path through a savage and appalling defile. On leaving the forest, and rising to where the larches and pines are stunted by their elevation above the level of the sea, we arrived at some pasturage, on which there are chalets. The enormous mass of the Mount Velan appears to forbid further progress; some of its fine glaciers stream down into the plain, where amidst the shelter of surround

ing mountains, numerous herds gather the rich herbage of this Alpine pasturage. As you continue to rise, the scene becomes more sterile.

In the wildest part we passed a wretched little inn, where we got some excellent milk and cream. Here again we had painful evidence of the miseries produced by the late insurrections. We found lying in this very inn, very ill, and broken down in spirits and purse, a gentlemanly intelligent young man, whom we had previously seen at Martigny. He could not speak a word of any language but German, and was making his way through Italy to the coast, in hope of getting to America. How many heavy hearts may he have left behind him at his home, and what a sad and uphill course must his be even under the most favourable circumstances that can be expected to befal him! It was pleasant to minister to his comfort; and oh that a higher and better succour than that of his fellow-men may meet him in his desolate wanderings! At length, after crossing some beds of snow, the hospice came in sight, on the very crest of the pass, like a dwelling in the clouds, 8200 English feet above the sea level. Here, in the practice of untiring benevolence, lives this community of religieux, who devote the best of their lives to the service of others, traversing these dreary fields of snow in seasons of danger, when, without their aid and protection, hundreds must perish. The Hospice is a massive stone building, well adapted to its perilous situation, which is on the very highest point of the Pass, where it is exposed to tremendous storms. The chief building is capable of accommodating 70 or 80 travellers with beds: 300 may be sheltered: and between 500 and 600 have received assistance in one day. Besides this, there is another house near the Hospice, across the way. It was built as a place of refuge in case of fire, an event which has twice happened here since the foundation of the establishment. began to feel uncomfortably cold as we approached the Hospice, as well it might, being the highest inhabited house in Europe, On ascending some

It

steps, and entering an arched passage, we rang the bell at an inner door, on which one of the monks came to us, and conducted us through the vaulted corridor up a flight of steps to the parlour appropriated to the reception of strangers. It is a good sized baronial-looking room, gloomy and dark from the small windows, and black furniture and wainscoating. The

monk speedily lighted a good fire of wood, which was most acceptable, and after shewing us our rooms, we met together in the parlour for supper. This consisted of soup, some very tasty stewed mutton, a bit of roast veal, and stewed prunes, and then dessert; the wine of the country, and very bad bread. One of the brothers being able to speak English, he was kindly introduced to us, and stayed with us all the time. He was intelligent and well-informed, and I was surprised to find how well acquainted he was with many of our English authors. He looked well and active, about thirty years of age, and had resided there twelve years. He certainly gave no signs of having suffered from the climate. We retired to bed about ten o'clock. The cold of my bed-room was excessive. I do not exaggerate when I say, that it was with some difficulty that I got undressed. No wonder, when the monk told us there had been ice that morning (July 24!) with the thermometer considerably below freezing point. The ample covering and comfort of my excellent bed made amends for the pinching cold, and I slept as well as busy thought on finding myself in such a place would permit me. I looked out of my window with the first dawn of day. Never shall I forget the gloomy, melancholy scene. It was a very small window, with small panes of glass, quite disproportioned to the size of the room. Our beautiful weather had disappeared: a thick mist was coming on, the wind was howling, and I could only see a part of the lake which is close to the Hospice, and the contiguous snow-beds. I cannot well describe my feelings of awful desolation and discomfort, especially recollecting where I was, and where I had to go. Before I left my

room, I saw one of our party sallying forth to bathe in the lake. It was about six o'clock. But the wind and drizzling rain compelled him to return without accomplishing his purpose. But who was this stranger? I have referred to some pleasant incidents in my visit to the Great St. Bernard. At Lyddes, where we stayed two hours for dinner, and to rest the mules, we followed into the inn a gentleman who had come after us from Martigny, on a mule, with his little son walking by his side. We soon found no lack of subjects mutually interesting, and we progressed together to the convent. Presently we overtook a pedestrian, who also joined our company the rest of the way. He was a young American, and a man of intelligence as well as right Christian principle and feeling. But what was my surprise when, almost simultaneously, these two distinct parties accidentally mentioned their intimate acquaintance with my beloved friends at Teddington Grove! The American proved to be the son of Professor Miller, and, when the names were entered in the travellers' book at the convent, who should the other stranger be found to be but Merle D'Aubignè! It was indeed refreshing to meet with such company, especially in such a place, and to think that many prayers went up that night to heaven that those benevolent monks might be privileged to come to a purer light, and to place all their works of mercy on a sounder and more Scriptural foundation. One of our party slept on the bed which Napoleon had occupied. The next morning we assembled before seven o'clock for breakfast. We had long before heard the monks at their matins in the chapel. The weather was most dismal and unpromising. All was enwrapt in a thick, wetting fog, which forbad our seeing many yards before us. To return down the Val Ferret, as we had intended, was out of the question. The view from the Col Ferret, which gives one of the finest pictures of Mont Blanc, would evidently fail us; nor, indeed, was there the prospect of the lower valley scenery yielding us any enjoy

ment. The monks could give us no hope of amendment, and we sat down to breakfast with the intention of returning by the route we came. Our frugal meal was coffee and bread and butter, but we were fortunate in avoiding fast days. One of my party subsequently visited St. Bernard's on a Friday. He arrived there cold, and wet, and very hungry, having depended upon an adequate repast. His wants, indeed, were sufficiently supplied externally by the monks' habiliments, but all within was doomed to disappointment. There was nothing but wretched soup, and still worse salt fish. The consequence was, that he became really ill, and was compelled to have recourse to medicine. I got some botanical information from one of the monks, who also gave me some specimens of three plants which I had not found. The previous day I had the delight of finding several new plants, amongst the rest Campanula Grandiflora, Ranunculus Alpinus, (decidedly one of the most beautiful flowers I have met with, its habit so lovely and varied in its tinges of white, lilac, and brown: it was growing abundantly in wet places close to the glaciers,) Ornithogalum Rostratum, (I think it must be the same as our Luteum: it was growing close to the Hospice,) Saponaria Ocymoides, Azalea Procumbeus, Lilium Martagon, Astrantia Minor, Gentiana Verna, a Gentiana four feet high, and flowers large and dark mahogany, Crocus Vernus, Trifolium Alpinum, Cacalia Alpina, &c.

After breakfast the superieur took us over the Hospice. There are a dozen monks in residence, and we were introduced to them in their own parlour, where they were sitting at breakfast; and which, as well as their bedrooms, was over the kitchen, from the fire of which there is a contrivance for admitting hot air. Even then, though the middle of July, it was in operation, and I could not help thinking their bedrooms unhealthily close and hot. If they have their rooms warmed in July, what will they do in December? The chapel is much handsomer than one would expect to find it in such a locality; the carved

work of the stalls is really handsome. There is a large marble monument in the chapel, erected by Napoleon to the memory of General Dessaix, who fell at Marengo, after having contributed mainly to that victory. We deposited our offerings in a box in the chapel, which is the usual mode of acknowledging the hospitalities which are so courteously and acceptably rendered by the fraternity. We were taken to the kitchen, which looked warm and comfortable enough, and, last of all, we went to the morgue, or receptacle for the dead. It is a few yards from the convent, and contains the bodies of the victims to storms and avalanches. They have been generally found frozen, and put into this receptacle in the posture in which they perished. Here many have dried up and withered, and on some even the clothes have remained after eighteen years. We saw some in an erect posture against the wall, others recumbent: amongst the rest a mother and child. It is a touching scene. What a thought, that "them who sleep in Jesus will God bring with him." We did not forget to be specially introduced to the far-famed dogs. The six noble fellows were ushered into our presence, and behaved as courteously, and looked as benevolent, as their masters. It would be well, however, for the health, and comfort, and decorum of the establishment, if they were kept in better order. They have the run of the vaulted passages of the convent on the lower floor, the stench and filth of which, as you enter, are as forbidding as those of any menagerie, The supplies for the convent come from Aosta. Their winter store of hay is so valuable that we conveyed our own from Lyddes for our mules. Wood for fuel is one of the most important and difficult necessaries. Not a stick grows within two leagues, and all their fuel is brought from the forest which belongs to the convent in the Val de Ferret, a distance of nearly four leagues. The consumption of wood is considerable, for at that great elevation water boils at about 190 degrees, which is so much less favourable for the cooking of meat

than at 212 degrees, that it requires five hours to effect that which, at a less elevation, may be done in three hours. They are obliged to keep forty horses to convey their wood.

Our memorable visit to St. Bernard necessarily gives rise to many interesting reflections. There is something truly refreshing in the discovery of an expansive, and self-denying, and disinterested benevolence, and I could not help being struck with the idea that here I was seeing Popery under its least hurtful and most inviting aspect. To what extent there may really be the existence of that self-denying, disinterested spirit of suffering endurance which we at a distance are apt romantically to attach to the history of the place, I cannot be competent to determine. There may be as much of unfounded romance in our impressions regarding the men, as undoubtedly there is about the dogs. The monks assured us that half the stories circulated regarding the latter are altogether false. They can trace the bodies of the snow-engulphed traveller to a very little depth compared with what is generally stated; and their feats I suspect extend to very little beyond this. With respect to the monks, they are of the Augustine order, which I suspect is not very rigid. The badge of their order is a white ribbon suspended round the neck, and let into the girdle by a broader piece, somewhat like our clerical band. They wear a tight long gown, and black velvet caps, of a conical form, with a small tassel at the top. I was surprised to see a good piano in one of the monk's bedrooms, with a good deal of manuscript music; and I was told by the superieur that his brother was a composer. I have heard, though I cannot vouch for the truth of it, that the monks are very fond of chamois hunting. They have also a good library and museum. What then with field sports, the care of a large farm, books, music, botanical and geological pursuits, and the reception of visitors from all quarters of the globe, and the heroism of an occasional winter's occurrence, in which the servants and dogs bear the

chief burden, I am inclined to think that the position at St. Bernard's, with all its apparent solitude and insulation, and cold, is one that must prove anything but wearisome and repulsive to many an enterprising spirit. Nor must we forget the ample counteraction of the cold by the abundance of fuel, and the hot air apparatus and withal the constant excitement and occupation of doing good to others, for which the revenues of the convent are said to be sufficient; and lastly, the monks have the advantage of a subsidiary house at Martigny, where they can go and change places with their brethren as may be desired. So that, fully and dispassionately considering their position, I much question whether it is that of such extreme hardship and self-denial as we are apt to fancy.

I have said that Popery is seen here comparatively innocuous and inviting. The former, from the little opportunity for proselytizing or influencing others, and the latter from its benevolent aspect. Yet it may, on this account, be the more dangerous; and may it not be feared, that many an English traveller forms here his hasty and incorrect estimate of Popery, and amidst the romance of the country, and hospitable attentions which he receives in such a place, and under such interesting circumstances and associations, brings himself to the conclusion that that system must be right which produces such results? But this indeed would be a rash and unreasonable course to pursue. With respect to these men individually, it is not for us to sit in judgment. It is impossible to say how far in these secluded cells, in which books are not wanting, and I trust not the Bible, the Holy Spirit may shine through the gloom of superstition, and enable them to reject the wood, hay, and straw, and value only the gold; and certainly if they have access to the writings of St. Augustine, as we must conclude they have, they will meet with much that will lead them to a right knowledge of themselves, and also of Christ. I must own that I was greatly interested with the two monks to whom we had access, and we parted

I believe with feelings of mutual interest and regret. The superieur shewed us marked attention, and left his other visitors to accompany us on our return for three miles or more. The weather compelling us to abandon the Val Ferret, we set off to return by the route that we came. It was awfully miserable and alarming, but we had not progressed a mile before we espied sunshine in the valley before us, and the breaking clouds giving hope that the mountains would speedily be clear, Dr. D'Aubignè and our American friend resolved to return and take the Val Ferret. We found on their return to Martigny, however, that Mont Blanc, the grand attraction, was invisible, and that we had no reason to regret our decision, except for the loss of their company.

The next morning was rainy; and it was doubtful whether we could proceed to Chamouny. However, before ten the rain ceased, and we found the advantage as usual of not yielding to a slight intimidation on the score of weather, but of adhering to our intentions if at all practicable. For not only did the rain cease, so as to encourage us to mount our mules by ten o'clock, but there is a peculiar enjoyment in the gradual dispersing of the clouds after rain, and the clearing away of the mist, first letting in one lovely point of scenery aud then another. I shall not soon forget the long ascent from Martigny. Some parts of it are steep and unpleasant enough for a rider, to say nothing of some compunction of conscience as to the cruelty of riding up such steep ascents. A great part of the narrow mule path lies under the shade of very fine walnut trees, with a sprinkling of picturesque chalets; but when we had got to some height, the view behind us, of the valley of the Rhone, was magnificent in the extreme. It may well be spoken of as one of the finest scenes in Switzerland. Soon after we began to descend, the path branches off at the left to the Col de Balme pass; we resolved to take that of the Tete Noire, as the finest, in case we should not be able to manage both. The scenery of this pass is exquisitely beautiful, in some parts

reminding us of the Splügen. But there are none of the difficulties existing which some travellers record. I was amazed on taking up Dr. Raffles' little work, which a lady lent me at Chamouny, to read his thrilling description of the horrors of this pass, till I turned to the date of the publication, and was led to the conclusion that what the Tete Noire was then it is not now. A better and more practicable path cannot be wished for. The course becomes more wild and savage as you approach Chamouny, when, as you descend into that valley, the view of Mont Blanc, and the various glaciers down its sides, is most imposing. We drew to our old quarters at the Hotel De L'Union, having pleasant recollections of our former sojourn there in the year 1846. The landlord and his good wife are persons of great moral worth and excellence, and their hotel, in all respects, deserves to be recommended. They have just built a large new hotel, which will be open next summer. The following day I was glad to rest, whilst my son ascended the Breven, which, from all accounts, gives the finest view that can be had of Mont Blanc, and renders it unnecessary to take the Flegere. The following day we went to the source of the Aarve, at the foot of the Mer de Glace. The cavern in the glacier no longer exists, but it is abundantly worth while to visit that singular spot. I am forgetting to mention that the only plants of interest which I met with in the Tete Noire, were the Anemone Sulphurea, and the Stenanthes Purpurea. The former was most abundant, in seed, and the latter, which deserves cultivating, I have since found in a secluded valley near Villeneuve. We did not go with all the world to Montanvert, having been there before. My great temptation was the Jardin, but it was out of the question for me, and from all they heard, my sons were disposed to think that it would scarcely repay them, or scarcely do after the Breven.

We left Chamouny with great regret, after passing several most enjoyable days there, enhanced by the