A VISIT TO THE GREAT ST. BERNARD. BY MRS. POSTANS.
EAN JACQUES, as the French call him, (the “Rousseau” being understood) long ago decided, that the hills round Vevay afforded the best view of the beautiful Lake of Geneva; but in the philosopher’s time
– that little crooked town possessed no other accommodation than what might be had in an inferior wayside auberge, whose withered bush denoted that here might be had, “Bon Vin et Bonne Biere,” with such comfort as was ordinarily required by the travelling artist, who, laden with his pack, attired in peasant’s frock and well mailed shoes, wandered over the beautiful land in search of novel objects for his pencil, quite satisfied with his crust of sour bread, and glass of yet more sour wine, if accompanied with views of the magnificent Alps, and their most wondrous glaciers. Now, however, the numerous visitors, who yearly going “up the Rhine,” penetrate into the heart of the Swiss mountains, have with English gold,
and English luxury, originated, and now support, in a manner most welcome to the “maitre,” one of the handsomest hotels on the Continent, whose terrace, blooming with roses and dahlias, hangs over the fair Leman, and affords from its pretty rustic seats, the most charming views of the rocks of Meillerie, the snowy peaks of the Dent D’oche, and all the fairest locale of the Nouvelle Heloise. In the early morning the fisher may be seen busied with his nets, and in the twilight, along the vine clad shores, the boat of the tourist, the artist, or the poet, skims lightly over the bosom of the deep blue waters, its white latteen sails cast out in clear relief by the dark mountains which close them in. Dur
ing the sunny hours –
of day, however, a –
less picturesque ob-
ject creates an in-
terest among the
loungers on the ter-
race of the Vevay
Hotel; this is the
steam-boat which
runs between Geneva and Villeneuve, the two extremities of the lake. Yet as it passes by Clareno, Chillon, and the far-famed Bosquet of Julie, and is commonly crowded with German minstrels, who contribute to heighten the pleasures of association, even the steamboat loses something of its matter of factness on the Lake of Geneva, and our voyage en route to Mar- – r tigny was certainly of a very pleasurable kind. The minstrels formed cheerful smiling groups, the younger women pretty, with dark eyes, blooming cheeks, and glossy hair, (as the Germans always have it, well arranged,) and as they sang, tuned their harps or guitars, ate their little store of grapes and bread, or taught tricks to a droll canine favourite, one thought of poor Goldsmith playing his cracked flute to pay his score among the village inns, kept perhaps by the fathers of these same families; or of Mackenzie’s touching tale of the aged minstrel, seeking in the busy streets the child who had been lured from his side among the stillness of her native mountains; and so we made our way to Villeneuve, and on to Martigny—much dreaded Martigny of which such tales are told, concerning its bad inns, heat, and mosquitoes, that a traveller never thinks of it without a shudder; but in fact public opinion somewhat exaggerates its miseries; for considering the little town only as a key to the touching interests of the great St. Bernard, or the majestic wonders of nature that surround the lovely Chamouni, its inns are sufficient for all purposes of refreshment and repose, while a little wareroom, filled with specimens of the exquisite wood carving for which the Swiss peasants are so celebrated, affords amusement for the idle half hour that usually precedes a traveller’s repast. On arrival, we found the Hotel de Cygne suffering from an absolute plethora of visitors; waiters sputtering French and German, all talking, scolding, and ordering in a breath, were hurrying to and fro, with white tureens of the soups peculiar to continental inns, being of that limpid quality warranted to leave no stain on the apparel over which a portion might chance to fall; .. chambermaids, with velvet boddices and silver chains, were running hither and thither with piles of linen; guests in straw hats or green veils were to be seen at every window, while on the bench without, the accredited guides, with mapless hats and plated badges, lounged away the time in pleasant chat, gazing with visible satisfaction on the laden travelling carriages, and mud bespattered “char a bancs,” which crowded the space before the door. Long had my interest been excited towards the Hospice of the Great St. Bernard, but as I listened to the Babel of voices in the “Cygne,” and surveyed the array of guides and vehicles, a chilling suspicion stole into my mind, that I had done wrong in risking any change to the feelings of reverence already received for the Monks of St. Augustin; and although the object of travel certainly is “to correct imagination by reality,” yet I did not feel sure that in this case I might not be very considerably a loser, and that if I found the Hospice to have degenerated into a mere hotel for the reception of the curious, and the Monks into mere well paid aubergists, grievous disappointment would ensue, and a very considerable portion of my belief in human virtue be inevitably lost. Deeply pondering this difficulty, I entered the salle à manger, and there happily learned, that the whole party were on their way to Chamouni; and that although travellers did frequently ascend the St. Bernard, both in their way to Aosta, and also for the sole purpose of visiting the Hospice, yet that most considered the journey too long, and its fatigue too great to be repaid by the description of interest afforded by the Monastery of St. Bernard. To me this indifference was incomprehensible, but rejoicing at its existence, arrangements were soon made, and the following morning, early after sunrise, a char a banc and mule were in attendance, which, ere we set forth, deserves a brief description. The Guide Books, which, notwithstanding their professional character of dry exactness, do sometimes lead travellers astray in minor matters, are pleased to denominate this strange looking vehicle “a sofa on wheels;” but as it is commonly quite innocent of such sophisticated arrangements as springs, while its blue broad cloth linings, in these days of elastic seats and air pillows, cannot certainly deserve the name of cushions,
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and as the winding mountain roads, that look in the
distance like a smooth ribbon, passing along wild
glens and skirting the roaring torrent, are stony and somewhat rude, as the traveller will find when absolutely on them, he will, perhaps, think as I did, while jolted sideways up and down, at the jogtrot pace common to mules, that the word “sofa” is somewhat misapplied to a vehicle which requires every cloak he may possess to render it bearable. The mule destined to toil all the way to the Hospice, in its double capacity of draught and saddle, was a calm, sensible looking animal, whose experience had taught him, that when the disagreeable was inevitable, the best philosophy is to yield without remonstrance to our fate; and although in his younger days, our mule, as Jacques the guide assured us, was wont to prefer objections, both with head and heel, he had long given up what only caused him hard blows at the commencement, and a loss of dignity in the end; and he now stood, not only harnessed to the char a banc, and bearing a sidesaddle on his back, but content to have a carpet bag added thereto, in lieu of a rider, having learned how ready man is to add burthen to burthen, and toil to toil, on all who are willing slaves. One might sentimentalize upon this; but as a living mule is perhaps not so good an object to employ one’s superabundant sympathies on, as Sterne found a dead ass to be, let us fancy that we have entered the char a banc, and in the early hours of a breezy morning, with the newly risen sun glancing on all around, are rattling away through the Bourg of Martigny, over the little bridge, and up to the village of La Batie, where Jacques descends, and turning back with an air of triumph and an extended whip, exclaims, “Voila, Madame!” and certainly it was a scene that deserved attention. Far along in the rich valley of the Rhone, was seen the wide straight road leading to the Simplon, its distance lost upon the bright, sun-tinted horizon, with the bare and towering hills that on either side enclose the valley. On the left rises a knoll crowned with the picturesque Tower of La Batie, while on the right, beneath granite rocks, clothed with fresh leafed oaks, with dark and spiral firs, rushes the rapid Drance, which, taking its rise among the eternal snows of the Great St. Bernard, has with continued effort forced its way through rock and mountain to the bright valley of the Rhone, here perforating the granite, and falling through the rocks in foaming cascades, there wearing its way with deep and silent force, while huge forest trees, loosened at their roots, drop into its torrent, and villages fall in ruin before it: mountain scenery is apt to make one sentimental and philosophic, and therefore it was, perhaps, that the Drance, as I then looked upon it, seemed to me as a fit emblem of many, who, born in obscurity, force their powerful course along, heedless of difficulty, until a dazzling point is gained among the civilized, learned, and beautiful of the world, conquering sometimes by steady labour, and silent perseverance, and again, with a mighty will, and the force of gigantic energy, casting aside impediments which to others would stay their course for ever. On the banks of this beautiful Drance, the most delicate wild flowers spring, engendered among the mosses carpeting the dark granite; and here and there, on open spots of green sward, are clustered fruit trees laden with their produce ; yet, tempting as they are, the traveller, if he is wise, will pass them by untouched, for a score of francs may be exacted for the pulling of a plum, or the trial of an unripe apple. Three or four villages lie on the route in the first portion of the road, dirty, miserable places, the houses mere stables, elevated on wooden platforms to preserve them during the overflow of the torrent, and the inhabitants all more or less afflicted with cretinism and goitre, diseases, however, which seem to give more pain to the spectator than to their victims in Switzerland, for the cretin, in the sheltered villages of his lovely valleys, is cared for like the idiot of the East— an amiable superstition inducing the belief, that those deprived of the usual gifts of nature are especially under the care of good spirits, who watch over their safety and of that of all who show them kindness—the result being, that a cretin is eagerly sought for as an inmate, and the villagers rival each other in their kindmess to the helpless creature who is supposed to brin good fortune to their hearth. Although the …i with goitre do not enjoy the same good, yet the victims seem little sensible of their condition, and in several of the villages exhibited a mirth serving only to excite a stronger sense of the revolting character of this terrible affliction. In conformance with the modern Swiss custom of levying as much “black mail” as may be from the passing stranger, at the door of every log hut in the villages through which we passed stood little children, with gentle smiles and timid glances, hoping by a pretty curtsey to win the desired “batzen.” When thrown, the little mendicant, without acknowledgment, scampered away to place the coin in its mother’s hand; but if refused, the modest manner too often changed to a loud laugh, the timid glance was forgotten in a rustic jest upon the English traveller; and as we passed along, every moment gave us fresh reason to admire the wonderful, majestic, and touching character of the scenery, and to commiserate the condition of the people; and thus in due time we arrived at Liddes, the hamlet where the traveller abandons his char a banc, and commences either his pedestrian labours, or avails himself, as in my case, of the back of a rough-paced, hard-mouthed mule. There is a little inn at Liddes, called the “Union,” where those who are on their way to the Hospice usually encounter travellers upon their return. There the mule is fed and rested, and the char a banc left in charge ; while sour bread, delicious butter, with the etceteras of a common dinner, are served by the hostess, who wears the peculiar costume of the Canton—a short petticoat and boddice, with something like the Welsh hat, but with the addition of a broad coloured ribbon, puffed round the crown. The salle à manger of the Union, with its two long green baize covered tables, and its dirty walls decorated with bad prints of various apocryphal incidents in the private and public life of Napoleon, soon proved so very uninteresting, that in self defence we sought the common resource of the idle, and looked out of the window to beguile the time, but the scene was one common to all Swiss villages. The opposite houses were built of logs supported upon rude platforms; behind them was a steep, fir-clad hill, and peeping above it appeared a distant snowy peak; abundance of cut firs lay in the rugged way, and the sound of a waterfall reached us from afar. The street presented little to entertain; now and them a sturdy peasant, armed with a stout pole, went by on a sleek and active mule; a large cow with a huge leather collar, and a bell attached to it, sonorous enough for a village church, lounged by in search of pasture; or a poor creature, frightfully afflicted with goitre, sat in the sun, employing herself with knitting. Under these
circumstances there was, perhaps, some excuse for the scribblings that attracted our attention on the window frame beside us, among which some idler, more facetions than the rest, had inscribed—“The Marquis of Carabbas left Liddes on the 27th July, accompanied by one pair of boots, one umbrella, and two sticks,”— a description very generally applicable. Weary, however, of gazing on our muddy char a banc, I left the salon, and seeing a second door similarly inscribed, opened it; but the same moment proved to me that I was an intruder, for in the centre of the room stood a peasant with a white mantle draped toga-wise over his form, an ornamented baton in his hand, and a broad piece of light blue ribbon, fastened with a huge bouquet of artificial flowers round his hat. Hastily closing the door, I returned to the window of the first room, and soon saw the same person pass out, followed by a pretty young woman, gaily attired in a light blue petticoat, with a garland of roses around her festal hat. She carried under her arm a large basket, the contents concealed by an embroidered silk coverlet, adorned with bouquets of orange blossoms; but I afterwards found that it contained a baby, and the ceremony had been one of baptism. In two hours Jacques and the mule were ready to proceed, the saddle having a sort of rail round the back, which answered two purposes, one being to support the rider in ascending steep roads, and the other to secure thereto the carpet bag, portfolio, cloak, umbrella, and climbing poles; and when this baggage was duly attached, it was not remarkable that the mule proceeded rather slowly,–the more so, perhaps, that he had not quite shaken off the slumber he had indulged in at Liddes. However, the road was too beautiful to render the pace of the mule of much consequence, for it led along the left bank of the Drance, with lofty mountains on either side, crowned and clothed with noble firs, and intersected by mountain torrents. As we proceeded, the scenery grew more wild, yet there were rich slopes of green sward, and bright sunny tranquil spots even amid the torrent’s roar and the huge blocks of granite, from the fissures of which sprang soft moss, the mountain violet, and the Alpine rose. Then again the path grew more rugged, and gradually descended, until the last chalet or canteen was reached, and here Jacques, who had long shown symptoms of fatigue, by availing himself of the support of the poor mule’s tail over the hilly and rugged portions of the way, paused, and drew the weary animal under the shelter of the chalet. It is to this point that the monks of the Great St. Bernard, during the severities of winter, direct their steps, for between this and the Hospice lie the great dangers. The whole character of the scenery here changes; no longer rich in foliage and mountain vegetation, the majestic and the beautiful mingling together, the torrent rushing among wild flowers, and the towering rock clothed with the fir and oak ; all is bare, desolate, full of terror-inspiring and sublime effects; the ground is a mass of shattered granite, the mountains crowned with clouds are covered with dark stained glaciers, and the Drance flows under blocks of snow, which here and there conceal it wholly. A little farther on a low shed-like building, with grated window looking to the valley, attracted our attention to the old Morgue, but it now contains only a few remains of skeleton bodies, some broken vessels, and large masses of blackened snow. We passed on, and soon came to large beds of snow, in the centre of which
footmarks, not always distinctly seen, left an uncertain path, but here and there tall poles directed the traveller on his way, or marked the points of danger. Lesser beds of snow were then passed, the guide first carefully trying the solidity of so path, and then drawing forward the mule, who sometimes sunk nearly to his knees, or slipped several feet upon its surface; it was altogether wearying; and safe as the way in reality was during the summer season, in full daylight, and with an experienced guide, yet the constant fall of snow echoing from the neighbouring hills, the rushing sound of the under flow of water, with the desolate appearance of all around, produced a vague idea of danger, which, combined with the intense cold, was decidedly painful; however, a short period more of fatigue and labour brought us to a bed of snow lying between two hills, and formed by avalanches from both, eighty feet in depth, and of the most dazzling whiteness; this we crossed, and ascending slowly and with much difficulty the slippery ascent beyond it, we saw, crowning the height, the lone Hospice of the Great St. Bernard. On the steps of the Hospice, watching our approach, stood a monk, dressed in the costume of his o: long black dress, buttoned from the neck to the shoe, with a sash around the waist; a tall cap, finishing with a tuft, and a narrow white band passing over the shoulder—a badge distinguishing the St. Augustins. From the monk’s side, bounding as if in welcome to the strangers, came three dogs, in colour red and white, large limbed and muscular, with short, falling ears and full eyes, deep with intelligence, in interest almost rivalling the master who now called them to him. The monk greeted us with benignant courtesy, and seeing our weary condition, proposed at once to show us to a dormitory. The corridors, three in number, are of stone, of considerable dimensions; and from either side open the small doors of the sleeping apartments. The monk, after showing us into one, left us ; and in a few seconds a servant appeared with materials for a fire and a bottle of excellent claret, intimating that dinner would be served at six o’clock. The dormitory was a long, narrow room, with beds of scrupulous cleanliness, a fireplace, drawers, small looking-glass, and a few coloured drawings of the Monastery from various points of view; while the window looked on the building erected as a place of refuge in case of fire, and on the snows of the opposite hill, whose avalanches had more than once shattered every window in the Hospice. From the dormitory we descended to the museum, where we found the monk who had received us. It contains valuable and curious geological specimens, with the mineralogy generally of the Alps, chiefly collected and presented by too, aS well as many fine specimens of eagles and vultures, with a chamois prepared in great perfection. While admiring the beauty of the various subjects of natural history, which the monk who had particular charge of them was good enough to take great pains to explain, I availed myself of the opportunity of describing to him the Monastery or Hospice of Denodur, in the province of Cutch, on the northern coast of Western India, where monks, possessing certain property and rank, had taken the vows of passing life in acts of practical benevolence, without reference to the rank or creed of the objects of their philanthropy, but feeding the hungry and giving rest to the weary, without inquiring into aught but their necessity. The monk was evidently interested; and while he inquired much con
cerning their religious tenets, costume, and habits of life, he seemed disposed to yield respect and sympath to the band of brothers in the East, who, althoug they wore saffrom-coloured robes, with large circles of glass or agate inserted in their ears, and followed the dictates of an unenlightened superstition, yet sacrifice health, society, and all the ties of domestic life, to pass every hour in doing good ; and when I told him that the prince of the land acknowledged as his superior the chief monk of Demodur, the countenance of the St. Augustin grew deeply reflective, and he said, he “should well like to know more of this.” Evening had commenced, however, and the climate was intensely cold ; the monk, therefore, with the attentive courtesy which marks their every action, requested me to accompany him to the dining-room, in which was placed a long table for the repast, while the hearth glowed with blazing logs. From this room opens one smaller, but full of interest. It contains the various tokens of gratitude and remembrance sent to the monks by those who were worthy of their attention ; and a cabinet is thus formed, which includes, together with pictures, engravings, medals, and coins, some very valuable relics of Egyptian antiquity. Mr. Landseer’s celebrated engraving of the Monks and their Dogs was most attractive; but the monks smiled and shook their heads at the cloak and flask, as partaking a little too much of the romantic; for these men, whose whole life is a romance to others, are themselves all simplicity and fact. The books of the Hospice afford another source of interest to the traveller whose eye loves to mark the names of the wise, the good, the amiable, and the talented, who, like himself, have been attracted to this spot of hallowed interest; but it was with deep regret that I noted many pages stained by the offensive remarks of Englishmen, who should have blushed to have written themselves such ; and I rejoiced that a want of acquaintance with our language prevented our courteous hosts from knowing how unworthy had many proved who had been the objects of their hospitality. Our dinner was excellent and abundant, the wine of the first quality, and the hospitality of the monks who presided took the character of kindly and courteous men of the world. Both were young, and evidently abounding in health and vigour. One had passed ten and the other eight years in the Hospice, and seemed devoted to the life they had embraced. Some impression had been made on my mind, to the effect, that the extreme rigour of the climate at this extraordinary height of one thousand eight hundred feet above i. level of the sea, had the effect of shortening the usual duration of life, and that few of the monks attained even middle age; but I found that, on the contrary, the clear, bracing atmosphere induced and supported remarkable vigour in the constitution, a fact roved by two out of the seven brethren at the Hospice i. lived there for twenty years in perfect health, and two of the monks being still living who had occupied the Monastery in 1800, when Napoleon passed into Italy. One of these venerable fathers is eighty ears old, and resides at Martigny, a spot to which the i. resort in case of illness or for change of air. After dinner we drew round the blazing fire, and the conversation naturally fell upon the instinct and character of the dogs. There are at present only five that are perfectly trained and to be depended upon, the largest and oldest of whom is called “Drapeau;” but,
singularly enough, this intelligent and powerful animal, who, like his masters, is devoted to the succour of human beings, and will bear a child between his jaws with the utmost tenderness, is so savage towards those of his own species and the brute creation generally, that he is carefully muzzled, having killed no less than three young dogs, two calves, and many sheep during last winter. At night the dogs are secured in a kennel, and at times require severe correction, which is always given by a particular monk, of whom the dogs are very fond. The pups are instructed when very young, by teaching them to dig in the snow for pieces of meat which are buried there; but the monks believe their instinct to be providential, and quite independent of training or other human assistance. On several occasions the monks have been induced to try the Newfoundland breed; but they were found to be deficient in instinct, and also that their long hair became matted with snow and impeded them perpetually. The short-haired breed, now known as the St. Bernard dogs, are originally of a Danish origin. One of the monks, in answer to my inquiries, mentioned a circumstance which occurred last winter, and as eminently characteristic of the inexplicable instinct of the dogs, deserves record. A brother, with three servants and two of the dogs, seeing it likely that a storm would come on, in which all chance travellers would be in danger, left the Hospice, and descended the mountain, in the direction of the last châlet. After considerable search, it was proposed to return, but the storm had commenced; the snow, which in these regions sometimes rises like a fine dust obscuring every object, now prevented the possibility of seeing the path, and the party trusted as usual entirely to the dogs to lead them in safety to the Hospice. Still the dogs persisted in leading forwards on a road that the monk felt certain was not that of the Hospice, and several times he turned, as if to communicate his doubts to the dogs, but they refused to advance, and bounded back on the doubtful route. The monk and his servants then determined to be guided by them; and scarcely had they done so, when an avalanche fell upon the road which the monk had from the first believed to be that of the Hospice, and which indeed it was ; then following their preservers, the party, by an untrod way, arrived late but in safety at the Hospice. The monk also mentioned, that in case of requiring to cross snow of doubtful solidity, the dogs uniformly crossed it backwards and forwards, until the loose portions became fixed and a path secure, when they returned to the feet of their master, who felt no hesitation in following them. At daybreak the following morningwe were awakened by the deep-toned voices of the monks chaunting their matins—the priests of this great altar of benevolence consecrating to their Creator their daily sacrifice; all else was still, life and nature alike locked in icy slumber; and as it was raised on high, the voice of prayer and praise rang through the vast Hospice, and found its echo in the surrounding mountains. The chapel is large, and well fitted after the Catholic taste, which may perhaps appear too fanciful and gorgeous, when contrasted with the plain simplicity of the rest of the Hospice, but one yet reverences the feeling, that in conformity with opinion bestows on a spot dedicated to religious service all that is supposed to be most worthy to do it honour. It may be that to the eye of a Protestant, the waxen effigies, the garlands of artificial flowers, the joi missals, the glasses
and paintings in the chapel at St. Bernard, may be unpleasing; but when the visitor glances on the bare oak seats, and the morsel of sheep’s skin which is the only luxury of those who, late and early, in the depth of winter and among eternal snows, there meet to dedicate the life of every hour to heaven’s service—the deepest reverence is the only feeling that can occupy the mind, and the great principle of self abnegation there enshrined renders all else sacred. There is also a library, well stored with the best French and German works on natural science, history, and religion; on the reading desk I observed some copies of a work on Switzerland, written and illustrated by a young Frenchwoman, and dedicated to the monks of St. Bernard, the profits of the publication being for the uses of the Hospice. I was glad also to find, that most catholic authors send copies of their works to the superior, and that the treasury of the monks was in a very flourishing state. The library seemed their only luxury, and the monks never left the Hospice without a book, which formed the companion of their solitary walk. They are all men of education and studious habits; and while they are courteous to the stranger, humble before heaven, and tender to all in need, there is a dignity of manner, a gentlemanly bearing, and an independence of thought about these recluses, which I was scarcely prepared to meet, highly as I had ever reverenced the motives of their separation from the world. During breakfast I was grieved at not again seeing the monks who the evening before had dined with us, but they had gone in their out-door costume, accompanied by the dogs, to visit a farm that they have at some distance; for in the winter they depend almost entirely upon its produce for support, as the necessity becomes ressing of economising the supplies which are laid in from Aosta; and although the monks present to their guests everything required for the most abundant table, and their liberality, far from being grudgingly given, or of necessity, includes delicacies as well as usual food, good wine, rich liqueurs, dried fruits, and fine coffee, with which to refresh the weary, or restore the strength of the suffering, yet the table of the refectory bears little but the simple produce of the farm on which the monks subsist, reserving all else that they procure, with considerable expense, for the wants or gratification of their guests. I was anxious to see the Morgue, situated now close to the Hospice; and with Drapeau as our companion, we proceeded thither, accompanied by a servant, who, as a matter of choice, had spent ten years in attendance at the Monastery. As the huge dog bounded over the snow, with all the playfulness of a pup, the servant told us, that there were but few of the bodies in the Morgue, that Drapeau had not been instrumental in saving, and that in one case where an avalanche had fallen on a whole family who were coming up from Aosta, the dog had persevered in his search, long after the monks had abandoned it, and had himself exhumed a woman and child with extraordinary labour and perseverance. Barry, the most celebrated dog of St. Bernard, was fortunate enough to have saved the lives of fifteen persons, but he was now dead, and we had seen his skin preserved in the museum at Berne; but Drapeau was a worthy successor, and an animal of extraordinary strength as well as instinct. On reaching the Morgue, a low building with a door and window of grated iron, and erected in the midst of deep snow which reached almost to the roof, I looked in, and the idea of the horrible certainly predominated. Bodies, and remnants of bodies, partially clothed in tattered linen, rested against the walls, or laid piled together upon the ground, much as they do in a public mummy pit in Egypt, while one figure alone possessed that distinctive, individual look which reminded me of the capuchin dead at Syracuse, and proved that ex. treme cold and intense heat have a similar effect in drying and preserving the human skeleton. The figure of which I speak was altogether a very remarkable one; it stood in a dark corner, but the light from the open window fell directly upon its form, which, with crossed hands, seemed to lean upon a staff, while the skeleton face was turned full on the spectator with an expression that seemed as if life, and the tattered shroud fell around the skeleton with a strange grace scarcely resembling the last garment of the dead. The head, inclined forward as in an attitude of attention, had an air so remarkable, that had the bones where lips once had been begun to move, and the dry tongue to articulate reproaches against the curiosity of the stranger, I am not sure that my first feeling would have been surprise, so fitting would speech have seemed to a form thus perfect in its mute expression. Soon after breakfast we left the Hospice of Mount St. Bernard, and my feeling was that of increased respect for the monks, as well as that lingering regard for the spot itself, which easily explained the affection which distinguished the feelings of those, who had, from strong principles of religious benevolence in early life, or other powerful circumstances, been induced to abandon scenes of social life for a residence on this lone mountain. And as I turned to look at the tall Hospice, rearing its sheltering roof amongst the eternal snows, terrible as the solitude might seem to some, I felt little surprise at a local attachment, which, independently of higher and purer objects, bound the affections of the brotherhood to the scene of this their labour. Two young Englishmen had walked from Martigny the day before and without a guide; the result was that they arrived late in the evening at the châlet, so overcome by fatigue, that they were compelled to lie down in the snow several times before they could recover strength to proceed on to the St. Bernard. At last they arrived, guided by the staves, but wearied nearly unto death. Comforts of every description were immediately prepared by the kind monks for their refreshment, and seldom, I fancy, have been more appreciated than by these chilled and foot-sore travellers. As for Jacques, he was in high spirits, for the monks had fed the old mule until he was absolutely frisky, and Jacques himself had enjoyed roast mutton, bread, fruit, and wine for supper, and a basin of hot soup for breakfast; it was therefore with sufficient reason that the worthy muleteer preferred the route of St. Bernard to that of Chamouni, and always recommended it to travellers. In leaving the Hospice, the road seemed to offer more difficulties than it had even done during our ascent, and we were glad to follow the steps of two poor women who were driving back a mule that had carried fuel to the Hospice. Firing is a considerable article of expense to the monks, as wood is only procurable at a distance of ten miles, suitable for the purpose, and mule carriage adds materially to its value. The monks begin to lay in their winter store of logs in July, al. though, of course, firing is always required, as a night was never known in which the thermometer did not
fall below freezing point on the St. Bernard, while rain and fog, even during the summer, increase the sensation of intense cold. As I watched the short crimson stuff petticoats, and the ribboned hats of the women, as they sturdily drove their active mule over the shining snow, some surprise arose in my mind, that for so small a sum as they probably received, they could be induced to a work of so much labour, and perhaps danger; but I found that the path is too well known to the mountaineers, to create the slightest alarm ; while such is the general reverence for the monks, that peasants living as far away as Liddes and its neighbouring villages constantly attend chapel service in the IIospice, and return the following day; an abundant meal is prepared every Sunday for thirty persons, and the peasants consider the visit as one of their dearest privileges. In descending, it was curious and interesting to observe the gradual change in the scenery, incident to particular elevations. After quitting the Mount, where every gorge is filled with snow, every peak is an “icy palace,” and where nought meets the eye but the wild desolate regions of eternal snow, sparkling and unstained—it is observed, that the snow is less pure in colour, and occasionally severed into huge blocks, beneath which flows a rapid torrent: farther yet, and the bold granite wholly casts off its mantle, and is dotted with the dark blue heart’sease; then again appears a stream, calmly flowing in its bright bed, among moss and lichen, the tender blue-bell, the delicate forget-me-not, and the glowing Alpine rose; while every mile vegetation increases in its beauty, until majestic rocks appear clothed with oak and fir, beneath which the peasant mows rich grass upon the verdant meadows, and the yellow corn ripe for harvest waves among wild fruit trees laden with their produce. It has been my fate to see much of various modes of life, and many countries; to have visited mountains considered holy by superstition, and those really so by the revelations of true religion. Some I have seen crowned with ice, and others pouring forth volcanic fire; some selected as the abiding places of devotees, existing in caves and holes in the earth, like wild beasts, and others selected for the retirement of the wise, the intelligent, and the good. I have learnt to respect the Jani devotee, toiling through almost interminable forests to worship his Creator on the sacred mounts of Western India, and the monk of Denodur, giving freely in his Hospice to all who asked it; yet the strongest interest that had ever been awakened in my mind, fell far short of that which I experienced for the St. Augustin Brethren of St. Bernard, on my return from this visit to their Hospice, for theirs is the active, longsuffering, yet cheerful and reasoning benevolence of learned, intelligent men, who, follow with the zeal of sincerity, that truth, whose linked evidence appeals
to the judgment of all who believe in it.
From St. Bernard, I afterwards visited Chamouni, Mont Blanc, and the Mer de Glace—sublime natural effects, which are unrivalled in the world; but while their interest is principally scenic, that of St. Bernard is touchingly moral; and I would say, let all who desire better to respect their fellow-men, and to learn the full extent of pure benevolence, induced by a sincere faith, visit the Great St. Bernard, and reverence the virtue which will be found there; for the traveller will return, I think, both a more reflective and a kinder natured man, well repaid for the labour he has undergone.
