nocence

To shield against the tyrant's rage-he draws
His bow, such fearful murder to commit!
[He starts up.]

Make up thy account with heaven, lord governor! | His children. To guard you, and your gentle in-
Thou must go hence-thy last sands are run out.
Oh! I lived calm and harmless, and my prey
Was the wild deer that dwelt within our forests:
My thoughts were free from violence, until thou
Didst steal the gift of peace from out my heart,
And changed the milk of human thought and
feeling

Into foul poison. To harsh thoughts, which ne'er
Till thou didst teach them me, my soul e'er knew,
Hast thou inured me. He who struck the aim
From the head of his own child, oh, shall he not
As surely strike to the life-blood of his foe?
My poor, my innocent children, my loved wife,
Must I protect 'gainst thee, lord governor.
There, when I drew my bow, and my hand trem-
bled,

And thou with devilish joy compelledst me
To aim at the head of my own child-when I,
All powerless, sunk before thee, then I swore
A fearful oath-breathed to the ear of God,
And not of man-that my next arrow's aim
Should be thy heart. What in that hour I swore
Of deadly agony, I will perform;

God will require it at my hands-to Him
I breathed my oath.

Thou art, my lord, placed here in my empe-
ror's stead,

Yet never had the emperor allowed

Such deeds as thou hast done. He sent thee here
To deal out justice to the land.-Severe
Perchance he knew thou wert, for 'twas in wrath
He sent thee; but he did not bid thee slake
Thy murderous thirst of blood on harmless men
But there is One who shall avenge our cause.

O come then forth, thou messenger of pain!
My dearest treasure now, my highest good!
The heart that did resist all pious prayers
Shall not have power to resist thy point!
And thou, my trusty bow-string, in good stead
Thou oft hast served till now in joyful sports,
Forsake me not in this most fearful earnest ;
Hold firm for one aim more, and wing aright,
As thou so oft hast done, my pointed barb;
For if it play me false, I have no other
To fill its destined part.

[Travellers pass over the stage.]

Upon this stony bank will I sit down.
'Twas placed for the repose of travellers;
For here there is no dwelling; each one goes
With careless step, nor heeds the fellow-men
Who pass him by, nor thinks if they are well
Or ill, if joy or sorrow rest with them.
The careful merchant, pilgrims with few goods,
Few cares, the pious monk, the dark grim robber,
The merry player, and the carrier

Who comes from other lands with laden beasts,
From every region of the world do men

It is a noble prey for which I wait.
The hunter oft beneath the coldest skies
Will leap from crag to crag thro' the whole day,
And climb the rugged precipice, oft stained
By the drops of his own blood, and weary not,
So he can strike his prey; but here
I have a far more noble prize-the heart
Of my dread foe, who seeks to ruin us.
[Joyful music is heard-gradually approaches in
the distance.]

From my childhood have I been inured
To feats of archery; my bow has been
Constant companion of my life; to the goal
I oft have shot, and many a fair prize

Have I brought home from feasts where archers

meet.

But the master-shot of all to-day I seek,
And carry the best prize that's to be won
Throughout the whole wide circle of the Alps.

From the Metropolitan.

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 vapor; 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

Pass by this road, to accomplish each his work:hovering in the spray. There, too, on the
Mine is a work of death! [He sits down.]
Oh! once, my children, there was joy for you,
When from the chase your father late returned!
For never came he to his home but brought
Something for you-either a flower he'd plucked
From off the Alps, or some rare bird, or Ammon's

horn

Such as the travellers find upon the hills.
Far other deadlier object now he seeks:

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

On the wild way he sits with vengeful thoughts-weight, and slid off bodily into the vale be

It is his enemy's life for which he waits

And yet e'en now his thoughts are but of you

low. Now and then, too, a report from the rifle of the chamois-hunter breaks smartly

upon the ear, re-echoed from a hundred to reach the Hospice that day, or are too points; and sometimes, though of course fatigued to proceed further. The building, more rarely, the hunter himself may be seen such as it is, is also useful in case of accidescending from the heights in the dress dents; here the servants of the Hospice, peculiar to his vocation, and with the ani- accompanied by the dogs, lie in wait every mal he has killed swung round his body. day when the season is unfavorable, for the Even the numerous goats, and the stray relief of travellers; and should they not recattle with their enormous bells bring with turn at a certain and fixed hour, it is conthem the interest of association, adding life cluded at the Hospice that something is to the solitary grandeur of such a scene; wrong, and the monks one and all go forth and not unfrequently the imperial eagle of in a body with food and restoratives to their the Alps, that terror of the goatherd, darts assistance. forth into view from his lofty retreat, or sails impudently about your path.

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.

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 The first view of the Hospice breaks sudmountain air, and to wrap your cloak more denly upon the eye when but a stone's closely around you; for the elevation is al- throw from its bleak-looking walls; it seems ready considerable, and becomes every mo- to start up suddenly, as it were, from the ment progressively greater. Beyond this elevation on which it stands, having about point, too, the path is more liable to be it a comfortless, naked look, unrelieved of missed, as the great landmarks of moun- course by a single tree or even shrub. The tains on either side no longer serve as materials of which it is composed are from guides and preclude the wandering of trav- the rock on which it has been built, and ellers. The great danger now is the con- the only natural advantage which it poscealment of the track by snow, or, if there sesses is the neighborhood of a lake, which be any foul weather in this cold region, it is ice more than three-fourths of the year. will of course be a snow-storm. And now, It is the highest habitation of the known at last, the head of the mountain is itself world, and is said to be upwards of eight visible, towering some thousands of feet thousand feet above the level of the sea. above the clouds, if clouds there should un- The pass by it into Italy is a saving of two luckily be; but if it could be seen as I saw days. 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 neighbor, 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

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 hood in the canton below; and, though it monkey for a companion, another a cage of would seem to be a change for the worse, white mice, and a third music; they in-yet it is looked upon as a promotion to beformed me in the house that these boys come a brother of the convent. came acros the mountain in such shoals The brethren are obliged to go down at upon their way to England, that it had been intervals to recruit themselves in the valley, found imperative, from the scantiness of either at St. Pierre or Martigny; for otherprovisions, to allot them only a certain por-wise it has been found that the human frame tion of food each. They also sleep three is incapable of standing such a continued or four together in one apartment. siege of frost.

A few yards from the Hospice itself Certainly the existence of such an instistands the charnel-house-a low, square tution as this, and the fact that men can be building, distinguished only as to its ex-found to live under it, speaks highly for huterior by a massy grated window. Here manity; for, in fact, to what higher effort repose, and have reposed for centuries, the can philanthropy be carried? The monks bodies or bones of all those who have met seem to spend the greater part of their day their fate on this mountain from frost or ac-in prayer, and service appeared to be concident. Decomposition goes on, of course, stantly going forward in the chapel. Their very slowly here; and, though the floor of profession of faith is Catholic; but be their this apartment is covered to some depth creed what it may, these ecclesiastics seem with confused bones, yet the bodies which to comprehend the true spirit, and practise still stand against the walls or lie reclined the best part, of religion-love towards one in great numbers, are in a state of wonder- another. For the entertainment of their ful preservation. The flesh still remaining guests no charge whatever was made by upon the bones has the appearance of shri- these hospitable men, and from the poorer velled parchment; and, notwithstanding or larger class no remuneration whatever is 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, and 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 priest

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 labor 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 unfavorable 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 [write his name, and whatever else his fancy to be diffuse on the subject here. Many or gratitude may dictate. It does not seem have been the lives reported to have been to have been kept for more than three years, saved through their assistance; they effect, or if it has, there has been sad depredation in short, what human aid never could have committed upon its leaves by the autograph contrived. By their wonderful instinct they hunters. are enabled to discover and trace the path Adjoining the saloon is a small room or however concealed by snow. They roam cabinet containing coins and other Roman over the mountain day and night; and antiquities. These were all dug up near should they fall in with any poor wretch the lake or on the site of the present buildwho has wandered from the track, or who ing, where, it seems, in the time of the Rois disabled by accident, they either lead themans, there was a temple to Jupiter. way for him as a guide, or fly back alone Among the coins I noticed a gold piece 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 Nopoleons. 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 bed-chamber 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, hav*ing 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. this apartment you are left to amuse yourself till six o'clock-the supper hour (should you arrive before that time)—and there are not wanting several objects of interest to engage the attention.

In

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

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 never have been at the convent, or if he had, he has sacrificed truth to effect. There are no trees of any description on the mountain; the outline given of the building in the distance is as unlike as may be, and the costume of the monks is very unfaithful.

At the hour of six you are received at supper by one of the monks, who do the honors in rotation. I was fortunate enough to be present when this was the principal's office. There were, beside myself, two American gentlemen, who had ascended that day from the Italian side. The monk addressed himself attentively to each of us in turn, and had about him so little of the recluse, that he seemed more the courtier and man of the world. Every information we could seek he was ready and even anxious to afford; and, as we naturally desired that which was local, he willingly gave us every particular of the establishment. The substance of the conversation has been already laid before the reader.

It is the custom of the monks to retire by times to their cells; the time of going to rest is of course left optional to their guests, but it is easy to see they would be more pleased by keeping early hours; and no one is very anxious to keep watch after a toilsome day's journey.

In the morning those who can rise in time may be much gratified by attending service in chapel, and it is considered a compliment to do so. Here, too, is a fine monument of General Desaix well worthy attention. The general was buried in this spot by order of Napoleon, the monument itself being forwarded from the French capital.

After the service we were received at the