ably fine men. One especially, with whom I conversed a good deal, is a thorough gentleman and a most accomplished scholar, yet the while "wearing his weight of learning lightly." They are obligingly communicative as to everything in connection with the hospice. They number generally twelve or fourteen, entering on their life of self-sacrifice at the age of eighteen and very often being cut off before the completion of their fifteen years' vow. Very few of them reach an advanced age. In In addition to these, who are of the Augustine order, there are about a dozen others of an inferior rank. Their duty is to perform the part of general servants, to keep the building in order, cook, wait and so on. There are others, generally about twenty-five monks of both classes, resident at the hospice and performing their various duties with unflinching self-devotion. Is theirs not a noble life in the true sense of the words, a life devoted not to their own pleasure but to the service of others, a life of hardship and suffering endured to be the means of doing good? summer it is not so severe, but, in their long winter of almost nine months, what suffering must they not undergo, what privations are they not exposed to? The very wood for their fires has to be brought from a distance of twenty-four miles; all their food, with the exception of the scanty supply derived from the mountains, has to be carried twenty miles; at the very age when men are enjoying life they are deprived of all worldly pleasures, shutting themselves out in a great measure from all the social privileges of human beings and, in the end, bringing themselves to an early grave through their truehearted disinterestedness. On considering all these things, there occurs to one the question: "Where is to be found the principle supporting these men in their almost superhuman labour of love? what is the force by which their benevolence is called into play?" And, on considering well the question, the only answer that comes is: "In religion is found this supporting principle, this motive. power." These monks must not only be endued with a sublime love of their fellow men, raising them above the consideration of their own personal enjoyment, but they must be supported by a living faith, giving them strength to endure all the hardships to which they are exposed, and a sure hope of something beyond this world, helping them on in their toilsome journey. They must be buoyed up by the divine supports of religion, for mere human nature unassisted would sink beneath the load. Apart from religion, however, there are no doubt minds to which the life of the recluse is one of extreme pleasure. To a man disappointed in the world or disgusted with its shams, there is complete retirement from everything worldly. Το the philosopher there are ample opportunities afforded for that search after truth, which, in this world at any rate, never reaches the goal at which it aims. But, even if from these or other similar motives a man is led to retirement in the cloisters, it is most improbable that they alone would induce him to choose the Saint Bernard as his asylum. To endure the hardships that have to be borne there he must have other objects in view than mere retirement, must be imbued with nobler aspirations than the desire of opportunity for study. A philanthropy, exciting him to a life of self-sacrifice for the benefit of his fellows, and a religion, helping him to carry out his philanthropy and supporting him in all the trials to which he is thus exposed, seem to me the only motives that would induce any man to take upon himself the vows of a monk of Saint Bernard. And if this be the case, as I believe it is, may we not learn something beyond the virtues of charity, faith and self-denial from those men, who do take upon themselves these vows, and who, professing the Roman Catholic religion, acknowledge it as their supporting principle? May we not learn to be more tolerant of that religion, more liberal in our views of it, when we see such noble examples of Christian excellence nourished and supported by it? There is still another class of philanthropists, in connection with the hospice, whose services are worthy of commemoration. I mean the dogs. Who has not heard of them, the faithful companions and sturdy assistants of the monks, rescuing lost travellers and guiding them in safety to the friendly asylum? The accounts of their exploits prove them to be heroes of no mean order. They are extremely powerful animals, large, broad-chested and sagacious-looking. They came originally from Spain. They have the sense of smell very highly developed and on this account are very useful in the search for the lost voyager. There is, however, another way in which they prove of great service. When people cross the pass in winter, the snow is often so very deep that, unassisted, it would be impossible to follow the track. The dog acts the guide. The people wait at a considerable distance from the summit, in a house fitted up as a waiting-room, and, at stated times during the day, the dog, accompanied by a servant, descends, guides them past the hospice and down on the other side of the deep pass. The snow often lies thirty feet deep, so that it is a work of no small difficulty, and one requiring no little sagacity, to find a path through it. It is a popular belief that these dogs roam about the mountains, carrying round their necks restoratives for the lost traveller. But this is not the case. They merely accompany and guide the monks or the travellers. They are indeed sometimes used to carry restoratives across a deep track of snow too soft to support a man's weight, and this may have given rise to the belief. There is still another object of interest yet to consider, and it is perhaps the most touching of all. There are, of necessity, occasions on which all the efforts of the monks. prove of no avail,—on which the traveller, overcome by the fatigue and the cold, expires, perhaps, before help can reach him. But when they find him, they do not leave him sleeping in the snow, for there is in connection with the hospice a house for the dead as well as for the living. To this the body is borne. No coffin covers it, no grave is dug to receive it: all that remains of the man is placed in that saddest of all houses, the house of the dead. The morgue is a touching reminder that, whatever a man may do to aid his fellows, there are occasions on which his help proves of no avail. The bodies are left unburied, in order that friends may have an opportunity of identifying their lost ones. On account of the rarity of the air they do not become putrid, but wither up, retaining their form for years. The morgue is truly a touching sight. An eye-witness thus describes its interior. "The bodies were set against the wall, some bolt upright, others painfully crouched up, as if they had tried to cherish the last spark of warmth before they died. It was a ghastly assemblage. In one corner stood a woman, still fondly but vainly wrapping in the rags she wore a tiny infant frozen to death in its mother's stone-cold arms. She was found one summer when the snow shrank and there they set her, with her withered face bent over her babe, but no one ever knew her place or name." Such is the fate of some; no friends attend their funeral, the corpse is consigned to its last resting place by the hands of strangers and there it lies "alike unknowing and unknown." These are the chief points of interest connected with the hospice of the Great St. Bernard and the main objects of attraction presented to a visitor. A day spent there is productive of no little pleasure and replete with much instruction. J. A. CROQUET. AH! well can I recal the hour we met, Her tender-gleaming tresses gently blew And ah, the glamour of those gentle eyes, And the soft sheen of that great golden glory, Around her lily neck, as when the wind The breezes wrangled round her for a kiss, |