A NIGHT AT LE HOSPICE

It was a delicious day in the beginning of July, when after a laborious climb I gained the highest ridge of the pass of the Great St. Bernard, and stood beside the celebrated Hospice. The outside of this building is remarkable for little except its ponderous strength; and frequent descriptions of it have made it familiar to every reader. As I ascended the high steps which afford access to the elevated door, I was received and welcomed by one of the good monks, with whom I had become acquainted on a previous expedition, and who will be remembered with gratitude, affection, and respect, by every one who has had an opportunity of intercourse with him, however short, or who has afforded an opportunity to him of exercising his overflowing benevolence.

Two of the dogs, the oldest, were as usual beside him. They appear to consider it incumbent upon them to do the honours of the house to every traveller, and express their welcome with look and gesture in the true spirit of hospitality. The dogs of St. Bernard are perhaps the most efficient humane society in the world. I patted the enormous head of the largest, and he lifted up his dark eye, with a singular expression—marvellous sad, I thought; it was not exactly philosophical, it was not a reasoning light, but a kind of calm melancholy—as if the animal was in the habit of feeling deeply.