Samuel Irenus Prime

The Char-a-banc—the Napoleon Pass—Travellers in winter—Monks—Dogs—Dinner—Music—Dead-house—Contributions—a Monk’s Kiss.

The weather was threatening when we set off from Martigny, and we had many forebodings that the dogs of Saint Bernard might have to look us up, if the storm should come before we reached the hospice. A char-a-banc, a narrow carriage in which we sat three in a line with the tandem horses, was to convey us to the village of Liddes. On leaving the valley and crossing the river Drance, we soon commenced the ascent, by the side of the raving torrent, with majestic heights on either hand. A terrible tale of devastation and misery, of sublime fortitude and heroic courage, is told of the valley of Bagnes, where the ice had made a mighty barrier against the descending waters, which accumulated so rapidly that a lake seven thousand feet wide was formed, and a tunnel was cut through the frozen dam with incredible toil, when it burst through and swept madly over the country below, bearing destruction upon its bosom. In two hours some four hundred houses were destroyed with thirty-four lives and half a million dollars’ worth of property. We were four hours and a half getting up to Liddes, where we had a wretched dinner, and then mounted horses to ride to the summit of the pass.

The rain, which had been falling at intervals all the morning, was changed into snow as we got into colder regions. The path became rougher and more difficult, and it was hard to believe that even the indomitable spirit of Napoleon could have carried an army with all the munitions of war, over such a route as this. Yet the passage now is smooth and easy compared with what it was when in 1800 he crossed the Alps.

Leaving the miserable village of Saint Pierre, through which a Roman Catholic procession was passing, we had an opportunity of refusing to take off our hats, though some of the peasants insisted on our so doing. We came up to heights where no trees and few shrubs were growing: flowers would sometimes put their sweet faces up through the snow and smile on us as we passed, and I stopped to gather them as emblems of beauty and happiness in the midst of desolation and death.

THE HOSPICE OF ST. BERNARD.

The most of the travellers on their upward way, were mounted on mules, but a few were on foot, and among these was one of the monks of the Hospice, who with a couple of blooming Swiss damsels, was returning to his quarters from a visit below. We passed one or two cottages, and a house of stone which has been built away up here for the reception of benighted travellers, and after a toilsome journey of four hours, just at sunset we came upon the Hospice, a large three-story stone house, on the height of the mountain more than eight thousand feet above the sea, the highest inhabited spot in Europe. To shelter those who are compelled to cross this formidable pass in winter, when the paths are far down underneath the snow, and travellers are in danger of being overtaken by storms, or overcome with fatigue and sinking in the depths of the drifts, this hospice has been founded and sustained. In the summer season, as now, it is merely a large hotel, where pleasure parties are drawn by curiosity to visit the monks and their establishment, famed the world over for its hospitality and self-denying charity. The snow was falling fast as we ascended the rugged pass, and at least six inches of it lay on the ground at the top. I was glad to have reached it, in the midst of such a storm. It gave me a vivid picture of the hospice when its walls and cheerful fires and kind sympathies are needed for worn and exhausted pilgrims. Such were some who arrived here this evening. Father Maillard, a young monk, received us at the door, and after pleasing salutations conducted us to our chambers, plainly furnished apartments with no carpets on the floor, but with good beds. The house was very cold. As the season is not yet far advanced, perhaps their winter fires were not kindled, and as no fuel is to be had except what is brought up from below on the backs of horses, it is well for the monks to be chary of its use. Our host led us to the chamber in which Napoleon slept when he was here, and my young German friend occupied the same bed in which the Emperor lay. He did not tell me in the morning that his dreams were any better than mine, though I had but a humble pilgrim’s.

After we had taken possession of our quarters, we were at liberty to survey the establishment. We began at the kitchen, where a small army of servants were preparing dinner, over immense cooking stoves. The house is fitted up to lodge seventy guests, but oftentimes a hundred and even five hundred have been known to be here at one time. To get dinner for such a host, in a house so many miles above the rest of the world, is no small affair. We came up to the Cabinet, enriched with a thousand curious objects of nature and art, many of them presented by travellers grateful for kindness they had received, and some of them relics of the old Romans who once had a temple to Jupiter on this spot. The reception room, which was also a sitting and dining room, was now rapidly filling up with travellers, arriving at nightfall. One English lady, overcome with the exertion of climbing the hill on horseback, sank upon the floor and fainted as soon as she was brought in. A gentleman who had but little more nerve in him, was also exhausted. The kind-hearted priests hastened to bring restoratives, and speedily carried off the invalids to their beds—the best place for them. It was quite late, certainly seven in the evening before dinner was served, and with edged appetites, such as only mountain climbing in snow time can set, we were ready at the call. The monks wait upon their guests, girded with a napkin, taking the place of servants, and thus showing, or making a show of humility. It was not pleasant to my feelings to have a St. Augustine monk, in the habit of his order, a black cloth frock reaching to his feet, and buttoned, with a white band around his neck, and passing down in front and behind to his girdle, now standing behind me while I was eating, offering to change my plate, and serving me with an alacrity worth imitating by those whose business it is to wait on table. And when I said, “thank you, father,” in Italian, it was no more than the tribute of respect due to a gentleman of education and taste, whose religion had condemned him to such a life as this. Father Maillard presided at the table, and was very conversable with the guests; cheerfully imparting such information as we desired. Of the eight or ten monks here, not one of then speaks the English language; but the French, Italian and German are all in use among them. I inquired of Father Maillard if those terrible disasters of which we formerly read so much, travellers perishing in the snow, are of frequent occurrence in late years. He told me that rarely, I think he said never, does a winter pass, without some accident of the sort. Hundreds of the peasantry, engaged in trade, or for the sake of visiting friends, will make the pass, and though the paths are marked by high poles set up in Summer, these are sometimes completely buried under mountains of snow, and the poor traveller loses his way and sinks as he would in the sea. He also told me that after his brethren reside in this cold climate for a few years, they find their health giving way and they are obliged to retire to some other field of labor, and usually with broken constitutions. Yet there are always some who are willing, at this hazard, to devote the best years of their life to the noble work of saving the lives of others. Honor to the men, whether their faith be ours or not.

Our dinner, this being our only dinner where monks were our hosts and servants, is worth being reported. We had no printed bill of fare; but my young friends helped me to make one out the next day as follows: 1. Vermicelli soup. 2. Beef a la mode. 3. Potatoes. 4. Roast Lamb. 5. Roast Veal stuffed. 6. Dessert of nuts, figs, cheese, &c. This with plenty of wine, for which the cellars of St. Bernard are famous, was dinner and supper enough for any, certainly we were prepared to do it justice, as to a table spread in the wilderness.

After dinner, the party now numbering fifty or more, assembled from the two or three refectories, in the drawing-room, and the many languages spoken gave us a small idea of Babel. One of the priests took his seat at a poor piano, sadly out of tune; and commenced playing some lively airs. The two Swiss maidens who had come up with him to visit the hospice, stood one on each side of him, at the piano, and sang with great glee to his music, and at the close of every song, the party applauded with hearty clapping of hands, that would have pleased Mario and Grisi. I asked Father Maillard, who stood by me all the evening, and with whom I formed a very pleasant acquaintance, if they had such gay times every night. He said that during the summer travel they had many pleasant people who enjoyed themselves much during their brief visit. We certainly did. And at an hour later than usual we retired to our chambers. It was so cold that I had to take my Glasgow blanket and wrap myself well up in it before turning in, but I slept soundly, and was awakened by the Convent bell, before daylight, calling the monks to morning prayers. I rose, and hastily dressing, hurried to the chapel. The priests, the servants, and thirty or forty muleteers who had come with the travellers were on their knees on the stone floor of a pretty little chapel, devoutly worshipping. None of the travellers were here: but those who entertained and served them, had left their beds before dawn to pray.

Breakfast was not prepared for all at once, but each person as he was ready called for his coffee and rolls, and they were immediately brought.

The celebrated dogs of St. Bernard were playing in the snow as I stepped out after breakfast: a noble set of fellows they were, and invested with a sort of romantic nobility, when we thought of them ploughing their way through drifts, leading on the search for lost travellers, and carrying on their necks a basket of bread and wine which may be as life to the dead.

The dead! Come and see them. Close by the hospice is a square stone house, into which are carried the lifeless bodies of those who perish in the snow, and are found by the dogs, or on the melting of the snow in the summer. They cannot dig graves on these rocky heights, and it is always so cold that the bodies do not rot, but they are placed in this charnel-house just as they are found, and are left to dry up and gradually to turn to dust. I counted thirty skulls lying on the ground in the midst of ribs, arms and legs; and twenty skeletons were standing around the sides of the room, a ghastly sight. In one corner a dead mother held the bones of her dead child in her arms: as she perished so she stood, to be recognized if it might be, by anxious friends, but none had ever come to claim her. What a tale of tender and tragic interest, we read in these bones. Sad, and sickening the sight is, and I am willing to get away.

Father Maillard walked with me into the chapel, showed me the paintings, and the monument of Gen. Dessaix, and when I asked him for the box into which alms are put, he pointed to it, and hastened away that he might not see what I put in. They make no charge for entertaining travellers, but every honest man will give at least as much in the way of a donation as he would pay at a hotel.

My friend, as I now call him, Father Maillard, embraced me tenderly, and even kissed me, when I bade him farewell, and mounting my horse, set off at eight in the morning, with a bright sunshine, to descend the mountain.