It is a misfortune that vice so often has the best of it in outward appearance.  Although a little disposed to question the particular instance of taste, in substance, I am of the opinion of that religionist who was for setting his hymns to popular airs, in order “that the devil might not monopolize all the good music,” and, under this impression, I think it a thousand pities that a little better keeping between appearances and substance did not exist on the Great St. Bernard.

The convent is said to have been established by a certain Bernard de Menthon, an Augustine of Aoste, in 962, who was afterwards canonized for his holiness.  In that remote age the institution must have been eminently useful, for posting and Macadamized roads across the Alps were not thought of.  It even does much good now, as nine-tenths who stop here are peasants that pay nothing for their entertainment.  At particular seasons, and on certain occasions, they cross in great numbers, my guide assuring me he had slept at the convent when there were eight hundred guests; a story, by the way, that one of the monks confirmed.  Some fair or festival, however, led to this extraordinary migration.  Formerly the convent was rich, and able to bear the charges of entertaining so many guests; but since the Revolution it has lost most of its property, and has but a small fixed income.  It is authorized, however, to make periodical quetes in the surrounding country, and obtains a good deal in that way.  All who can pay, moreover, leave behind them donations of greater or less amount, and by that means the charity is still maintained.

As many perish annually on the mountain, and none are interred, another dead-house stands quite near the convent for the reception of the bodies.  It is open to the air, and contained forty or fifty corpses in every stage of decay apart from putrescency, and was a most revolting spectacle.  When the flesh disappears entirely, the bones are cast into a small enclosure near by, in which skulls, thigh-bones, and ribs were lying in a sort of waltz-like confusion.

Soon after our return from the walk into Italy, a novice opened a little door in the outer wall of the convent, and the famous dogs of St. Bernard rushed forth like so many rampant tigers, and most famous fellows they certainly were.  Their play was like that of elephants, and one of them rushing past me, so near as to brush my clothes, gave me to understand that a blow from him might be serious.  There were five of them in all, long-legged, powerful mastiffs, with short hair, long bushy tails, and of a yellowish hue.  I have seen very similar animals in America.  They are trained to keep the paths, can carry cordials and nourishment around their necks, and frequently find bodies in the snow by the scent.  But their instinct and services have been greatly exaggerated, the latter principally consisting in showing the traveller the way, by following the paths themselves.  Were one belated in winter on this pass, I can readily conceive that a dog of this force that knew him, and was attached to him, would be invaluable.  Some pretend that the ancient stock is lost, and that their successors show the want of blood of all usurpers.