monarch. This summit, over which the path winds, consists of a
small level plain, surrounded by mountains of snow of still higher
elevation.

The scene here presented is inexpressibly gloomy and appailing.
Nature in these wild regions assumes her most severe and sombre
aspect. As one emerges from the precipitous and craggy ascent,
upon this Valley of Desolation, as it is emphatically called, the
Convent of St. Bernard presents itself to the view. This cheerless
abode, the highest spot of inhabited ground in Europe, has been
tenanted, for more than a thousand years, by a succession of joyless
and self-denying monks, who, in that frigid retreat of granite and
ice, endeavor to serve their Maker, by rescuing bewildered travelers
from the destruction with which they are ever threatened to be
overwhelmed by the storms, which battle against them. In the middle
of this ice-bound valley, lies a lake, clear, dark, and cold, whose
depths, even in mid-summer, reflect the eternal glaciers which soar
sublimely around. The descent to the plains of Italy is even more
precipitous and dangerous than the ascent from the green pastures
of France. No vegetation adorns these dismal and storm-swept cliffs
of granite and of ice. Even the pinion of the eagle fails in its
rarified air, and the chamois ventures not to climb its steep and
slippery crags. No human beings are ever to be seen on these bleak
summits, except the few shivering travelers, who tarry for an hour
to receive the hospitality of the convent, and the hooded monks,
wrapped in thick and coarse garments, which their staves and their
dogs, groping through the storms of sleet and snow. Even the wood
which burns with frugal faintness on the hearths, is borne, in
painful burdens, up the mountain sides, upon the shoulders of the
monks.