rocks, and
thinking travelers might be near, I called aloud for the third time.
After wailing a moment, a voice came ringing on my ears through the
clouds, like one from Heaven in response to my own. My heart beat
quickly; I hurried in the direction from which the sound came, and to my
joy found two men--servants of the monastery--who were driving their
mules into shelter. Never in my whole life was I more glad to hear the
voice of man. These men conducted me to the monastery, one-fourth of a
mile higher, built by the side of a lake at the summit of the pass,
while on each side, the mountains, forever covered with snow, tower some
thousands of feet higher.

"Two or three of the noble St. Bernard dogs barked a welcome as we
approached, which brought a young monk to the door. I addressed him in
German, but to my surprise he answered in broken English. He took me
into a warm room and gave me a suit of clothes, such as are worn by the
monks, for my dress, as well as my package of papers, were completely
saturated with rain. I sat down to supper in company with till the monks
of the Hospice, I in my monkish robe looking like one of the holy order.
You would have laughed to have seen me in their costume. Indeed, I felt
almost satisfied to turn monk, as everything seemed so comfortable in
the warm supper room, with its blazing wood fire, while outside raged
the storm still more violently. But when I thought of their voluntary
banishment from the world, up in that high pass of the Alps, and that
the affection of woman never gladdened their hearts, I was ready to
renounce my monkish dress next morning, without reluctance.

"In the address book of the monastery, I found Longfellow's 'Excelsior'
written on a piece of paper and signed 'America.' You remember the
stanza:

At break of clay, as heavenward,
The pious monks of St. Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air:
Excelsior!

It seemed to add a tenfold interest to the poem, to read it on old St.
Bernard. In the morning I visited the house where are kept the bodies of
the travelers, who perish in crossing the mountain. It is filled with
corpses, ranged in rows, and looking like mummies, for the cold is so
intense that they will keep for years without decaying, and are often
recognized and removed by their friends.

"Of my descent to Martigny, my walk down the Rhone, and along the s