BY

I HAD a wish to cross the Alps on foot. If one has a genial companion, there is no other mode of travelling so pleasant. Light is the heart of the pilgrim as he jogs along the road. In a diligence one is locked up as close as if he were in a box. His body is bolstered on either side by lusty fellow-travellers, who jabber in strange dialects, and his legs are fixed fast as if in the stocks. But once a-foot, legs and arms are free. The spirits are exhilarated by the exercise and the country air to such a pitch as to break out into singing. The smell of new-mown hay, and the song of the reapers in the fields, beguile the pedestrian of his weariness, and if his steps grow heavy towards the close of the day, what repose so grateful as to throw himself down for an hour under a tree by the roadside?

This mode of travelling had especial charms to me in a mountainous country. I love the wildest forms of nature. I was born among mountains, and they are my delight. I love to roam the wild-wood as free as when a careless child. I love the rocks and pines; the cloud that blackens on the mountain's head, and the mist that foams in the gorge below. I love the torrent's roar, and the eagle's scream.

So my friend and I decided that we would walk over the Pass of the Simplon. The diligence, which came along at midnight, took on our baggage, and this morning we were fairly committed for the journey.

Up, then, pilgrims, and away! The morning sun shines fair. We rose as early and bright as the lark. It was the first morning of glorious summer when we set forth to ascend the mountains. It was one of those days in which nature seems conscious of life and happiness. Bird, leaf, flower, and sky, seemed pervaded with the serenity and joy of the Author of nature. It was a luxury to exist. To inhale the air, or to exercise the body with any motion, filled our whole being with delight.

And now we are among the Alps! The mountains are all around me-those cold, icy peaks, "the thunder-splintered pinnacles," of which I

have so often read. Here and there, slanting snow-fields lie on their summits, pierced by a few shaggy pines. The rugged scenery of these mountain passes is relieved by valleys of the softest green.

Thus we were travelling through a narrow and cultivated vale, while on either hand the mountains rose to the sky. Many human habitations are perched far up on the mountain sides, in sites the most picturesque, and among them church steeples are sprinkled as thick as in a New England village. This sight of human habitations so near to savage and barren peaks; of hoary rocks softened with verdure, gave a poetic charm to the landscape, while the bell of a convent which I heard ringing across the valley, had a pleasing and almost pathetic effect.

A torrent, which descended from the Alps, poured along the bottom of the vale. As it had been swollen by rains and the melting of snows, it had carried away a bridge across which our course lay. This brought us to a halt in our march. There was a ferry-boat on the other side. But it was slow in coming over. So I shouted to my companion to "go ahead." We pushed on together along the bank of the river, hoping to find a place where we could ford it. But it took us several miles out of our way. We had to ford several tributary streams. But we came out fresh and sound from our foot-baths, and jogged on. During this out-of-the-way excursion our path led us through the vineyards, which are cultivated to a great extent by the peasantry of this district. The vines were trained on a kind of lattice, and spread over our heads like net-work. This extended for acres together, and we walked under them as under the shade of an immense banyan tree.

The sun was now sinking behind the hills, and we soon saw a pretty rural scene; boys and girls playing on the greensward by the roadside, and cows and goats returning home. A long avenue of trees conducted us into the village of Domo d'Ossola, our resting-place for the night.

"The sleep of the laboring man is sweet."

We laid ourselves down without a care, and set forward on our journey at an early hour in the morning. After a few miles' walk we lost our way, getting off upon the road which leads to the pass of St. Gothard. We had travelled two or three miles before we discovered our mistake. Fortunately I had stopped to bathe in a stream by the roadside, or the distance would have been greater. A kind peasant showed us back to the Simplon. I was struck with his politeness. He insisted on carrying my great-coat. We stopped at a country inn to refresh ourselves. I bought a pitcher of the simple wine of the country, and offered him a glass. He hesitated at first to take it, as if it were an extreme of condescension on my part. But the next moment he drank it, and then bought a pitcher himself, and returned the courtesy by offering a glass to me.

At length he showed us into the right road, and we pushed on fast. Deeper and deeper we advanced into the gorges of the mountains. Now look back! From the brow of the Alps, the warm fields and vineyards of Italy look more than ever like a terrestrial paradise. The vast plain of Lombardy stretches away beneath us like a sea, reaching from the Alps to the Apennines, and from Piedmont to Venice.

I cannot sufficiently admire this magnificent highway of nations, which is here constructed across the Alps. The Simplon was the result of Napoleon's passage of the Great St. Bernard. Finding the immense difficulty of crossing these mountains with an army, he projected, immediately after the battle of Marengo, the construction of a great road, by which he could at all times pour his armies from France into Italy. His motive was French conquest rather than general utility. When the engineer came from time to time to report progress, his question always was, "When will the Simplon be ready to pass over the cannon?" But whatever the motive, the work is certainly one of the most stupendous ever undertaken by man.

Those who have crossed the Alleghanies on the National Road, can form a slight idea of the way in which this work is executed, though none at all of the gorges and precipices along which it is carried. What heights it scales; what chasms it spans; through what galleries of rock it pierces-these must be seen to be appreciated. For miles, the road is supported by heavy masonry, built against the side of the mountain. The road is smooth as a floor. Along these awful passes, which once could only be traversed on foot or on mules, the lady's carriage now rolls as lightly as on a wooden pavement.

Yet this mighty work did not cost so much as

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the Croton Aqueduct. The expense was but about sixty millions of francs; and half of this was borne by the Italians, and Italian engineers executed the most difficult part of the work. But the genius that projected such an undertaking, and the will that carried it through in five years, (it was begun in 1801 and completed in 1805,) are no less worthy of immortal honor. When Napoleon reviewed his life at St. Helena, he said there were two things for which posterity would be grateful to him: his road over the Simplon, and his code of laws. These are perhaps the most durable and beneficial results of his power.

In the afternoon it came on to rain, and rained steadily for two days. Happily we found a snug inn, the Hotel of the Post, at Iselle, in the narrowest part of the pass, and here made ourselves contented from Friday night till Monday morning. Our good landlady, whose dress and manner looked like those of a Sister of Charity, did everything to make us comfortable. She kindled us a fire in her best room, and brought us books, and then prepared us a cup of tea, the more delicious as we had been confined to coffee everywhere in Italy. Plenty of sweet milk too, and honey! Switzerland flows with these latter luxuries as much as ancient Palestine. With all these comforts I sit before the fire, book in hand, and listen with a feeling of pleasure to the moaning of the wind without, and the pattering of the rain.

A Sabbath among the Alps! The wildness of my situation has thrown me into a deep reverie. The spirit of the mountains seizes me. The window of my room looks out on a foaming, rapid river; and up to a cliff, which towers half a mile above my head. On the very edge of the cliff, where scarcely anything but pine-trees can live, stands a little church; probably the resort of shepherds who tend their flocks on those upland pastures. Beautiful is the sight of such an object there; often whelmed in mist, its white spire peering out from the clouds when the storm drifts away, and shining down like a star of hope on the traveller in the valley beneath.

I stood a long time on the steps of the inn, at evening, looking up at the mountains. I feel almost as though I could worship them. They are to me images of God, so calm and strong. Their silent, unchanged peaks represent to me the eternity of God; while the generations of men are like the streams which waste away around their base. Mountains are indeed the altars of the world, on which the setting sun now and then kindles the evening sacrifice of nature. No wonder they are the refuges of liberty and religion; for they attract to themselves free, indomitable and lofty spirits, and-loved and lived

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among--they minister almost as much to the moral elevation of man as to his intellectual excitement and activity.

Monday, we were again on the march. Up, up we go through the mighty gallery of Gondo, a long passage hewn in the rock through the most terrific gorge of these mountains. Houses of refuge have been erected, at frequent points along the road, for the safety of travellers who may be caught in one of the fearful snow-storms of this region. We hurried on to the summit, past glaciers and mountain torrents. At last the welcome Hospice rose in sight-a large plain building of stone-standing in a desert of rock and snow, with not a tree to protect it from the bleak winds that sweep over the mountains.

The good monks received us with cordial hospitality. Father Barras, the prior of the convent, brought us slippers and dry stockings, and we sat down before the fire, and read the papers of Paris, which were lying on the table. At evening two Frenchmen came in, whom my companion had met at Venice. They ran up to him and kissed him, according to the warm manner of these southern nations. This accidental meeting on the summit of the Alps, increased the vivacity that reigned around the table. These Frenchmen had left Paris to help the Italians in their war for independence, and we conversed with great eagerness of

-"the battles, sieges,

And moving accidents by flood and field,"

that were now transpiring so near us.

But, hark! how the wind blows! Look out of the window. What a winter night! All around the convent is dreariness and desolation. The mountain is half covered with snow, though it is the month of June; and the wind howls around the buiding as in mid-winter. What must it be here in February! Sometimes storms come on among these mountains which last for days. What would then become of the lost traveller but for the hermit and his dog!

How I love to recall the kindness of these good men! I talked with them freely about their religious order; and they cheerfully gave me information. This Hospice was founded by Napoleon, who had experienced the utility of that on the Great St. Bernard. The building was not, however, completed by Napoleon, nor, indeed, until within a few years. Several of the fathers of St. Bernard came here immediately on the opening of the Simplon road, and the two convents are still connected. The monks who are now at the Hospice of the Simplon, resided for some years at the Great St. Bernard. They all be

long to the order of Augustinians. In addition to the usual vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, their religious obligations require them to pass their lives on these bleak, cold summits, in an atmosphere so rarefied as to destroy any but the most robust constitution. What motive attracts them to this life? Those who would believe it a selfish one are welcome to their charitable judgment of their fellow-men. But I find it more pleasant to believe that such devotion, such deliberate self-sacrifice, comes from a motive higher than this world.

The monks said not a word to us about our difference of religious faith. But I introduced the subject, for I wished to draw them out. They then gave me their belief frankly; and we had a little earnest, but pleasant discussion in regard to the doctrines of our different churches. We parted, I believe, with mutual regret. Father Barras and another brother accompanied us as far as the great cross, which marks the highest point of elevation; the noble dogs of the convent bounding and playing by our side, and then we parted, with many cordial good wishes and hopes to meet again.

That afternoon the sky was clear. For the first time in four days the sun shone out bright and warm. We came down with joy from the region of eternal snows into the smiling valley of the Rhone. In several places heavy arches of stone are built above the road to turn the avalanches, which slide down from the mountain, over into the abysses below. In one instance a considerable cataract poured over our heads. But farewell to these savage scenes; for I see white spires and villages in the green valley beneath, and we are soon at Brigg, in the Canton of Valois. Here ended my walk over the Alps. We took the diligence the same evening, and rode all night along the banks of the Rhone. The morning brought us into the village of Martigny, from which Napoleon, with his army, commenced the ascent of the Great St. Bernard. Soon after we entered Savoy, and coasting along the beautiful shore of Lake Leman, reached Geneva at six o'clock in the afternoon.

Now I am at rest. What scenes of repose and beauty alternate with the rugged grandeurs of

the mountains of Switzerland! One week before I was on the shore of Lake Maggiore, and now I am on the margin of Lake Leman. The Hotel de l'Ecu is close to the water's edge; and I can drop a pebble from my window into the lake. Opposite my room, a hundred yards distant, is the little island of Poplars, on which is a monument and statue to Rousseau, who was a native of Geneva.

"I FEEL that I am going away to the beautiful gardens of Gul," said old Ben Hadji to his only son Jousef. I must leave my olive-trees, that wave with their graceful stems, and light green leaves, and bright yellow flowers, on the hills of Beyrout. I shall no longer smoke my chaboque in my kiosk on the summer evenings; and the leaves and blossoms of the tamarind shall no more tremble over my head when the west wind shakes them. I only wait for Azriel, Jousef, to take me hence."

"Good is the will of Allah," said the young man, at the same time bending low, and kissing the pale forehead of his father, with a filial grateful ardor, that seemed to soften the earnestness of his pious ejaculation. 'Good is the will of Allah, and in conformity with that will has been the life of Ben Hadji. Thou shalt smoke thy chaboque in the gardens of paradise; and the roses of Gul, and the song of the bulbul, and waters purer than those of Amberabad, and a bower of vines, and olives, and tamarinds, and dates, and doum-trees, lovelier far than ever grew in Beyrout shall be thine," continued Jousef, as he bent over his aged parent, and pressed him to his bosom.

"Yes, good is the will of Allah," said the old man, clasping the hand of his son, and looking in his face with the fond yearning gaze of paternal love. "It is good, Jousef; and I am ready to obey it. But I am troubled, nevertheless, my son; I am troubled on thy account, my Jousef."

"As the paradise grass bends to the breeze of morning, or the bright flower iris follows the beams of the sun, so shall I bend to thy will, father," said Jousef, meekly, "so that thou needest not be troubled on my account."

my

"Thou hast ever been good, my son," said the aged Hadji; thou hast ever been to me as grateful as dew to a thirsty fig-tree; and as obedient as the echoes of evening to the voice of the Imaum Aben, who calls to the faithful from the tallest minaret of the mosque of Muley Eldin. Still, my son, thou must listen to me now, and keep my counsel after I am gone."

"I will, my father," said Jousef, touching his forehead with the hem of his father's robe, and grasping his beard in his right hand, as he turned his eyes towards Mecca.

"You know," said Hadji, in a low voice, for his strength was waning away—“ you know that you shall have my bazaar, well-stored with neck. laces of coral, silver-mounted housings for horses, amber-tipped chaboques, and cloths of Stamboul you shall have my kiosk with all its beauties, my garden with all its glories, and my house with all its appurtenances."

"The will of Allah is good," again replied Jousef; " and my father has been prudent."

"And it is to teach thee prudence that I leave thee more than all my worldly substance, and that is my dying injunction," said Hadji, faintly, for Azriel was now flapping his dark wings in his eyes, and whispering his name in his ear.

"I shall obey thy command as if it were a voice from Al Koran," continued the dutiful and amiable Jousef.

"Then, thou shalt not marry a wife who is not possessed of perfect beauty," said Hadji, rising up with the effort to give force to his conjuration, and falling back immediately after, in the arms of Jousef, while Azriel sped away through the bright blue chambers of the morning with his spirit.

It is an adage in the East, that the most unac ceptable thing that one man can give another is his advice; and dervishes have been heard to declare that the maxim holds in the West also. Perhaps the sort of advice at most discount is that called parental advice, because many wise young men among the Franks and the Faithful seem to have an idea that their parents are not their best friends. They would circumscribe the erratic orbit of their pleasures, and reduce too much to the dominion of abstinence the ardor of youthful tastes; so that they listen to their sires and mothers reluctantly, and make it a point never to obey them.

Jousef Ben Hadji was a dutiful son, however. He had always listened to old Hadji as if he had been listening to a mollah; and had obeyed him as strictly as the mountain had obeyed Mahomet, or as Mahomet had obeyed the mountain; nevertheless, it must be confessed, that of all possessions which his father had left him, that which he would have most willingly parted with to any body was his advice.

"A wife of perfect beauty!" said Jousef, after