exclaimed-'We are lost!' Upon our talking of walking, he strongly dissuaded it, and I believe with good reason; for it is impossible, without experience, to conceive the change in the whole aspect of the country, especially after daylight-the cold in the meantime intense, and the snow so deep, that we could not have advanced two miles on foot from mere fatigue. This, I believe, is the immediate cause of fatal accidents in snow. Persons are soon exhausted who attempt to walk: they lie down, and never rise again. Under all these circumstances we at length reached Benson, about 6 p. m., chiefly in consequence of having fetched up our way by a gallop till we got in sight of the leading coach, and that over ground which might or might not be passable for a coach-no one knew.

We came on next morning to Oxford-a procession of six coaches-having traversed the fields again about four miles, and passed a flock of wild geese feeding, which took no notice of us, so severe was the weather. So ends my winter campaign, and I feel happy in the consciousness that nothing need draw me from home till the weather is more favourable. I am much afraid the extreme severity of this winter has affected the comforts of the poor, and shortened the lives of many. The cheapness of bread is an alleviation; but the want of fuel is almost irremediable.

Yours, &c.

P. S.-If you have observed the thermometer I should like to know the lowest degree, with the date specified. It was at 10o in Oxford on the 14th. The barometer is at this moment within a trifle of 28 inches, the lowest state of depression ever known in England.

It will be for the amusement of my readers if I here hazard an historical displacement, and insert what I have since discovered-the identical note which led to the visit above described. The con

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clusion of it is happily prophetic of the circumstances under which Mr. Copleston left Dropmore.

My dear Sir,

Dropmore, Dec. 3, 1814.

We earnestly hope you will do us the pleasure of returning this year to your Christmas quarters here. The longer we can detain you without the aid of a deep snow, the happier you will make us; and when you talk of going, I must then hope for the aid of Jupiter niveus. Ever most truly yours,

GRENVILLE.

As most persons of education and leisure visit the Continent at some period of their lives, I should scarcely pause to mention the fact that Mr. Copleston did so this year, were it not with the design of introducing some specimens of his letters written while abroad. I do so with the full consciousness that, as mere sources of information, these letters must be entirely superseded by the notices of more recent tourists; but all will agree that it is interesting to mark what impressions have been made upon a superior mind by objects with which we ourselves may be perfectly familiar. There is, moreover, a charm in the very ease of a familiar letter, written under such circumstances; while a graceful touch, or a vigorous thought, thrown in here and there pleases us the more, because we see it to be unstudied, and because it seems to indicate a latent reserve of unexerted power.*

Mr. Copleston spent some days in Paris, and then, being joined by Mr. Ward, of New College, proceeded to Switzerland and Northern Italy.

At Martigny we found our carriage and luggage all waiting for us; but another project detained us two days. It was only a day's journey to the top of the Great St. Bernard, one of the chief passes of the Alps, and famous for its convent on the highest point of the road, where all passengers are entertained and lodged according to their quality, without regard to country, sex, or religion. An institution so singular, so celebrated, so strangely situated, presented too strong an attraction to be resisted. We therefore hired mules, and set out on a pilgrimage, not intending to pass into Italy that way, but to stay one night, and return the next day to Martigny. The whole of this expedition struck me as the most romantic occurrence of my life, the most unlike reality, and the most like a dream of any thing I ever remember. The weather was delightful, as, indeed, it has been ever since. Our road lay up the side of the Drance, a roaring mountain stream, which descends from the Alps, and, by the junction of several other streams, becomes a large river before it joins the Rhone at Martigny. It was almost a continual ascent of eight hours, besides halting time. The first part rocky and woody, but the last two hours up a bare mountain, with hardly any herbage, nothing like a bush, and in general only rock and snow, with a thundering torrent never far off. In many places the track was like a winding staircase. It is astonishing with what steadiness the mules climb up the steepest parts, stopping only now and then, of their own accord, to take breath. We did not, however, continue mounted. The climate grew sensibly colder and colder, so that the exercise of walking was agreeable. About sunset we arrived, and were first taken to the kitchen fire to warm

ourselves; after that we were ushered into the refectory, where two or three of the monks received us with great cordiality and politeness. They offered us refreshment immediately; but, as it was near supper time, we declined it. At seven the prior came in, with a few more, about nine in all, and although it was meagre day, we had an excellent supper of various dishes, with very good fruit and wine. Three Piedmontese gentlemen were also there, and in the course of conversation I found they were of the family of the founder, and on that account were treated with great respect. They were crossing the Alps into Switzerland. This entertainment was just what you would wish to see at a religious house; nothing like jollity, but mild, cheerful, unconstrained conversation, chiefly on politics. They, as well as the Piedmontese, spoke most handsomely of the English, and since that, I find the impression in Italy to be strongly and universally in our favour. It is not so in Switzerland. Soon after eight we rose from table, and, as it seemed expected, we retired to our bedrooms. It was dismally cold, a very hard frost, against which double windows were an inadequate protection. You know, perhaps, that it is the highest inhabited spot in the old world. Early in the morning we went out to view the site of the Temple of Jupiter, which stood near the site of the convent, and was perhaps a similar institution.'

'After breakfasting with the brothers, and dropping our alms into the trunk at the church, we set out on our return, walking, or rather running, for it was extremely cold. A full hour before we caught sight of a bush or a tree. The convent is not rich-far from it, but it is supported by donations from all the States near, who have a common interest in maintaining so admirable a charity. Buonaparte was a great and constant patron. Before the battle of Marengo, he marched 80,000 men by this way into Italy. The prior told me they lodged 2000 soldiers every night for

fifteen nights successively, filling the church and every part of the building. They observed the most exact discipline. The most wonderful circumstance is the passing of artillery over the mountains, which was certainly effected, and may have been one of the causes which led that infatuated man to think that all the powers of nature must yield to him.'

I give an extract from a letter addressed to the Rev. J. E. Tyler, and dated L'Hospice de St. Bernard, for the sake of its lively description of the prior and his brethren :

'Our wishes have been gratified to the utmost; the day has been almost without a cloud. We arrived in good time for the evening reception. There were three other strangers besides ourselves who supped with the pères. It has been as pleasant an evening as I ever passed. The prior, who entered most into conversation, is just what a monk ought to be, that is, just the opposite of what they are represented to be in all books-mild, well-bred, well acquainted with what is going on in the world, and, though very temperate himself, pressing his hospitality as far as decorum will allow. The younger monks give the most cheerful and kind attendance. When one considers in what a savage solitude all this scene is passing, I can hardly fancy it real. But the cold, which is bitter, now that I am retired to my bedroom forcibly reminds me of my actual existence in a spot, of which I have often read, but which, till lately, I never dreamt of seeing.'

Thence (i. e. from the Boromean islands) we proceeded to Lac. Como, the ancient Lacus Larius. Immediately on our arrival, we took a boat and visited a place called Pliniana. It is the remarkable fountain described by Pliny, Ep. iv. 30, which I wish you would read. It answers the description even to the present day. The spot belongs to an Italian nobleman, and has very appropriate inscriptions;