The monastery is freely opened to strangers. Through long halls on each side of which are guest-chambers where their many visitors are lodged, we were led to a gallery, adorned with several splendid paintings, presented by Catholic monarchs: Louis Napoleon and his Empress, the Austrian Emperor, and several historical pictures. Out of this we walked into the reception-room, where the abbot himself was so condescending as to meet us. He speaks only German and Latin. A very large man, of commanding form and presence; with a face shining like the sun with good humor, good living, and content, he answered perfectly to your idea of the abbot of a Romish monastery. He gave me a cordial greeting, and understanding that I was from America asked if we enjoyed universal peace. When I assured him we did, he spoke of the late contest in Europe, which he pronounced “bellum atrocissimum,”—a most atrocious war. Then he inquired about the President, and produced from his private rooms a photograph of the late Lincoln in the arms of Washington in heaven! After a little further general conversation he withdrew. He is by virtue of his office a prince of the Austrian empire, and is so addressed by all the Roman Catholic cantons of Switzerland. I was highly pleased with the interview, and not less with one of the monks to whose kind care I was now committed. He led me to the interior of the monastery, where the cells of the monks are arranged on the several stories or floors: each one is a comfortable room, with one window looking into the walled garden and the hill that rises behind. When we reached his own he unlocked it and showed me in; placing its only chair, he bade me be seated, while he went to look for the key of the library. “While I am absent,” said he, “enjoy yourself as you please, examine every thing, and be quite at home.” A few books were in a case over his writing-desk, by which he could sit or stand and the closets, shelves, every thing was bare of paint, and plain as could be. A little bed was in one corner near the door, simple enough for an anchorite. No images, pictures, or crucifixes were in sight. In a few minutes he returned, and led me through the cabinet of natural history, into the library of 30,000 volumes, neatly arranged in niches. When we came to the folios of the fathers, I pointed to the works of IRENÆUS, and said: I have the name of that father, my own father having given it to me because he admired the writings of the old author, the disciple of Polycarp, who sat at the feet of the apostle John; I was thus in the line of the succession. We took down the folio and looked at its imprint. Then he asked me if I would like to see the manuscripts, and upon my expressing a strong desire to do so, he raised an iron trap-door, and conducted me by a flight of stairs into a room below, where an immense number are deposited, and admirably preserved and disposed. None of them, however, are very ancient.