vain now to inquire. The breed, however, probably can claim a very ancient lineage, for it differs so greatly from any lupine type. It may, confined as it is to the Alpine region, be a direct descendant of the dogs with which the builders of the lake habitations guarded their flocks and herds; for so powerful an animal must, at one time, have performed duties of a more belligerent character than those assigned to him by the kindly monks.

Naturally, perhaps, a good deal of harmless superstition has gathered around these fine animals. The monks think very highly of the white line running up the face, meeting a white band round the neck, simulating, in a rough way, the badge of their order-the piece of lace worn round their own necks, extending down the back, to the waist, and round the body. These dogs often possess, in an exaggerated degree, that peculiarly ugly, useless, and troublesome appendage, the supplementary hind toe, the representative of the suppressed great toe, called the " dew-claw," which may even be double. This appears occasionally in every breed, though, I believe, it is never seen in wild species. Why it should be deemed a beauty and an essential " point," one cannot understand. except on the principle that fanciers are apt to disregard natural history in the arbitrary standards of perfection they set up and straightway proceed to bow down to. Thus, in a letter, dated 1867, from Etienne Metroz, C.R., of the Hospice of Great St. Bernard, the monk says: As to the dew-claws, we are convinced that if one meets a dog bearing the name of a St. Bernard without having double dew-claws -we are convinced, I assert, that one of its ancestors was not of the true race."

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This may pass as a matter of taste; but when we are gravely told that the dew-claw is a distinct evidence of purity of breed, because it is of so much use to the dog in supporting him on the snow over which he travels, any

one possessed of the most elementary acquaintance with anatomy must smile. In answer to a question addressed to

Character of the St. Bernard.

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him on the subject by Mr. Hugh Dalziel, the late Charles Darwin rightly characterised dew claws as "accidental monstrosities." They are, in fact, simply appearances under domestication of a suppressed or never developed digit (the great toe), the corresponding digit (the thumb) being invariably present on the fore limb, and articulated with the carpus. Dew claws, having no bony attachment to the tarsometatarsus, and presenting so small a surface, cannot possibly bear any of the weight of a heavy dog, or prevent him from sinking in the snow.

With most of us the very name of the St. Bernard is suggestive of benevolence, and aid to the lost or weary traveller. From time immemorial these dogs have been credited with displaying the utmost sagacity and interest in their work of rescuing travellers passing over the Alps, when the road has become obliterated by a snowfall, or they have failed to reach the Hospice before night. Railways have now practically abolished the pass of St. Bernard, and there is no longer any real need for the services of these dogs, of whom such extraordinary stories have been told. No lover of the dog will doubt any of these accounts without extreme reluctance; but when we find one authority assuring us that Barry, who died in 1815, had saved more than seventy-five lives during the fifteen years of his existence, and another asserting that the number did not much exceed the half of that, we are disposed to be somewhat sceptical.

In her delightful book on "Village Life in Switzerland," published in 1865, Mrs. S. D. Delmard deals a sad blow to the romance of my childhood in the following account of these dogs, written on the spot. Referring to the popular pictures which we all recollect so well, she says: "These pictures usually represent a dog of colossal proportions, standing with one foot on the breast of a traveller, who lies insensible and half covered with snow, close to some tall pines, of which many more are to be seen higher up on the road leading to the Hospice, from which one sees

issuing two or more portly monks, staff and crucifix in hand, to administer the last consolation of religion to the poor wretch, who appears already too far frozen for any human aid to be able to restore him to conscious

ness.

"The dog has always a bottle containing brandy tied round his neck, and a cloak strapped on his back, and this absurd picture is taken (I for one believed it most implicitly) as a true and faithful delineation of what actually occurs there. Anyone who has been at the convent of St. Bernard can see with his own eyes that not a tree grows within some miles, and that the dogs are not nearly so large as a well-grown Newfoundland; and as I have taken the pains to make very minute inquiries of the monks who are the most polite, gentlemanly men I ever saw, quite au fait with all that is passing in the world outside, and the usages of polite society-I can venture to say one or two words on the matter. In the first place, the dogs are never sent out alone, nor with a cloak or any other garment strapped on their backs and a bottle of brandy hanging round their necks; and their sense of smell, though good, is not of that wonderful, almost miraculous, keenness attributed to them. Their great usefulness, as one of the brethren told me, consists in this-that as, every day, they accompany the servants belonging to the monks to the cantine and the villages below the line of snow, for the purpose of fetching fuel, hay, and provisions for the use of the Hospice, they are so accustomed to the road that, when it is entirely lost under the deep snows of winter, their instinct is a much surer guide than human reason in helping to find it. And as to the monks, whose hospitality and delightful society I shall never forget, they are men of too much humanity and practical good sense not to give their first care to the revival of the body, and are far more likely to gladden the awakening senses of a frozen traveller with the grateful sight and smell of a cup of hot tea or spiced

Mr. du Maurier's " Chang."

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wine-such as they provided for one of our party who was exhausted with the cold and fatigue-than a crucifix."

The Rev. J. Cumming Macdona may fairly claim the credit of having established this magnificent breed in England, and there are now several kennels besides his which contain far finer specimens than ever were seen on the St. Bernard. The measurements of one of these-Menthonwere given as 80in. in length and 40in. in girth. A pup, since named Silver King, belonging to another breeder, weighed 981b. at only five months old, and he would have reached colossal proportions, had not some cowardly ruffian given him poison at the Liverpool Show, and seriously checked his growth. The highest price I can find as paid for one of these dogs is £800, the sum given by Mr. Emmett, the American actor, for Rector, who had changed hands previously for £300.

Though usually kept as companions only, St. Bernards may be turned to good account by the sportsman. Mr. W. Cunliffe Brooks, M.P., mentions one of his, Bayard, which pulled down the first stag he was laid on in the forest of Glen Tana, giving tongue, too, at the bay; and Hilda, another from Mr. Cumming Macdona's kennels, established for herself a great reputation in Glen Tana as a deerstalker, often crawling very long distances as low and as silently as the most skilful and stealthy ghillie, and ultimately tracking for miles the wounded quarry.

My personal acquaintance with these dogs is almost limited to the noble specimen, Chang, owned by Mr. G. du Maurier, the accomplished "society" artist of Punch, who for some eight years was a familiar figure, in close attendance on his master, on Hampstead Heath. I walked over to the Alexandra Palace with Mr. du Maurier and Chang in 1875, and saw the dog benched for the only time in his life at the dog show then being held. He evinced his disgust with the whole business by the most touching expressions of grief on the departure of his master, who contributed sub

sequently to the Pall Mall Gazette one of the most amusing articles imaginable from the "disappointed exhibitor's" point of view, and a model of the temper in which adverse awards should be received, for Chang was scarcely looked at.

Chang possessed the black muzzle, then considered enough to put any dog out of court, though he rejoiced in the full development of those useless and unsightly appendages -dew-claws; but, unfortunately, they were only single! Nevertheless, I heard a celebrated exhibitor and breeder of St. Bernards, and one equally celebrated as a judge, tell Chang's master that, had he himself been judging on that occasion, he should not only have awarded him the first prize as a St. Bernard, but considered him altogether the best dog in the show. Puppy as he was-about ten months old-he was bigger than any adult dog in the place, grand in coat, and finely proportioned, but, unfortunately for him, muzzles were worn white then.

His master walked home with him next day, determined never again to subject him to another night of the misery he had evidently undergone in that short experience of public life. In this I must confess myself completely in sympathy with Mr. du Maurier, for, had I the finest dog in the world, I would rather return to the Australian bush, and earn £40 a year as a shepherd, in daily peril from the spear of the savage, with the dog beside me, than allow my friend and companion to run the risk of being murdered by the cowardly assassin, always lurking about a dog show, in the pay of some disappointed exhibitor.

His formidable appearance, however, always inspired respect. Late one evening, his master was crossing a lonely part of Hampstead Heath, accompanied, as usual, by the dog, when he encountered two men whose intentions there was every reason to suspect. Stepping hastily out of the pathway, one of the roughs remarked in a gruff tone, "Ble'st if a cove didn't ought to get six months for keepin' a dawg like that.”