84 
FANCIERS JOURN AL AND SPOUT TR. EXCHANGE. 


THE GREAT ST. BERNARD. 
By the pass of the Great St. Bernard travelers cross the 
Pennine Alps (Penn, a Celtic word; meaning height) along 
the mountain road which leads from Martigny, in Switzer- 
land, to Aosta, in Piedmont. On the crest of the pass, 8200 
feet above the sea level, stands the Hospice, tenanted by 
about a dozen monks. This is supposed to be the highest 
spot in Europe inhabited by human beings. The climate is 
necessarily rigorous, the thermometer in winter being often 
twenty-nine degrees below zero, whilst sixty-eight degrees 
Fahr. is about the highest range ever attained in summer. 
From the extreme difficulty of respiration, few of the monks 
ever survive the period of their vow, which is fifteen years, 
commencing at the age of eighteen. This hospice is said to 
have been first founded in the year 962, by Bernard, a Pied- 
montese nobleman. It will be remembered that it was over 
this pass Napoleon, in May, 1800, led an army of 30,000 men 
into Italy, having with them heavy artillery and cavalry. 
For poor travelers and traders the hospice is really a place 
During winter, crossing this pass is a very dan- 
gerous affair. The snow falls in small particles, and remains 
as dry as dust. Whirlwinds, called ‘ tourmentes,’’ catch up 
this light snow, and carrying it with blinding violence 
against the traveler, burying every landmark, at once put 
an end to knowledge of position. Avalanches, too, are of 
frequent occurrence. 
After violent storms, or the fall of avalanches, or any other 
unusual severity of winter weather, the monks set outin search 
of travelers who may have been overwhelmed by the snow 
in their ascent of the pass. They are generally accompanied 
in their search by dogs of a peculiar breed, commonly known 
as the St. Bernard’s Dog, on account of the celebrated mon- 
astery where these magnificent animals are taught to exer- 
cise their wondrous powers, which have gained for them and 
their teachers a world-wide fame. On their neck is a bell, 
to attract the attention of any belated wayfarer, and their 
deep and powerful bay quickly gives notice to the benevo- 
lent monks to hurry to the relief of any unfortunate tra- 
veler they may find. Some of the dogs carry, attached to 
their collars, a flask of spirits or other restorative. Their 
wonderfully acute sense of smei. cnables them to detect the 
bodies of persons buried deeply b rath the surface of the 
snow, and thus direct the searchers \ :ere to dig for them. 
The animal’s instinct seems to teach it, too, where hidden 
chasms or clefts, filled with loose snow, are, for it carefully 
avoids them, and thus is an all-important guide to the 
monks themselves. 
We have stories without number as to what these dogs ac- 
complish on their own account, how they dig out travelers, 
and bring them sometimes, unaided by man, to the hos- 
pice. A few years ago, one of these faithful animals might 
be seen wearing a medal, and regarded with much affection 
by all. This noble dog had well deserved the distinction, 
for one stormy day he had saved twenty-two individuals 
buried in their snowy envelope. Unfortunately he met, at 
a subsequent period, the very fate from which he had res- 
cued so many persons. At the worst season an Italian 
courier was crossing the pass, attended by two monks, each 
escorted by a dog (one being the wearer of the medal), when 
suddenly a vast avalanche shot down upon them with light- 
ning speed, and they were all lost. 
Another of these dogs, named ‘‘ Barry,” had served the 
St. Bernard convent during twelve years, and had saved the 
of refuge. 

lives of fifteen persons during that time. Whenever the 
pass was obscured by fogs and wintry snow-storms, he would 
go forth in search of lost travelers. It was his practice to 
run barking till he lost his breath, and he would venture 
into the most dangerous places. If, as sometimes happened, 
he did not succeed in drawing out from the snow some tra- 
veler stiffened with cold or overcome with exhaustion, he 
would run back to the convent and fetch some of the monks. 
One day this brave dog found alittle child in ahalf-frozen 
state. He began directly to lick him, and having succeeded 
first in restoring animation, and next in the complete resus- 
citation of the boy, he induced the child, by his caresses, 
to tie himself on his back. "When this was effected, he 
transported the poor child, as if in triumph, to the hospice. 
When overtaken by old age, the glorious dog was pensioned 
off by way of reward, and after his death his body was stuf- 
fed and placed in the museum at Berne. _ 
It is said that dogs of this variety inherit the faculty of 
tracking footsteps in snow. A gentleman once obtained a 
pup which had been produced in London by a female of the 
St. Bernard breed. The young animal was brought to 
Scotland, where it was never observed to have any particu- 
lar tokens of a power of tracking footsteps until winter. 
Then, when the ground was covered with snow, it showed 
the utmost inclination to follow footsteps ; and such was its 
power of doing so, that though its master might attempt to 
confuse it by walking in the most irregular fashion, and by 
inducing other persons to cross his path in all directions, 
yet it always followed his course with great precigion.— 
Cottager and Artisan. 

THE DOG OF ST. BERNARD'S. 

THEY tell that on St. Bernard’s mount, 
Where holy nionks abide, 
Still mindful of misfortune’s claim, 
Though dead to all beside; 
The weary, wayworn traveler 
Oft sinks beneath the snow; 
For, where his faltering steps to bend, 
No track is left to show. 
*Twas here, bewildered and alone, 
A stranger roamed at night; 
His heart was heavy as his tread, 
His scrip alone was light. 
Onward he pressed, yet many an hour 
He had not tasted food ; 
And many an hour he had not known 
Which way his footsteps trod ; 
And if the convent’s bell had rung 
To hail the pilgrim near, 
It still had rung in vain for him— 
He was too far to hear; 
And should the morning light disclose 
Its towers amid the snow, : 
To him ’twould be a mournful sight— 
He had not strength to go. 
Valor could arm no mortal man 
That night to meet the stornt™ 
No glow of pity could have kept 
A human bosom warm, 
But obedience to a master’s will 
Had taught the Dog to roam, 
And through the terrors of the waste, 
To fetch the wanderer home. 
And if it be too much to say 
That pity gave him speed, 
Tis sure he not unwillingly 
Performed the generous deed. 
For now he listens—and anon 
He scents the distant breeze, 
And easts a keen and anxious look 
On every speck he sees. 
And now deceived, he darts along, 
As if he trod the air— 
Then disappointed, droops his head 
With more than human care. 
