... Then we came to the lonely Hospice in its waste of snow. It was not nearly so impressive as the Great St. Bernard, when you and I went, and of which I have so vivid a memory. I saw no monks, little of religious life; one priest, whom they called the Rector, seemed the only sign of the religious foundation. And yet in some ways it was most impressive to realise that, for nearly a thousand years, travellers, poor and rich, had been received there by men dedicating themselves to a lonely and trying life. The peasants told us how many went over in winter, and how many died from exposure. There was also in the Hospice a letter from a man, who was lost in the snow in March, 1901. He described how a wind came and swept away all traces of the way; how he plunged twice up to his neck in snow, and struggled against despair, and tried to go, in what proved the wrong direction, when a great black finger, but shining, twice appeared to him, and pointed in another direction. He followed, and came upon a refuge. The shelter saved his life; and the next day six men from the Hospice found him and took him there. Later, on the edge of the pass, we saw the Roman column to Jupiter, on which a little figure of St. Bernard stands. It is quite black, and looked so small in the waste of snow; but it stands grandly, and, with outstretched hand and finger, points emphatically to the Hospice, a sort of type of the things which out of weakness are made strong; and one wondered whether some memory of the guiding hand had returned to the lost man in the snow.
GREAT ST. BERNARD HOSPICE
The old Rector told us he had been there forty years. He was very apologetic about his dress; he told us the snow in winter came up to the roof; but they always get light and air at one end, which faced the south, and from which the wind always swept the snow. The guide told us the Rector had been made Canon at Aosta, and, being over seventy, had been urged to go down there to live; but he had refused, saying he knew the pass, and would remain there. The only living things we saw were snow buntings. A few yards from the Hospice we came in sight of Mont Blanc, its highest peaks set with its magnificent “aiguilles,” standing up in a vault of blue air. Mountain after mountain stood round it in company, in a magnificent circle; and, seen over slopes of glittering snow, looking back over the upland valley filled with snow, we saw the little Hospice standing alone, standing out against the blue lower slopes of the white crested chain of Savoy, the little figure of St. Bernard, the only dark thing in the waste of white, throwing its triumphant small arm out towards the Hospice, which he founded and must have inspired for so many centuries. Down we came into the world of rushing water, of green and of colour.
190 Marylebone Road,
September 15th, 1902.
To Rev. Ingham Brooke.
You will, of course, have been in correspondence with Captain Bennett and others about the irreparable loss which the Cadets have sustained in the death of Colonel Salmond. We had all been looking and hoping for his return.
I feel sure that the movement has much real value, as distinct from Church Lads’ Brigades, etc.; that it needs a real head with power. It ought to have grown much during the past years; but, as far as I can see, it has kept its head above water only, while the less thorough works, like the Boys’ Brigades, have advertised themselves. Both works, no doubt, are good; but ours appeals at once to a lower level, and a more manly kind of lad; and, as a preparation for soldiers and sailors, it is unrivalled.
DEDICATION OF BRANDLEHOW
Derwent Island,