1879–1883
NEED was felt for some change after my sad bereavement; so in March,
1880, my daughter and I started for Italy. We tarried on our way a week
at Cannes with my friend, Mr. Prust, of Northampton, an old
fellow-student, who had a villa in the Riviera. I greatly enjoyed the
climate and scenery, and felt soothed by walks and drives on the shores,
through the cork groves, and round about to more distant places of
interest. Old affections sprang up anew between my friend and myself as
we talked of auld lang syne. Nothing could exceed the kindness shown by
him and his two interesting nieces.
I met with some old acquaintances at Mentone; amongst the rest, with a
gentleman well known in the political and religious world and closely
connected with Lord Palmerston. He gave me much information as to what
he apprehended was the state of thought and feeling amongst the upper
class in reference to Christianity. There seemed to be a large amount of
light-hearted, thoughtless scepticism on the part of young people; girls
catching from their brothers doubts as to God and Christ and
eternity—doubts circulated in conversation and in periodicals. The facts
indicated did not strike me as deep and earnest, but as froth on the
surface of common talk; not, however, to be passed over as a trifling
phenomenon, for if those who occupy superior stations in the world have
their faith shaken as to natural and revealed religion, it forebodes
mischief to wider circles round them. My informant was inclined to
believe that outspoken doubt and disbelief was less to be dreaded than
concealed enmity. Moreover, that whilst there was much to excite concern
in literature and social intercourse of the present day, there was also
an increase in the higher as well as lower walks of thorough-going
Christian experience and practice. In my own limited acquaintance I have
been cheered to find instances of what appeared genuine piety where I
little expected them; works of benevolence going on nowadays amongst all
classes are surely tokens for good, which ought to fill us with
thankfulness. We are all tempted to confine ourselves to one side of the
world and Church picture before us; but we shall not get at the whole
truth by shutting one eye and keeping the other wide open.
Leaving Cannes, we travelled by the Cornice Railway to Genoa, and there
renewed acquaintance with churches, palaces, and picture galleries, seen
years before. Then tarrying at Spezzia, we saw some new specimens of
Italian scenery and life. Pisa and Florence were again visited, cities
in which I loved to linger; and at the end of about ten days we reached
Rome.
I had an introduction to Cardinal Howard, who sent me an invitation to
visit him. I was met by a Monseignor friend of his, with whom I had a
good deal of conversation. We discussed several topics, and then touched
upon the relations in which Catholics and Protestants stood to one
another. He considered there was improvement in this respect, more
social intercourse existing between them than was once the case.
Pio Nono had a Jewish friend, who became a convert. Seeing him one day
depressed, “the holy father,” as this Monseignor called him, asked what
was the cause.
“I have just lost my father, who died a Jew, and I am greatly concerned
about the state of his soul.”
“But was he a good Jew, devout and acting up to the light he had?”
“Yes,” was the reply.
Then came the Pope’s rejoinder, “I will pray for him; and do you pray for
him, and I doubt not that God will have mercy on him.”
These were his words as well as I can remember. The drift of the story
and its application were intended to show that the deceased pontiff did
not despair of a Jew’s salvation. He did not look upon those outside the
Roman pale as beyond the reach of God’s mercy, though needing
purification in a future state.
Whilst we were talking the Cardinal came in. The reception he gave me
was singularly cordial, and we had a good deal of friendly chat relative
to the Stanley family. The favours I asked he granted at once; one was a
special introduction to the chief librarian at the Vatican, and the
seeing more of its treasures than I had done when I visited the library
many years before. He took me into his library, well furnished with
books, in handsome bindings, and we had some talk about Thomas Aquinas,
in whose writings I took an interest. He recommended to me some little
books of analysis and comment. He also procured a papal permission for
my daughter to see St. Peter’s Crypt, which is closed to ladies
generally, on all days of the year except one. The Cardinal arranged
with one of the Vatican librarians that I should have special facilities
for seeing historical documents; and afterwards, on my reaching the
Vatican by appointment, I was received by an officer, who accompanied me
into one of the magnificent galleries, which I had seen years before, to
find then all book-cases closed. Now some of them were opened, and I was
permitted to take down any volumes I liked; and I at once luxuriated in
the inspection of charming Aldine editions of patristic and other
authors—the paper as white, and the printing as fresh, as when they were
produced four centuries ago.
I was surprised to find that provision was made for the use of printed
books, and certain MSS., by readers, admitted after the fashion in our
British Museum. There are catalogues, giving titles and press-marks;
and, by writing for what you want upon slips of paper, and handing them
to an attendant, as in the British Museum, you attain the volumes
desired, which you can use at desks provided for the purpose. A
catalogue of much greater compass than exists at present, I was informed,
is in progress; but the Cardinal told me, it might be a long time before
it was finished, adding, that Rome is the Eternal City in more senses
than one. He encouraged me to believe that even the archives of the Holy
See might be accessible; but, far short of that, MSS. which I wrote for,
and examined, were sufficient to convince me that there is abundant
materials for extensive research, beyond what was formerly possible.
Besides, in the vast Library of the Dominicans—who once had their
monastery at Sopra Minerva—a library which is now open to the public,
under certain regulations, there are the archives of the Roman
Inquisition; the historical use which now can be made of them, appears in
many numbers of _La Rivista Christiana_, in which I found many valuable
extracts. Much interesting information respecting early Italian
confessors may be found in those Inquisitionary records.
I saw several Protestant brethren in Rome; and, besides preaching in the
Presbyterian Church twice, was invited to address a large meeting of
Italians, through the medium of the Rev. Mr. Piggott, who was my kind
interpreter. I took occasion to lament that Italian Protestants, whilst
not by any means numerous, were broken up into so many parties; said that
it would be far better if they would work together; and if that were
impossible, it was at least desirable and easy, not to interfere with
each other’s proceedings, by opposition or uncivil criticism. Judging
from a response on the part of an Italian, I was glad to find my remarks
were not deemed offensive; but I am afraid they did no real good.
Whilst in Rome at this time I tried to turn my visit to some account by
restudying its Christian antiquities. Christian art in its early state
is a subject illustrated by the Catacombs. The rude paintings and
sculptures familiar to every Roman visitor, familiar by means of books to
thousands who have never seen the originals, are historical and symbolic.
Noah and the Ark, Abraham offering up Isaac, Moses receiving the law,
Jonah and the whale, Daniel and the lions, the three Hebrews in the
furnace—these have a Christian meaning, and point typically to truths
respecting Christ’s redemption. Subterranean Rome, it has been well said
by a French author, is “_a living book_, palpable, everlasting,” and
there are written on its pages, in hieroglyphic ways, truths which are
held by all true Christians, whether Protestant or Catholic. The Agape
or love-feast, a ship emblematic of the Church, the cross, the fish, the
dove, and other well-known signs of Christ and His salvation, occur over
and over again. Also there are historical pictures of the Nativity, and
of Peter denying his Master. Portraits also are found of Christ, of
Peter, of Paul. The Virgin Mary is seen by the side of her husband,
whilst the Holy Child, like an Italian bambino, lies in His cradle, an ox
licking His feet; close by, the Magi are watching stars in the east. No
picture or image of the Virgin, in solitary magnificence, at all
resembling the Madonnas of a later period, so far as I can make out, has
been discovered in the Catacombs. The contrast between the early
attempts and the later achievements of Roman Christian art in doctrinal
significance, as well as in imaginative conception and technical skill,
is obvious and striking. To pass from the former to the latter requires
an immense stride; to go from examining early representations of gospel
facts and principles, to look round churches and galleries rich in the
works of modern Catholic artists, is to exchange worlds. The difference
in religious meaning is as great as the difference in artistic merit.
During this visit to Rome some remarkable religious meetings were
conducted by Dr. A. N. Somerville, of Glasgow, who in other parts of
Italy the same spring, held revivalistic Protestant services. Those at
Rome occurred on a spot, to reach which many citizens had to cross a
bridge with a toll bar on it. Notwithstanding, on the evening when we
attended, I should think about eight hundred people were present. The
preacher could not speak Italian, and what he said was translated into
that language, by a native Protestant. Everything was skilfully managed,
and the effect appeared on the whole, solemn and impressive.
Congregations after the same methods had been previously gathered in
Florence, where the addresses, according to report, had produced
considerable impression. Sankey’s hymns, translated into Italian, were
sung at Rome, with Sankey’s tunes; how far solid evangelical results
followed I could not ascertain.
We made, at this time, two excursions which I must notice. One was very
short: only as far as Ostia, where there are still some Roman remains.
The present town is not worth notice, but the ancient city, Hare says in
his “Days near Rome,” is like Pompeii. I cannot quite agree with him.
The deep ruts of Roman chariot wheels; fragments here and there of Roman
pottery, human bones, coloured marbles, and a few architectural relics,
are of interest; but what attracted me to the spot was the memory of
Augustine, who, in his “Confessions,” paints such a touching picture of
his mother Monica’s illness and death. Thoughts of that interview, as
related by the converted son, were the only charm of our visit, and the
hour or two we were compelled to spend in the place, for the refreshment
of our coachman and his horse, were most dreary. The long, long gossip
going on between a priest and the mistress of the little farm, betokened
the intense idleness and vulgarity of both,—typical, I fear, of the whole
neighbourhood.
Another expedition we made was of a very different kind. We engaged a
carriage to the charming haunts of Tivoli, where picturesque objects in
the town and its vicinity, and the stupendous waterfall with manifold
associations, clustering round the immediate neighbourhood, created
memorable delight. Next day we drove to Subiaco, along an interesting
road rich in memories of old Roman rural life. My daughter wrote in her
journal:—
“It was a glorious morning, the sun was shining brightly, and in the
cool spring air, our three pretty little black horses dashed along
the road at a good pace, so that we soon found ourselves winding in
and out amongst the Sabine Hills. We climbed up a steep ascent, only
to go dashing down on the other side. The retreating hills, rising
here and there to a great height, were clothed with trees, some of a
sombre colour, some fresh with the bright hue of early spring, with
here and there a cluster of silver olives, making a delightful
variety of colour; whilst, at our feet, the roadside was beautiful
with anemones, cyclamen, honeysuckle, and saxifrage; and, lower
still, ran the refreshing river Arno.”
Not far from Subiaco there is a deep gorge with sloping sides of rock and
foliage, reaching down to the river Arno, bordered by chestnut trees,
amidst which, here and there, rises a tall cypress. The brow of the hill
on the side nearest Subiaco, is crowned by a far-famed monastery in
which, very different from what it is now, the great St. Benedict,
founder of a monastery which bears his name, spent his early days and
prepared for his great life work, which began at Monte Cassino, on the
road from Rome to Naples.
We left Subiaco for Olevano, and were benighted on our way, as the horses
toiled up hill after hill. We reached Olevano late at night, and caused
quite a commotion in the narrow street, by our inquiries after the hotel,
where we were to pass the night, and which, ignorantly, we had passed by,
at the hill-top which overlooks the town. There, to our delight, we met
with a most enjoyable reception, as the house is a favourite resort for
artists; and though we blundered into a room, already occupied by guests,
we were permitted to remain, and listen to charming stories of the place
and its surroundings. After tarrying a few hours next morning, we had to
hasten our departure, that we might catch a train on the railway from
Naples to Rome.
After leaving Rome on our way to England, we halted some days at Venice,
and revived old recollections. I went over points of interest in a visit
years before, and new pictorial and architectural pleasures were enjoyed.
We proceeded to Bologna, and crossed the beautiful Lago di Garda, spent a
day or two at Trent, where special services were being held for young
people, and hosts of “shining ones” in white, crowded the churches.
In 1881 I visited Italy again, especially for the purpose of carrying on
researches commenced just before. The journey was rapid. Reaching
Turin, accompanied by my dear daughter, I began my work by searching out
localities which I could easily identify. In other places I picked up
illustrations I desired; for, when the mind is bent on a particular
inquiry, it is wonderful how it draws cognate matters to itself. We made
an excursion to Pavia, and, on the way, stopped at the beautiful
monastery of Certosa. Pavia, situated on the river Ticino, with a
covered bridge, is interesting, from its antiquities and history. The
churches are specimens of Lombardic architecture, and in the Duomo one
was startled to find the tomb of Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, whose
remains were transferred from Africa to this city. They were there at
the time of our visit, his monument being full of magnificence and
beauty, in general form and particular details. Since I was at Pavia,
the body has been restored to its original resting-place. Pavia connects
itself with the philosopher, Boetius, by a popular tradition that he was
imprisoned in a tower belonging to the city. Piacenza and Bologna during
this journey afforded gleanings which helped me to realise important
events occurring there at the time of the Reformation; but it was in
Florence that I did most work, and spent more than a week from day to day
tracking Savonarola’s footsteps through the streets, from San Marco to
the Palazzo Vecchio, and back again, not forgetting his visit to Lorenzo
di Medici at his villa in Careggi, with views of rich woodlands and
grassy fields. But my chief employment was in the public library,
searching out and deciphering original documents, connected with his
trial. According to one account Savonarola underwent an examination,
first by words, then by threats, then by torture; and on the second day
of his imprisonment was put on the rack. The account of the trial which
I gathered from original sources, was in harmony with that of Villari in
his life of the martyr. There are two letters appended, one addressed to
the Pope respecting _la vita buono_ of the sufferer, and another by a
large number of Florentine citizens. I was especially interested in
Savonarola’s Bible, which he used to carry under his arm. It is entitled
“Biblia integra,” the type beautifully clear, the date 1491. It contains
some of his prophecies in MS. Signor Guicciardini has contributed a
large collection of Savonarola’s works to this Magliabecchian Library, as
it is called, and the catalogue of them runs over sixty pages.
After leaving Florence, we visited the Waldensian valleys, of which I
have given some account in my “Footprints of Italian Reformers,” and I
may here add, that I agree fully with Professor Comba in his opinion,
that the Waldenses, properly speaking, do not appear in history earlier
than the twelfth century, and then they are seen scattered over the South
of France at Metz, and in the Netherlands—their origin being ascribed by
their enemies to Peter Waldo of Lyons, who does not appear to have
visited the valleys. I found the good people in the valleys opposed to
the results of Professor Comba’s researches. An intelligent daughter of
a Waldensian minister said, “We do not believe in them at all here.”
After studying the subject, let me add, I do.
In 1881 my dear friend Dr. Stanley died, after so short an illness that I
had no opportunity of seeing him in his last hours. His funeral was an
event of national interest.
He had much of the mind which distinguished “that disciple whom Jesus
loved.” His singular sweetness of disposition was partly natural, for he
was a gentle, quiet boy, winning many hearts; but it was gracious and
spiritual also, a result of sincere discipleship to the Divine Master. I
often felt surprised at his extraordinary amount of forbearance under
most unjust and cruel attacks. I once alluded to the need of patience
amidst such trials, instancing Archbishop Tillotson, who left behind him
a bundle of scurrilous letters, labelled with the words, “May God forgive
the writers as I do.” I learned from my friend that once he was accused
of infidelity by an anonymous correspondent; and on another occasion,
after the figures of Moses, David, Paul, and Peter had been placed in the
choir of the Abbey, he received a note beginning with a charge of
idolatry. Our Broad Church Dean, and the prelate of the Revolution were
ecclesiastically and socially much alike. As to theology the former told
me there is much in the teaching of Scripture which transcends human
conception, much which, running along lines of mystery, he felt himself
unable to follow; but, at the same time, he would remark, there is much
more that is plain, which “a wayfaring man, though a fool,” may receive
and “not err therein.” To these plain things, he said, he desired to
cleave; these plain things he endeavoured to preach. The main difference
between others and himself was that certain Evangelical principles were
plainer to them than to him.
His interest in Bible study was intense, especially with regard to
historical and biographical subjects; and it was well said, that whilst
some critics seemed to delight in destroying certain parts, his delight
was to build them up into a grand whole. His habit was to maintain
truth, so far as he saw it, rather than to attack and overthrow error;
and his gift of felicitously adapting events and passages of Holy Writ to
passing incidents and characters, was truly wonderful; especially when an
opportunity occurred for weaving sacred associations round the walls of
his beloved Abbey. Nor did he fail to turn his skill in this respect to
admirable account, when preaching in America.
Dr. Stanley’s amiableness never betrayed a suspicion of weakness in his
character. Indeed he had a side almost stern in some of its appearances;
and he fought against what he deemed evil, with great vehemence; and
stood up very boldly, I know, against unprincipled people, declaring that
he would not meet them, except in the presence of witnesses.
To see him at his best was to be with him alone, when he gave full sway
to his thoughts and feelings, expressing them with greater freedom than I
ever heard him do in company. The most enjoyable time was late in the
evening, after guests had retired; especially when he conducted me to my
bedroom, candlestick in hand, and tarried for a good while chatting about
subjects and persons of interest to us both.
Not long before his death, I spent a night at Westminster, when we talked
about Oliver Cromwell. With much pathos he read aloud Carlyle’s
description of the Lord Protector’s last hours; and, some time before
this, he told me that he had been engaged in endeavouring to ascertain
what became of the hero’s remains after indignities done to them at the
Restoration.
Soon after the Dean’s death, I received from Mrs. Drummond, his
executrix, a note accompanied by the picture it referred to. “In a
memorandum left by our dear Dean, he desired a photograph of him, which
used to stand in the drawing-room, should be sent to you, in remembrance
of a sincere friendship.”
With regard to the composition of historical works he was in the habit of
employing such information as he could gather from friends.
Oxford men have told me, that he used to lay under contribution whatever
he could learn from other people’s researches. For these, however, he
was always ready to make ample returns.
Dr. Stanley told me that he was in the habit of looking at some
historical characters through the medium of living people, who appeared
to him, in one way or other, to resemble them. Excellencies and
frailties on the part of deceased individuals, thus came out more vividly
before him. It struck me as a considerable help to a realisation of what
departed persons _might_ be; but it requires to be carefully employed,
lest from resemblances which are real, we infer other things which are
imaginary.
His taste was comprehensive. He loved everything which related to
English history, especially where it touched his own dear Abbey.
Conformity and Nonconformity he sometimes sought to harmonise in
surprising ways.
I may add here that there was in the Abbey a monument to Dr. Watts in a
dilapidated condition, when I suggested a plan for its restoration. The
plan was adopted, and in consequence the monument was for a time removed.
During its absence I received a note containing a playful allusion to the
circumstance:—
“If some strong Nonconformist should wander through the Abbey this
week, he may go away with the impression that in a fit of sudden
intolerance the Dean had torn down the monument of Isaac Watts. I
assure you that the gaping and vacant chasm in the wall might well
suggest such an interpretation. I hope, however, in a few days the
restored angel and the mended harp of your sweet psalmist will dispel
any hopes that may be awakened in High Churchmen or suspicions in
Nonconformists.”
I was informed not long after the Dean’s death, that a gentleman in Kent
had in his possession what was said to be Oliver Cromwell’s skull. A
friend of mine procured from that gentleman an invitation to see the
relic. A large, handsome box was placed on a table, and out of it was
taken, wrapped up in silk, a man’s skull. The lower part of the face was
gone, leaving the upper jawbone entire, or nearly so; and within the
mouth we saw the shrivelled remains of a tongue, while some of the skin
on the upper part of the face was still preserved. What astonished me
was the quantity of hair adhering to the scalp; and also the following
circumstances pertaining to the relic. The inside, carefully examined by
a medical companion, plainly appeared to have been embalmed; signs of
this were attached to the surface. Moreover, part of a spike penetrated
the upper bone, showing that once the skull must have been exposed in a
way common enough, when men, put to death for political crimes, had their
heads set up in conspicuous places. Finally the head had been severed
from the body, not by a sharp axe, but by a knife which had hacked and
torn the skin. These peculiarities pointed to one who, having received
honourable burial, was afterwards beheaded with a blunt instrument, and
then treated as a traitor, by having his head exhibited like those fixed
on the top of Temple Bar. These peculiarities pertained to Oliver
Cromwell; and to no one else. Documents are preserved together with the
relic. They state that the relic remained publicly exposed for a long
time, till one night a gale of wind blew it down; that a soldier on
sentry picked it up and took it home, and then became alarmed at finding
there was search made after it by public authorities. He concealed it
down to the time of his death; and when danger was over, the secret was
divulged. The skull was afterwards exhibited as a source of profit, and
an account of the exhibition appears among papers preserved in the box.
After being withdrawn from public view, it was privately sold to an
ancestor of the gentleman possessing it at the time of my visit. There
is a story afloat, that Cromwell was not buried in Westminster, another
corpse being substituted for public interment, and, therefore, that the
body hanged at Tyburn was not his! This story is not to be trusted.
In the August following Dean Stanley’s death, I made, with my friend
Harrison and some of my family, a tour in Germany. We were delighted
with the Bavarian Highlands and the Bader See.
We visited Oberammergau, and heard much about the Passion Play, and were
conducted to the place of performance, by persons who had taken part in
it. They gave us interesting information. The priest of the place is no
bigot. He insisted that a Protestant, who had died in the village,
should be interred in consecrated ground, for which, we are told, he
received a rebuke from Rome. The drive we had from Partenkirchen to
Mittenwald called forth exclamations of great delight.
In the following winter I mixed with members of various denominations,
some widely separated from others. This led me to think a good deal
about consistency. I noted down at the time considerations of this kind.
Everybody admits the palpable truism, “Truth is true, and falsehood is
false,” and some deduce from that the corollary: “Then stick to the true,
and eschew the false altogether. Countenance what you believe, by
consorting exclusively with such as believe as you do.”
But, it must be remembered, systems are complex, and cannot be fairly
dealt with in the fashion recommended by some. In many cases, what is
condemned as a whole, contains seeds of another sort. There are
estimable people who are not accustomed to analyse what they condemn, and
cannot see what of truth may be found in the midst of error. To look
alone at one side of a system, which, after all, has much of truth, may
involve us in error. Thinking of Divine sovereignty, if not connected
with human responsibility, may land us in Antinomianism; to dwell upon
responsibility by itself, may make us Pelagians.
In the summer of 1882, I went down to Rodborough, in Gloucestershire, to
visit my friend, Sir S. Marling, just made baronet, and to preach, I
think, for the seventh time, on behalf of the Sunday Schools. The
Countess of Huntingdon, George Whitefield, and Rowland Hill had all been
in some way connected with the chapel.
On the occasion now mentioned, there was a large gathering of day and
Sunday scholars, a picture worthy of Wilkie’s pencil. Sir Samuel and his
lady were encircled by guests old and young, receiving from them
demonstrations of affection in loud huzzas.
Soon after my return from Italy I attended meetings connected with
Wesleyan Methodism, when my friend Mr. McArthur, (afterwards knighted),
was Lord Mayor of London. He invited me at different times to meet a
large number of ministers of his own and other communions, and at such
times he manifested the catholic spirit by which he was eminently
distinguished. I think it was once in his mayoralty that the archbishops
and bishops dined at the Mansion House table, when toasts were proposed,
to which the Archbishop of Canterbury had to respond. Afterwards
Nonconformists were honoured in the common way, and it fell to my lot to
reply in a few words. The Archbishop had, in a good-natured style,
referred to the cares and troubles of his right reverend brethren, and
himself. Alluding to what he had said, I ventured to remark I was quite
content with my humbler position, and had no aspirations after a seat on
the Episcopal Bench. Further, I pleaded, as I always do, for catholic
union, and remarked that I strove to be a Christian first; next, a
patriotic religious Englishman; and thirdly, a devout Dissenter, adding
that I should be ashamed of my Nonconformity, if that were so
obstreperous, as to quarrel with the subordinate place I assigned to it.
At the close of the year 1882 Dr. Tait, Archbishop of Canterbury, died.
With him I had the pleasure of being acquainted soon after his
appointment to the See of London. Our relations afterwards were very
friendly. I was kindly invited to share in the pleasure of his Lambeth
hospitality; and at a time of deep domestic sorrow he was one of the very
first to express affectionate sympathy in a letter of condolence. I
found him always very kind, and he impressed me with the conviction that
in his judgment of Conformity and Nonconformity, and of the relative
duties of Churchmen and Dissenters, he took much more sensible views than
most of his brethren. He did not seem to anticipate, as at all probable,
the comprehension of all, or most, English Christians within the pale of
one community; since each denomination has its principles, its
traditions, and its trust property, and is not likely to merge its
peculiarities in the adoption of others. A wise, liberal, Christian
_modus vivendi_ was the object of his desire. I attended his funeral,
and met in his residence at Addiscombe, a large number of clergymen, and
men of different opinions, drawn together by a common regard for his
eminent moral and religious worth. The trees were bare, the ground was
covered with snow, and the long procession walked through the park, the
winter sun brightening the scene. The whole struck me as very solemn,
and in harmony with the occasion that had brought us together.
My journeys abroad were approaching an end when in 1882 my daughter and I
spent a few weeks in Switzerland, on the shores of the Genevan lake, and
in its neighbourhood. One memorable expedition we made was to Grenoble
and the Grande Chartreuse. The monastery was difficult of access early
in this century, but now there are well-appointed vehicles for conveying
tourists from the railway to the gates of this romantic retreat. The
ascent as far as Laurent du Pont is up a road lined with acacias,
bordering barley fields, commanding glimpses of a magnificent valley,
with bosky dells, cut in twain by the river Isere. The gorge to the
right increases in grandeur as one ascends. Purple rocks rise from
depths of massy verdure, sublimity succeeds beauty, and, after reaching a
broad mountain-girdled plain, one arrives at a halting place called
Laurent du Pont. Thence the road becomes more steep, winding along
ledges of rock, whence, through openings, one looks down on pine woods,
and sees the stream fighting its way, like our contested passage through
this troublesome world. We reached a thick forest at the top of the
pass, and came to the monastery—a pile, of buildings sheltered on green
uplands. There were before us long walls, square towers, and steep
roofs, dappled with dormer windows; here and there was a slender spire.
The buildings stand 4268 feet above the level of the sea, and one of the
corridors is 660 feet long. The original foundation dates far back; but
little of what one now sees is older than the seventeenth century. The
founder was the famous Bruno, who, with six companions, retreated to this
spot so secluded and desolate. _Chartre_ signifies a prison, but it also
expresses what we mean by the word _charter_. The buildings have been
seven times destroyed, but in the seventeenth century the convent reached
its meridian glory.
No sooner had we entered the penetralia of the building, than we saw
notices requesting visitors not to smoke, nor loiter, nor speak loudly;
and in the distance were monks with white cloaks and cowls, gliding about
like ghosts from the other world. Pictures of Carthusian convents were
hanging on the corridor walls; and the Chapter House exhibited badly
painted portraits of past generals. Following our guide, we entered a
vaulted cloister, with windows on one side and doors on the other,
bearing texts of Scripture, such as “Narrow is the way which leadeth unto
life,” and “Whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath
cannot be My disciple.” Stations of the Cross are hung upon the walls;
through a window are caught glimpses of a green garden, bright and cheery
amidst sombre appearances all round. The dormitories have each a
cupboard-like bed, a little reading desk, a stove, directions for
novices, a statuette of the Virgin, and a crucifix. There are workshops
fitted up with lathes, and a small chapel with an altar cloth, covered
with skulls and cross-bones. Inscriptions such as “Vanity of vanities,
all is vanity,” expressed the characteristic feeling of the inmates. The
library is handsome, well fitted up, with beautifully bound books.
Visitors are not admitted to the monastic chapel; but from a tribune they
are permitted to look down on the ante-chapel, and witness matins at the
appointed hour. The brotherhood are remarkable for industry, being
graziers of cattle, and manufacturers of liqueurs.
The clock struck six just after we left the monastery, and a calm summer
evening shone on the old walls, the green pastures, and the climbing
woods. The pass, as we descended, struck us as almost equal to the Via
Mala in grandeur, united with beauties which the other scene can scarcely
boast. Road-making, tree-felling, saw-mills, iron works, distilleries,
cement manufactories, told of widespread industry. The old monastery lay
behind; modern enterprise stood out before.
We were rapidly driven through Laurent du Pont, as the star-studded sky,
streaked by the Milky Way, overarched the region. We noticed glow-worms
in the hedges, brought out by advancing night, and presently the wide
vale at the foot of the descending road seemed dusted with bright-looking
objects like glow-worms; but they turned out to be the lamps of Voirons,
where we took the train for Grenoble, and finished a day of remarkable
interest.