much doubt whether the evil arising from it will in any degree be remedied by the means which are proposed. The inimitable Lettres Provinciales are already in every body's hands: but we were not a little surprized to find Bayle's dictionary inserted among works deemed favourable to religion.

The editor himself admits that the volume here given to the public presents a tout ensemble very different from the original. It has certainly no pretensions to be offered as a translation of Dom Lancelot's work:' but then he says that, though differing widely from the original, it is intended as a faithful representation of what the writer believes M. Lancelot's work would have been, had it been addressed to an English instead of a French reader; and had it, instead of being addressed to a cotemporary, been designed for those who would view the transactions of the age from the distance of an hundred and fifty years.'

That which the editor seems to consider as a valid excuse for his proceeding, in our opinion, greatly aggravates his fault. If he had caused a precious specimen of antique armour to undergo thorough scouring, he would not recommend his conduct to us by boasting of the gloss which he had given to the venerable relic. The chief interest of the work arises from its being adapted to the period in which it was penned; and as to the attempt to alter the original author's language, so as to make it suit the present feelings of our pious countrymen, it is, we think, to say the least of it, impracticable. Catholics and Protestants make use in their devotions of a different language, and have each a peculiar phraseology, which alone edifies them, and with which they associate different ideas: the substance differs: there is no common language in which both can join. The editor here betrays his ignorance of philosophy, as well as of theological niceties.

The original production, to which this work refers, describes an excursion to a monastery of great celebrity, the name of which is familiar to every person who is acquainted with the ecclesiastical and literary history of France. It was written by a man of much ability and learning, who was a member of the order, and who held the institution in the highest veneration; he seems to have been inspired by his subject; he writes with uncommon force; his pictures are animated and striking; we seem to accompany him in his excursion, to behold the objects which he describes, and to be present in the scenes through which he passes; at least, such we feel to be the case in those parts of the volume before us which we suppose to be taken from the original.

In the account of the access to la Grande Chartreuse, we have no doubt that the editor has faithfully rendered his prototype: the powers of description which it displays can hardly be exceeded; and never did a subject of the same kind stand more in need of them. Let the reader imagine all that is intricate, horrid, and dangerous in a road, and all that is wild and terrific in the face of a country, and he will have some conception of the track which leads to this dreary retreat:

The desert of the Chartreuse is wholly inaccessible but by one exceedingly narrow defile. This pass, which is only a few feet wide, is indeed truly tremendous. It winds between stupendous granite rocks, which overhang above; and appear ready every moment to fall with a dreadful crash, and overwhelm the awe-struck traveller. Indeed the crags above project so far beyond the perpendicular, that they appear literally suspended without support.

They cast such an awful gloom on the path, that our horses as well as ourselves seemed impressed with fear, and ready to start back at the strangeness of the scene, and the sullen hollow echo of every footfall.

At the farther end of the defile is a most romantic mountaintorrent. We crossed it on a rude stone bridge; and by a sudden wind in the road, immediately saw before us the tremendous Alp, on which the monastery is placed. In order to give you any idea of its position, I should observe, that the mountain on which it is situated, though apparently of an inaccessible height, is yet surrounded on every side by rocks still more elevated, whose summits are covered with perpetual snows.

No sooner is the defile passed, than nothing which possesses either animal or vegetable life is seen.

No huntsman winds his horn in these dreary solitudes; no shepherd's pipe is allowed to disturb the deep repose. It is not permitted the mountaineers ever to lead their flocks beyond the entrance; and even beasts of prey seem to shrink back from the dreaded pass, and instinctively to keep away from a desert, which neither furnishes subsistence nor covert.

Nothing meets the eye but tremendous precipices and rude fragments of rock, diversified with glaciers in every possible fantastic form.

Our mules began slowly to ascend. The path is rocky, and winds round the mountain. How to describe the terrors of the ascent I know not.

• Sometimes it was only a narrow ledge, scarcely affording footing for our mules, and overhanging dizzy precipices below. At others the rocks, jutting out above, overhung till they formed a complete arch over our heads, and rendered the path so dark, that we could scarcely see to pick our way. Frequently huge fragments of rock fell with a tremendous crash from above, always threatening instant destruction, and occasionally wholly blocking up the road. We were then obliged to use tools which we brought on purpose, to make fresh stepping places. Once we had to pass over a narrow pine-plank,

which shook at every step; this was placed by way of bridge over a yawning chasm, which every moment threatened to ingulph the traveller in its marble jaws. We often passed close by the side of abysses so profound as to be totally lost in darkness; whilst the awful roaring of the waters struggling in their cavities shook the very rocks on which we trod.'

'As we ascended still higher, we were every now and then disturbed by the hoarse screams of the eagles (the only tenants of these deserts), who started from their eyries at the sudden disruption of the masses of rock above, and wheeled in long circles round the mountain.'

The travellers had some hours yet to toil, before they reached the monastery:

The difficulties in the first part of our ascent,' says the antient tourist, appeared mere trifles to those we had to encounter in the latter. The snow rendered the path so dubious, and the ice made it so slippery, that we scarcely took a step but at the imminent hazard of our lives. The constant sliding of loose stones under the snow added to the risk.'

The Chartreuse, though situated a whole league above the base of the mountain, is yet placed in a bottom, as it respects the summit. Nay, so far are the rocks elevated above its highest turrets, that it takes two hours more good travelling to attain the highest practicable point. In fact, the stupendous rocks which enclose it on every side reach far above the clouds, which mostly indeed rest upon their summits; here they form a dense shade, which, like a dark awning, completely conceals the sun from the view.

• Were this not the case, the fierce reflection of its beams would be almost insupportable. Even on the brightest day, the sun is only visible (owing to the proximity of the rocks), as from the bottom of a deep well. On the west, indeed, there is a little space, which being thus sheltered, is occupied by a dark grove of pine trees; on every other side, the rocks, which are as steep as so many walls, are not more than ten yards from the convent. By this means a dim and gloomy twilight perpetually reigns within; and it is difficult to read small print but by lamp-light, even in the noon of the brightest summer's day.'

The cells are peculiarly small and poor; the chimneys are placed in the angle formed by the corner of the room. By this me thod a large portion of heat is reflected, and equally diffused throughout the room, at a very small expence of firing. This contrivance appears absolutely indispensable in a situation where fire-wood is so remote, and the cold so extreme. The snow is generally during six months of the year higher than the tops of their garden walls. The season is considered peculiarly favourable whenever the depth of the snow does not make it unsafe to venture out during eight months in the year.

In the midst of summer they are exposed to precisely the opposite inconvenience; for about a month the heat is intense. The sun's rays are reflected on every side from bare lime-stone and granite REV. MARCH, 1815. rocks;

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rocks; and as no shade intervenes to screen them, they are concentrated in the hollow in which the monastery stands, as in a focus. At these seasons the heat may literally be compared to that of an oven; the snow and ice meanwhile melt from the heights above, and frequently fill all the lower part of the building with water.

sionally the inundation is so rapid as to carry with it all the soil which at immense labour they have brought from below, to form little gardens on the bare rock.'

We should suspect this account of exaggeration, if it were not given by a Carthusian. How strange does it seem that men should think that the Almighty can be best pleased to be served in the most inaccessible and dismal part of his creation, and where his worshippers would be exposed to most inconveniences!

It is here intimated that the rule of the Carthusians of antient times was much more rigid than that which was latterly observed. The following are some of the old regulations :

Each member of the community had a cell, with a little garden adjoining. In this cell he ate, slept, and worked; excepting during the hours of out-door exercise, which each passed in cultivating his own little garden. By this means the recluses, however numerous, had no communication with each other. They never saw each other, but in the hour of public service; excepting on a Sunday, when they were allowed to go to the proper officer, who gave them their portions of food for the week. Every one cooked his provision in his own cell.

Their only sustenance is coarse brown bread, and vegetables. They are likewise allowed to receive fish, whenever it is given them. In case of illness, they are allowed two spoonfuls of wine to a pint of water. On high festivals they are allowed cheese. The cells are provided with water by a brook, which runs close by, and which enters the cells through holes left in the wall for that purpose. They always wear hair-cloth next the skin. Whenever it is necessary to make any communication to their brethren, they do it by signs, if possible. Every cell is furnished with skins of parchment, pens, ink, and colours: and each one employs himself, for a certain time, every day, in writing or transcribing. No one is admitted to take the vows till the age of twenty.'

In what respects the former discipline had been relaxed, we are not here told. The founder of the Benedictines, of which the Carthusians are a branch, is supposed, in the institution of his order, to have had in view the hermits of Egypt and the monks of the eastern church: but it is very justly observed that,

• Whilst the eighty thousand hermits who peopled the deserts of Egypt, and the monks of Palestine, consumed their lives in fruitless contemplations, the recluses of the western church were commanded not only to seek the salvation of their own souls, but to labor with their head and hands for the benefit of society. Seven

hours

hours every day are devoted to manual or mental exertion. Seven more to religious services and contemplation. Four hours are regularly appropriated to religious studies. The six remaining suffice for food and sleep. The industry of the Benedictines soon proved a source of that opulence for which the order has been so much censured; and opulence soon drew after it the attendant evils of luxury and relaxation. Yet amidst all its abuses, society is, on the whole, highly indebted to the institution of St. Bennet.

Whilst prostrate Europe was desolated by the ravages of the Huns, the Goths, and the Vandals, the Benedictine monasteries alone opened their hospitable doors, and afforded a safe and venerated asylum, amidst the surrounding horrors of barbarism; nor did their utility cease when tranquillity was at length restored. During the Cimmerian darkness of the middle ages, the cloisters of St. Bennet were the alone repositories of classic lore, and the monks were the faithful and only guardians of the literary treasures of ancient Greece and Rome. To them we are obliged for all the originals, or transcriptions of the works of the ancients; and we are indebted to them for the only histories extant of their own times. Nor do we alone owe them literary obligations. The restoration of agriculture originated with them; and to their almost unassisted labor Europe owed its culture during a long succession of barbarous and warlike ages.

Many flourishing towns and proud cities which formerly only presented bare rocks, or dark forests, are now grown fertile and habitable by their pious and laborious hands. Many of the most luxuriant provinces of Europe received the first furrows of the plough, accompanied by the hymns of the Benedictine fathers; and various of our most famed commercial marts were retreats consecrated by them to prayer and holy rites.'

Among the austerities which distinguished the institution of La Trappe, the ensuing seem to have been the most curious:

An unbroken silence is maintained throughout the whole monastery, excepting during one hour on Sunday. Then a convocation of the brethren is held, and those who feel inclined may make a short speech, on religious subjects. No such thing, however, as conversation is ever allowed. With respect to any intercourse, each member is nearly as much insulated as if he alone existed in the universe. If two of them are ever seen standing together, or pursuing their daily work near each other, even though they should observe the strictest silence, it is considered as a violation of the rule. Perhaps some facts could scarcely be credited concerning them, which are however strictly and literally true. None but the abbot and prior know the name, age, rank, or even the native country of any of the different members of the community. Every one, at his first entrance, assumes a new name. With his former appellation, each is supposed not only to quit the world, but to abjure every recollection and memorial of his former self. No word ever drops from their lips which can possibly give the least clue, by which the others can guess who they are, or where they come from. Often

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have