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.