In travelling on the Continent with a friend, during the summer of 1817, we made a pilgrimage to the Grande Chartreuse, reaching it from the side of the Echelles.  It was an interesting moment; for at that very time the scattered remains of the society had collected together, and were just come again to take possession of and reinhabit their old abode.  And being their jour de spaciment, the whole society was before us, as they returned from their little pilgrimage up the mountain, where they had been visiting St. Bruno’s chapel and spring; and it was impossible not to think with respect of the self-devotion of these men, who, after having for many years partaken (in a greater or less degree) of the habits and comforts of a civilised life, had thus voluntarily withdrawn themselves once more to their stern yet beautiful solitude (truly, as Gray calls it, a locus severus), there to practise the severities of their order, without, it may be supposed, any possessions or means, except what they were themselves enabled to throw into a common stock; for nearly the whole of their property had been seized by the government during the Revolution, and was still held by it.

Our conversation was almost wholly with two of the fathers (they use the prefix Dom), whose names I forget, and have mislaid my memorandum of them.  One of these had been in England, when driven out; and was there protected by the Weld family in Dorsetshire, of whom he spoke in terms of sincere gratitude and respect.  The other told us that he was a native of Chambery, and had done no more than cross the mountains to get home.  On asking him for Gray’s Ode, he shook his head, saying, the Revolution had robbed them of that, and every thing else; but repeated the first line of it, so that there was no mistake as to the object of my inquiry.  From what occurred afterwards, it appears, however, to be questionable whether he knew more than the first line; for I was informed that later English travellers had been attempting, from a laudable desire of diffusing information, to write out the whole in the present Album of the Chartreuse, by contributing a line or stanza, as their recollection served; but that, after all, this pic-nic composition was not exactly what Gray wrote.  Of course, had our friend the Dom known how to supply the deficiencies, he would have done it.

There is a translation of the Ode by James Hay Beattie, son of the professor and poet, printed amongst his poems, which is much less known than its merits deserve.  And I would beg to suggest to such of your readers as may in the course of their travels visit this monastery, that books (need I say proper ones?) would be a most acceptable present to the library; also, that there is a regular Album kept, in which those who, in this age of “talent” and “intelligence,” consider themselves able to write better lines than Gray’s, are at liberty to do so if they please.

A very happy conjecture appeared in the European Magazine some time between 1804 and 1808, as to the conclusion of the stanzas to Mr. Beattie.  The corner of the paper on which they had been written as torn off; and Mr. Mason supplies what is deficient in the following manner, the words added by him being printed in Italics:—­