I performed this journey during the months of June, July, August, and September, a distance of near one thousand miles, and had the singular good fortune to enjoy the finest weather possible. The perusal of Madame de La Roche-Jaquelin’s interesting work on the Vendean war, first gave me the idea of visiting the country called lé Bocage, the theatre of so many events, and sufferings of the brave royalists; and, as the province of lé Perche, in which is situated the ancient convent of La Trappe, was in my route to Bretagne, I resolved to make an excursion there, in order to satisfy myself of the truth of those austerities which I had read of in the Memoirs of the Count de Comminge.

The route from Paris to Mortagne, in lé Perche, leads through Marly, Versailles, Saint Cyr, Pont Chartrain, La Queue, Houdon, Marrolles, Dreux, Nonancourt, Tillieres, Verneuil, and Saint Maurice. The roads are excellent, and the country beautiful. The first post out of Paris is Nanterre. Two leagues and a half from the barrière, the village of Ruel, and the park of Malmaison, form a continuation of neat buildings. At Nanterre, in the campaign of 1815, the Prussians, after a severe engagement with the retreating troops of the French, had one regiment of cavalry cut to pieces. At Ruel, the celebrated Cardinal Richelieu had a palace, which at the Revolution became national property, and was purchased by Massena, Duc de Rivoli, Prince D’Essling, lately deceased. The Duchess still resides there. It was taken possession of by the allies in 1815, and, like Malmaison, plundered by the troops. There are extensive barracks for cavalry at this place, at present occupied by the Swiss guards.

A little farther, between Malmaison and Marly, is a beautiful chateau, formerly belonging to General Count Bertrand, who accompanied Napoleon to Saint Helena; it is now the property of M. Ouverard, the banker: nearly opposite is the residence of the celebrated Abbe Sieyes, who lives in great retirement. Whatever may have been the political transgressions of Bertrand, there is something so noble in his devotion to the fallen fortunes of his master, that it is impossible not to respect his character.

At Marly, the water-works and aqueduct for conveying the water from the river Seine to the palace and gardens of Versailles, are very curious. The palace of Marly is destroyed; but the basins, which were constructed by order of Louis XIV. are still to be seen, though in ruins. Delille, the poet, in his description of the chateau and beautiful grounds of Marly, says:

C’est la que tout est grand, que l’art n’est point timide;
La tout est enchante: c’est lé Palais d’Armide;
C’est lé jardin d’Alcine, où plutôt d’un Heros,
Noble dans sa retraite et grand dans son repos.
Qui cherche encore a vaincre, a dompter des obstacles,
Et ne marche jamais qu’entoure de miracles.

On quitting Paris, I had procured a letter of introduction from Count La Cou to Madame de Bellou, at Mortagne, a charming old lady of an ancient and noble family in that province, who had never quitted the seat of her ancestors, but remained quiet and respected during all the storms of the revolution. She received me with kindness, and politely introduced me to the Sub-Prefect, Monsieur Lamorelie, who gave me a letter of introduction to the Pere Don Augustin, Grand Prior of La Trappe. The mayor of the commune of Solignie, who happened to be at the inn, and learned from the Aubergiste, that a stranger intended visiting La Trappe, very civilly introduced himself to me, and gave me every necessary direction how to proceed through the forest; at the same time expressing his surprise that an Englishman should take the trouble, and undergo the fatigue of penetrating through such a country, an attempt which few of his own countrymen had ever ventured to make. It was singular enough that only one person in the town could be found to accompany me as a guide, or who knew any thing of the track through the forest, although the abbey is distant only twenty-five miles.

I set out with the guide just at day-break, mounted on a small Norman horse, and armed with pistols and a sword-cane, in case of meeting with wolves, which the mayor of Solignie had cautioned me against, as abounding throughout the country. We travelled, after leaving the main road, at the distance of a league, through a country scarcely appearing to be inhabited. Here and there a lone cot, a mere speck, met the eye amidst a landscape composed of nothing but barren wastes and thick forests, nearly impervious to the light. We had penetrated about half a mile through one of the latter, my attention occupied with the romantic wildness of the scene, when we were alarmed by the howling of a wolf. My guide crossed himself, and began cracking his whip with the noise and singular dexterity peculiar to the French postillions; and as we entered a part of the forest, impenetrable but for traces known only to those who are accustomed to them, he related (by way of consolation, I suppose,) several stories of the peasantry having been recently attacked, and some destroyed, by wolves; and one instance of a woman having had her infant torn from her arms, only a short time since, in the neighbourhood.

On quitting the forest the track was now and then diversified by the ruins of a solitary cottage, or the mouldering remains of a crucifix, raised by pious hands to mark some event, or to guide the traveller; and after traversing a rocky plain, covered with heath and wild thyme, where some herds of sheep and goats were browsing, attended by the shepherd, we entered the Forest of Bellegarde. This forest spreads over a large extent of country, and is so dark and intricate, that those best acquainted with it frequently lose their way. No vestige of human footsteps or of the track of animals appeared; a mark, here and there, on some of the trees, was the only direction! Pursuing our way through turnings and windings the most perplexing, we found ourselves to be on the overhanging brow of a hill, the descent of which was so precipitous, that we were under the necessity of dismounting; and by a winding path, hollowed out in its side, descended through a sort of labyrinth towards the valley, whose sides were clothed with lofty woods, rising one above the other. The valley itself is interspersed with three lakes, connected with each other, and forming a sort of moat around the ground; in the centre of which appears the venerable abbey of La Trappe, with its dark gray towers, the deep tone of whose bell had previously announced to us, that we had nearly reached our journey’s end.

The situation of this monastery was well adapted to the founder’s views, and to suggest the name it originally received of La Trappe, from the intricacy of the road which descends to it, and the difficulty of access or egress, which exists even to this day, though the woods have been very much thinned since the revolution. Perhaps there never was any thing in the whole universe better calculated to inspire religious awe than the first view of this monastery. It was imposing even to breathlessness. The total solitude the undisturbed and chilling silence, which seem to have ever slept over the dark and ancient woods the still lakes, reflecting the deep solemnity of the objects around them all impress a powerful image of utter seclusion and hopeless separation from living man, and appear formed at once to court and gratify the sternest austerities of devotion to nurse the fanaticism of diseased imaginations to humour the wildest fancies and promote the gloomiest schemes of penance and privation!

In descending the steep and intricate path the traveller frequently loses sight of the abbey, until he has actually reached the bottom; then emerging from the wood, the following inscription is seen carved on a wooden cross:

C’est ici que la mort et que la vérité
Elevent leurs flambeaux terribles;
C’est de cette demeure, au monde inaccessible,
Que l’on passe a l’eternite.

A venerable grove of oak trees, which formerly surrounded the monastery, was cut down in the revolution. In the gateway of the outer court is a statue of Saint Bernard, which has been mutilated by the republicans: he is holding in one hand a church, and in the other a spade the emblems of devotion and labour. This gateway leads into a court, which opens into a second enclosure, and around that are the granaries, stables, bakehouse, and other offices necessary to the abbey, which have all been happily preserved.

Owing to the fatigue of the journey, the heat of the weather, and having frequently been obliged to retrace our steps, from losing our way in the woods, it was late before we arrived at the abbey. To the west, under the glow of the setting sun, the forests were still tinged with the warmest yet softest colours that faded fast away; and as we descended towards the Convent, quickening our pace to reach it before the last gleams of evening departed, there was a silence around us, which at such a moment, and in such a spot, sunk sorrowfully upon the heart! Just as I reached the gate the bell tolled in so solemn and melancholy a tone that it vibrated through my whole frame, and called strongly to mind the beautiful lines in “Parisina”:

The Convent bells are ringing,
But mournfully and slow;
In the gray square turret swinging,
With a deep sound, to and fro,
Heavily to the heart they go!

On entering the gate, a lay-brother received me on his knees; and in a low and whispering voice informed me they were at vespers. The stillness and gloom of the building the last rays of the sun scarcely penetrating through its windows the deep tones of the monks chanting the responses, which occasionally broke the silence, filled me with reverential emotions which I felt unwilling to disturb: it was necessary however to present my letter of introduction, and Frere Charle, the secrétaire, soon after came out, and received me with great civility. He appeared a young man about five-and-twenty, with a handsome and prepossessing countenance. He informed me that the Pere Abbe was then absent, visiting a convent of Female Trappistes, a few leagues distant, but that he should be happy to show me every attention; and requested that in going over the Convent, I would neither speak nor ask him any questions in those places where I saw him kneel, or in the presence of any of the Monks. I followed him to the chapel, where, as soon as the service was over, the bell rung to summon them to supper. Ranged in double rows, with their heads enveloped in a large cowl, and bent down to the earth, they chanted the grace, and then seated themselves. During the repast one of them, standing, read passages from scripture, reminding them of death, and of the shortness of human existence; another went round the whole community, and on his knees kissed their feet in succession, throwing himself prostrate on the floor at intervals before the image of our Saviour; a third remained on his knees the whole time, and in that attitude took his repast. These penitents had committed some fault, or neglected their religious duties, of which, according to the regulations, they had accused themselves, and were in consequence doomed to the above modes of penance.

The refectory was furnished with long wooden tables and benches; each person was provided with a trencher, a jug of water, and a cup, having on it the name of the brother to whom it is appropriated, as Frere Paul, Frere Francois, &c. which name they assume on taking the vow. Their supper consisted of bread soaked in water, a little salt, and two raw carrots, placed by each; water alone is their beverage. The dinner is varied with a little cabbage or other vegetables: they very rarely have cheese, and never meat, fish, or eggs. The bread is of the coarsest kind possible.

Their bed is a small truckle, boarded, with a single covering, generally a blanket, no mattress nor pillow; and, as in the former time, no fire is allowed but one in the great hall, which they never approach.

Within these three years a small cabaret has been built near the Convent for the accommodation of those who may occasionally visit it, the buildings that remain being but barely sufficient for their own members, which have been rapidly increasing since its restoration. In this cabaret I took up my abode for the night, in preference to the accommodation very kindly offered me by Frere Charle, and retired to rest, wearied with the day’s excursion, and fully satisfied, that all I had heard, all I had imagined of La Trappe, was infinitely short of the reality, and that no adequate description could be given of its awful and dreary solitude;

Monsieur Elzear de Sabran, in a poem called Le Repentir, lately published, describing this Monastery, says very justly;

Témoins d’une commune et secrete souffrance,
Ces frères de douleur, martyrs de l’esperance,
D’une lente torture epuisant les degrés,
Constamment réunis, constamment separes,
L’un a l’autre etrangers, a cote l’un de l’autre,
Joignent tout ce malheur encore a tout lé nôtre,
Jamais, dans ses pareils cherchant un tendre appui,
Un coeur ne s’ouvre aux coeurs qui souffrent comme lui.

The following morning the matin bell summoned me to the Convent, and Frere Charle attended me to the burial ground; here have been deposited the remains of two of the brothers, deceased since the restoration of their order in 1814. Another grave was ready prepared; as soon as an interment takes place, one being always opened for the next that may die. The two graves were marked with simple wooden crosses, bearing the following inscriptions:

F. Nicolas. Frere donne
Décède. lé 24 Février 1816.

On the other:

F. Augustinus. Novitius die 26 mensis novembris Anno. 1816 DECESSIT. Requiescat in pace Amen.

In the centre of the cemetery is the grave of M. De Rance. His monument, with his figure carved at full length in a recumbent posture, was removed when the destruction of the old church took place; it is now a complete ruin, and a few stones alone mark the spot of its ancient founder’s grave, which is kept free from weeds with pious reverence and care. The revolution, which like a torrent swept all before it, did not even spare the dead.

While I was contemplating the ruins around me, and watching the motions of a venerable figure in silent prayer at one of the angles, the bell tolled, when both Frere Charle and the Monk dropped instantly on their knees. How forcibly were the following lines of Pope recalled to my mind!

Lo, the struck deer, in some sequester’d part,
Lies down to die, (the arrow in his heart;)
There, hid in shades, and wasting day by day,
Inly he bleeds, and pants his soul away.

The number of Monks who have taken the vow are not in proportion to the others, who are lay brothers, and Frères Donnes; in all there are about one hundred, besides novices, who are principally composed of boys, and who do not wear the same habit. The Trappistes, who compose the first order, are clothed in dark brown, with brown mantle and hood; the others are in white, with brown mantle and hood. I occasionally caught a glimpse of their faces, but it was only momentarily; and I can easily believe, with their perpetual silence, that two people well known to each other, might inhabit the same spot, without ever being aware of it, so completely are their faces hidden by their large cowl. The Trappistes, or first order, are distinguished by the appellation of Frères Convers, the others by that of Religieux de Coeur.

The hardships undergone by these monks appear almost insupportable to human nature, and notwithstanding the immense number of deaths occasioned by their rigorous austerities, the Cénobites of La Trappe, at the suppression of their order, amounted to one hundred monks, sixty-nine lay brothers, and fifty-six Frères Donnes. The inmates are classed under these three heads; but the lay brothers, who take the same vows, and follow the same rules, are principally employed as servants, and in transacting the temporal concerns of the abbey. The Frères Donnes are brothers given for a time; these last are not properly belonging to the order, they are rather, religious persons, whose business or connexions prevent their joining the order absolutely, but, who wishing to renew serious impressions, or to retire from the world for a given period, come here and conform strictly to the regulations while they remain, without wishing to join the order for life. Many persons on their first conversion, or after some peculiar dispensations of Providence, retire here for a season.

In the refectory I observed a board hung up, with “Table pour l’Office Divin,” written over it, and under it the regulations or order of service to be performed for that week, which are occasionally varied, but never diminished in their rigour. Frere Charle said, that the whole were strictly observed, and were frequently much more severe; for the Pere Abbe had instituted more austere regulations than formerly, with the only one exception, of the sick being allowed medicines; and, in cases of great debility, a small quantity of meat.

Their mode of life and regulations exist nearly in the same state as established by the founder; in reciting them, such horrible perversions of human nature and reason make it almost difficult to believe the existence of so severe an order, and lead us to wonder at the artificial miseries, which the ingenuity of pious but morbid enthusiasm can inflict upon itself. The abstinence practised at La Trappe allows not the use of meat, fish, eggs, or butter; and a very limited quantity of bread and vegetables. They only eat twice a day; which meals consist of a slender repast at about eleven in the morning, and two ounces of bread and two raw carrots in the evening: both together do not at any time exceed twelve ounces. The same spirit of mortification is observable in their cells, which are very small, and have no other furniture than a bed of boards, a human skull, and a few religious books.

Silence is at all times rigidly maintained; conversation is never permitted: should two of them even be seen standing near each other, though pursuing their daily labour, and preserving the strictest silence, it is considered as a violation of their vow, and highly criminal; each member is therefore as completely insulated as if he alone existed in the Monastery. None but the Pere Abbe knows the name, age, rank, or even the native country of any member of the community: every one, at his first entrance, assumes another name, as I before observed, and with his former appellation, each is supposed to abjure, not only the world, but every recollection and memorial of himself and connexions: no word ever escapes from his lips by which the others can possibly guess who he is, or where he comes from; and persons of the same name, family, and neighbourhood, have often lived together in the Convent for years, unknown to each other, without having suspected their proximity.

The abstraction of mind practised at La Trappe, and the prevention of all external communication with the world is such, that few but the superior know any thing of what is passing in it. It has been related, that so little information of the affairs of mankind did these people receive, that the death of Louis XIV. was not known there for years, except by the Father Abbe; and such was their state of seclusion, that a Nobleman having taken a journey of five hundred miles, purposely to see the Monastery, could scarcely find in the neighbouring villages one person who knew where it was situated. Indeed, at the present day, it is quite astonishing how little is known of this place, and how very few, even among those in its immediate vicinity, have ever visited it.

On the great festivals they rise at midnight; otherwise they are not called until three quarters past one: at two they assemble in the Chapel, where they perform different services, public and private, until seven in the morning, according to the regulations of the week, as exemplified in the “Table pour l’Office Divin”. At this hour they go out to labour in the open air. Their work is of the most fatiguing kind, is never intermitted, winter or summer, and admits of no relaxation from the state of the weather.

When their labour is over, they go into Chapel for a short time, until eleven o’clock, the hour of repast; at a quarter after eleven they read till noon; and afterwards lie down to rest for an hour: they are then summoned into the garden, where they again work until three; then read again for three quarters of an hour, and retire for another quarter to their private meditations, by way of preparation for vespers, which begin at four, and end at six; at seven they again enter the Chapel, and at eight they leave it, and retire to rest.

At the hour of their first repast, I again attended Frere Charle to the eating-room, where nearly the same forms were observed as at their evening-meal; a small basin of boiled cabbage, two raw carrots, and a small piece of black bread, with a jug of water, constituted their solitary meal. A Monk, during the whole time, read sentences from Scripture; and a small hand-bell filled up the intervals of his silence, and proclaimed a cessation from eating, or movement of any sort. Over the door of the Refectory I observed the following inscription in Latin: “Better is a dinner of herbs, where love is, than a stalled ox, and hatred therewith”.

Frere Charle invited me to partake of the frugal fare of his order. He said, “You will forgive my laying before you a vegetable repast; it is all that I have in my power to offer you, but you will confer a pleasure by accepting it”. It was impossible to refuse, for I felt I should appear ungrateful after the attentions that had been shown me, if I had. Frere Charle conducted me into an apartment, in which I was gratified to observe a well executed portrait of the Abbe de Rance, which, at the destruction of the Monastery, had been preserved by the surgeon of the ancient fraternity, who continued to reside there until the period of his death, four or five years since. This person was greatly respected by all the people round the country, and resorted to by all who sought relief either from sickness or misery! Had the other brothers followed his example of remaining, in all probability their Convent might have been spared, for the accumulation of wealth could not be laid to their charge; and as their monastic vows obliged them to remain within the Monastery, they were most unlikely to incur the suspicion of any political intrigues. How indeed could men, whose whole existence was passed in solitude and penance, and who never conversed even among themselves, have been dangerous to those turbulent spirits who had overturned the government and all the religious institutions of their country!

In the portrait, the Abbe is dressed in the habit of the order, a white gown and hood, and sitting with a book before him, in which he appears to be writing; on the same table, before him, are a crucifix and a skull. The following inscription is painted in one corner by the artist:

“ARM’D. LE BOUTTHILLIER DE RANCE. S’R SCAUANT. et célèbre Abbe Reformateur De La Trappe. Mort en 1700. a près de 77 ans, et de 40 ans de la plus austere penitence”.

The Monastery of La Trappe is one of the most ancient Abbeys of the order of Bénédictins: it was established under the pontificate of Innocent the Second, during the reign of Louis VII. in the year 1140, by Rotrou, the second Count of Perche, and is said to have been built to accomplish a vow, made in the peril of shipwreck. In commemoration of this circumstance, the roof was made in the shape of the bottom of a ship inverted. It was founded under the auspices of Saint Bernard, the first Abbot of Clairvaux, the celebrated preacher in favour of the Crusades. Many ages, however, had elapsed, since its first institution, when the Father Abbot de Rance, the celebrated reformer of his time, determined to become a member, whose singular history and conversion was the subject of a poem by Monsieur Barthe.

The Abbe de Rance became a Monk of the Bénédictin order of La Trappe, in 1660, and his conversion was attributed to a lady whom he tenderly loved. They had been separated for some time by her parents; she having written to him to remove her for the purpose of becoming united in marriage, he set off, but, during his journey, she was seized with a fever and died. Totally ignorant of the circumstance, he approached the house under cover of the night, and got into her apartment through the window. The first object he beheld was the coffin which contained the body of his beloved mistress! It had been made of lead, but being found to be too short, they had, with unheard of brutality; severed her head from her body! Horror-struck with the shocking spectacle, he, from that hour, renounced all connexion with the world, and imposed upon himself the most rigid austerities, which he continued until his death, forty years after.

When M. de Rance undertook the superintendance of the Monastery, it exhibited a melancholy picture, of the greatest declension, and it is curious to peruse the steps by which he effected so wonderful a change; and how men could ever feel it either an inclination or a duty to enter upon a mode of life so different from the common ways of thinking or feeling.

The Monks of La Trappe were not only immersed in luxury and sloth, but were abandoned to the most scandalous excesses; most of them lived by robbery, and several had committed assassinations on the travellers who had occasion to traverse the woods. The neighbourhood shrunk with terror from the approach of men who never went abroad unarmed, and whose excursions were marked with bloodshed and violence. The Banditti of La Trappe was the appellation by which they were most generally distinguished. Such were the men amongst whom M. de Rance resolved to fix his abode; all his friends endeavouring to dissuade him from an undertaking, they deemed alike hopeless and dangerous.

“Unarmed, and unassisted,” says his historian, “but in the panoply of God, and by his Spirit, he went alone amidst this company of ruffians, every one of whom was bent on his destruction. With undaunted boldness, he began by proposing the strictest reform, and not counting his life dear to him, he described the full intent of his purpose, and left them no choice but obedience or Expulsion”.

“Many were the dangers M. de Rance underwent; plans were laid, at various times, to poison him, to waylay and assassinate him, and even once one of his monks shot at him; but the pistol, which was applied close to his head, flashed in the pan, and missed fire. By the good providence of God all these plans were frustrated, and M. de Rance not only brought his reform to bear, but several of his most violent persecutors became his most stedfast adherents; many were, after a short time, won over by his piety the rest left the Monastery. He especially, who had shot at M. de Rance, became eminently distinguished for his piety and learning, and was afterwards Sub-Prior of La Trappe”.

M. de Rance lived forty years at the head of this singular society, and the same ardor and piety continued to distinguish him to the last. The excess of self-denial and discipline, exercised by this order, which might readily be doubted, became more known, especially to this country, at the time of the French Revolution, when they shared the fate of dissolution with the various religious orders in France. On that occasion many of them sought an asylum in England, and were settled in Dorsetshire, where they received the kind protection and benevolent assistance of Mr. Weld, until the restoration enabled most of them to return; and, surprising as it may appear in the present age, notwithstanding the perpetual violence imposed by their regulations on every human feeling, many are found anxious to enter the establishment.

When I was about to take my leave of Frere Charle, he said, “he hoped I was pleased with my humble fare: to such as it was I had been truly welcome”. Indeed he had treated me with the kindest, most unaffected hospitality; he had laid the table, spread the dishes before me, stood the whole time by the side of my chair, and pressed me to eat: How could I not be thankful? I requested he would be seated, but he observed that it was not proper for him to be so. His manners and general deportment bespoke him a well-bred gentleman; and when I ventured to ask if I might make a memorandum of his name, he bowed his head with meekness and resignation, and said, “I have now no other but that which was bestowed on me when I took the vow, which severs me from the world for ever!” It was impossible not to be affected at the manner and tone of voice in which he uttered this. When I said that perhaps he would like that I should leave an acknowledgment in writing, expressive of the gratitude I felt at my kind and hospitable reception, he appeared much pleased, and instantly procured me paper. I left with him the following lines:

“Convent of La Trappe, July 20, 1817.

“I have this day visited the Convent of La Trappe, and in the absence of the Grand Prior, to whom I brought a letter of introduction from Monsieur Lamorelie, Sub-Prefect of Mortagne, I was received and have been entertained by Frere Charle Marie, his Secretary.

“It is quite impossible that I can do justice to the kind, polite, and hospitable reception I have met with from him, by any expressions in writing. I can only observe, that it has made an impression on my mind never to be effaced! If these worthy and pious people have abandoned the world for the solitude and austerities of La Trappe, they have not forgotten, in their own self-denial, the benevolence and benignity due to strangers. May their self-devotion meet with its reward!”

I now took my leave of the Convent with feelings which I will not pretend to describe, but which, together with the impressions I received when I first entered it, and the whole circumstances of my visit, I am conscious of retaining while “Memory holds her seat”. The following lines, by P. Mandard, on quitting La Trappe, convey a very faithful and poetical picture of this extraordinary solitude:

Saint desert, séjour pur et paisible,
Solitude profonde, au vice inaccessible;
Impetueux torrens, et vous sombres forêts,
Recevez mes adieux, comme aussi mes regrets!
Toujours epris de vous, respectable retraite,
Puisse-je, dans lé cours d’une vie inquiète,
Dans ce flux eternel de folie et d’erreur,
Ou flotte tristement nôtre malheureux coeur;
Puisse-je, pour charmer mes ennuis et mes peines,
Souvent fuir en esprit au bord de vos fontaines,
Égarer ma pensee au milieu de vos bois,
Par un doux souvenir rappeler mille fois
De vos Saints habitans les touchantes images,
Pénétrer, sur leurs pas, dans vos grottes sauvages,
Me placer sur vos monts, et la, prennant l’essort,
Aller chercher en Dieu ma joie, et mon trésor!