MONKS and monasteries belong so exclusively to the old world and the olden time, that it is difficult to produce them before the mind as they were in the palmy days of their prosperity. The monastic establishments which still remain in some parts of Europe are but monasteries "of shreds and patches," miserable, shriveled representatives of the monasteries of the middle ages. One would like to know from some vivid authentic description what a convent was in its prime, "when the cloisters were filled with devout servants of the rule of St. Benedict," when the abbot governed like a Lord with despotic authority from which there lay no appeal, and the fruits of broad acres were gathered by the labors of the Brethren into the cellar and the larder of the establishment. All this belonged to a state of things which happily has passed, or is fast passing away before the light of a better civilization; yet the mistaken piety which led such multitudes to seek the retirement of the monk's cell as a means to the more acceptable service of God, spread itself over so wide a space in history, and exercised so potent an influence, both for good and evil, that everything pertaining to it is matter of legitimate curiosity.

It is well known that among the famous monasteries of the Cistercian Order, none was so famous as that of Clairvaux in France, founded and governed by the great St. Bernard.

Near the beginning of the twelfth century, Bernard, then a very young man, together with near a score of recruits converted by his zeal, joined the new and feeble congregation of reformed monks at Citeaux. His signal devotion and eloquence soon gave eclat to the convent, and novices began to flock to it for admission. Citeaux became too strait for them; and two years after his own profession, Bernard led out a colony to found a new monastery, of which he, a small, pale young man, emaciated by fasting and vigils, was appointed abbot. The site fixed upon was a valley in the county of Champagne, something more than a hundred miles south-east of Paris. The ground had been given to the abbot of Ci

teaux by Count William of Champagne on his setting off for the crusades. It was a wild, sequestered region, in the midst of extensive forests; and on this account a favorite haunt of bandits. Its ill reputation had given it the name of Vallis Absinthialis, or Bitter-dale. On being transferred to holy personages, it was rebaptized Claravallis, or Fairvale.

Wild as the spot was, the monks could perceive that it possessed great natural capabilities; and their yet unbroken energy soon subdued and improved it, till the desert blossomed like a garden.

Of this monastery, in the days of its greatest outward prosperity, we have a considerably full description remaining. It is found among the works of Bernard, though by an anonymous and later hand. The gossiping, good-natured manner of the writer, with his rather elaborate attempts at ornament and pleasantry, set before us the picture of a perfectly well-fed, easy, and contented monk, seen through the vista of six hundred years. Indeed, a monk must have been a very unreasonable animal if he was other than contented when supplied with plenty to eat and drink, taxed with light labor, and surrounded by all the pleasant sights and sounds spoken of in the ensuing description.

If you would know the situation and appearance of Clairvaux (our friend proceeds), the account that follows will serve as a mirror in which you may behold it at a glance. The abbey stands in a level area, between two ridges of hills, which converge to an angle in its front. One of these acclivities is admirably adapted to the cultivation of fruit-trees, and the other to the vine. So our basket is replenished from the right hand, and our cup from the left. The sides and summits of these hills, elevated and quiet, afford a most agreeable field of labor for the monks in the various processes of vine and fruit culture. There are thickets to be cleared away. Brushwood is to be collected, and bound in bundles for the fire. Weeds, stumps, and undergrowth are to be extirpated; and the wild vines which

burden the branches, or strangle the roots of the trees, are to be removed; that nothing may hinder the sturdy oak from tossing its head toward the stars, the flexile ash from shooting upward, and the spreading beech-tree from branching forth its arms on all sides.

In the rear of the monastery extends a broad plain, an ample portion of which is enclosed within the abbey wall. Within this, grow a large number of fruit-trees of different kinds, furnishing repast and shelter to the inmates of the convent. Just within this grove, stands the Infirmary, or that portion of the building devoted to the aged, feeble, and convalescent Brethren; inviting them forth to wander in its avenues, or repose beneath its shade. The sick man sits upon the verdant turf, and while the dog-star raging, bakes the thirsty earth elsewhere, he is solaced with the cool retreat, and snuffs with returning vigor the sweet scent of the herbage. The verdure of the groves, and the exuberant beauty of the hanging fruit, gives a feast to the eye, while the ear is charmed with the sweet notes of feathered songsters; so that he may truly say, in the words of the spouse, "I sat under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste." Thus for one affliction the Divine mercy provides numerous solaces; while the pure sky smiles above, and the earth breathes odors around, and we drink in pleasure with all the senses at once.

Where the orchard terminates, begins the garden; divided into beds, or, I might say, into islands, by the streamlets that flow between. For though the water may seem slumbering, it glides on with a gentle current. Here also is furnished to the Infirm Brethren a most pleasing spectacle, when they seat themselves on the margin of the clear stream, and watch the sportive tribes below floating in the glassy wave, or clearing it together in a phalanx. The water, thus conducted through the garden, serves both for irrigation and the breeding of fish; and is fed with unexhausted supplies from the river Alba (Aube). This famous and noble stream, taking its course through the abbey grounds, leaves everywhere, by its faithful service, a blessing behind it; submitting to divide its forces and labor for the good of man as it flows onward. Pouring half its volume through an artificial winding channel cut by the labor of the Brethren, it meanders by the abbey as if to salute the inmates, and apologize for having come in part only, for want of a broader bed. And here at its first introduction it lays vigorous hold of the mill-wheel, and busies itself in preparing our bread. Careful and troubled about many things like Martha, it at the same time drives round the ponderous stone, and agitates

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the sieve which separates the finer from the coarser flour.

Flowing hence, it pours itself in an adjoining building, into the brewer's caldron, and consents to undergo the operation of boiling in order to furnish potations to the Brethren; if perchance a sterile harvest has ill repaid the labors of the vinedresser, and the daughter of the barley-field must supply the place of the grape. Even with this it does not get its discharge from service; but the fullers, whose shop stands next, invite the stream to enter their premises; reasonably insisting that as in the mill and brewery it has been providing for the wants of the inner man, it should also lend a hand in providing for the comfort of the outer. To this modest request the obliging river makes no objection; but laying hold of the fulling wheel, and alternately elevating and depressing the huge pestles, or, if you choose, mallets, or, better still, wooden legs, (which designation best suits the saltatory business of the fullers,) it relieves the Brethren of a most wearisome labor, and (if I may be pardoned a joke) bears the penance due to their sins.

Gracious God! what consolations dost Thou furnish Thy poor servants! What alleviations of the toil that would otherwise overwhelm them with fatigue! For how many burdened horses must stoop their backs, and how many strong arms weary their muscles to accomplish the labor which this sympathizing river gaily performs! And when all is ended, it asks nothing for its labor which it has labored under the sun, except to be permitted to flow freely on its way; and, indeed, having whirled around so many rapid wheels, it takes its departure, so broken into foam, that one would think it had itself been ground, and rendered softer in the process.

Leaving the fullers' shop, the stream next enters the tannery, and there applies itself with laborious industry to the care of the Brethren's soles (calceamenta); and thence distributing itself into numerous branches, it flows with a busy assiduity through various offices and rooms, everywhere asking what work they have for it to do, and applying itself without hesitation to the manifold occupations of cooking, sifting, turning, washing, sprinkling, and ironing. Finally, to complete the entire round of its good works, and leave nothing to be done after it, it condescends to the office of scavenger, sweeps away all filth and refuse, and leaves everything clean behind it. And now, having energetically accomplished

*It is acknowledged that this poor pun is not to be credited to the author; but it is so much in his manner that he could hardly have missed it, had there been any suitable Latin sound conveying the double idea.

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to rejoin its parent stream, and carry, as it were, the thanks of Clairvaux for the generous assistance lent, and so pouring back into the main channel the supply that had been diverted for our use, gives stimulus and momentum to the debilitated river.

Having witnessed the meeting of the parted waters, let us return to the channels and ducts we have left behind, which, being fed from the river, are conducted in various directions around to fertilize the fields. This furnishes a sure and ample provision against the droughts of summer; our meadows having no need of the borrowed distillations of the clouds, while fed by the kindness of the bountiful river These streamlets or trenches, having performed their ministry, are absorbed in the stream that emitted them, and thus the entire Alba, reunited, flows downward to its destination.

The

But as we have now conducted it at considera ble length on its way, and it returneth (as Solomon says) to its own place, let us return to whence we set out, and skip with a rapid description over the broad level of the meadows. varied beauties of this spot comprise much that is adapted to relieve the wearied mind and solace anxious grief; the smiling landscape, the verdant lawn, the fragrant mead, enkindling devotion in those who seek the Lord, and leading us to the contemplation of those heavenly joys for which we sigh. As we behold the beauty and scent the fragrance of the flowers, the meadows rehearse to us stories of ancient days. We think of the fragrance of Jacob's garments, which was likened to that of a fruitful field, and of the glory of Solomon, who, with all his wealth and wisdom, was not to be compared to the lilies. Thus, while we perform the labors of the field, our souls are refreshed by the suggestion of hidden mysteries.

This meadow is watered by the Alba flowing through the midst of it, and sendeth its roots unto the moisture; therefore it shall not fear when heat cometh. Its extent, moreover, is such that when the sun has dried the shorn and grassy fleece into hay, it suffices to weary the whole convent for twice ten days. Nor is the labor of haying left simply to the monks, but employs an immense number of hands beside, both novices, and such as are lent and hired. The river divides this meadow into two farms; standing as arbiter between them, and allotting to the dwellers on either side their respective shares of labor. The farm-houses you might suppose to be monasteries rather than the habitation of converts; were it not that implements of rustic labor, yokes,

ants, or perchance the absence of books. For as to the buildings themselves, such is their situation, their beauty and extent, that they might be taken for a populous convent of monks.

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In that part of the meadow which approaches nearest the wall, the dry land has been converted into a liquid lake, and where the sweating m formerly swung his scythe, there the watermanbrother (frater aquarius), seated on his lively wooden horse, spurs him with his light oar over the glassy plain, and directs his course whither he will. Beneath is extended the entangling net, and the barbed and baited hook to catch unwary nibblers; a caution to us to shun ensnaring pleasures which must be bought with pain; a sad certainty of which none can be ignorant save such as have either never sinned, or never repented. May God keep us far from those haunts of pleasure, by whose portal Death stands in waiting! which, according to the sage Boethius, tempt us as spilt honey tempts the flying bee-to entangle him fatally in its glutinous embrace. The banks of the pond are secured from washing away by the intertwining roots of shrubs and vines. The river flowing by at a short distance serves as a feeder; constantly furnishing fresh supplies through a narrow inlet. A corresponding outlet at the opposite end carries off the excess to rejoin the stream, and thus the water is always kept at the same level.

This highly ambitious and flowery description of the charms of Clairvaux (which perhaps may have been intended, like the above-mentioned hook, to catch unwary novices) closes with a profuse eulogy of a certain fountain, which the good monk thanks for the refreshment and solace it had often afforded him. Not only had it many a time quenched his thirst, but it had condescended even to wash his hands and feet, and he apologizes for mentioning it last, when, in gratitude for all its favors, he should have given it the post of honor. It was a modest fountain, for it flowed a long ways under ground (as most other fountains do, I suppose), winding hither and thither, as if reluctant to expose itself to the broad stare of daylight, and finally only consents to appear under the cover of an arbor. It had the distinguishing characteristic of a good fountain, that it burst forth opposite the rising sun, so as to partake of the first rosy influences of the morning; and finally, it was a very pious fountain, apparently having no other object in life than to minister comfort to the Brethren; for soon after quitting the monastery, it loses itself in the valley below and disappears.

We have here a very pleasant picture certainly

of the externals of monastic life in the thirteenth century; of the local habitation and belongings of a Cistercian community. These good Brethren had an eye to the picturesque as well as to the substantial. They must have not only rich hills and gushing streams, and smiling meadows, but well-filled bins and larders, and wellstocked fish-ponds. The Brethren could not be expected to serve God for naught. Occasional voluntary abstinence was no doubt good, but it was good also to have on hand plenty of the warm and ripe daughter of the grape and of the barley-field, to treat resolution, and make glad the heart saddened by penance. When monks got to be so very comfortable, planted down in the sunniest spots of France, with groves of fruittrees enclosing their convent, and the vine hanging her rich clusters by their windows, and a most accommodating river to do all their heavy and dirty work, it is no wonder they grew luxurious and lazy. A modicum of labor sufficed for the abundant supply of their wants, and a cellar bountifully stored with the fat and the sweet was not favorable to devotion. All abbots, more

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over, were not like Bernard; rigid, holy, mortified men, trampling the flesh under their feet. Monks grown luxurious and lazy would not love such abbots, nor choose them. Discipline would be relaxed, either willingly, or perforce. The superior would grow indulgent, or if not, the monks would grow mutinous. Work and pray, they would not, according to the rigidity of the old Cistercian rule; and so matters rapidly went from bad to worse. Of a convent in such a decayed state of discipline and otherwise damaged, the reader may find a description in the old monkish chronicle that forms the basis of Mr.

Carlyle's speculations in "Past and Present."

"Yet more; round many a convent's blazing fire,
Unhallowed threads of revelry are spun ;
There Venus sits disguised like a nun,
While Bacchus, clothed in semblance of a Friar,
Pours out his choicest beverage high and higher.
The domination of the sprightly juice
Spreads high conceits to madding Fancy dear,
Till the arched roof, with resolute abuse
Of its grave echoes, swells a choral strain,
Whose votive burden is, 'Our kingdom's here.'"'
WORDSWORTH.

"To everything there is a season;" and, in its season, fitness and beauty. How beautiful and lovely to a refined mind is the opening spring! What a pure and exquisite gratification is felt, when the chilling blasts of winter have given place to the balmy breezes from the south, when "the winter is past, the rain is over and gone, flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle [dove] is heard in our land!"

the

To one who for months has been shut up in the crowded city, where everything exhibits the hand of man, and God is seen only in the nocturnal heavens, "afar off" and not at hand-how refreshing is it to breathe the pure air, and, with enraptured vision, to drink in the verdant and floral beauties of fields and forests, and winding streamlets, with their shady banks! More especially if the coming spring has found us on the couch of languishing, and disease has for weeks with relentless hand shut us out from all communion with the beautiful earth, while in the meantime all Nature has put on its verdant robes and gay attire-how inexpresibly pleasing, then, to rise from the bed of sickness, and go forth to revel in the glories of the full-blown spring! Never shall I forget my own experience after such a visitation of disease at the commencement of the season of flowers and fruits. As I gazed on the charming landscape, it seemed more like the work of enchantment than the course of Nature. I thought of Aladdin and his wonderful lamp; a fairy palace had risen before me-the work, as it were, of a single

THE LEAF!-How much do we owe to the Leaf! What is it, that, through the long months of spring, and summer, and early autumn, clothes the earth and the forests with that delicate verdure that is so grateful to the eye and heart? It is the leaf, in forms and shades almost infinitely diversified, that gives the earth its raiment, and clothes the landscape with such attractions. Beneath the burning midsummer sky, how grateful the grove's umbrageous retreat, or the shade of a wide-spread tree! It is the leaf to which we owe this refreshment.

The use of the leaf ends not here. The varied products of the vegetable world would be unknown were it not for the leaf. What the lungs are to animal life, the leaf is to vegetable. It is this, by which the dependent plant imbibes, in seasons of drought, the needful moisture, and by which, at all times, it inhales the light and air without which it could not subsist or live; without a plentiful supply of which, it could not grow, nor its flower unfold, nor its fruit be formed and matured.

How useful is the leaf! What a valuable servant to man! God has made it very beautiful, and admirably adapted it to the comfort and sustenance of man. When you take up the most fragile leaf, therefore, and look upon its cuticle, its pores, its cellular structure, its nerves, and