can be plainly discerned. A semicircle of
hills shuts in the whole.

According to the public direction, I ring a
bell, whose noisy tongue breaks the silence
harshly; and presently the gate is opened
by a young man dressed in a long dark habit,
to whom I state my wish to see the interior
of the monastery, and mention the long
journey I have made for the purpose. He
desires me to enter; and, bidding me be
seated, says he will go and inform the guest-
master. I find myself in a small entrance-
hall shut in, on one side, by the outer gate,
and, on the other, by another gate leading
into the interior of the monastery, on which
is a notice to the effect that no females are
permitted to cross its threshold. I have
barely time to observe these things before the
guest-master enters, and bowing courteously,
bids me Good-day. He is a tall, light-
complexioned young man, of good address and
pleasant manners. I again state my desire
to look over the monastery, when he bids me
follow him, and leads the way into the
visitors' room, a neat, well-carpeted apartment,
with suitable prints on the walls, a
bookshelf, and a fireplace. Here I sign my
name, and then follow my conductor up a
flight of stairs into the guest-chamber,
which is large, lofty, and well-lighted. The
most noticeable article in it is a large oil
painting, depicting a passage in the life of a
certain man who gave all his wealth to the
church, and became a monk. He is
represented as coming home from sheep-shearing
with the fleeces over his shoulders, when he
is met by some of his former gay companions,
who entreat him to return to the pleasures
of the world. One has hold of the monk's
hands, and is endeavouring to drag him
away; while another sits by on horseback,
with a hooded falcon on his wrist. In the
background, a cripple is receiving alms at
the gate of the monastery. Here is also
the Tree of the Genealogy of the Church
of Rome, the trunk of which is divided into
sections, each of which represents a century,
and contains the names of the popes who
flourished during that period. From each
section a branch springs forth, bearing, in the
shape of fruit, the names of those worthies
who lived during that particular century,
and the names of the cities where great
conclaves were held. Separate from the tree,
and forming a scroll-work of sprigs lopped
off the parent trunk, is a list of all the
heresies that have sprung into existence
from the first to the nineteenth century,
the last of these being Mormonism. Then
there is a large plan of Jerusalem, as it
was in the time of Christ. More curious
still, there are two illuminated missals, six
hundred years old, bound in oak boards,
every letter of which is as beautifully and
as perfectly formed as if printed by the
press. One of these books is entirely the
production of one monk. It is marvellous
to think what a vast amount of industry
and perseverance he must have had to leave
such a record behind him.

What next? Here, in a glass case, among
a heap of old coins and other treasure-trove,
I find a few calcined bones, carefully exposed
on a piece of cardboard, and covering a space
about the size of half-a-crown, said to be the
bones of Scipio Africanus, and to have been
found in an urn dug up in Rome.

Descending, we pass out into an open grass-
grown quadrangle, where the guest-master
points out the infirmary. Through a door on
the opposite side, we enter a corridor leading
into the church. The church secular is divided
from that portion where the monks worship,
by a wooden rood-screen. The building will
be nearly as large again as at present, when
completed: a consummation delayed by the
want of funds. The interior shows little or
no exuberance of ornament, but is fitted up
in a neat and appropriate style. The monks
attend matins here every week-day morning
at two o'clock, at which hour their day
begins; and on Sundays at one, when there is
a sermon preached in addition to the seven
daily Latin services, which they attend.
Next, through some dim, cold cloisters, where
the monks can walk, and read, and meditate
when the weather does not admit of out-door
occupations. The walls are hung with French
prints of scriptural subjects; and here and
there an appropriate text is painted, such
as: "Men come here to learn how to live
and how to die." The rule of silence is
strictly observed in this monastery, no brother
being permitted to address another (except
the abbot, guest-master, and one or two
more), without the abbot's permission; and
not a word is spoken by any one after the
angelus has sounded, till next morning. This
rule applies to strangers also, so long as they
are within the dim precincts of the cloisters;
but no longer. I take a glance through the
glass-eye in the door of the well-stocked
library, in passing; and, soon after, find
myself in the refectory, down each side of
which is a form and a long table, where are
ranged a number of small mugs of water,
each covered with a napkin, and a small slip
of wood bearing the monastic name of the
brother for whom it is intended. A knife, a
spoon, and two thick slices of bread by each
mug, complete the service. No— there is
a solitary withered apple opposite one
brother's place: the very shadow of a dessert.
No meat, no fish, no eggs; nothing but bread,
water, milk, cheese, and fruit, with
sometimes a little table-beer. Only one meal a
day in winter, and two in summer; except
for such of the lay-brethren as are employed
in agricultural pursuits; who have an extra
meal allowed them. At the upper end of the
refectory is a reading-desk, where a brother
stands, and reads from the Scriptures, during
the simple repast.

Forward into the chapter-house; where the