that a monk's day begins at half past four | cited at half past eight, makes the sixth A.M., and that breakfast is a very light and and last time that the monks assemble in hasty matter, taken without formality the church. They spend at least three somewhere between eight and nine, no hours and a half every day in this choral one will be surprised to hear that English duty on festivals much more; it is one stomachs are ready for their principal of the principal employments of monastic meal at half past twelve. life. Let us go through a day. At five min- This order of the day never varies, with utes to five precisely, for punctuality is a the single exception that on Sundays and great matter, the big bell begins tolling very great festivals the high mass takes for Matins. This is the modern equiva-place at ten o'clock, for the convenience lent of what used to be called the mid- of those "outsiders" who frequent the night office. In the thirteenth century abbey church, and who might think the hour was two A.M.; now it is five; in "nine" rather early. some monasteries on the Continent it is four. But in those days they went to bed at sundown or soon after six, whilst we moderns think nine o'clock early. When the tower clock has ceased striking five, all rise, at a signal given by the superior, from the places where they have been kneeling and waiting in the chancel, and the Matin service begins. On ordinary days it lasts an hour and a quarter, and has not much about it of ceremony or ritual that could catch the eye of an onlooker. But on festivals it is an almost gay scene, and must begin earlier on account of its greater protraction. On such occasions a large number are arrayed in alb and cope; the organ accompanies the chant, and sometimes the voices of boys mingle with the heavier tones of the monks. These little choristers are se lected from the abbey school, of which more anon. The remainder of the day is filled up in divers ways, in the discharge of the vari ous occupations which each has assigned to him. From the end of Compline till the end of Prime of the following morning is a time of the strictest silence and recollection; not a word must be spoken for anything short of the gravest necessity, and no work or business is done. It is the time for the nightly rest, and for meditation and private prayer. But when Prime is finished the active work of the day begins. Foremost among this is the work of teaching: for the monks of these days still maintain their ancient tradition of education, and the school is an almost integral part of a monastic establishment. If you walk up to the north end of the east cloister you will find a wooden-framed screen filled with colored or ground glass, blocking your way, and filling the whole space up to the centre of the vaulted roof. If you open the slip latch on this inside, you pass through into the north cloister, and as you close the door behind you, you will see that without the pass-key there is no means of opening it. There is a similar screen and fastened door at the end of the west cloister. The north cloister communicates with the "college," as it is called, a long wing of buildings extending along the whole north side of the quadrangle, and fitted up for the accommodation of the students of the abbey school. The school need not be further described be Prime is chanted at half past seven; the Conventual Mass that is, the public mass of the day—is sung at nine o'clock, and at this the whole school assists. On festivals this is the great celebration of the day, and is more or less solemn in proportion to the greatness of the feast: a sermon often accompanies it. The next time that the community is called to the church is for the office of None, already mentioned; and after this, at half past four, comes the evening office, or Vespers. This, like the mass, is sung with organ accompaniment, and these two, with Mat-yond saying that it is here several of the ins, make up the more solemn of the daily services, at which all are more stringently bound to be present. The office of Compline,, the closing prayer of the day, re monks spend many hours of the working day in the dispensing of Latin, Greek, mathematics, the modern languages, and those other multitudinous subjects which nowadays are thought necessary for the formation of the boyish mind between the ages of twelve and twenty. the precentor, who has the care of the choral music- no slight charge in a monastery; he must not only drill and Walking westwards down the north instruct the choristers and novices, but cloister, you turn into the west cloister, once or twice a week he meets all the which communicates with the " guest community to practise and correct the house," another large block, containing singing of the various antiphons and reception-rooms, parlors, and sleeping- psalms. He, too, is generally organist, or rooms for guests and visitors, and also at all events, has an organ in charge, not another division of the abbey school. to mention the other musical instruments Passing through the "enclosure screen,' ,"destined for school use, on which he has you enter the south cloister, and find your-probably to undergo that most horrible self again in the silence of the "monas of tortures to a musical ear, the giving tery" proper; and here, shut in from the of music lessons to idle and unmusical world, the monk leads his real family life, boys. in quiet and steady labor. The cloisters Nor is this all. Besides the extern are no longer the living and working school there is also a somewhat busy inrooms of a monastic community. For tellectual life going on among the monasmany centuries the "dormitories," as they tic community itself. There are the are still called and there are three of novices, with unlimited capacity for inthem, one above another, taking up the struction, and to them the Psalms must whole of the three upper stories over be explained and commented on, the rule the cloisters have been divided into must be taught and expounded, and the "cells," separate rooms of about twelve principles and obligations of monastic and feet square. Here, amid bare walls and religious life thoroughly enlarged upon carpetless floors, each monk has his down to the most minute details. The straw bed, table, and armless chair, his ology, too, must be taught, and therefore kneeling stool for prayer, together with a philosophy, and therefore science, for a few little necessaries, and here he passes monk is generally ordained priest, and a many hours when not called to any public priest must be able to hold his own on all or other duty. Here he studies, or reads, such subjects, especially nowadays. Nor or prays for a monk must never be idle, are history and archæology forgotten; and and must be ready at any moment to give probably one or two will be found to repan account of what he does with his time. resent the genus "bookworm," as well as Few, indeed, have a chance of idling, for some who will know how to turn their all have tasks assigned, and most have a special tastes to the benefit of others by post of some sort which entails some kind writing and publishing. of responsibility. The cellarer, who is the materfamilias, must see that the kitchen and refectory are supplied, and clothes and other necessaries provided; the œconomus must not allow dust or dirt to accumulate, or the building to get out of repair; the procurator has his accounts to keep; the librarian has his books to dust and label and bind, catalogues to make and keep, and strays to look after when they have been too long missing from the shelves; the sacristan has the church in charge and the daily labor of preparing altars and vestments for the priests, to say nothing of the decorations for festivals; the master of ceremonies has all the work of an earl-marshal, in the days when that office was not a sinecure. He has not merely to "get up" the great functions, when the abbot celebrates, or a profession or ordination takes place, but also to keep eye on the every-day routine in church and refectory and cloister, to see that all conform to the external regulations of rule and ritual. Then there is Monastic labor does not end here. For health's sake, and for variety's sake, as well as for the dignity of manual labor itself, and to keep the monk in memory of his vocation to penance and self-denial, the hand must work as well as the head. In the monastery proper no servants are allowed; each monk from first to last must be his own servant, even to the making of his bed, sweeping of his cell, and cleaning of his shoes. Besides this, cloisters must be swept, and staircases and dormitories, and there are many things to be done outside, in the garden and other parts of the enclosure, whether it be weeding walks, or digging, or planting trees and flowers. All this is attended to by the monks, who generally have special portions of such work allotted to them, and certain hours of the day assigned to manual labor." So the days slip by, in calm and happy activity no, not a "fugue," for there is no lagging of one part behind the other, or hurry or clash or wild movement, but a gentle harmony on a very simple theme, | much for one whose only qualification was with a solemn accompaniment of tolling a broken heart, or a disappointed ambi bells and processions and hymns of praise, tion, or the morbid dread of "a lonely and varied with the bright smile and the cheer- childless old age." Such men, however ful laugh and the merry joke of a recrea- much we pity them-and a monk would tion hour, or the weekly ramble in true be the first to pour out his heart to comfort family style, father and sons, all together, and console them are not themselves along the glens or up the hills, or in the fit candidates for monastic profession. By sweet greenwood; and beneath all, the the very nature of the case, they are weak deep, firm bass of prayer and self-denial characters, they lack the hero and self. and the uncompromising war against the sacrifice must be in some degree heroic. devil, and the flesh, and the world. In fact, as a matter of practice, what is first looked for in a candidate for the monastic life is a bright and cheerful disposition, with a large fund of inner joy, sufficient to support him during the trying time while habit is growing into second nature; and experience has often proved that the converted scapegrace has more chance of perseverance than the extremely proper but melancholy man, simply be cause the former has a brighter, and therefore a healthier and stronger character. This is monastic life in the nineteenth century, and it is remarkably like what it was in the thirteenth. There are many differences, indeed, but they are the differences of the age, and not the monastic life that exists in it, and if a monk of the thirteenth century could come upon the earth again he would recognize his brethren. A reasonless clinging to mere forms, and a wooden persistence in propping up what is dead and rotten, is something so completely foreign to the spirit of the Benedic- Again, a monastery does not exist for tine rule, that where such things exist the sake of the world outside. Dr. Jesdecay must be inevitable. "It is the sopp has already told us this, and he adds, spirit that vivifies," and while I so anx- "It was supposed to be the home of peoiously maintain that the spirit of the thir-ple whose lives were passed in the worship teenth century still lives in the monasteries of God, and in taking care of their own of the nineteenth, I am equally concerned souls, and making themselves fit for a to state, and to prove, if may be, that that better world than this hereafter." If the spirit has never come nigh either the word "is Carlton or the Athenæum. When will people learn that a monastery is not, and never was, intended as a refuge for disappointed men? The "stricken head and the broken heart may perchance occasionally "hide" itself in the cloister, but it is very doubtful if one in a thousand such persevere in monastic life. The reason is not far to seek. The monastic life is essentially a life of self-sacrifice. Before a man is allowed to take upon himself the yoke of the monastic Vows, he must satisfy not only himself, but others also, that he has the power and strength of character necessary to give up, first his own will and fancy and pet notions of whatever kind, and secondly self-indulgence, love of ease and comfort, and in general all such attachments as smack of womanish softness or childish want of self-control. He must be able to endure monotony, silence, and solitude strong trials to the strongest natures; and finally he must prove by his conduct that he can stand correction, bear to hear the truth told him about himself, and practise childlike obedience to a man who is perhaps half his age, and his inferior in status and education. Such a trial would certainly prove too were substituted for " was supposed to be" in this quotation, the passage might pass, but the occurrence of this word, and another sentence immedi ately preceding this- viz., "a monastery makes in theory was a religious house". one think that the writer belongs to a large class which considers a monastery to be "a religious house" in theory only. To meet this point it may be necessary to enlarge upon a subject which has been hitherto kept in the background of the description of the daily life in a modern monastery. 66 A Benedictine at his profession takes three vows, Stability,' "Conversion of Manners" (or Life), and "Obedience according to the Rule.' They are so named in the rule of St. Benedict. In accordance with the first, the monk binds himself to remain in the monastery till death. This is so strictly observed that it is considered a most grievous offence, punishable with the gravest penalties, to go out of the monastic enclosure without express leave of the superior. No matter how short the time and distance, a monk may not leave his monastery without first ask. ing permission on his knees, and stating where he wishes to go, and for what purpose. On his return he must again pre sent himself upon his knees to announce | the last novice, he must kneel in a con that he has come back within the ap-spicuous place for a short time as an pointed time. The second vow has a much wider scope. By it the monk is bound to aim at what Dr. Jessopp calls "the higher life," and what Catholics call "perfection." This latter word has a very definite meaning. In the first place, it includes what are known as the Gospel counsels namely, those rules over and above the ten commandments which our Lord gave when he said, "If thou wilt be perfect, go sell all that thou hast and come follow me; "and elsewhere, "He that will follow me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me," etc., etc. It in cludes the obligation of poverty, of chastity, and of obedience; it binds the monk to aim, not merely at the observance of the duties obligatory upon all Christians, but also to seek out the higher grades of virtue, and to practise them. By it he is bound to aim at humility, at patience, at self-denial, at meekness, and those other interior as well as exterior virtues which go to make up the perfect man. Now in a monastery this is not left barely to the individual conscience, but by precept and example, by reproof and correction, by warning and punishment, as well as by encouragement and by help in various ways, the obligation is kept continually before the monk's eyes and forced upon his attention. The very rules and detailed regulations of the monastery all tend to this same end. One of these regulations is the daily "conference," in which the superior meets his community every evening, and addresses them for half an hour upon some ascetical point, or calls attention to some remissness, or encourages to fresh vigor and fresh fervor in what is already well done. Then there is the weekly chapter of faults, in which the brethren, each in his turn, in presence of all the others assembled, accuses himself of any breaches of the rule he may have committed, and on his knees receives the reprimand and penance given him by the superior, or listens while other failings are pointed out, of which he was perhaps unconscious, and the means necessary for overcoming them. Such things as these must induce a habit of humility, of selfknowledge, of patience and meekness. There are many other practices which conduce to a similar end. If any one comes late to the church, or to the refectory, or to any public assembly of the convent, no matter who he be, abbot or atonement; and if he has no good excuse for such tardiness, he may be kept kneeling during the whole of the proceedings. The same rule is observed if any one makes a mistake in the singing of any part of the divine office and this, of course, may happen in presence of a large concourse of people. Similarly, if a monk is reproved by his superior in a serious way, it is his duty to kneel at the superior's feet, and so listen to the correction. We can hardly imagine one of our Pall Mall monks, who talks of "his honor," and of being "insulted," taking a faultfinding in this sort of way; with the monk it is a matter of course. Letters never I pass on to other matters. A monk is not allowed even to possess money, much less to use it for himself; even the necessaries he is allowed the use of are limited and prescribed, and he must ask permission for every fresh thing he needs, no matter how slight or trivial. This is to secure his poverty. To keep him from mixing up with the world which he has forsaken and renounced, he is not only bound to the enclosure in which he lives, but every precaution is taken to prevent him from having too much communication with what is outside. pass under seal, but are opened, and may be retained; correspondence at all is only allowed when it is likely to do good; newspapers are almost excluded. It was not in the ordinary course of things that the Nineteenth Century found its way into a monastic refectory: such a book would have been sent by a friend because it contained the article here in question. So, again, visitors are not encouraged, though when received, in accordance with the most venerable tradition of the monastic order, they are treated with_all possible kindness and reverence. monks may only see them at certain times, and in certain places, and they are not admitted beyond the closed doors before spoken of as leading into the private parts of the monastery. The object of all these regulations is to ensure detachment from all that the monk renounces by the vows of his profession; nor should it be supposed that these rules are endured as burdens, or enforced like punishments upon unwilling minds. A novice has a long time to count the cost before he binds himself to their observance, and when he takes the step he does it freely and gladly, and obeys the rule with a cheerfulness inspired not by reason only, But but even by the ease of long-continued | is anything that is essential to monastic life it is precisely this, that it is a family and domestic life, and subject to an almost endless code of petty rules and reg ulations. From morning till night there is scarcely a single act left to the monk's own discretion, at all events not to his own inclination. His very hours of rising and retiring to rest are rigidly fixed, his day is minutely parcelled out, and even in the discharge of his duties he is subject to a minute ceremonial which directs whether he is to sit or stand, where he is to walk and how, whether he shall cover his head or not, what he shall do with his hands or his eyes or his feet- a perfect slavery, if it were not a free self-subjection. If a monastic life means all this, and it did so as well in the thirteenth century as it does now, a monastery is something more than a religious house in theory. It is so in fact also: and, to come to the point, there is something in it over and above the mere banding together to lead | a life in common for the sake of the com. But a club has some purpose in its mon good. It must be upon some such association: it is to formulate and give theory as this alone that any one could expression to certain views, tastes, or see a resemblance between a medieval methods, political, literary, mercantile, or monastery and a modern club. Surely, otherwise. Precisely so: its only laudaupon such a ground, a co-operative association, or a trades' union, or a conspiracy, or a secret society, might with equal or greater justice be looked upon as a successor to the thirteenth-century monastery." Why, above all things, that very acme of selfishness, and luxurious egoism, the club-house? 66 ble excuse for existing is that it, presumably, has a work to do for the benefit of ths world. And for this reason it is still more unlike a monastery, which exists for the individual good of its members, and only does good to the outside world as if by accident. True it is the monasteries did a great work in the world; it is also I am probably less acquainted with the true they do a work still. They uphold interior life of a club than is Dr. Jessopp to men the spectacle of an ideal Christian with that of a monastery; but, putting to- life carried into practice. They are cengether all that one has heard, I may not tres of benevolence, of refinement, even be far wrong in supposing that the very of civilization for is not all civilization essence of club life consists in freedom based upon self-restraint? and self-refrom all interference with private constraint needs teaching in these days, as venience. A man prefers his club to his much as, or sometimes more than, in days home, on the ground that in the latter he gone by. But the raison d'être of a is subject to various little restrictions monastery is that men may lead a monas. from which he is free in the former. Attic life; and if monasteries continue to home he must lunch or dine at a certain fixed hour, and perhaps off certain things for which he has no great partiality; he must make himself entertaining towards people who call, be interested in those whom he does not know, or does not care to know, or, still worse, of whom he knows too much; he must submit to be annoyed with many little matters, to listen to complaints, to be occasionally found fault with, or now and then to be worsted in a onesided encounter. At his club, he may do pretty much as he likes, eat and drink when he wills and what he fancies, be sulky or cheerful, talk or be silent, when he pleases, without reproof and without qualm of conscience. Club life in short is an emancipation from domestic rule, and more or less also from the formal etiquette of society in general. Now if there spring up, it is because the demand still exists, as it has continued to exist ever since the euphemistically termed Refor. mation, and as it always must exist as long as the Gospel precepts are preached and believed in. The Reformation, and its child the Rev. olution, though they have destroyed many a noble monastic building, have not an nihilated the monastic life. The tradition has survived, and still exists. In some countries, notably in the Austrian Empire, many monastic foundations dating back as far as the seventh and sixth centuries still flourish in the full enjoyment of large possessions and all the influence and prestige that attached to similar institutions in our own country. Even in England the connection has never been broken. Since the coming of Saint Au |