these words, "Hæc requies mea in sæculum sæculi." The monks were not insensible to the honour conferred on them by the arrival of such a guest. He was lodged in the abbot's apartment; and the monks would cut down and carry with their own hands the wood that was to burn in his room, thinking themselves happy if they could render any service to the holy doctor, who, as yet living, was hastening to a kingdom. They entreated him to dictate discourses on the Cantica Canticorum; but he replied, "Give me the spirit of St. Bernard, and I will comply with your request." There he died on the seventh of March, 1274, some hours after midnight, just at the dawn of day.

A scene of the same kind was witnessed in the monastery of Faventia, at Ravenna, in the year 1072, at midnight, on the octave of St. Peter's chair, when St. Peter Damian, that great star of sanctity and learning, set upon the world, closing in that house his legation with his life.* Trithemius relates another deeply interesting visit made to a religious house. St. Anselm, archbishop of Canterbury, hearing of the blessed Abbot William and the sanctity of the monks at Hirschau, turned out of his way when on his return from Rome and visited them, remaining with them fourteen days,—a mau holy with the holy, a monk with monks, and an humble archbishop with the humble. St. William rejoiced to see the primate of England, whom he had so often heard spoken of as a man of God. In the midst of the brethren the holy archbishop remained like one of their number, speaking many things on the Holy Scriptures, on the observance of the monastic conversation, on the salvation of souls, and on the love of God. Often he lamented aloud his own cares, that he was drawn from a cloister to an episcopal chair; he was compelled, he said, to converse with the world. "O happy, and thrice happy, those," he cried, "who could serve God in monastic peace and solitude!" Then commending himself to the prayers of all, and giving them his benediction, he departed on his return to England, whence he came, but he never lost the memory of this visit. + Bishops, indeed, were generally glad to pay such visits, which conferred pleasure on the monks. Thus, in the annals of Corby, in Saxony, we read, "This year, 875, Luithebart, the bishop, on his journey, passed a night in our monastery, and was benignly

• Annal. Gamald. Lib. xix. + Chronic. Hirsaug.

received by Adelgarius and the whole convent." And in the records of Einsiedelin, the arrival of St. Charles Borromeo, in 1576, is noted down.

Great men in exile, and mere secular wanderers too, arrived often at the monasteries, and received hospitality during a certain space of time. In 1380, Peter II., abbot of Einsiedelin, obtained from the Emperor Winceslas a confirmation of the privilege which conferred on his abbey "the right to receive banished persons." In all ages, the Benedictines desired this "droit d'accueillir les bannis," to which they owed many illustrious visitors. The well-known compassion of all the religious orders drew many strangers to their houses: for those who could sympathise so deeply with woes they only read about, as may be witnessed in the impassioned exclamations of the poor Friar Martinus, on hearing of the sufferings of St. Elizabeth, would not be frigid comforters in presence of the unhappy. The abbey of Blandinberg, near Ghent, acquired fresh celebrity from having received, in his banishment, St. Dunstan, archbishop of Canterbury. In the abbey of Clairmarais, St. Thomas, of the same see, found an asylum; and, when lodged again in the abbey of St. Bertin at St. Omer, he remembered with pleasure that the same house had received the learned Alcuin, the great Kings Alfred and Canute, and that resplendent light of England-St. Dunstan. England-St. Dunstan. St. Thomas, on his way thither, having reposed for a night in Lille, the house in which he lodged still bears this inscription: "Sancto Thomæ Canturbiensi hujus ædis quondam hospiti sit laus, honor, et gloria;" and the water of its well is asked for by the peasants, with faith in Him whose martyr drank it. The abbey of Pontigny, that second daughter of Cîteaux, served as an asylum to three holy archbishops of Canterbury; St. Thomas, Stephen Langton, and St. Edmund. Many were the victims of oppression who found refuge in this house, and hence we find there this inscription :

:

"Est Pontiniacus pons exulis, hortus, asylum; His graditur, spatiatur in hoc, requiescit in illo."

Another class of pacific visitors whose presence was hailed with an immense and holy joy was that of men intellectually great; whose genius, that cast glory on their age, was not without enthusiastic admirers under the monastic cowl. Never did such high

Gall. Christ. xii. 440.

intelligences give each other rendezvous in the palace of princes, as used to meet here. For whom now sounds the porter's bell?— there are quick steps in the cloister; the abbot smiles, to indicate the joy that will accompany the coming guest.-It is Michael Angelo who arrives!—it is Dante! or a prince philosopher perhaps, a Picus of Mirandula; or the Songster of Jerusalem, the sweetest of the poets,-Tasso! When the ponderous gates of the abbey flew open to receive such men, there were that day many glad hearts within it, though plaudits were not heard to wound its sanctity. Where did Dante find that friendly solitude which invited him, as he says, to visit ancient books ?* Where did the great Buonarotti hold that silent and meditative intercourse with eternal truth? It was in some monastery among woods and mountains, to which they used to repair from time to time, seeking renovation of their spirits and peace. Learned renowned monks of distant abbeys were also welcome visitors to religious houses. Thus, in the records of Einsiedelin, the arrival of Dom Mabillon, in 1683, is noted down; as also that of Dom Calmet, in 1748.

No one being rejected, even the mere secular wanderers, like those of latter times, came to abbeys, and were received into them as guests. The Songster of Newstead himself, when at Athens, in the city of Minerva, in presence of the Parthenon, chose for his lodging the convent of Capuchins. Count Elzear de Sabran

-whose name alone brings one back to the ages of faith and heroic virtue-has left, in the tablets of Vallombrosa and Camaldoli, a memorial of the peace that he derived from inhaling the sanctity of those cloisters; and certainly, most strangely perverted must be the mind which does not regard the memory of a visit to the monasteries of Switzerland and Italy as one of its most delightful recollections. What, in fact, is more calculated to make a deep and lasting impression than the solemn music of the monks, chanting by night in the church of Vallombrosa? What more exhilarating than that new life one seems to breathe in those delicious scenes sanctified by religion, when, after escaping in the summer months from Florence to the mountains, one treads those swelling lawns when yet the tender dew strives with the sun, or takes shelter at noon within the

• De Vulgari Eloquentia.

Michaud, Correspond. de l'Orient.

dark primeval forests that screen that abbey? Who can forget the tolling of the matin bell at Camaldoli, so awful amidst the solitude of those Appennines! or the salutation, each day before the dawn had chased the hour of prime, by the monk entering in his long white habit, carrying his lamp, and saying with a smile, "Deo gratias!" Ah! one cannot wonder that poets of old chose to accept the hospitalities of religious men, rather than to court the invitations of the great. In Dryburg abbey resided often the moral Gower, and the philosophic Strode. In the convent of the Carmelites on that hill where Cato had his farm, and where highest God in tender mercy now shows miracles, Vida wrote his Christiad. In the Carthusian monastery, one league from Milan, Petrarch, who had a country villa near it, spent his happiest hours. "In that cloister," he says, "I enjoy at all hours of the day the pure and delightful pleasures of religion; the gates are always open to me; but I am resolved not to lodge there, lest I should give trouble to others in seeking my own pleasure. In this happy retreat I draw consolation from my pious monks. Their conversation is not brilliant, but it is innocent and holy; their repasts are not inviting, but in their company there is perfect freedom; while their prayers will be my great comfort, both in life and at my death."

Finally, for it would be endless to proceed with instances, to the monastery of St. Onufrio Tasso came, in his last hours, when he felt that he was never to leave it more. Seized with mortal sickness, at the moment when the triumph of the laurelcrown was to have been conferred upon him, he caused himself to be removed to this monastery, where all his thoughts were fixed on God. On the arrival of Cardinal Cinthio with the pope's benediction, he exclaimed, "This is the crown with which I hope to be crowned, not as a poet in the Capitol, but as a child of the Church in heaven."

So here, in conclusion, we discern that not in vain were made these visits to the monasteries of the middle ages, where men found that for which their hearts perhaps so long had yearned,-edification and peace. "Alas! but you astonish me," exclaims the youth who receives a stranger coming as a suppliant to the temple in the ancient tragedy, "that your eyes should overflow with tears, thus moistening your gentle cheeks on beholding the chaste oracle of

Apollo; all others, as soon as they see the vaults of the god, are filled with joy,—and you must weep!" "It is not strange that I should weep," was the reply, "for I applied my thoughts to an ancient remembrance: my mind was at my home, and not here.' The suppliant, who came devoutly to the sanctuaries of Christian peace, could not so easily stand aloof to cherish the remembrance of even the dearest things domestic: his tears were only of repentance or of ecstasy.

"How much,' say'd he, 'more happie is the state In which ye, father, here doe dwell at ease, Leading a life so free and fortunate, From all the tempests of these worldly seas, Which tosse the rest in daungerous disease; Where warres, and wreckes, and wicked enmitie,

Doe them afflict,-which no man can ap

pease.

Such were the impressions of Petrarch when he visited the Carthusian monastery of Montrieux, and found there his brother Gerard become a perfect anchorite, disengaged from every thing upon earth, consummate in piety, and longing for the joys of heaven. "I blushed," he says, "to behold a younger brother, and my inferior, now risen so far above me. At the same time, what a subject of joy and glory to have now such a brother!"

George Vasari, in a letter to Giovanni Pollastro, describes his own affliction, amounting almost to madness, on the death of Duke Alexander, and the consolation he derived from a visit to Camaldoli. "I verily believe that had I persevered long in the same course, it would have brought me to an untimely end. But it was by you, my dear Master Giovanni,-blessed be God for it a thousand times!-it was by your means that I was conducted to the hermits of Camaldoli; and it was impossible for me to have been conducted to a fitter place to bring me to my proper senses, because I passed my time in a way that did me infinite service: for, by communing with these holy hermits, they, in the space of two days, worked such an alteration in my mind for my good and my health, that I began to be sensible of my former folly, and the madness with which I had been blinded. But now, it is in this chain of lofty mountains of the Appennines, beautified by the straight fir-trees, that I am made to feel the high value of a life of peace. Here these holy hermits have their

• Spenser, vi. 9.

abode together, leaving the vain world below them, with a fervent spirit elevated to God. I have seen and conversed for an hour with five old hermits, neither of them under eighty years of age, and who are strengthened to perfection by the Lord; and it seemed to me as if I had heard the discourse of five angels of Paradise." Then, after a pause, returning to his pagan images, he says, "If there had been a Camaldoli, Lysander would have been enabled to get rid of that deep melancholy which preyed upon his strong mind during his latter years."

And now, having observed the guests in all their variety of character, what are we to think of these monastic receptions? As a French historian takes occasion to demand, in alluding to that papal court which derived its brightest luminaries from the cloister, Where will you find a house in modern times where the Church, the Christian monarchy, Theology, Philosophy, History, Poetry, Painting, and Music, send thus, day after day, their representatives? Where even the human soul, as if already passionless and escaped from all its fleshly bonds, comes to substitute the substance for the hope; and to enjoy, in present reality, what is of faith,-the communion of saints?

But we must leave it to the chronicles of the middle age to describe the guests of this last and highest order, who came to monasteries to salute the sons of peace within them, and receive from that sweet interchange of holy looks, a profound and mystic consolation. "When the king St. Louis," says one of these, was at Rome on his pilgrimage, having heard the renown of brother Giles, who was then residing at Perugia, he took the road to that city in order to see him. Being arrived at the convent of the Friar Minors, without being recognised, travelling as a pilgrim, he begged the porter to permit him to speak to brother Giles. The brother who had charge of the gate invited him to wait, and proceeded to look for Giles, who had a sudden revelation that it was the king of France, and under this impression he descended, and threw himself on his knees at the feet of the holy king, while the king, in like manner, knelt before Giles, and having kissed and embraced each other with many signs of mutual charity, they separated in silence, without either of them uttering a word. While these two devout souls were thus united in spiritual content, the porter asked one of the strangers who

was that pilgrim that had embraced brother Giles with so much familiarity, and he answered, that it was Louis, king of France, who was come for the purpose of seeing the good father, being on a visit to the holy places of Rome. The friars, hearing of the circumstance, were displeased at the little ceremony with which brother Giles had received this great king, and expressed their surprise that he should have committed such a fault. My brethren,' replied Giles, be not troubled at what has happened. The king is content with me, as I am with him; and be not astonished that we have not exchanged a word with each other, for our discourse was mute; and know that while we embraced, the divine light revealed to each of us the interior of the other's heart: and having fixed the eyes of our souls upon that eternal brightness in which all things are beheld clearer than in themselves, we have spoken to one another, although we used no words.' The friars remained astonished and confused at this reply, beating their breasts for having so rashly judged an action so holy."

To enjoy this mute discourse, this ineffable communion of inspired hearts, this participation of eternal brightness, this supernatural, divine contentment, the visitors to monasteries often avowedly came. For hear a memorable example. One day

a pilgrim entered the abbey of Corvo, and stood in silence before the monks. After some time, one of them demanded what he wished and what he sought there? The stranger, without answering, contemplated the arcades and the columns of the cloister. The monk asked him again what he desired, and what he was seeking? Then he slowly turned his head, and looking upon the monk and his brethren, replied, "Peace." Struck with the word, his tone, and manner, the monk took him aside, and after a few words, understood that it was Dante who stood before him. Then he, drawing a book from his breast, gave it to him graciously, and said, "Brother, here is a part of my work, with which perhaps you are not acquainted. I leave you this remembrance." "I took the book," adds the monk, "and after pressing it to my heart, opened it in his presence with great love, expressing, however, my surprise that he should have written in the vulgar tongue. In reply, he adduced many things, full of a sublime passion, in praise of the people, and to the disparagement of the nobles of our time." What seekest thou, stranger? Peace.

In the next chapter we shall see how many others came with the same object, and how divinely their best wishes were fulfilled.

HENCE come ye, friends?"

The poet fancies what the monk beheld. Alas! "I cannot name all that I read of sorrow, toil, and shame on your worn faces; as in legends old, which make immortal the disastrous fame of conquerors and imposters, the discord of your hearts I in your looks behold. Whence come ye? From pouring human blood forth on the earth? Speak! Are your hands in slaughter's sanguine hue stained freshly? Speak then! Whence come ye?" A youth made reply,

Such words spake the convertites when first they reached the portals which received them to religious peace. Such were their recollections of the world they were leaving, and such their experience on catching the first glimpses of a better. The change, though so complete, was often already consummated when they first came, for it was the previous conversion of their hearts to God which had made them resolve to assume the cowl of Benedict, or to gird themselves with the cord of St. Francis. Their voices, therefore, as we are led towards them, may be the echo of that chorus of spirits of which the same poet so beautifully sings,

In the beginning of this book we observed that there were men among the lost and found again for whom it was necessary that there should be places, as St. Bernard says, fit and delectable, not for rejoicing, as in the world, but for mourning the things committed in the world, where by much subtle and useful preaching of the seniors, and by much more subtle and useful examination of their conversation men might be instructed to all good,* in other words, that there are persons who must cloister them in some religious house, where holy lives must win a new world's crown, which their profane hours here have stricken down. The change of mind implied in this necessity, constituting the conversions which we are now about to consider, though deemed unintelligible by the blind world, remains a psychological fact, the existence of which, history places beyond all doubt or question. Could one read the hearts, known only to God, of men during the last moments that precede their death, during that twilight of life when nature makes a pause, and they lie passive and voiceless, with thoughts beyond the reaches of their souls, one would find that sooner or later the need of such mighty renovations became known to most of Adam's sinful children. But long before that hour, it has been disclosed to thousands, to men who, as the poet says, in all their enjoyment