the lowest grade of the clerical office, to which (as we saw before) is annexed the duty of singing the Canonical Hours in choir, whence his status is that of choir brother. This monk, a Swiss with the broad, open features indicative of his race, while differing greatly in disposition from the subject of our last sketch, may in some respects be bracketed with him as an example of meek and lowly bearing, of which the following anecdote furnishes characteristic evidence. Returning one afternoon from a walk (to be presently described) with several of the fraternity, the door of their visitor's room proved locked and the key nowhere to be found. Frère Raphael, with whom it had been left, being gone out, it was necessary to wait an hour or so before getting access to the chamber. A few minutes later came a tap at the door, followed by the entrance of Frère Raphael himself, who falling on both knees begged forgiveness of his fault in causing the stranger what he was pleased to regard as a serious inconvenience! Here was a second and conspicuous instance of the Monk 'meek and humble of heart.'

Taciturnity, and the less social qualities generally, being of necessity a good deal cultivated in a religious house, it is not surprising that that somewhat airy, delicate, indefinable, yet very appreciable quality called courtesy should not be universally

He,

met with there, any more than it is in the outside world. True and consistent courtesy is indeed a sufficiently rare virtue anywhere and in any society. So far as 'convent interiors' are concerned, courtesy is perhaps nowhere to be oftener met with than among the lay brethren, a class everywhere exhibiting among their number shining lights of monastic perfection, and which has produced some of the most honoured names in the Calendar. however, who has been selected on the present occasion as the type of the Courteous Monk, is in priest's orders, and the oldest member of the community. One morning at breakfast—a meal which each person takes independently, at any time within an hour of the sounding of the monastery bell at half-past seven-it chanced that the writer was kept waiting rather longer than usual for his bowl of chocolate. Strolling soon afterwards in the direction of the flower garden, he was met by the venerable Père Antoine, who carried his condescension so far as to apologize for what he deemed (though it had never entered the head of his guest to think it) a neglect of some lay brother; adding that things were momentarily a little out of joint through the absence of several of the brotherhood at the vintage on the convent lands near Marcillac, a dozen miles away. 'Au contraire,' was the reply,' on me traite trop bien ici.' 'Comment, Monsieur?' enquired

Père Antoine. Puisque j'en suis indigne,' quoth his interlocutor. Vous êtes trop indulgent,' was the rejoinder; and after a few more words of form and courtesy, followed by mutual doffing of hats, the temporary sojourner in the House parted company from this example of a Courteous Monk, who, be it observed, had deferred his word of apology rather than break the silence of that most noiseless of dining halls, a monastic refectory- the very opposite, in this respect, of many of our College Halls, with their buzz and hum of many voices and clatter of many dishes.

To this oldest member of the brotherhood, indeed, the traveller felt under particular obligation, for it appeared from an inscription on the door that he was actually occupying the cell of the venerable Premonstrant; so that not content with vacating his chamber to a passing stranger, the aged monk was in word and manner exceptionally courteous even in a society where courtesy was not wanting. The cell in question, by the way, contained a number of books, several of them classical, among which there was something pleasant, especially in one's present unwonted surroundings, to light upon that prized friend of our school days, the 'Gradus ad Parnassum ;' and in the writer's case, moreover, there hung about the well-known substantial volume a flavour of forbidden fruit owing to the sternness of

his pedagogue in proscribing such a ready help to the inditing of Hexameters.

On the left of the Prior at the upper table sits Père Marie-Bernard, a young man of somewhat broad features and a decidedly pleasing expression of countenance. A zealous member of his Order, a student, and of polished manners, he is a good specimen of the monk who has entered 'religion,' as the French say, in early life. Given up to his books, he would often slip in late to the refectory, where he partook but sparingly of the commons provided for him, so that, though the last to sit down, he was among the first to finish his meal. Now, should the Prior be at all dilatory, even to the extent of a few minutes, in giving the signal for rising from table, this active and zealous young scholar would glance from time to time uneasily at his watch as if impatient to return to his study. At last (exhibiting perhaps more natural self-will than monastic submission) he would presume now and then so far as to give his superior a gentle nudge, at the same time holding up his watch to show the hour a hint to which the Prior usually responded in a good-natured way by at once ringing his bell preparatory to the Latin grace, accompanied by responses, with which both midday and evening refections begin and end. Here was a type of the Studious Monk-grudging the few moments he

gives to supporting nature at the modest and by no means protracted repasts of his Order.

Having cursorily surveyed the brotherhood gathered in their common Hall-touching at the same time on some of their more salient mental characteristics-let us give a passing glance at the viands (not unpicturesque in themselves or their concomitants) which are spread out on the long, bare board before them.

Grace ended and the brethren seated, a lay brother-stalwart Brother John, as often as not, whose acquaintance we made stretched on the floor of the Chapter-room-brings in a big, pewter tureen with a cover of the same metal, which he places in front of the Prior. The removal of the cover displays a steaming soup made, for the most part, of slices of bread stewed in a thin broth, but varied occasionally with other ingredients, such as rice or vermicelli, in lieu of the bread. Next, on flesh days, comes the never-failing French 'bouilli' or morsel of dry beef that had already done duty in providing stock for the soup; and this is followed by the 'rôti,' consisting of a few diminutive slices. of roast mutton, ready cut up, and served in its own gravy, whence the characteristic Italian name of 'umido' for a dish thus dressed. These plates of meat, limited enough in quantity, would be followed by a dish of vegetables-potatoes, haricot beans,