A spot more suited to the contemplative mind you will rarely see. Sequestered, solemn, still, the calm tranquillity is in perfect keeping with the sepulchre of human greatness, and the mind brooding upon the past overleaps the boundaries of centuries. In this spot orisons and vespers have been sung; the low sweet music of the Litany of the Cross has rolled; through the “long drawn aisle and fretted vault” the pealing organ has swelled the anthem’s note; and where now the sod is shaded by the overhanging verdure the funeral procession has often passed, the white-robed monks chanting awhile the soul-stirring “_Supplicante parce Deus_.” The following lines seem so applicable to the place that we make no apology for transcribing them:— Around the very place doth brood A strange and holy quietude, Where lingers long the evening gleam And stilly sounds the neighbouring stream. I know not if it is the scene, Bosom’d in hills by the ravine, Or if it is the conscious mind Hallows the spot and stills the wind, And makes the very place to know The peace of them that sleep below, Investing Nature with the spell Of that strange calm unspeakable. Methinks that both together blend To hallow their calm peaceful end— The thoughts of them that slumber there Seem still to haunt the holy ground; And e’en the spot and solemn air Themselves partake that calm profound. Methinks that He who oft at even Brings stillness o’er the earth and heaven, Till mountains, skies, and neighbouring sea Blend in one solemn harmony, Hath caused e’en Nature’s self to grace This sweet and holy resting-place. Amid the venerable and peaceful shade we seem again to hear Litanies at noon, Or hymn at complin by the rising moon, When, after chimes, each chapel echoed round, Like one aerial instrument of sound, Some vast harmonious fabric of the Lord’s, Whose vaults are shells, and pillars tuneful chords; and we are almost tempted to forget the errors of the monks, and to think only of them as the precursors of a simpler and purer religion. In the seclusion of their solitary lives they laboured earnestly and with prayerful zeal, for with them _laborare est orare_ was no idle expression. They threw the fervour of their souls into their work, and dispensed their hospitalities with a lavish hand; but they taught no liberty, and preached no freedom, to a Christian world. The knowledge they cherished most was as a lamp beneath a bushel—it kept all in darkness but themselves. Better that their system should pass away, and that their houses should be dismantled and left only to beautify and adorn the landscape, than that we should have a return to their sensual pageantry and pent-up learning.