CHAPTER III.

THE MONASTERY.

Monachism was so closely interwoven with the church system of the middle ages, that it may be thought a review of its history and tendencies should have been included in the former chapter: but it exerted so much influence peculiar to itself, and presents so many illustrations of the state of mediæval society, as to claim distinct consideration.

SECTION I.

RISE OF MONACHISM.

Monachism did not spring from pure Christianity, but was engrafted upon the system, after it had been grievously corrupted. It is evidently one of the great offshoots of that ascetic principle which is indigenous in human nature, and of which the developments may be traced in the Jewish Essenes, the Greek Cynics, the Alexandrian Platonists, the British Druids, and the Eastern Brahmins.

The practice of a monastic life, in its connexion with the church, commenced in Egypt, in the third century. The storms of persecution drove many into the deserts, where they sought to carry out the ascetic principles, which, even at that time, were so strongly advocated by Cyprian and others. The spirit of self-righteousness, which had led to the pharisaism of the Jews, and had produced no little of pharisaism among Christians, doubtless helped on the result; to which, perhaps, the contemplative habits of the east, the preference of quietude to activity, and the notion, that the height of religious excellence consists in the absorption of the mind by spiritual meditation, in some measure contributed. The founders of monachism were, in fact, hermits, who sought the cavern and the den, the ruins of sepulchres, and the dreariest spots of the desert, as scenes favourable to piety and communion with Heaven. That they were ignorant, deluded, and superstitious, is apparent enough; but it would be uncharitable, and contrary to historical evidence, to deny the sincerity and earnest devotion of many of these anchorets. They were men who felt the corruption of their nature, who realized the presence and agency of fallen spirits, and who sought to subdue the one, and to conquer the other, by their self-mortification. The desert was to them a place of awful silence, and sublime solitude, but no place of repose and peace, for there they were ever striving to crucify the flesh, and were hourly struggling with the powers of darkness. Gleams of noble feeling dart from amidst the darkness of their gross superstition; and, while we deplore the course they all pursued, we cannot but perceive the sublimity of the purpose by which many of them were animated. The first of the anchorets, whose name was Paul, has been immortalized by Jerome, who, in his inimitable biography of that singular person, affords a characteristic specimen of the absurd superstition and credulity, or something worse, which then overflowed the church, mingled with those elevated sentiments which, in many happy instances, were still cherished and expressed. The eloquent father relates the most absurd stories respecting his hero, telling us, that he was met by a hippocentaur--a being half horse and half man--who begged him to intercede with Christ for his salvation; that a raven, who brought him half a loaf every day, brought him a whole loaf on the occasion of St. Antony's visit; that Paul was seen ascending to heaven amidst bands of angels and prophets, and that two lions were sent to dig his grave, who, when they had finished their task, crouched at the feet of the saint, and sought, and received, his blessing. Yet this monstrous fable concludes with the following magnificent passage. "Perhaps at the close of this little book, some who are ignorant of his inheritance--who adorn their houses with marble, and cover their estates with elegant villas--may ask, Why were all these wanting to this poor aged man? You drink out of a cup of gems; he was content with one which nature supplied, the hollow of his own hands. You clothe yourself in embroidered tunics; he was clothed in a garb such as your slaves would not wear. But on the other hand, to this poor man paradise was opened; for you, rich men, perdition is prepared. He, though naked, was clothed in the robe of Christ; you, clothed in fine linen, lack that better raiment. Paul, covered with a little dust, is about to rise to glory; you, slumbering under marble sepulchres, shall be consumed with all your possessions. Spare yourselves, I beseech you, spare the wealth you love. Why should you wrap your dead in gilded robes? Why should your vain pride linger among your mourning and your tears? Will not the bodies of the rich decay unless they be folded in silk? I intreat you who read these things, that you would be mindful of Jerome a sinner, who, if the Lord wrong give him the choice, would much rather have Paul's humble clothing with his merits, than the purple robe of kings with their punishment."[1]

This production, by Jerome, strikes us as being a type of the early system of monkery; a mass of superstition, illumined here and there by noble sentiments, while these very sentiments are themselves tinctured by fearful errors. The allusion to the naked soul being clothed in the robe of Christ is very beautiful, and accords with the apostle Paul's sentiment in his Epistle to the Philippians, where he exhibits the ground of his own personal hope--that ground on which every true Christian rests exclusively--"Yea doubtless, and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ, and be found in him, not having mine own righteousness, which is of the law, but that which is through the faith of Christ, the righteousness which is of God by faith." Resting there--building on that blessed foundation, "Jerome a sinner" would be safe; but instead of alluding to that as his only ground of hope, he speaks of "the merits" of his departed friend. That was the robe "better than the purple of kings" in which he would fain be wrapped. He seems to forget the Divine and perfect garment he had before mentioned, in his admiration and desire of the human, imperfect, and tattered robe of the poor hermit's righteousness. Such was the theology of the day, so ruinous to souls, either substituting the merit of man for the merit of the Redeemer, or endeavouring to unite them; such was the pestilential heresy that was ravaging the church; such was the principle which lay at the foundation of the monkish system; and such is the sentiment which, in the present day, as in former times, fastens on the minds of many, distracting their thoughts, bewildering their attention, and cheating them out of the safety and peace they would secure by a simple reliance on "the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world;" for "neither is there salvation in any other: for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved."

Monks were a different class of ascetics. They were men not living in solitude, but associated together under certain laws, yet keeping aloof from the world, and practising great self-denial. Antony was the founder of monastic establishments in Egypt, whence they rapidly spread over every part of Christendom. Athanasius introduced them into the west, where, at first, they seem to have been unpopular; and Martin of Tours was the founder of them in Gaul. But these establishments were so agreeable to the spiritual pride of some, the indolence of others, and the misguided piety of many more, that they soon multiplied, and became crowded with inmates; so that no less than two thousand of the fraternity in Gaul followed to the grave the remains of their zealous patron the famous St. Martin.

The discipline of the western monks was less severe than that of their brethren in the east, a change produced perhaps partly by the greater severity of the climate, and partly from regard to popular feeling. Nor did they cultivate the industrious habits of the Egyptian recluses. Even St. Antony spent a life of labour, and he is described by his biographer as diligently employed in basket-making: but complaints were early made of the monks in Gaul, that they neglected the useful arts, and, with the exception of the younger brethren, restricted themselves to the exercises of devotion.

In the early part of the fifth century, there arose an individual who created a great and a permanent change in the monastic life, by reducing the institute into a regular and defined system. This was Benedict, the founder of the first monastic _order_ properly so called. Marvellous are the stories related of this celebrated monk. He is said to have been frequently buffeted by Satan, who sometimes appeared with horns and hoofs, and sometimes in the form of a blackbird. The miracles the saint performed were more than usually numerous even in that miraculous age; and so strong and inherent was the devotional temperament of his mind, that he is described as having sung psalms before he was born! But some account of the rules of his institute will be more to our present purpose, as they constituted the basis of all the monastic institutions of the middle ages, and will therefore introduce us to an acquaintance with the social life of an immense class of persons for many centuries.

After describing four classes of monks, the Cœnobites, Anchorets, Saraibaites, and Gyrovagi--the last two of whom seem to have been licentious and idle vagabonds--he states that his rule was intended for the first class, the Cœnobites, who, while they secluded themselves from the society of the world, lived together in monasteries, under the government of an abbot. The qualifications for this high office are specified, and the person selected to fill it, is charged to instruct the community by his life as well as his counsels, and to treat the brethren, who were to look up to him as to a father, in a spirit of paternal kindness and impartiality. He had power to admonish offenders, and even to punish the refractory with stripes. The whole fraternity were to form a chapter, or council, with whom he was to consult on the business of the monastery; but he was left, after deliberation, to form his own judgment, to which the whole brotherhood were bound to submit. Obedience was the cardinal virtue of monks, with which silence and humility were closely connected. Benedict details the order of the church service which the brethren were to observe, and appoints the canonical hours, lauds, prime, tierce, sexts, nones, vespers, and complines. Every ten monks were placed under a dean, (_decanus_,) who was to sleep with them in their dormitories. Delinquents were to be punished according to the guilt of their offence, by separation from their brethren, the infliction of stripes, or total expulsion. The possessions of the monastery were common property, and no one was to call anything his own. The brethren were required to serve in the kitchen and refectory, from which nothing but sickness could exempt them; they were allowed, as a reward, an extra draught of wine, and a piece of bread. Dinner, in general, was at sexts, (twelve,) but on fast days at nones, (three,) when it was the only meal. The sick monks were treated with special kindness, and were allowed meat and wine; but those who were in health were only provided with cooked vegetables and fruit; the abbot, however, seemed to have a discretionary power in such matters. Edifying books were to be read to the assembled brethren after supper, or even-song on fast days. He particularly inculcates the duty of manual labour, observing that "idleness is injurious to the mind;" and he also enjoins upon the monks the practice of reading, for which, however, they could have little time after spending so many hours in devotion and labour. The rites of hospitality were to be liberally maintained, and the abbot's table was to be open for the reception of guests, who were to be welcomed with the kiss of peace, but not till after prayer had been offered. The abbot was to appoint the dress of the fraternity, and each brother was to have two tunics, cowls, and scapularies, the best being reserved for wear when they went from home. When travelling, they wore breeches, but, at other times, their gown was to suffice. A blanket, quilt, and pillow was allotted to each brother, and the abbot was frequently to search under the beds to see whether a monk had concealed anything which he had not received from the convent. Severe were the terms of entrance--four or five days was the applicant to bear the rebuffs of the porter; and then to be received in the room appointed for the guests, where some aged brother was to explain to him the most rigorous parts of the monastic discipline, when, if he were willing to submit to them, he was received into the class of novices, upon trial for twelve months, after which, if obedient and willing to give up all he had, he was to be fully admitted into the order. A solemn profession was made, his secular garments were placed in the wardrobe, his vow was considered irrevocable, and the bond he subscribed, or signed with the cross, was laid up among the archives of the monastery, as the pledge of obedience for ever.

Strange monks who visited a monastery were to be kindly entertained, so long as they chose to remain in obedience, but the abbot was not to receive the member of any other known monastery without letters of dismission. The brethren were to take precedence according to their seniority in the convent: but all were to be obedient to the abbot; not even going out, without seeking his permission and prayers. To these regulations, respecting the order of the society, are appended a number of short moral and religious maxims, breathing a pure, benevolent, and devout spirit.[2]

St. Benedict was a reformer, and the rule he instituted was undoubtedly a great improvement upon the monastic habits of earlier times. Its success was great beyond expectation, for, being approved by popes and councils, it was, in process of time, adopted as the universal system of the west. The reader, no doubt, in perusing these rules, has caught some glimpses of the monastic life, and has pictured to himself the habits of the brotherhood: and now, to assist him in his imaginings, to give a local habitation and a name to the picture he may form, let us open the chronicle of a monastery in the eighth century, and take a peep at one of the structures within which communities of this kind were gathered.

The monastery of Centule, after having fallen into decay, was restored by Angilbert. He repaired the buildings, "and employed skilful artificers in wood, stone, glass, and marble." The emperor, who cherished a special regard for Angilbert, and who desired to see the abbey magnificently rebuilt, directed that marble columns from the city of Rome should be conveyed to Centule for the adornment of the edifice. During the progress of the works, an accident occurred--one of the columns fell, and was broken in two; but, early in the morning, when the workmen came to the spot, they found, to their surprise, the broken pillar restored, and placed erect; for, according to the historian, an angel had been there, and united the broken parts, and left the impress of his hand upon the marble, where the pieces were joined! The monastery is described as triangular;[3] it contained three churches, which were united to each other by three walls. The largest of the churches was dedicated to St. Richard, the founder of the abbey, and had two towers, one at the east, and the other at the west end. The next in size was consecrated to the virgin Mary; and the third, which was the least, was set apart to the honour of St. Benedict, who established the order. The monastery was arranged according to his rules, so that every useful art and necessary employment might be carried on within the circuit of the walls: the church had numerous altars, which were abundantly enriched with relics--some of the virgin Mary's milk, and a portion of St. Peter's beard, occupying a very conspicuous place in the precious inventory. A long enumeration follows of vases, crosses, crowns, lamps, chalices, etc.; of gold and silver, adorned with gems, beside a vast number of splendid vestments: the monkish chronicler adding, at the close, that there were many more ornaments and useful things, in lead, glass, and marble, which it would be tedious to enumerate. It was ordained that there should be, at least, three hundred monks supported in this abbey; and one hundred boys, to be fed and clothed like the brethren, who were to arrange them in three choirs, that they might assist in singing, and in playing on instruments; each of the three churches having a choir appropriated to itself, so that, in canonical hours, they might be all employed at the same time in religious worship.[4]

But we must leave all this, to trace the bearings of monachism on the interests of society.

[1] Vita Pauli.

[2] Regula Benedieti. Hospinian de origine et progressu Monachatus, etc. p. 116. A good sketch of the Benedictine rules is given in Quarterly Review, vol. xxiii. 59

[3] Monasteries were generally quadrangular.

[4] D'Achery, Spic. tom. ii. 303.

SECTION II.

MONASTIC LIFE AND MANNERS.

On looking at the social influence of monachism, one of the first things which strikes us, is, the effect which it was calculated to produce upon the mind of the fraternity; who, after the order had spread, formed no small portion of the population of Europe. Strict conformity to the rules of St. Benedict, and obedience to the superior of the convent, formed the beau ideal of the monk. Implicit submission, moral and religious, was yielded to a fellow man. The more abject this submission, the more meritorious it was deemed. St. Columbanus, who has been described as "the most remarkable character of his age,"[1] stretched the principle of obedience so far, in his penitential discipline, as to lay down the following rules: that any monk who did not sign with a cross the spoon with which he ate, or who struck the table with his knife, or who should cough at the beginning of a psalm, should receive the punishment of six lashes.[2] The way in which submission to a superior was sometimes expressed, by the monkish fraternity, is amusing enough. We read of one of these worthies, who, when his superior, an illiterate man, stopped him as he was reading a Latin sentence, and bade him pronounce the _e_ in _dŏcēre_ short, he at once gave up the right pronunciation: knowing, it is remarked, that to disobey his abbot, who commanded him in Christ's name, was a greater sin than to adopt a false quantity.[3] And this very monk was no other than the celebrated Lanfranc, afterwards archbishop of Canterbury. This picture of the prostration of the human understanding to the vows of monastic obedience is truly humiliating; and, in many cases, there can be no doubt that the minds of the monks were decidedly enfeebled by the discipline they observed. Monasteries soon became, but too generally, most corrupt establishments, which the energy and zeal of the more devout of the order in vain attempted to reform. There is sufficient evidence running through the whole history of the middle ages, of the moral evils of the system. While an extreme party often appeared doing their utmost to tighten the cords of discipline, and rushing to the most ridiculous excesses of monkish severity; another party, more numerous, was never wanting, who practically relaxed the bonds of their order, and indulged in various irregularities. Nor were the scenes of monastic seclusion quite so peaceful as the romantic imagination is wont to picture, or the vows of obedience quite so binding as would appear from the theory of the system established by Benedict: for, if we are to believe the testimony of those times, it not seldom happened that one fraternity quarrelled with another; that monasteries were scenes of confusion; that monk fell out with monk; that the brotherhood rebelled against their superior, and that some discontented member turned fugitive, fairly escaped from the convent, and sought refuge in another establishment, in consequence of which a warm correspondence took place between the dishonoured abbot and some neighbouring prior who had taken the runaway under his patronage. Some were dissatisfied because discipline was too lax; some rebelled because it was too strict; and some did just as they liked, because there was no discipline at all. The effect of all this vice, disorder, and misrule, upon society, could not fail to be pernicious. The influence of such men who, while they set themselves up as models of sanctity and obedience, thus violated their vows, fostered the practice of all sorts of evil among the people at large. Historians have, therefore, justly laid at the door of these institutions, thus grossly corrupted, the blame of much of that social depravity which darkened the middle ages.

According to the strict interpretation of the rule of St. Benedict, the monks were by no means to accumulate secular wealth: but a more liberal construction was generally put on the terms of the institute, so that the monasteries grew richer in this world's goods than in spiritual fame. A correspondence on this point, which arose in the twelfth century between Bernard, of Clairvaux, and Peter the Venerable, of Clugni, has been preserved, from which we find that the monks of Clugni were charged with violating the rules of the order by holding estates. "What will you reply," it is asked, "respecting the secular possessions which you hold, just like secular persons? For towns, villages, peasants, slaves, and handmaids, and what is more, the revenue of tolls and taxes, and property of that description, you receive indifferently, and retain unlawfully; and when you are attacked, you are not scrupulous about the means of defence. Contrary to all monastic law, ecclesiastics conduct secular causes, and turn advocates--and thus in heart return to Egypt."[4] This is a specimen of the disputes which sometimes arose among the monastic orders; and it proves, what none can deny, that the monasteries, whether in violation of the Benedictine rules or not, grew rich. One cannot look over a few of the old monastic histories without finding numerous allusions to their wealthy endowments. Immense tracts of lands, numbers of villages, farms, gardens, slaves of both sexes, are found registered in the inventory of their possessions. In later days the wealth of monasteries became enormously great, so that, in the twelfth century, the territorial property of the church, of which the larger part was vested in monasteries, amounted to nearly one-half of all England, and, in some countries, to a still larger proportion.[5] Much of this property was freely bestowed by the wealthy, with a view to secure thereby the salvation of their souls: but the brotherhood are charged with not being very particular as to the means they employed for the aggrandizement of their order; and are said even to have prostituted "their knowledge of writing to the purpose of forging charters in their own favour, which might easily impose upon an ignorant age, since it has required a peculiar science to detect them in modern times."[6]

But though there be evidence enough of monkish worldliness, avarice, and rapacity, in a multitude of instances, it must not be supposed that these societies, powerful as they were, had it all their own way. It is common for persons to think of the monks as having all lived in the midst of abundance, enjoying their possessions in perfect security, their spiritual authority encircling their domains as with a wall of fire. But this is a mistake. Many and sad are the lamentations poured out by monkish chroniclers over the spoliation of their property. Princes and barons were very far from always standing in awe of prelates and abbots: convents were often plundered without mercy, and if the church had spoiled the laity, the laity retaliated with vengeance. "The poverty and distress of the convents, and their want of the necessaries of life, was another feature of ancient society which we little expect. To find Anselm writing to archbishop Lanfranc, and telling him, that oatmeal and beans had been so dear, for a long time, that the great monastery of Bee was in the depths of difficulty, and that, dreadful as the last year's sufferings had been, the next would be worse; to find the archbishop assisting them with twenty pounds, and to hear moving complaints of the distress occasioned to the monks by the town toll, which was rigorously exacted, even on the pot-herbs which composed their scanty _cuisine_, would certainly be quite new matter to most readers."[7] Yet there can be no doubt that these instances were the exceptions, and not the illustrations of the rule; proofs of the wealth of monasteries in general being abundant, and seasons of calamity and depression, of which we find complaints, being only temporary, and owing to accidental circumstances.

[1] Rome under the Popes, vol. ii. 245.

[2] Man. Bibl. tom, xii. 6

[3] Maitland's Dark Ages, 178.

[4] Max. Bibl. pat. xxii. p. 841.

[5] Hallam, Middle Ages, chap. vii.

[6] Ibid. "A monk of the Abbey of St. Medard, being on his death-bed, confessed, with great contrition and repentance, that he had forged numerous bills of exemption, in favour of various monasteries."--_Palgrave's Proofs and Illustrations_, etc., ccxi.

[7] Quarterly Review, vol. lviii. p. 424.

SECTION III.

MONKISH EMPLOYMENTS.

Manual labour was strongly recommended by Benedict, and, from the first establishment of his order, the monks engaged themselves in tilling the soil. It is difficult to form an idea of the deplorable state of agriculture in Europe, for some centuries after the invasion of the barbarians upon the south. The change which has since been wrought in the appearance of towns, in the state of trade, and in the general character of political and social institutions, is scarcely greater than the change which has been produced in the aspect of nature. Many an immense tract of country now smiling with cornfields, meadows, gardens, and vineyards, was, in the middle ages, a miserable morass, or a straggling forest, haunted by the wolf, and unvisited by man. In the first attempts to transform the desert into "a fruitful field," we find the monks most active. In the early charters granted to monasteries, frequent mention is made of extensive districts, uncultivated and barren, made over to them as their property, which, by their labour, they turned to profitable account. Wild and inaccessible forests were cleared for the site of a new convent; and the monkish historian, as he recorded the fact, exclaimed, "How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob, and thy tabernacles, O Israel! In the place where dragons lay shall there be reeds and rushes." Some of the most pleasing parts of the monastic annals are those in which an account is given of the change produced in the face of the country, by the enclosure of land around the monastery. There is some interest felt in looking on the following picture:--"The place," says the biographer of Eligius, in describing an abbey which he built, "the place is so fertile and so pleasant, that when any person walks there among the orchards of fruit, and the gardens of flowers, he is ready to burst forth into the exclamation, 'How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob, and thy tabernacles, O Israel! like shady woods, like cedars near the waters, and as gardens by the river'--of such, Solomon says, 'the habitations of the just are blessed.' .... It is surrounded by an enclosure, not of stone, but consisting of a foss and bridge, about a mile and a quarter in circuit; on one side guarded by a beautiful river, from which there rises a lofty hill, crowned with wood, and rocks towering to a great height. The inner space is filled with fruit-bearing trees of various kinds, where the mind is cheered, and may fancy itself surrounded by the delightful scenes of Paradise."[1]

The buildings which rose in these cultivated spots, were the work of monks. They were the architects and masons of the day; and whatever signs of strength or beauty might be displayed in the structure of the convent, the cathedral, or the church, was the fruit of their labour, or their genius. For example, two distinguished monks in England, Bennet and Wilfred, are described by our historians as being possessed of much architectural skill. The churches of Weremouth and Jarrow were erected by the former; the cathedral of York was repaired and beautified, and that of Ripon entirely built by the latter. We are told that the masonry was nicely polished, that rows of columns supported the roof, and that porticoes adorned each of the principal entrances. The monastery of Hexham was the last and most admired of his works. "The height and length of the walls, the beautiful polish of the stones, the number of the columns and porticoes, and the spiral windings which led to the top of each tower, have exercised the descriptive powers of Eddius, who, after two journeys to the apostolic see, boldly pronounced that there existed not on this side the Alps a church to be compared with that of Hexham."[2] When reading such descriptions, we must remember that they belong to an age of comparative ignorance and barbarism, and that, therefore, the buildings so much extolled would probably excite but little, if any, admiration now; yet, doubtless, they did evince some buddings of that architectural taste which was afterwards developed in great perfection. It may not be uninteresting to add a notice or two of the Saxon method of building. The foundations of Medhamsted were laid with stones, each of which was drawn by eight yoke of oxen. Those of Croyland were composed of piles of oak, and alder between, which were compressed with great quantities of dry earth. At Ramsey the stones for the foundation were beaten down with rammers; a windlass was employed to raise the stones to the top of the wall. The ceilings were generally framed with oak. Vaulted roofs of stone forming a triumph of architectural skill which they rarely attempted, and which they were unable perfectly to accomplish; and it should be stated, that it was only in rare instances, and in particular situations, that buildings were of stone at all--wood was commonly employed.

Allusion has already been made to the decorations of the monasteries and churches, and to the works of art employed in religious ceremonies; there were further proofs of monkish skill.

An ingenious work of art, intended to represent the solar system, was possessed by the monks of Croyland, and destroyed by the fire which consumed the abbey, in 1091. It was a table composed of different metals. The planet Saturn was of copper, Jupiter of gold, Mars of iron, Mercury of amber, Venus of tin, the Moon of silver, and the solar orb of brass. It is described by the monkish chronicler, Ingulf, as charming the eyes, and instructing the mind, by its precious materials, its brilliant colours, and its exquisite workmanship. This scientific instrument, however, was not the work of the monks themselves, but a present to the abbot of Croyland, by the king of France. Yet it seems that similar tables were not uncommon in England; and these, no doubt, were the handyworks of the monastic brethren, who alone understood scientific matters. Another proof of mechanical skill, not so well known, is to be found in an anecdote of St. Bernard and his friends. Weakened by his austerities, he retired to his cell, where he could not be persuaded to have a fire, but there were some who were more solicitous than himself to promote his comfort, and they contrived to introduce hot air into the apartment, through the stone floor under his bed.[3] There was a touch of good feeling, as well as of skilful contrivance, exhibited by these friends of the old abbot; whence it appears, that warming rooms by hot air is no modern invention, and that the reverence felt for genius and piety, and a desire to promote the comfort of those we love, are not peculiar to any age or country. Further light is thrown upon monkish employments in a letter written by Peter the Venerable, a friend and correspondent of the above-mentioned St. Bernard. After exhorting his friends to study and write, he says, "If, however, from its injuring your sight, or from its wearisome sameness, you cannot, or will not be content, with one manual employment, make a variety of other handy works. Make combs for combing and cleaning the heads of the brethren; with skilful hand and well-instructed foot, turn needle-cases; hollow out vessels for wine, such as they call _justitiœ_, or others like them, or try to put them together. And if there are any marshy places near, weave mats (an ancient monastic employment) on which you may always, or frequently sleep, may bedew with daily, or frequent tears, and wear out with frequent genuflexion before God; or, as St. Jerome says, weave little baskets with flags, or make them of wicker. Filling up all the time of your blessed life with these and similar works of holy purpose, you will leave no room for your adversaries to intrude into your heart, or into your cell, but that when God has filled all with his virtues, there shall be no room for the devil, none for sloth, none for the other vices."[4] They were truly odd employments which the abbot prescribed; yet, it is to be feared, that many of the brotherhood were far from being always so well employed; certainly, the latter part of the advice is very good, and, though written by a man in the dark ages, is not unworthy of consideration in these enlightened times.

There was, in many monasteries, a room specially devoted to employment of the highest value. This was the _scriptorium_, or writing-room. After the twelfth century, small cells, only capable of accommodating a single person, were used by the monastic scribes; but, at an earlier period, one large apartment was appropriated to their use.

"Meanwhile, along the cloister's painted side The monks, each bending low upon his book, With head on hand reclined, their studies plied, Forbid to parley, or in front to look; Lengthways their regulated seats they took. The strutting prior gazed, with pompous mien, And wakeful tongue prepared with prompt rebuke; If monk asleep in sheltering hood were seen, He wary often peep'd beneath that russet screen.

"Hard by, against the window's adverse light, Where desks were wont in length of row to stand, The gown'd artificers inclined to write, The pen of silver glisten'd in their hand; Some on their fingers rhyming Latin scann'd, Some textile gold from halls unwinding drew, And on strain'd velvet stately portraits plann'd; Here arms, there faces shone, in embryo view, At last to glittering life the total figures grew."

The last stanza describes the business carried on in the scriptorium, and may help the reader, the next time he visits the ruins of an old monastery, and sees among the mouldering remains, the traces of such an apartment, to picture to himself the scene which enlivened that spot when the abbey walls, now covered with moss, appeared in all their stately pride. Deep silence, as the above description indicates, was observed by the monks, when carrying on their studies and their writing; and, to prevent its being broken, they were required to adopt a whimsical system of communication with each other respecting anything they wanted. "Of course there was a sign for a book. For a book, in general, they were to extend their hand, and move it, as if turning over the leaf of a book. The general sign being made, another was added to distinguish the sort of book wanted; and there were distinct signs for the Missal, the Gospels, the Epistolary, the Psalter, the Rule, and so on; but to distinguish a book written by a heathen, the monk was to scratch his ear like a dog."[5]

From catalogues of monastic libraries preserved in D'Achery's Spicelegium, it may be concluded that it was considered a large collection, when an abbey possessed from two to three hundred volumes. The rich abbey of Centule had such a collection, in the ninth century.[6] The mention of a library like this will give to some readers the idea of books having been more common in the dark ages than they had supposed; for there can be no doubt that the scarcity of books, at that period, has been somewhat exaggerated; but still, even a library of this extent, in a wealthy abbey, does not say much in proof of a large multiplication of manuscripts, and of great diligence on the part of monastic transcribers. The process of copying was, as every one must admit, tedious and expensive; but the Romans, the Egyptians, and the Saracens, had to contend with the same difficulties, yet their libraries were some of them prodigiously large. Seven hundred thousand volumes, it was calculated, were in the famous library of Alexandria: but that was beyond all parallel. The library of Pergamus, however, amounted to 200,000 volumes. Doubtless, many of the books of the ancients were small, for Ovid speaks of his fifteen books of Metamorphoses as forming an equal number of volumes;[7] yet, allowing for this, some of the libraries of antiquity must have been very extensive. Nor were very considerable libraries at all uncommon, in the houses of men of literary taste, before the fall of Rome. The libraries of the Saracens were also extremely large. That of the Fatimites consisted of 100,000 manuscripts; and that of the Ommiades, in Spain, amounted to 600,000. It would be unfair to place large public libraries, or the private collections of princes, in comparison with the library of a monastery; but still, when we see how the difficulty of multiplying books by the pen has been overcome in many instances, and when we look at the vast numbers of persons in Europe, during so many centuries, devoted to the monastic profession, their literary labours do not appear to have been very great.

Instances of the high prices given for books in the middle ages have been often quoted. Mabillon relates that the countess of Anjou paid to the bishop of Halberstadt, for a copy of the Homilies of Haimon, two hundred sheep, a modius of wheat, and the same of rye and millet, beside four pounds in money, and some marten skins.[8] It would be very unreasonable to take an instance like this as a sample of the value of mere manuscripts at that time. Volumes were often most splendidly illuminated and adorned, and this was probably one of the most costly kind. For instance, in the catalogue of books in the library of Centule, already referred to, we find mention made of an illuminated volume of the Gospels, bound in plates of gold and silver, and richly adorned with precious stones.[9] Facts, of the order just cited, are not to be deemed so much proofs of the scarcity of books, as of the extreme value of certain volumes, arising from the precious materials of which they were composed, and the labour bestowed upon illuminating and adorning them. Still, books plainly written, and without ornament, must have been far from numerous, and therefore very valuable; as is evident from the catalogues of monastic libraries, which were almost the only collections having any pretension to that name.

It will not be uninteresting to the reader to be informed what were the kinds of books which these libraries contained. In the abbey of Centule, we find Homer, Cicero, Josephus, Pliny, Socrates, Sozomen, Theodoret, Philo, Eusebius, Origen, Augustin, Jerome, Gregory, Isidore, Hilary, Chrysostom, Cassiodorus, Fulgentius, Bede, beside several authors of lesser note, together with a number of service books. After enumerating these works, the writer of the chronicle speaks of them as the aliment of celestial life, feeding the soul with sweetness, so that, in Centule, the saying was fulfilled, "Love the study of books, and you will not love the practice of vice."[10]

Few of the classical writers are found in these catalogues; for, in general, during the former part of the middle ages, no attention was paid to the study of them, even by those who made pretensions to literary taste and acquirements, though a few writers may be found, even at that period, who discover some acquaintance with them; but, at a subsequent era, a taste for classical studies revived, and, after the eleventh century, a large number of transcripts from classic authors were made by the monks of the Benedictine order. Yet, as we are indebted to the western monasteries for the preservation of the Latin classics, it is quite plain that there must have been throughout the middle ages, in some or other of them, enough of value set upon these works to induce the monks to copy them.

But the most interesting part of the catalogue is, that which relates to the Scriptures. At the commencement of the list of books we find, "One entire Bible, containing seventy-two books, in one volume; also, a Bible divided into fourteen volumes;" and then the Commentaries of Jerome on many of the books of Scripture. In other catalogues, also, parts of the Bible, and even the whole of it, may be found included. A whole copy of the Scriptures, however, was rare, but detached portions of the sacred volume were much less so. In a list of monastic treasures, belonging to the abbey of Fontenelle, the following item occurs. "The four Evangelists, on purple vellum, which Augesius (the abbot) ordered to be written in the Roman letter, of which he completed Matthew, Luke, and John, but death coming, (_interveniente morte ejusdem_,) the rest remained imperfect." There is something touching in this simple record of the abbot's purpose thus cut off by the stroke of mortality, reminding us all of the possibility of our being taken away in the midst of plans more characteristic of modern times, but which, nevertheless, may be not so worthy of our spiritual and immortal nature.

Of course it will be understood that the Bibles, and parts of Bibles found in the monasteries of the west, were not written in the original languages, but were copies of the Latin version. To the Greek monasteries we owe the preservation of Grecian literature. The convents, which covered, with picturesque beauty, the sides of Mount Athos, were the chief scenes of these learned labours. Not only were the manuscripts of the Iliad of Homer copied within sight of the very sea once traversed by the black and hollow ships which he describes, but the epistles of Paul were also transcribed on the shores of the same waters, over which he sailed on his errands of Divine mercy.

The multiplying of manuscripts and the collecting of books, whether sacred or profane, during these times of ignorance, were owing no doubt to the taste for learning which was cherished by a few, who had influence sufficient to engage others in the manual departments of literary occupation. Such men as Bede, Alcuin, and Raban Maurus, were enthusiastic lovers of books, and would do everything in their power to imbue others with the same feeling. They are distinguished names, shining out as stars of peculiar brilliancy during that season of gloom; but there were other men, whose names are preserved only in the obscure records of monasteries, long since dissolved, who seem to have been most diligent students. An amusing instance of a love for reading, occurs in the records of the abbey of St. Benignus, in the eleventh century. "The abbot Halinard," says the writer, "was so fond of reading that, even on a journey, he often carried a little book in his hand, and refreshed his mind by perusing it on horseback."[11] An abbot riding on horseback, with a book in his hand, would certainly be no fitting type of the generality of ecclesiastics at that time; all the more honour, then, to him and others like-minded, for their strong literary predilections. They were persons who finely exemplified "the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties," and we, in the present day, may derive, from their simple histories, a stimulus to renewed ardour and perseverance in the cultivation of the mind: for if they, with all their disadvantages, thus laboured to furnish themselves with knowledge, how much more ought we, in these times, to do so, when the means of literary acquisition are so widely diffused.

The benevolence of the church has been already noticed. In monasteries especially was this virtue displayed. If we are to believe what is said in the Chronicle of the Abbey of Centule, the brotherhood there actually impoverished themselves, and brought the establishment into a very critical position by their extreme liberality and simple-heartedness; but admitting, as perhaps the reader will be inclined to do, that it is quite possible the generosity of the brethren is a trifle overrated, and that, even when some deduction is made from the statement, the case of Centule was not a common one; yet it must be confessed that there is sufficient evidence extant to induce a belief that benevolence was not an uncommon virtue in these fraternities. Peculiar kindness was shown in monasteries to travellers who sought their hospitality; and it was the injunction of Benedict to his followers, that they should prefer to render service to the poor brethren of Christ rather than to pay attention to the wealthy sons of this world. The _xenodochium_, or guest-house, within the precincts of each monastery, stood open to receive all visitors who came, as well as to yield support to a certain number of paupers; and though such an institution was liable to great abuse, and this system of relief altogether was open to objection, yet, doubtless, it supplied desirable assistance to many of the aged, the sick, and the weary--offered a useful place of sojourn to the traveller, who found no inns to go to, as in modern times, and proceeded from a kind and generous spirit, which appears peculiarly beautiful in those days of violence and semi-barbarism. But, in seasons of famine, which were not uncommon, the monks often displayed more than usual liberality. It is related of an abbot of St. Albans, in the eleventh century, that, in a time of great scarcity, he not only emptied his granaries, but parted with many of the valuables of the church to supply food for his starving neighbours; and that, when expostulated with, by some of his brethren, for parting with possessions consecrated to the service of God, he replied, that living temples were more valuable than material edifices, and that to support the former was more important than to decorate the latter.[12]

[1] D'Achery, Spic. tom. ii. 83.

[2] Lingard's Anglo-Saxons, vol. i. p. 201.

[3] Maitland's Dark Ages, p. 406.

[4] Quoted in Maitland's Dark Ages, p. 453.

[5] Maitland's Dark Ages, p. 403. Du Cange, Glossary, voce _Signum_.

[6] "The volumes," says the chronicler, "amount to 256, but some of these volumes contains several manuscripts, so that if we were to number these separately they would exceed 500."--_D'Achery, Spic._ ii. 311.

[7] Ovid. i. 29.

[8] Benedict An., lib. lxi., No. 6.

[9] D'Achery, Spic. tom. ii. p. 306.

[10] D'Achery, Spic. vol. ii.

[11] D'Achery, Spic., tom. ii. p. 392.

[12] Matt. Paris, Lingard's Anglo-Saxon Antiq. vol. i. p. 214.

SECTION IV.

EFFECTS OF MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS ON SOCIETY.

But we must not extend these illustrations of monastic life and influence. Enough has been said to show that the effect of these institutions on society was of a mixed character. They were fountains both of good and evil. Their effect on society at large, would mainly depend upon the effect which they produced on their members: and that effect would be greatly modified by the peculiar character and temperament of each individual.

Their natural influence upon idle and sensually-minded men was to cherish their indolence and depravity, and to lead to that vice and dissoluteness which, unless we are to disbelieve the strongest evidence, did really characterise the inmates of many an abbey. To the man of ambition and energy the scenes of the cloister, though apparently separated from the world, presented no unsuitable sphere for the exercise of qualities which fitted him to take a leading part in the political affairs of the nation;--for a monastery of some three or four hundred brethren, (in certain cases it contained many more,) with, their gradations of rank, their forms of government, their legislative power in the chapter-house, their judicial proceedings, and their different employments, formed a little world which was a type of the greater world, with its intrigues, controversies, conflicts, and struggles after place, power, and influence;--hence, from these retreats there came forth many a churchman animated by a spirit, and possessing policy and tact, which prepared him to take a leading part in the transactions of the day, and even to lay his hand on the helm of affairs, and to guide the vessel of the state for good or evil. As it regards persons of a studious turn, the monastery was a sort of college, where, in quietude, and with the best assistance which the age supplied, they could train and improve their minds, and write for the instruction of their brethren. And as it respects men of a mechanical genius, or of artistic taste, there were employments for them, suited to their predilections, and adapted to call forth their industry and skill.

Individuals of a contemplative cast, and of devout habits, it cannot be doubted, found aliment for their piety in the better parts of the services of the church--in some of those beautiful hymns sung at vespers, or the hour of prime, which cannot be read, in these days, but with the deepest pleasure--in certain writings of the fathers--and in those scenes of nature's loveliness which lay outspread around the convent walls, reminding the beholder of their Creator's power and goodness. And further, in the case of men of a benevolent disposition, with hearts open to the appeals of distress, the monastery might furnish them with the means of supplying relief to the suffering sons and daughters of humanity, and might give some scope, though limited, to the exemplification of the active virtues.

With regard to some of the beneficial, as well as some of the evil effects of the monastic institute, it is to be observed that they arose from innovations made upon the original system. If any contend that the profligacy of monks arose from the corruption of monastic discipline, and is not to be charged upon the system, as it proceeded from its founder, they must also admit that the literature of the monks, and whatever they accomplished as architects, and artists, and men of taste, equally arose in a departure from the strict rules of monastic order, and cannot, therefore, be regarded as fruits of the original institute. That an attention to literature, in its secular branches, and the cultivation of art, in its highest forms, was not provided for in the letter, nay, was out of harmony with the spirit of the rules of St. Benedict, must be apparent to every one who looks at that code of discipline; and, moreover, that these things were blamed by monastic reformers in the middle ages, and by those who, in the spirit of monachism, aspired to ascetic perfection, is evident from a glance at their history and writings.

We have said nothing respecting nunneries. "Their rules were formed, for the most part, upon those which bound the monks. Like the monks, they lived from common funds, and used a common dormitory, table, and wardrobe; the same religious services exercised their piety; and habitual temperance and occasional fasting were enjoined with the same severity. Manual labour was no less rigidly enforced; but instead of the agricultural toils imposed upon their 'brethren,' to them were committed the easier tasks of the needle, or the distaff. By duties so numerous, by occupations admitting so great variety, they beguiled the tediousness of the day and the dulness of monastic seclusion."[1] The sister of St. Benedict is said to have been the founder of the Benedictine order of nuns, who soon became so numerous, that, in the city of Rome, under the pontificate of Gregory the Great, there were no less than three thousand of these "_ancillœ Dei_," "hand-maids of God." In the ninth century, they had risen to such an elevation of rank and power, that it became necessary to repress the pretended right of the abbesses to consecrate and ordain, and perform other sacerdotal functions.[2] "The establishment of female recluses followed very closely the numerous diversities of the monastic scheme, and imitated the names of the male institutions, where they could not adopt their practice, or even their profession. An order of Canonesses Regular was founded, or, at least, presented with a rule, by the council of Aix la Chapelle, in A.D. 813. And we read, in later times, of a community of noble young ladies, who were associated under a very easy discipline, and unrestrained by any vow of celibacy, under the title of Canonesses Secular. But these last pretenders to religious seclusion were, on more than one occasion, discountenanced by the authorities of the church."[3]

The taking the veil was a ceremony in harmony with the ascetic spirit of the institute, and the scene within the convent chapel, as the priestly voice pronounced the accustomed formula in the ears of the novice,--"Behold, daughter, and consider; forget thine own people, and thy father's house, that the King may desire thy beauty,"--seemed to indicate a complete abandonment of the world; but there is abundant evidence that a secular temper, and a love of earthly vanities, often followed the recluse to her cell, however she might attempt to conceal it beneath the foldings of her veil. The worldly, the ambitious, the sensual, the devout, the literary, the benevolent, might be found within the walls of the nunnery, as within the walls of the monastery; and the influence of the institute upon its professors in the one case, as in the other, and through them upon society in general, would vary accordingly.

Such is an outline of the character and effects of monasticism--a principle which constituted a leading element in what has been termed "the mediæval system." It is worthy of a deeper consideration, and of a more philosophical and Christian method of inquiry into its nature and results than it has commonly received. It sprung out of mistaken views of the human mind and of the Christian religion, and was wholly opposed to the latter in spirit and practice. It is deeply affecting to think of the many earnest and pious men who were misled by such a system, and who vainly sought by its artificial expedients that deliverance from the power of sin, which can be obtained only by faith in the Redeemer, by contemplating Divine truth, by prayer for the Holy Spirit, and by the discharge of the manifold duties of social life. Yet does the record of this great mistake, with all the evils which followed it, furnish us with a most important and invaluable lesson. "From the very nature of man, and of the Divine government on earth, when man is left to try all his inventions, the age of monasticism must, in all probability, one day have come. And had it not come when it did, we might now have been dreaming in the depths of its midnight. We may be grateful, then, as well as solemn, while contemplating the mistakes and consequent gloom of the past, and may thus become the more forbearing in the sweeping judgments we are apt to form of those who, with no bad intention, and in an age of but little light, and less experience, were left to lead the way in untried paths, which have since conducted to results so appalling and unforeseen."[4] The failure of the monastic system to yield to the aspirant after holiness and peace the help he needs, should warn us against adopting any human devices for the accomplishment of an end so infinitely important, and induce us to cleave to the simple methods prescribed in the Bible--belief of the truth, self-watchfulness, and prayer.

Unsound in principle, the system yielded, as might be expected, a harvest of mischief, not only to pure and noble minds whom it misled, but to other minds whose indolence and vice it nourished, while to mankind at large, it exhibited, in many an instance, a most unlovely spectacle of religious pretensions allied with irreligious practice; and, at the same time, poured over the mass of society the contagion of a pernicious example. Yet, during an age of barbarism, it preserved the seeds of taste and art--during an age of misrule, it afforded a shelter for the oppressed--during an age of ignorance, it kept alive some germs of learning--and during an age of cruel selfishness it illumined the world by some kindly gleams of benevolence. By an overruling Power it was made to serve some useful purposes, for many centuries after its establishment; but when its corruption had reached its height, and the better results it had once produced were neither felt nor needed, because a new state of things in the civilised world had come, it was smitten by the hand of Providence, and left to wither. In the control exerted over it for good, and in its destruction to such an extent, when it only produced evil, we see the wise and mighty hand of Providence, and are constrained to exclaim--"This also cometh from the Lord of hosts, which is wonderful in counsel, and excellent in working."

[1] Waddington's History of the Church, p. 398.

[2] Wellington's History of the Church, p. 400.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Bibliotheca Sacra, vol. i. p. 312.