My monastic cell is a neat, compact little
room, looking anything but cheerless in the ruddy
glow of the wood fire which sparkles between
the "dogs" of an old-fashioned open fireplace;
the whitewashed walls are hung with a few
pictures of saints and martyrs, each frame bearing
its appropriate sprig of holly; there is a little
bookcase, well stocked with religious works: a
standing oak reading-desk, and a very clean-
looking bed opening out of an oaken press. The
dead silence is at first painfully oppressive to my
worldly ear, but it must be favourable to meditation,
I suppose; for, in a few minutes, I find myself
seated on the bed and deep in reverie. Last
night, I was at the theatre, joining in a laughing
chorus some two thousand strong. Where am
I now? In a cold, grey building, situated in the
midst of the wildest forest scenery, and inhabited
by a few men, who exist indeed, but can be scarcely
said to live: men whose every thought tends but
to one end, the oblivion of their present, the
improvement of their future state; whose hearts
thrill to no human passions; to whose ears,
even the faintest rumours of wondrous events
convulsing thrones and nations, never reach;
whose life is one long scene of self-mortification
and humiliation; whose death-bed is cheered by
no loved presence. His vows once uttered, the
cowl and scapulary once donned, nothing remains
to him who, perhaps from disappointment,
perhaps from some better motive, renounces that
world, but the "set grey life and apathetic
end," the constant silence broken but in prayer,
the one daily meal sufficient but scarcely more
than sufficient to keep up life, the long-
continued vigil, the straw pallet, and the nameless
grave.

A tap at the door rouses me from my reverie,
and, opening it, I find my friend, the monk,
outside. He is the guest-master: by name
Father Lawrence: the only member of the
community, besides the abbot and the prior, on
whom the vow of perpetual silence is not
binding.

I have never seen a sweeter expression of face;
slightly worn, slightly ascetic, but, when he
smiles, his grey eyes light up, his white teeth
gleam, and he is the embodiment of good-
humour. Again he proffers refreshment, and on
my again declining it, proposes that we should
set out to the reformatory, where service is
about to be performed by the abbot. Of course
I agree, and we start. I have on, a heavy night
coat, which has seen much rough work; but my
companion makes no addition to his dress
beyond pulling his cowl over his head; he
tells me that custom had rendered him
indifferent to cold, and, lantern in hand, he
tramps on manfully over the stiff furrows of
a ploughed field, and through lakelets of standing
water.

A quarter of an hour's walking, on the
father's part, and a quarter of an hour's
feeble struggling on mine, brings us to the
reformatory, where are two hundred Roman
Catholic boys, all of whom have been
criminally convicted, and are here passing the
term of their imprisonment in being educated
and taught the means of earning a livelihood
instead of, as in old times, consorting with
Thomas Idle and his comrades, and envying the
exploits of Captain Macheath. Games are going
on as we enter, and the large court-yard is
ringing with merriment; but, no sooner are we
perceived than the game is broken up, and, with
loud shouts, all the players rush towards my
companion, pressing round him, calling-out his
name, seizing his hand, literally striving to
"touch the hem of his garment;" never have I
seen such enthusiasm and affection! They are
only brought back to reason, by the sound of a
bell, and the warning voices of the monitors
calling upon them to "fall in!" in regular military
order, and to march up to their chapel,
some five minutes distant.

Father Lawrence and I bring up the rear of
the long procession. As we walk, he tells me
of the success of the institution; how they have
never yet failed in any of the cases entrusted to
them; how, when the boys are first brought over
in charge of the policemen immediately after
their sentence, they look upon the removal of
the handcuffs as the primary recognition of their
human condition; how, from that time forth,
day by day they soften and humanise. This
reformatory is the father's hobby, that is easily
seen; as he talks of it his eyes glisten, and his
gestures become more and more animated. Here,
he tells me, he spends every spare moment of his
life, and here, among these boys, for whose good
he has laboured, he would wish to die. He is
specially excited to-night, for, at his own cost—
or, rather, at the cost of his friends, for these
monks renounce all separate fortune, and have
but one common purse—he has presented
the boys' chapel with a new and splendid image
of the Virgin Mary, which the abbot is to
consecrate at the ensuing service, and he begs me
press forward, that we may be in time for the
ceremony.

When we arrive at the chapel—a large
plain building, with a railed-off altar at the far
end, and a restuary immediately inside the
entrance-door—we find every seat filled by the
boys; but my conductor having been whispered
to by a lay brother in attendance, tells me that
the abbot wishes to speak to me, and leads me
to the robing-room. l am somewhat taken aback
on finding my hand cordially shaken by a middle-
aged, stout, genial gentleman, who warmly
welcomes me, deplores the bad weather, hopes I had
a pleasant journey, and who, but for his dress,
might be a country member of the Conservative
Club, whom I have come to visit for a week's
shooting.

The service is ended, the boys have returned
in procession to their playground, and I am
standing by Father Lawrence, inquiring into
various details of the place, when he suddenly
staggers and recovers himself by grasping my
shoulder. A little boy to whom he has been
speaking is advancing towards him, and I imagine
that this sudden movement is mere playfulness
on his part directed towards the child, when, on