In a time in the golden past, two hundred years or so before Protestantism was misbegot, there stood on the banks of a river a certain fair monastery; a beautiful pale grey building, austere and massive. It hung high up over the water, and deeply rolled the river at its base : in the early morning it swam in mists of palest ivory, what time the sun rose majestic over the hill, and smiled to see so lordly a sight. Though so massive and severe, the building was no wise grim : it shone a pale gem in green meadows and kingly trees.

The dwellers therein were as austere and simple as their dwelling; and they too irradiated cheerfulness, from my Lord Abbot to the latest scrubby postulant: and all met trouble and difficulty with a smile.

All—but one. One there was, as gloomy as a cave at midnight.

One there was as grim as a Donjon. He smiled never—neither did he laugh. He went further! He took scandal at the cheerfulness around him—a grim Brother! Whether he thought on the wickedness of the world, or the severity of the rule, ‘twas the same to him—all things worked together into gloom. A terrible fellow is a scowling Brother. To him a smile was a sin, to laugh a.crime. Saw he a swaggering gay fellow from out beyond, come to see the monastery— his soul shuddered within him : did his eye catch the Guest Master’s smiling welcome on such a one—he gloomed with misery—’ accomplices in crime.’

The very chant of the Office was too gay for him. In sooth a fanatical Brother.

And in his cell at night, he groaned aloud and thumped his chest, and bewailed the levity and brightness of the Brethren. ‘Distinguish between me and those others, Lord!’ he wailed. ‘I am not as they; oh ! deliver me from this house of doom.’