separation of the flour from the bran by a fine sieve. Here now it fills a caldron in the next building, and gives itself up to be boiled over the fire, that it may afford drink to the brethren should a barren vintage ever have failed to respond to the industry of the cultivator, and the defect in the blood of the grape has had to be supplied from the produce of the cornfield. But it has not yet fulfilled its task, for the fullers, who are close by with their mill, invite it to come to them, rightly demanding that, as in the corn-mill it is careful how the brethren may be fed, so with them it may prepare for their being also clothed. But it makes no demur, nor does it refuse anything that is required of it, yea rather, alternately lifting and letting down those heavy pestles or mallets, whichever you like to call them, or certainly wooden feet (for this name seems more in agreement with the dancing business of the fullers), it relieves the fullers of their hard labour, and, if we may introduce something jocular among serious matters, it absolves them from the penalties of their sin.1 O good God, what great consolations dost Thou provide for Thy poor, lest they should be swallowed up of overmuch sorrow, what great alleviations of punishment dost Thou dispense to the penitent, lest sometimes, perchance, they should be overdone by the vehemence of their labour. For how many backs of horses would that labour break, how many arms of men would it weary, were it not that that gracious river relieves us from it without any labour of our own, and, moreover, without it neither food nor raiment could be prepared for us. It indeed participates with us; it expects no other reward for its labour (with which it labours under the sun) than that when it has diligently accomplished all things well, it shall be permitted to go away free. Driving round so many whirling wheels in rapid rotation, thus it goes foaming out, so that it might seem itself to be ground and softened. Hence it is taken up by the currying-house, where it shows laborious diligence in making things that are necessary for the shoes of the brethren. In the next place, distributing itself little by little and through many parts of the abbey, it seeks out the various workshops in its duteous course, everywhere inquiring diligently where there is any need of its service, rendering its obedience without contradiction for whatever things have to be cooked, strained, turned, rubbed, watered, washed, ground, or softened. Lastly, lest anything conducing to a pleasant life should be wanting, and lest its works should be in any way imperfect, it carries away

1 The buildings here referred to do not altogether correspond with those shown in Dom Milley's plate, but there may well

have been alterations in the arrangements from time to time.

2

all that is unclean, leaving all things clean behind it.' And now, all for which it had come being strenuously performed, with rapid speed it hastens to the river, that, rendering thanks to it on behalf of Clairvaux for all its benefits, it may answer to its greeting by a suitable return, and, immediately pouring back into it the waters which it had brought to us, thus of two makes one, so that there appears not a vestige of the union, and that which in its departure it had made to be small and slow, it now, being mingled with it, urges on in its sluggish flow. But as we have now restored it to its own place, let us return to those little streams that we left behind us, which, being derived from the river, wander in passive courses through the meadows, that they may refresh the earth and water it, and make it to bud, lest when, in the spring time, the teeming earth brings forth its produce, the new-born grasses should either wither for lack of moisture, or need to be watered by drops of rain besought of the clouds, being sufficiently nourished by the bounty of the kindred river. These little streams, or rather furrows, after they have done their work, are swallowed up again by the river which had poured them forth, and now the whole of the Aube, being collected together, hastens down the valley in its headlong course. But inasmuch as we have now conducted it still further, and, according to the words of Solomon, it is returned to its own place, let us also return to the point from which we have digressed, and let us, as it were, skim over the spreading plain of the meadow in a concise description. That place has much of beauty in it, much because it soothes wearied minds and dispels anxious sorrows, much because it stirs up to devotion them that seek the Lord, and reminds us of that supernal sweetness after which we sigh, while the smiling face of the earth feeds the eyes with manifold colour, and breathes into the nostrils a sweet-smelling fragrance. But also, while I behold the flower, while I perceive the odour, the meadows relate to me the histories of ancient days. For while I drink in the delights of the fragrance, it occurs to my mind that the smell of the garments of the patriarch Jacob was likened to the sweet-smelling odour of a field which the Lord hath blessed. And while I refresh my eyes with colour, I call to mind that this spectacle of the flowers of the field was preferred to the purple of Solomon, who in all his glory

3

1 It would, of course, pass under all the domus necessaria; these are shown, but not referred to, in Dom Milley's plate. (See plan, between 58 and 67, and note after 57, p. 18.)

2 The Aube stream and St. Bernard's are now combined at the spot where the latter may have been carried over the former by an aqueduct. (See plan,

near 43.) On our way from the station to the village we may see the two streams passing out under the wall and through the meadow (p. 2), which meadow is traversed by the modern road.

3 Eccl. i. 7.

4 Perhaps the writer was thinking of the violets. (See note 3, p. 15.)

could not equal the beauty of the lilies of the fields, while yet there was wanting neither the art of his wisdom nor material at his command. And so, while I am enjoying my outdoor employment, I am not a little delighted with the hidden mystery. This meadow, then, is cherished by the irrigation of the river that runs through it, and sends down its roots to the moisture; therefore it will not fear when heat cometh.1 Lengthways, moreover, it is extended over so great a tract of land, that when the shorn fleece of grass has been dried into hay by the sun, twice ten days are quite enough for the convent to take its rest. By no means, however, is that labour left to the monks alone, but, together with the monks, lay brethren, oblates, and hired servants innumerable, gather up the mown grass, and sweep the ground with wide-set rake." Two granges divide this meadow between them, to which, as if to do away with all dispute, comes the river Aube, a just umpire and measurer, which, assigning to each his own part in the line of distribution, makes itself the boundary, which neither side may venture to pass in order to invade the other. You would believe that these granges were not the dwellings of lay brethren, but the cloisters of monks, if it were not that their inhabitants put out yokes for oxen, or ploughs, or other implements fitted for rustic labours, and that no books are ever opened there. For, so far as the buildings go, you would say that they were suitable for a great convent of monks, and would beseem such a place in beauty and be sufficient in extent. In the part of the meadow that is next to the wall, there is made out of the solid field a liquid lake, and where in former times the sweating labourer had mowed the hay with his sharp sickle, there the rowing brother sits, borne on his nimble wooden horse, having the light oar for spurs to urge him on his way, and for a bridle to guide him over the smooth level of the liquid field. Under the water is spread the net in which the little fish is caught, and baits are prepared for it on which it freely feeds; but there lies hid inside them a hook, with which the heedless one is taken, by which example we are taught to spurn pleasures, because pleasure that is bought with pain is a hurtful thing, and no one is permitted to be ignorant of its sorrowful effects,

2

unless it be the man who either has not sinned or has not well repented of his sin. May God remove far from us all such delectation as has death placed by the entrance to it, and which, according to the wise man's description, is like bees flitting about; where one of them has poured out the pleasant honey, it flies away, and then strikes at smitten hearts with too tenacious sting.' The circuit of the lake, which is knitted together by osiers along the deep edge of the bank, is bound by their roots, lest the earth should give way, and yield to the wash of the waves. This lake is fed by the stream that flows by it, which, separated by a distance of scarcely thirty-six feet, pours into it through little channels the waters by which it may be fed, while it returns them through channels of the same size. Hence it always remains at the same level, so that it neither rises by reason of the waters that flow in, nor falls because of those that flow out, for it receives and discharges them in equal measure. But, while I am borne along over the plains at a flying pace, while panting for breath I make my way upon the hills, as I describe either the empurpled surface of the meadow,3 painted by the hand of Wisdom itself, or the tops of the hills crested with trees, that sweetest spring, at which I have so often drunk, and which has deserved so well of me, but has been by me so ill requited, accuses me of ingratitude. It reproaches and upbraids me that it has often served to quench my thirst, that it has humiliated itself not only to the washing of my hands, but also to that of my feet, that it has rendered to me many services of humanity and beneficence, but that I have answered to its good deserving by a bad requital, in that it has found the last place in my list of localities, and has very nearly found not even that, when, however, the first place was due to it for the reverence that I owe to it. And indeed I cannot deny that I have thought of it too late, while I have remembered anything else before it. But, silently gliding through downward courses and to and fro, so that not even by a gentle murmur can its running be discerned, like the waters of Siloa," that go softly, as if it feared to come to light, everywhere it hides its head, and avoids being seen. Why should I not believe that it wishes to be passed over in silence,

1 Boetius, Cons. Phil., lib. iii. metr. vii. 2 A single stream, brought from the upper reach of the artificial Aube stream, now flows through the gardens and close by the hotel, the lavoir, or washing. house, of which is fixed beside it.

were

3 Here, again, the writer was perhaps thinking of the violets, which flowering in some profusion in the drier parts of the meadow, especially close by the monastery wall, April 5, 1905.

4 The Well of St. Bernard, which issues from the south-west side of the valley, about a inile up from Clairvaux. It is a copious spring, with a comparatively modern (seventeenth century?) well - house over it, surmounted by a plain cross. The water is collected in a large square tank, from which it flows in a small stream to join the larger running stream that goes all down the valley and into the monastic enclosure, 5 Is. viii. 6.

when I perceive that it does not wish to be seen unless under a roof? This spring, then (which is said to be an indication of a good spring), rises opposite to the rising sun, so that during the summer season it salutes the rosy face of glittering morn' that appears on the other side of the valley. Lest it should admit anything that might defile it, it is covered and closed in by a hut, or, that I may speak with more reverence, let me say a small and beautiful tabernacle." Where the hill pours it out, the valley swallows it up, and, in the place where it arises, there it dies, so to speak, and is buried. But you must not expect the sign of Jonas the prophet, that it should lie hidden away for three days and three nights, for immediately, about a mile away, within the cloister of the monastery, it makes its way, as if resuscitated from the heart of the earth, and appears in a manner come to life again, offering itself to the sight and use of the brethren, that from that time its lot may never be cast with any but holy men."

4

NOTE ON THE PLAN.

This plan makes no attempt to show the internal construction of any of the buildings, only their situations. It is a ground plan, and therefore does not distinguish places above the ground floor stage. (See note on Nos. 55-57.) As it is based on birds-eye views taken in 1708, it may show buildings that did not exist in medieval times, or may not show some that did. Vacandard and Milley show little plans of the grange of Outreaube in the margins of their plans, but as these may be at first sight misleading as to the situation of this grange, and are of no great practical interest, they have been omitted here. In one of Milley's views he shows Outreaube in its proper place, over the bridge and beyond the Aube.

I

2, 2

REFERENCES TO THE PLAN.

Centre of the approaches to Clairvaux.

Roads to Bar-sur-Aube.

3, 3 Roads to La Ferté.