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MIDDLE AGES.

ST. BERNARD.

T the close of the eleventh century, when the people of Normandy were suffering from the quarrels of William Rufus and Prince Louis, and France was resounding with the preparations for the first Crusade, a lady, called Aletta, the wife of the Count Tecelin, lived quietly at home in her husband's castle, near Dijon, and devoted herself to the care of her children and of the poor who dwelt around her. She had a gentle, pious heart, and did not find it necessary to travel to Jerusalem in search of heaven and duty. Her favorite pilgrimages were to the cottages of her indigent neighbors; and thither she might often be seen carrying food and medicine, and there she would sit by the bedside of the sick supplying their wants and soothing their pains with words of divine consolation.

Aletta reverenced the clergy as the ambassadors of God; and her first care for her children was to dedicate them to the service of God in the way she deemed most acceptable, and in those days the most acceptable service was believed to be the life of the cloister. As she grew older the strictness of her devotion increased; she divided the day between household duties, almsgiving, prayer, the festivals of the Church, entirely secluding herself from the social amusements of her time, which must, indeed, in their drunken revelry and often bloody encounters, have contained enough to repel any Christian heart. How her husband liked all this does not appear, nor what place he held in the household; he was, probably, frequently absent on some of those petty campaigns which characterized that age of feuds and feudalism.

Such was the atmosphere which surrounded the childhood of Bernard. The cloistral quiet of the house seems to have imparted a thoughtful tone to the whole family; doubtless, however, six brothers and a sister living together in their father's castle among the sunny corn-fields of Burgundy, did not pass a gloomy or a dreamy childhood, though their seclusion knit them with peculiarly strong bonds to each other and to their mother.

On Bernard the hopes of his mother were most fondly fixed. She had dreamed

the interpretation of a certain soothsaying monk, she treasured up as a token of her child's future greatness. He was accordingly sent to the cathedral-school of Chatillon-sur-Seine, to receive the rudiments of a learned education.

For logic Bernard had no great taste. The kingdom of heaven was not, for him, to be unlocked by subtle dialectics. On the other hand, he threw himself with all the enthusiasm of his nature into the study of ancient literature. Still, though he mastered Latin so far as to preach extempore in it with ease, he was never a learned man, or, rather, his learning was of that kind which may be gleaned by an observant eye and a watchful heart. The present had for him abundant wealth. He saw nature for himself, conversed with God for himself, was learned in the "open secret" of the universe, and the mysteries of his own soul; and he had made for himself that discovery which wise men in Germany have recently proclaimed, that for the comprehension of the highest truth man has another faculty than the understanding, and other words than syllogisms,

that for the spiritual world there is a spiritual sensorium,—that logic may weigh the evidences of religion, but that it is not logic which draws near the living God.

Six months after his return from Chatillon his mother's health began to fail. On the festival of St. Ambrose she had been wont to make a feast for the neighboring clergy, and, weak as she was, she made the usual preparations. But as the day approached, she grew worse; and when the day arrived, she was confined to her bed. Still she would not have the feast put off, and when the repast was ended, she requested that "the ministers of the Lord" would visit her in her room. They found her dying, and, at her entreaty, recited in chorus the solemn litany of the dying. She followed them faintly to the words, "By thy cross and passion, good Lord deliver us ;" and then laying the cross on her breast, she sank back and died.

For us the life of Aletta is a stray leaf from the chronicles of the middle ages very touching and very precious. It is pleasant to think how many such hallowed homes and Christian mothers there may have been in those days when the biographies of good women were only "printed for private circulation" in the hearts of

those their love had blessed ;-how many there are in all ages who, like the poor Scotchwoman, although they "could not speak for Him," would "die for Him."

From Bernard the impression of his mother's early teaching never faded away. Her image hovered before him constantly; her blessing was on his head; her words were in his heart, upholding him in the midst of temptation. At last, one day the beloved form imbodied itself so vividly to his sense, as he traveled to join his brothers in the camp at Tenchebrai, that he entered a church which stood open by the roadside, and prostrating himself before the altar, with tears of gratitude he promised to devote himself to the service of his Redeemer, and to fulfill the vow of his mother by embracing the religious or monastic life.

Bernard used frequently to speak of the circumstances of his conversion to his young friends. "I am not ashamed to confess," he would say, "that often, and particularly at the beginning of my conversion, I experienced great hardness of heart and an extreme coldness. I sought after Him whom my soul would fain love; Him in whom my frozen spirit might repose and reanimate itself. But none came to succor me, and dissolve this strong ice which bound up my spiritual senses, and to revive the sweetness and serenity of the spiritual spring. Thus my soul continued feeble and listless, a prey to griefalmost to despair; and murmuring internally, 'Who is able to abide His frost?" Then, on a sudden, and perhaps at the first word, or at the first sight of a spiritually-minded person,-sometimes at the bare remembrance of one dead or absent, -the Holy Spirit would begin to breathe, and the waters to flow; then would tears be my meat day and night."

With Bernard piety was an expansive principle. From the moment of that solitary consecration in the way-side oratory, he incessantly labored to win others over to the side of God.

Nor was it wonderful that in those days he regarded the monastic vow as the conclusive test of religious decision. The first-fruits of his missionary labors was his uncle, a man of property, rank, and military fame. All his brothers who had reached manhood, one by one, abandoned the world to join him, save Gerard, the one he seems to have loved the best. Ber

nard, one day, it is said, laid his hand on this brother's side, and said, reproachfully, "A spear shall pierce thy side." Gerard did actually, not long afterward, receive a lance-wound in his side, and in his suffering recalled his brother's words and followed his example. The father, Count Tecelin, abandoned, at length, of all his children, rejoined them beneath the roof of the convent.

The fraternity of Citeaux, to which Bernard had attached himself on account of its superlative austerity, was guided by the reformed rules of St. Benedict.

There is nothing more striking in the history of the monastic orders than the frequent recurrence of this word "reformed." A spirit of zealous devotion is awakened, and imbodies itself in some fraternity of recluses, bound by strictest rules of self-mortification. For the course of a century or two all goes on quietly, when, again, in the midst of this religious company, some earnest man begins to look about him for the means of genuine self-denial, and to his disgust finds the rules relaxed, the offerings of charity converted into means of luxurious indulgence, and a life of piety quite as much of a singularity in the order as the order itself originally was in the world. He becomes a nucleus for minds similarly aroused: and a new order is presently instituted. Thus the very monastic societies, against whose lazy self-indulgence Luther so justly protested, had, in their day, been the work of some reformer as sincere and selfdevoted, though not so enlightened, as Luther himself. Unhappily the same process may be traced in the Reformation of Luther itself. Nor can any reformation be final. Man can only work for the present. Our contribution toward the wants of our age should be given in subscriptions while we live, not bequeathed in legacies. The institution which imbodies the piety of to-day may cramp and persecute the piety of to-morrow.

The Cistercian order, however, was still in its perfection of discipline in Bernard's time. The day was divided between manual and spiritual labors; and the crucifixion of the flesh, by means of fastings, bleedings, &c., was sufficient to satisfy the veriest epicure in austerities.

In spite of this, or as its consequence, volunteers continued to throng the gates of Citeaux. New cloisters were built,

filled, and overfilled; and, at length, it was resolved to occupy a piece of land in the diocese of Langres, given to the order some years previously by a knight of Champagne. Bernard, not then twentyfive, but already distinguished for his austerity to himself, his gentleness to others, and his fervent love of God, was chosen abbot of the new monastery. The number of emigrants was, as usual, twelve, to typify the College of the Apostles and the Saviour. After a farewell service, the twelve exiles, with Bernard at their head, walked quietly out of the church. The silence was only broken by irrepressible sobs and the sound of faltering hymns. The site of the new settlement was called the Valley of Wormwood. It had been a refuge of banditti, and was a dreary and desolate spot. Never, however, were there more industrious and patient colonists. They had much to do and much to endure. The neighboring gentry soon grew tired of giving alms. They had to wait several months before they could till the ground, and then several months more before the crops appeared. Meantime, they lived on a scanty allowance of the coarsest bread; and sometimes, not being able to get even that, on beech-leaves steeped in salt; and while they were building the cloisters, they had no shelter amidst the damp marshes of the valley but some rough mud-huts hastily run up. The fragile frame of Bernard suffered so severely as to disable him from preaching. His faith, however, retained its exalted confidence. One day their salt failed. Bernard commanded one of the monks to saddle an ass and go to the next town to buy more. The monk remonstrated that he had no money. "Take faith," was the abbot's reply. By his vow of obedience the poor monk had no resource but to obey. In a few hours he returned laden with provisions. A priest had met him on the way, and hearing of their distress, had filled the panniers with food. "Hold fast faith, my son," was Bernard's comment; "and it shall be well with thee all the days of thy life."

At length, after sufferings of eighteen months, the trial passed. Gifts poured in from every side; the crops were reaped, and from the completed convent arose the voice of grateful psalmody.

Then followed days of peace. Bounded by two wooded hills, which sloped gently

toward the east, the valley ran into a narrow gorge at the west. The sun shone on it all day, and at evening sank to rest behind the forest. The clang of diligent labor, mingled with choral chants and the sound of church-bells, only broke the calm to consecrate it. One, who visited the place during Bernard's life, declared, "the solemn stillness so awed us, that we forebore to speak on any but sacred subjects as long as we were within the precincts of the valley."

Nothing can be more striking than the contrast between the effect of monastic ideas on Hildebrand and on Bernard. Gregory's world is peopled with ideas, and their incarnations in laymen and monks; Bernard's with men and his brethren. His monasticism is paradoxically social. Monasteries are for him, not so much islands of sanctity in the sea of corruption, as companies of Christian men, uniting in affectionate relationship to serve God;not so much segregations as congregations. His first impulse, on receiving the assurance of the love of God, is to communicate it; and it is characteristic that his first converts are among his own family. He commences his life of seclusion with a society of thirty personal friends. His family circle is reunited in the cloister. His father dies in his arms. His brother Gerard is his dearest friend. The abbot of a rival monastery declares that he "would rather pass his life with Bernard than enjoy all the kingdoms of the world;" and an archbishop of Treves journeys to Rome to entreat the Pope to relieve him from his charge, that he might spend the rest of his days at Clairvaux. Constantly do we hear of his "angelic countenance,” and of the "benevolent smile" which habitually lit up his attenuated features. His monks loved him as their father; and years of separation, and the dignity of the Papal crown which one of them (Eugenius) attained, could not dissolve the tie. to have been so much loved, he must have loved much.

Surely,

It has been said that men of genius have always something feminine in their nature, and this seems to have been the case with Bernard. Gregory VII. might have sprung from Jove's forehead ;--in every line of Bernard's history we read that he was "born of woman." His love for his brother Gerard was almost motherly. Gerard became ill. During his illness the

abbot wept, and watched, and supplicated his restoration. But Gerard died. Bernard folded up his grief in resolute resignation, and saw his brother buried without a tear. His monks wondered at his firmness, for hitherto, at the death of any of | the brotherhood, his heart had overflowed in sorrow. He ascended the pulpit, and repeating the text, endeavored calmly to continue his exposition of the Canticles, but recollections rushed thick on his mind

Father,'' Father,' he turned to me, and smiling, said, ' O, how gracious of God to be the Father of men; and what an honor for men to be his children;' and then. very distinctly, if children, then heirs.' And so he died, and so dying he well-nigh changed my grief into rejoicing, so completely did the sight of his happiness overpower the recollection of my own misery."

Was there ever a funeral sermon which came so fresh from the very fountains of tenderness, or which goes so direct to the heart? To the man who uttered it Christianity could never become stoicism, or monasticism itself other than a bond of brotherhood, giving new ties of kindred, while the old ones continued undissolved.

EXPRESSION OF HAIR.

the modern beard and whisker we

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and overpowered him. His voice was lost in sobs, and for some minutes he was unable to proceed. Then, recovering a little, and feeling the hopelessness of further restraint, he poured out his grief "before his children," and in the most touching words entreated their sympathy. "Who," he said, "could ever have loved me as he did? He was a brother by blood, but far more by religion. . . . Thou art in the everlasting presence of the Lord Jesus, and hast angels for thy companions; but what have I to fill up the void thou hast left? Fain would I know thy feelings toward me, my brother, my beloved, if, indeed, it is permitted to one bathing in the floods of divine radiance to call to mind our misery, to be occupied with our grief. Yet God is love; and the more closely a soul is united to God the more does it abound in love. . . . His nature is to have mercy and to forgive. Thou must needs then be merciful, since thou art joined to Him who showeth mercy; and thy affection, though transformed, is nowise diminished. Thou hast laid aside thine infirmities but not thy love, for 'love abideth;' and throughout eternity thou wilt not forget me.'. . . . . God grant, Gerard, that I may have not lost thee; but that thou hast preceded me, and I may be with thee where thou art. For of a surety thou hast rejoined those whom in thy last night below thou didst invite to praise God, when suddenly, to the great surprise of all, thou, with a serene countenance and a cheerful voice, didst commence chanting, Praise ye the Lord, from the heavens.' 'Praise him, all his angels.' At that moment, O my brother, the day had dawned on thee; though it was night to us, the night to thee was all brightness. . . Just as I reached his side, I heard him utter aloud those words of Christ, Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.' Then, repeating the verse over again, and resting on the word

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ton chop seems to have suggested the form of the substantial British whisker. Out of this simple design countless varieties of forms have arisen. How have they arisen? Can any one give an account of his own whiskers from their birth upward? To our mind there is nothing more mysterious than the growth of this manly appendage. Did any far-seeing youth deliberately design his own whisker? Was there ever known a hobbledehoy who saw a great future" in his silken down, and determined to train it in the way it should go? We think not. British whiskers, in truth, have grown up like all the great institutions of the country, noiselessly and persistently-an outward expression, as the Germans would say, of the inner life of the people; the general idea allowing of infinite variety according to the individuality of the wearer. Let us take the next half-dozen men passing by the window as we write. The first has his whiskers tucked into the corners of his mouth, as though he were holding them up with his teeth. The second whisker that we descry has wandered into the middle of the cheek, and there stopped as though it did not know where to go to, like a youth who has ventured out into the middle of a ball-room with all eyes upon him. Yonder bunch of bristles (No. 3) twists the contrary way under the owner's ear he could not for the life of him tell why it retrograded so. That fourth citizen, with the vast Pacific of a face, has

little whiskers which seem to have stopped short after two inches of voyage, as though aghast at the prospect of having to double such a Cape Horn of a chin. We perceive coming a tremendous pair, running over the shirt-collar in luxuriant profusion. Yet we see, as the colonel or general takes off his hat to that lady, that he is quite bald-those whiskers are, in fact, nothing but a landslip from the veteran's head!

Even in Europe, some skins seem to have no power of producing hair at all. Dark, thick-complexioned people are frequently quite destitute of either beard or whisker, and Nature now and then, as if to restore the balance, produces a hairy woman. A charming example was exhibiting some time since in London. The description she gives of herself we will not back, but here it is from the printed bill:

"The public is most respectfully informed that Mad. FORTUNNE, one of the most curious phenomenons which ever appeared in Europe, has arrived in London, in the person of a young woman, 21 years of age, whose face, which is of an extraordinary whiteness, is surrounded by a beard as black as jet, about four inches in length. The beard is as thick and bushy as that of any man. The young lady is a native of Geneva, in Switzerland, and has received a most brilliant education. She speaks French fluently, and will answer all the questions that may be addressed to her. Her beard, which reaches from one eye to the other, perfectly encircles the face, forming the most surprising

contrast, but without impairing its beauty. Her bust is most finely formed, and leaves not the least doubt as to her sex. She will approach all the persons who may honor her with their presence, and give an account of her origin and birth, and explain the motives which induced her to quit her country. Everybody will also be allowed to touch her beard, so as to be convinced that it is perfectly natural."

The beard was a glorious specimen, and shamed any man's that we have ever seen.

Of the expression of hair-could we press for the nonce a quill from Esthonia -much might be well and edifyingly said. The Greeks, with their usual subtilty in reading Nature, and interpreting her in their works of art, have distinguished their gods by the variations of this excrescence. Thus the hair of the Phidian Jove in the Vatican, which rises in spouts as it were from the forehead, and then falls in wavy curls, is like the mane of the lion, most majestic and imperial in appearance. The crisp curls of Hercules again remind us of the short locks between the horns of the indomitable bull; while the hair of Neptune falls down wet and dank like his

own seaweed.

The beautiful flowing

locks of Apollo, full and free, represent perpetual youth; and the gentle, vagrant, bewitching tresses of Venus denote most clearly her peculiar characteristics and claims as a divinity of Olympus. What gives the loose and wanton air to the portraits in Charles II.'s bedchamber at Hampton Court? Duchess and Countess sweep along the canvas with all the dignity that Lely could flatter them with; but on the disordered curls and the forehead fringed with love-locks Cyprian is plainly written. Even Nell Gwyn, retired into the deep shade of the alcove, beckons us with her soft redundance of ringlets. But too well woman knows the power Venus has endowed her with in this silken lasso:

"Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare, And beauty draws us with a single hair."

In the rougher sex the temper and disposition are more apparent from the set of the hair than in woman, because, as already observed, they allow it to follow more the arrangement of nature. Curly hair bespeaks the sanguine temperament, lank hair the phlegmatic. Poets for the most part, we believe, have had curly hair

though our own age has exhibited some notable exceptions to the rule. Physiology has not yet decided upon what the curl is dependent, but we feel satisfied that it arises from a flattening of one side of the hair more than the other.

So well do people understand the character as expressed by the hair and its management, that it is used as a kind of index. Commercial ideas are very exact respecting it. What chance would a gentleman with a moustache have of getting a situation in a bank? Even too much whisker is looked upon with suspicion. A clean shave is usually, as the world goes, expected in persons aspiring to any post of serious trust. We confess that few montrosities in this line affect us more dismally than the combination of dandy favoris with the however reduced peruke of Brother Briefless or Brother Hardup. It is needless to add that anything like hirsute luxuriance about a sacerdotal physiognomy is offensive to every orthodox admirer of the via media—to all the Anglican community, it is probable, excepting some inveterate embroideresses of red and blue altar-cloths and tall curates' slippers.