The architects of the Romanesque, who were probably churchmen, retained the nave of the basilica, but made it narrower, and used but two rows of columns.  They introduced the transepts, or cross-enclosures, making them to project north and south of the nave, in the space separated from the apsis; and the apsis was expanded into the choir, filled with priests and choristers.  The building now assumes the form of a cross.  The choir is elevated several steps above the nave, and beneath it is the crypt, where the bishops and abbots and saints are buried.  At the intersection of choir, nave, and transept,—­an open, square place,—­rises a square tower, at each corner of which is a massive pier supporting four arches.  The windows are narrow, with semicircular arches.  At the western entrance, at the end opposite the apse, is a small porch, where the consecrated water is placed, in an urn or basin, and this is inclosed between two towers.  The old Roman atrium, or fore-court, entirely disappears.  In its place is a grander facade; and the pillars—­which are all internal, like those of an Egyptian temple, not external, as in the Greek temple—­have no longer Grecian capitals, but new combinations of every variety, and the pillars are even more heavy and massive than the Doric.  The flat wooden ceiling of the nave disappears, on account of frequent fires, and the eye rests on arches supporting a stone roof.  All the arches are semicircular, like those of the Coliseum and of the Roman aqueducts and baths.  They are built of small stones united by cement.  The building is low and heavy, and its external beauty is in the west front or facade, with its square towers and circular window and ornamented portal.  The internal beauty is from the pillars supporting the roof, and the tower which intersects the nave, choir, and transepts.  Sometimes, instead of a tower there is a dome, reminding us of Byzantine workmanship.

But this Romanesque church is also connected with monastic institutions, whose extensive buildings join the church at the north or south.  The church is wedded to monasticism; one supports the other, and both make a unity exceedingly efficient in the Middle Ages.  The communication between the church and the convent is effected by a cloister,—­a vaulted gallery surrounding a square, open space, where the brothers walk and meditate, but do not talk, except in undertone or whisper; for all the precincts are sacred, made for contemplation and silence,—­a retreat from the noisy, barbaric world.  Connected with the cloisters is a court opening into the refectory, where the brothers dine on herbs and eggs and a little meat,—­also in silence, and, where the rule is strict, in gloom,—­an ascetic, dreary discipline.  The whole range of buildings is enclosed with walls, like a fortress.  You see in this architecture the gloom and desolation which overspread the world.  Churches are heavy and sombre; they are places for dreary meditation on the end of the world, on the failure of civilization, on the degradation of humanity,—­and yet the only places where man may be brought in contact with the Deity who presides over a fallen world, exalting human hopes to heaven, where miseries end, and worship begins.