of his subject.  He did not disdain to use a good-tempered jest as occasion required, and his words afford some pleasant examples of naive puns.  He was a tireless letter-writer, and some of his best writings are in that form.  He devoted much labor to his sermons on the Canticle of Canticles, the work remaining unfinished at his death.  He wrote a long poem on the Passion, one beautiful hymn of which is included in the Roman Breviary.

     SAINT BERNARD’S HYMN

     Jesu! the very thought of thee
       With sweetness fills my breast,
     But sweeter far thy face to see
       And in thy presence rest.

     Nor voice can sing nor heart can frame,
       Nor can the memory find,
     A sweeter sound than thy blest name,
       O Savior of mankind!

     O hope of every contrite heart! 
       O joy of all the meek! 
     To those who fall, how kind thou art,
       How good to those who seek!

     But what to those who find?  Ah, this
       Nor tongue nor pen can show. 
     The love of Jesus, what it is
       None but his loved ones know.

     Jesu! our only joy be thou,
       As thou our prize wilt be! 
     Jesu! be thou our glory now
       And through eternity!

MONASTIC LUXURY

From the Apology to the Abbot William of St. Thierry

There is no conversation concerning the Scriptures, none concerning the salvation of souls; but small-talk, laughter, and idle words fill the air.  At dinner the palate and ears are equally tickled—­the one with dainties, the other with gossip and news, which together quite prevent all moderation in feeding.  In the mean time dish after dish is set on the table; and to make up for the small privation of meat, a double supply is provided of well-grown fish.  When you have eaten enough of the first, if you taste the second course, you will seem to yourself hardly to have touched the former:  such is the art of the cooks, that after four or five dishes have been devoured, the first does not seem to be in the way of the last, nor does satiety invade the appetite....  Who could say, to speak of nothing else, in how many forms eggs are cooked and worked up? with what care they are turned in and out, made hard or soft, or chopped fine; now fried, now roasted, now stuffed; now they are served mixed with other things, now by themselves.  Even the external appearance of the dishes is such that the eye, as well as the taste, is charmed....

Not only have we lost the spirit of the old monasteries, but even its outward appearance.  For this habit of ours, which of old was the sign of humility, by the monks of our day is turned into a source of pride.  We can hardly find in a whole province wherewithal we condescend to be clothed.  The monk and the knight cut their garments, the one his cowl, the other his cloak, from the same piece.  No secular person,