lessening of human suffering, to the encouragement of the family, offering
the hand of charity to the worthy and to the unworthy--expecting no honour
from all this, not even gratitude--is a life that makes that of the
theoretical philanthropists and humanitarian philosophers look rather
barren. Let every man who lives up to an unselfish ideal have full credit
for it, whether he be a Trappist or a Buddhist.

At one end of the refectory, below the line of tables, was a small wooden
bench for a single person. The monk pointed to it with half a smile upon
his face.

'What is it?' I asked.

'The stool of penitence,' he replied.

Here the monk who had brought upon himself some disciplinary correction sat
by order of the abbot in view of everybody, and had the extra mortification
of watching the others eat, while he, the penitent, had nothing to put
between his teeth. I wondered if my cicerone had ever been perched there,
but I was not on such terms of familiarity with him that I could ask the
question.

From the refectory we went to the dormitory, an oblong room with a passage
down the middle, and cells on each side--about fifty altogether. They
were very narrow, and were separated by lath and plaster partitions, only
carried to the height of about six feet. These partitions, which had been
whitewashed over, looked very fragile and dilapidated, and altogether the
appearance of this great dormitory was wretched in the extreme. A glance
into the interior of two or three of the cells deepened this impression. In
each was a small wooden bedstead about a foot and a half high, with nothing