The loitering train, that, climbing, winds among the vine-clad slopes of the MÂconnais, gave us our first glimpse of the vendangeurs gathering the last of a scanty crop. Those blue shirts, moving through the bronze-clad bushes, were our first intimation that the SaÔne-et-Loire had escaped the utter ruin that the winds and rains of a wintry summer had wrought among the vines of the CÔte d'Or. But this incident did not impress us as it might have done at another time or in another place. Our thoughts were not with the wine-harvest; they were ahead, busy with the memories the name of Cluny evokes.

To one who cares for what was best in the middle ages, no place in France, no place in Europe, unless, perhaps, it be Citeaux, can exercise an equal charm. But, as we shall see, though Citeaux rivalled, and ultimately eclipsed Cluny in power, and, through the influence of St. Bernard, outshone her, not in material splendour, but by the dazzling whiteness of her purity, the historic interest of the site of the Cistercian house, there, by the deserted woods and wind-ruffled pools of the eastern plain, could not survive, in the minds of many, the destruction of the ancient monastery. Cluny, the Mother Abbey of Europe, the school of popes, holds first place, by right of birth, by right of what she was, and is. For Cluny still stands. The little town nestling upon the lower slopes of the valley, through which the Grosne winds between her poplars, is not merely built upon the site of the Abbey. It is the Abbey.

From the moment, when, on the way from the station, you see the ancient towers raising, one by one, their hoary heads above the roofs, as they have raised her past from oblivion, till, having climbed the cobble-stoned street that winds upwards through the town, you look down through the ruined gateway that once gave passage to kings and abbots, from every street corner, from every church, and dwelling-house, Cluny calls to you out of the past.

We did not hear her at first; and we were disappointed. The Grande Rue, by which you enter the town from the east, is so narrow, that it affords no glimpse of what lies on either hand; and it was with unexpected suddenness, that, turning to the right, after a few minutes of wandering, we stood before the Hotel de Bourgogne, and looked up from the little, white building, at the great, grey, octagonal tower and the wall of masonry, that, we knew, must be the last survival of the Abbey Church itself. At that moment we were standing on the site of the nave; but we did not know it. It takes time to orient oneself.

Following upon the Gallo-Roman and early Christian periods, centred in the Autunois, the story of the rise of Cluny from humble beginnings to her apothegm of spiritual and temporal power marks the second notable period of Burgundian history. From this source, also, was to flow the main stream of progress, religious and artistic, that culminated in the mediÆval triumphs of thirteenth-century European civilization. At the time of the rise of Cluny, Burgundy, under the capetian dukes, was already established as a vassal province of France, but the inwardness of Burgundian history—of French history, indeed, in the 11th and 12th centuries—will be understood only by those who realize that, until the advent of the semi-royal dukes of the house of Valois, in 1364, the controlling forces of the duchy are to be sought, not in Dijon, nor in Auxerre, but here, in this the mother abbey of Western Europe.[68]

In the year 909, the veteran Duke William of Aquitaine, haunted by the shades of the many warriors who had fallen in the service of his ambition, or troubled by the whispers of conscience, or moved, perhaps, by that not wholly disinterested piety which sometimes awakens with the approach of death, decided to follow the course then usual in such cases, and to found a monastery. For this purpose, he took into his confidence his friend, Bernon, Abbot of Gigny, who, accompanied by Hugues, Abbot of St. Martin at Autun, paid a visit to the Duke in his villa of Cluny, and was bidden to search out a place meet for the service of God. But the monk, gifted with a keen eye for all the amenities of a monastic site, could find none more fitting than this "in a spot withdrawn from all human society, so full of solitude, of repose and of peace, that it seemed in some sort a picture (image) of the heavenly solitude."[69] The Duke, however, stung by a last pang of regret for the loss of his lovely valley, had objections to raise. The spot was not suitable; for, all day long, the shouts of huntsmen and the baying of hounds broke the silence of the neighbouring forest.

"Drive the dogs away," said Bernon, with a laugh, "and replace them with monks; for you well know which shall stand you best before God, the bay of the hounds, or the monks' prayers."

"Surely, Father," replied the Duke, "your advice is sound, and since you give it unfeignedly, be it done, with Christ's aid, as thy goodness bids me do."

In the year 909, the 11th year of Charles the Simple, the old Duke, lest, at his last hour, he should deserve the reproach of having thought only of the care of his body, and of the augmentation of his earthly possessions, wrote in his will, as follows:—"I declare that, for the love of God and of our Saviour, Jesus Christ, I give and bequeath to the holy apostles, Peter and Paul, all that I possess at Cluny ... without excepting anything dependent upon my domain of Cluny (Villa), farms, oratories, slaves of both sexes, vines, meadows, fields, water, water-courses, mills, rights of way, lands, cultivated or uncultivated, without any reserve."[70]

He gives this, he goes on to say, for the good of soul and body of himself, his wife, his relatives, and dependents, "on condition that a monastery shall be built at Cluny, in honour of the apostles, Peter and Paul, and that there shall gather monks, living according to the rule of St. Benedict[71] to hold and administer for ever the things given, so that this house may become the true house of prayer, that it may be filled for ever with faithful vows and pious supplications, that here shall be desired and besought, with ardent wish and earnest longing, the wonders of communion with Heaven, that prayers and supplications be addressed without ceasing to God, both for me and for those persons of whom I have already made mention."

Further:—"By God, in God and all His Saints, and under the fearful menace of the last judgment, I beg, I beseech, that no secular prince, nor count, nor bishop, nor the Pontiff himself of the Roman Church, do invade the possessions of God's servants, nor sell nor diminish, nor give in benefice to whomsoever it may be, anything to them belonging, nor allow any head to be set over them against their will. And that this prohibition may be more strongly binding upon the wicked and the headstrong, I insist and I add, and I conjure you, Oh! Holy Apostles, Peter and Paul, and Thou, Pontiff of the Pontiffs of the apostolic seat, to cut off from communion with the Holy Church and from life eternal, by the canonical authority thou has received of God, all robbers, invaders, or sellers of that which I give, of my full satisfaction and of my evident will."

Sometimes, reading the old Duke's powerful anathema, that tells us more of the spirit of the time in which he lived than could any long narration of facts, I wonder, as I think of the after history of Cluny, whether that awful curse may not have alighted, or may not alight hereafter, upon the souls of those who have violated the conditions of its grant, or in blind fury have laid impious hands upon the hallowed stones of its church.

Here, then, in the solitary valley of the Grosne, on the slope of a hill forming one of a range which marks the northern extremity of the Cevennes, was planted the tree whose branches were to over-shadow Europe. The site was well chosen for the birthplace of such a destiny.

Occupying a middle position between Gothic and Latin influences, Cluny could here best fulfil her mission, which, indeed, has been and is still, in some sort, the mission of Burgundy, that of reconciling the conflicting, and often bitterly antagonistic, elements of north and south. Situated within a few kilometres of the Roman Road of Agrippa, which, passing Clermain and St. CÉcile, connected Lyons and Boulogne, by way of MÂcon and Autun, the Abbey was also connected with Italy by that magnificent waterway, the SaÔne and the RhÔne. Travellers could come by land or by river to Cluny.

In the early years of the monastery, few came. Faith had weakened throughout all the land, and in many houses the monks of Gaul had departed from the strict rule of St. Benedict. It was the mission of Odon, the first of the long line of great and saintly abbotts, to be a reformer of that rule, and, by the example of his holy life, to augment the numbers, and increase the prosperity of the Abbey. From his earliest years, while yet he was in the monastery of Balme, says his chronicler, Jean de Salerne, his merits, becoming known throughout all the district, were finding expression in the gracious legends of the time. One of the best known was the miracle of the crumbs.

An article of the rule bade the monks gather carefully the crumbs of bread from the table, and eat them before the end of the meal. When the signal to rise had been given, it was forbidden to lift any more food to the mouth. Odon, intent, one day, upon the lesson that was being read aloud in the refectory, forgot the crumbs. Not daring either to eat them, or to leave them on the table, he kept them in his hand, while he and his companions left the refectory and went into the church where grace was sung. At the conclusion of the ceremony, Odon threw himself at the feet of the father, and asked forgiveness; but, when he opened his hand to show him the crumbs, behold, to the astonishment of the brothers, each crumb was a precious pearl! By the order of Bernon, the stones were fastened to one of the ornaments of the church.[72]

Under such heavenly guidance, even the very beasts of the forest ministered to the growing community. When Odon had completed the early church, which Jean de Salerne modestly speaks of as an oratory and chapel, replaced, a century later, by a larger one, the bishop came to consecrate the building. Forgetting the poverty of the monks, he brought with him such a lordly retinue of attendants and servants, that the abbot was sorely troubled as to how his guests were to be worthily received, and suitably fed. On the day of the ceremony, when the grey dawn had driven westward the shadows of the night, a great wild boar emerged from the neighbouring forest, and ran, at full speed, to the monastery. The guardian of the church, who was busy adorning the exterior porch, struck with terror at the sight, retreated hastily, shut the door behind him, and drew the bolts. But the fierce animal, fierce no longer, began to lick the door—leaving upon it marks of white foam—and to tap gently with its hoof, as though to beg admittance. But all who saw the beast, fled, until, weary with much knocking, it lay down across the threshold. When the bishop and his suite arrived, a cry of terror rose from the company. They aroused the neighbours, who came, armed with sticks. But the boar, instead of shewing fight, offered himself voluntarily to death, and his flesh, prepared with all the art of the monastic cooks, satisfied the refined tastes of the prelates.

Every day Cluny grew in grace, in wisdom, in numbers, in riches, in influence, in power civil and spiritual. One after one, she founded new monasteries, and reformed those already in existence, until, under Odilon, in the beginning of the 11th century, a cluster of priories had been built upon lands ceded to the abbey, and Cluny was attaining an importance greater than any other order had acquired until that day. In the plains, upon the summits of the hills, by the banks of river and stream, in the depths of the forests, in the solitude of the valley, even in remote and silent places, were springing up little communities of monks, whose clocher, was, for the peasants, a symbol of charity, of refuge, of God come down among men;[73] and every year, nobles, not a few, gave lands in the neighbouring comtÉs to the Abbey of Cluny.

The great fervour with which the monastic revival was received, had been due, in part, to the awful miseries of France during the 10th century, and in part to an almost universal belief that the year 1000 a.d. would herald the second coming of Christ, and the end of the world; but, by the time that year had passed without the advent of any of the expected phenomena, the more clear-sighted, perceiving the immense possibilities which the religious revival shadowed forth, for the welfare of a people crushed beneath the harsh feudal laws of the time, saw therein an additional inducement to encourage monastic effort. Gratitude for preservation had also its effect. All omens were propitious for the rise of Cluny to great glory.

In the year 1024, a lady of noble Burgundian family, knowing that the hour was come in which she should give birth to a child, and following the custom of the time, summoned a priest, who, by the sacrifice of the mass, should assure her a happy delivery. At the moment when, while consecrating the host, he was wrapt in fervent prayer, there appeared to him, shaping itself upon the golden bottom of the cup, a child's face radiant with a heavenly light. At the conclusion of the ceremony, he hastened to tell the mother what he had seen, and, finding the child already born, predicted that, God granting him life, the boy was chosen out for a great destiny, and would surely be found worthy, one day, to minister the cup in which his birth had been thus signalized. To the great joy of the mother, that hope was gloriously fulfilled; for the son born under such happy omens was Hugues, the greatest of the great abbots of Cluny, he, under whom the abbey, and, indeed, the whole church of Rome, was to establish an authority never before dreamed of in Christendom.

Braving the anger of his father, Delmace, an ambitious and violent Seigneur, who would fain have seen his son don the knight's armour rather than the monk's cowl, Hugues, already ardently set upon a life of piety, obtained admission to the monastery of St. Marcel de Chalon, which he soon left, in order to place himself under the protection of Odilon, the then abbott of Cluny. This new father of the young Hugues was one of the best beloved of the abbotts of that monastery. Lacking the austerity of his predecessor, Odon—the great reformer whose energies had given new life to the Benedictine order—Saint Odilon, this "dernier et le plus mÉprisable des frÈres de Cluny," as he styled himself, though short and thin in person, was, at the same time, robust and virile; a humble, grave, sympathetic, fatherly man, whose pale face could flush with anger, and his gentle voice become terrible in rebuke of wrong-doing; one whom the sins and sorrows of the living and the dead[74] touched to the heart, as attested by the many healings with which legend has credited his name.

Such was the man, already abbot for more than forty years, under whose worthy protection young Hugues placed himself. The new-comer, elected abbot on the death of Odilon in 1048, soon showed himself to be of yet sterner stuff even than his predecessor. Humble as regards his personal pretensions, kind and charitable to the poor and needy, he had, nevertheless, an eye which could read in their faces the souls of men; and he was fired with a holy ambition for the glory of the church.

In bringing about the realization of these dreams, he found a worthy ally in that Napoleon of the Church, Hildebrand (Gregory VII.), one of the four monks, who, from a cell at Cluny, passed to the throne of St. Peter.[75] We need not here deal at length with that long struggle—the most significant event of the eleventh century—between the civil and religious rules of Christendom, in which Gregory succeeded in enforcing, if only for a time, the most tremendous and all-embracing claims that the church has ever advanced; but I shall be excused for recalling again that extraordinary scene enacted, in 1076, on the castled summit of the craggy Apennine hills, the rock of Alba Canossa, where the representative of temporal power, Henry IV., King of the Germans, attired in a penitent's garb of coarse wool, waited barefoot, through three bitter winter's days, in the courtyard of the castle, upon the pleasure of God's vice-regent on earth. Hugh, then Abbot of Cluny, was present at that scene; and it was largely owing to his mediation, backed by the influence of the Countess Matilda, that Henry was at last admitted to the royal presence.[76]

Remembering how brief was Gregory's pontificate—a span of ten years—and his bitter last words at Palermo: "I have loved justice and hated iniquity, therefore I die in exile," it may appear to some readers that the triumph of this little, ill-shaped homuncio was short-lived; but we have to remember that, as Bishop Mathew has pointed out, his influence upon succeeding generations was greater than upon his own, and that without Gregory VII. there would have been no Innocent III. to become, in effect, "the king of kings, lord of lords, the only ruler of princes" in all Christendom.

In many sublime and dramatic scenes, then being enacted throughout Europe, Hugues was called upon to play the part of peacemaker, but in none was his task more difficult than in that struggle between Gregory and Henry, to whom he was equally bound by ties of close friendship. That he remained on good, even on intimate terms, with both men, is strong testimony to his integrity of character. More than once, in later years, he allayed the storms that Gregory was raising; he defended Henry IV. against the ingratitude of his son; and it is to Hugues that we find the dethroned and fugitive emperor turning for consolation and advice concerning that revolt.[77]

In such hands, at such a time, the glories of Cluny were safe. Nor was the papacy unmindful of all it owed to the great abbey. Here is Gregory's own eulogy of Cluny, delivered before the Council of Rome, in 1077. "Among all those situate beyond the hills, shines in the first rank that of Cluny under the protection of the holy seat. Under its holy abbots, it has reached so high a degree of honour and of religion, that, by the fervour with which God is there served, it surpasses undeniably all other monasteries, not excepting even the most ancient; so that none other in this part of the Christian world may be compared with it. To this day, all her abbots have been raised to the honour of sainthood. Not one among them, not one of their monks, obedient sons of the Romish Church, has fallen away nor bowed the knee to Baal; but, faithful always to the dignity and liberty granted to them by the Church from the foundation of the monastery, they have nobly upheld its authority, and will submit to no other power than that of St. Peter."[78] The privileges of Cluny became the ideal type for all others, and Gregory always regarded a comparison with the Burgundian abbey as a peculiar sign of favour, as in the case of St. Victor of Marseilles, whose monks he wished to console for the loss of a beloved abbot.

Not unnaturally, an institution so growing in grace, power, and riches, was growing also in numbers. The new monks must be housed; God must be honoured in, and by, a nobler Church. Nor was the Deity long in making known His will.

One night, a monk of Cluny, sick and paralytic, was asleep in bed, when he saw appear before him the Apostles, Peter and Paul, and Stephen, the first Martyr. The monk asked them who they were, and what their will might be. Then St. Peter spoke:—

"I am St. Peter, and these are St. Paul and St. Stephen. Rise, without delay, brother, and bear our orders to Hugues, Abbot of this Church. It pains us to see so many brothers gathered into so small a space, and our wish is that the Abbot should build a greater. And let him not consider the cost; we shall know how to provide all things necessary for the work."

"I dare not take it upon me to bear your orders," replied the monk. "For no heed would be given to my words."

"You have been chosen before all others," said St. Peter, "to transmit our commands to Hugues, so that your miraculous healing may gain credence for your message. If you obey faithfully, seven years shall be added to your life, and if Hugues defers the execution of our will, the sickness, upon leaving you, shall pass into his body."

So speaking, St. Peter proceeded to measure out with cords the length, breadth, and height of the new building; then, showing the monk its proportions, the style, the necessary ornament, and the nature of the materials to be used, he counselled him to keep all these things faithfully in his memory.

The monk, for whose funeral the bell-ringers were already awaiting the summons, awakened with a start, ran, safe and sound, to the Abbot's room, and told him the whole story. This midnight appearance of a man, dying an hour ago, and now healed by a marvellous vision, greatly astonished the good Abbot. Threatened with his brother's sickness, if he postponed the commencement of the building, and encouraged, moreover, by the heavenly aid promised to the enterprise, he believed, obeyed, and, with God's help, raised, in twenty years, a temple that was the glory of its age, and remained, for centuries, one of the marvels of Western Europe.[79]

Tradition adds, that Hugues, not knowing exactly where to build the Church, threw a hammer into the air, and chose the spot where it fell for the site of his sanctuary. In after years, before the abbey buildings were mutilated, the inhabitants would still show, near one of them, an enormous stone that all the workmen and all their machines were unable to lift. St. Hugues only, during the night, by Divine help, could raise the huge mass, and place it in position; and ever after the stone retained the imprint of the Holy Founder's hand.

Often the workmen, as they built the walls of the Church, would notice, watching them unweariedly, working silently in their midst, but sharing never in their repasts, a mysterious and wonderful figure. Some said that he was an angel presiding over the erection of the House of God; some said that he was none other than St. Hugues himself.

It was in 1095 that Pascal II., crossing Provence by way of Tarascon and Avignon, arrived at Cluny, in the month of November, accompanied by a large suite of cardinals, bishops, and priests. Everywhere he was received with transports of joy; for no living man had yet seen the Vicar of Christ in this part of the land of Burgundy. At the request of Hugues, he had come to consecrate the great altar of the unfinished basilica. This he did, and also superintended the consecration, by attendant archbishops, of the other altars in the transept. In the midst of these ceremonies, turning to the crowd of on-lookers who had surrounded the building on all sides, Pascal reminded them of the special privileges with which the monastery had been endowed, of his own connection with it as monk under the same Abbot, who still, by God's mercy, was alive and well in their midst; then, in the name of God, and by the holy memories he had awakened, he implored all to uphold and respect the sanctity of the new abbey-church.

It was not until 1131 that the great basilica, completed at last, was consecrated by Innocent II., amid scenes similar to those that had attended the visit of Urban II.

Whether the building was inspired of God, or was merely a successful exercise of a fast-developing art, the new Cluny was not unworthy of the great order for which it stood. Not only was it, with the exception of St. Peter's at Rome, the largest Church in existence,[80] but it remained also one of the most perfect examples of the Romanesque architecture, and became the accepted model for many a later Burgundian church and cathedral. The architect, according to Pignot, was a former canon of LiÈge, named Etzebon; artist, orator, theologian, and author of the life of St. Hugues. He appears to have had no difficulty in acquiring the first necessity of his work, namely, funds. Kings, nobles, and bishops vied with one another in their eagerness to make offerings to the new Church; the neighbouring princes made handsome donations, the pious of all classes brought gifts, offered voluntary labour, or the loan of beasts of burden. The two lordliest givers were Alonzo VI., King of Castille, and Henry I. of England, the former of whom was deeply indebted to Hugues, whose influence with his kinsman, Eudes, Duke of Burgundy, had often smoothed Alonzo's path. The Abbot, in recognition "of the incessant benefits of this faithful friend," founded, on his behalf, almsgivings and special prayers throughout the order, and every day served, at the chief table, as though the King were present, a royal dinner, which was afterwards distributed among the poor.

Meanwhile, as the gifts poured in, the building grew. From the great double gates,[81] Roman in style, and imitated, probably, from the Porte d'Arroux, at Autun, the land sloped downwards to the parvis, from the midst of which rose a great stone cross. Thence flights of balustraded steps, broken, at intervals, by terraced platforms, led down to the porch, flanked on each side by square towers, the Tour de la Justice, and Tour des Archives, each a hundred and forty feet high, and crowned with a pyramidal flÊche. This porch, ornamented with statues of the saints and the Virgin, was surmounted, in the space between the towers, by a great rose, thirty feet in diameter, with the figure of a Benedictine monk above.

It opened into a magnificent church of five bays, one hundred and ten feet long, and one hundred and eighteen feet high, the narthex of the great basilica.[82] It was divided into a nave and two aisles, the whole supported by enormous square pillars, their sides decorated with fluted pilasters, which also helped to carry the pointed arches of the bays. From the capitals of the pilasters, clusters of four shafts rose to the level of a frieze, just above the tops of the arches, from which other columns carried the high vault. A cornice supported on consoles separated the clerestory from the triforium arcade of four round-headed arches, enclosed in pairs under a larger arch. Cornices, friezes, and capitals were decorated with flowers, birds, figures, and grotesque animals in the Clunisian style. Many a pilgrim visitor, standing in this great church, nearly as large as the Church of Notre Dame de Dijon, believed himself to be in the basilica itself, never dreaming that this was but the porch or ante-nave.

Many theories have been advanced as to the purpose of this narthex, which became a usual feature of Clunisian construction, from about the middle of the twelfth century. Some have suggested that it was for overflow congregations from the new church, or that it served for the servants of the Abbey, for the suites of noble visitors, for the peasants from the neighbouring towns, or for criminals seeking refuge, as they were wont to do, in the shadow of the porch. Others have supposed, perhaps rightly, that it was used for the reconciliation of the excommunicated, for rites of exorcism, or for the dispensation of justice; but the most probable solution is that the narthex was a temple, in which, at Easter and other seasons of the year, the crowds of penitents and pilgrims—too numerous to be admitted into the basilica, or to be left outside—might hear the Word of God at the very threshold of, but not within, the building reserved for the monks. The narthex was, in effect, a purgatory, a sojourning place between earth and Heaven; the natural development of a custom which had arisen, for the priest, by order of the bishop, to say mass as near as possible to the gates of church, for the benefit of the penitents in the porch.

There existed, until the 18th century, on the left of the door of the narthex, a stone table, which, perhaps, was formerly an altar, though made use of, at that time, only by mothers and nurses, who believed that they could hush their crying charges by depositing them thereon.

At the end of the vestibule was the original gate of the basilica, of which the impost was the stone that St. Hugues had miraculously raised. Twenty-three figures were carved upon it in relief, and in the tympanum above was seated the Heavenly Father, as Teacher, His right Hand raised in benediction, His left holding the Gospel. Beside Him the four Evangelists listened to His words, and cloud-borne angels held the medallions upon which were shown the Throne and Person of Christ.

The interior of the great basilica must have been of the most majestic and impressive character, with its two transepts[83] and double row of aisles on each side of the nave. The great pillars supporting the central vault were seven and a half feet in diameter, with pilasters on the side of the nave, and engaged columns on the other three sides, meeting the aisle vaults. At the transept, the columns, together with the pillars they surmounted, rising in unbroken lines, formed the ribs of the vaulting. Above each bay was a triforium of two rows of superposed, romanesque, round-headed, arcaded arches, in threes, the lower row separated by pilasters, and the upper by colonnettes. The arches of the bays and the transepts were pointed; a feature, which, though quite usual in Burgundian work of the period, was more or less accidental, and was necessitated, or rendered advisable, by practical considerations, rather than by a deliberate departure from an architectural style that was still of the purest Romanesque. The capitals everywhere were ornamented with characteristic sculpture, of extraordinary freedom and boldness, representing scriptural, and many other subjects.

At the bottom of the nave, close to the entry of the choir, was placed, in after years, the tomb of Pope GÉlase, and two altars, which, with a gate at the entrance, screened the monks from the eyes of the laymen. Here, too, against the pillars of the nave, were four large, painted, wooden statues, representing St. Hugues, holding the model of the church in his right hand, St. Mayeul, St. Odon, and St. Odilon.

The choir occupied the space between the two transepts; the sanctuary was carried on eight columns, three of which were of African marble, and three of Pentelic Greek marble, veined with blue, which St. Hugues brought from Italy by way of the Durance and the RhÔne. The transept had many lateral chapels, and the east end, which was in semi-circular form, had five apsidal chapels, vaulted in half dome. A processional ambulatory circled the sanctuary and the tomb of St. Hugues, in front of which stood the great altar. Here, too, at opposite ends of the ambulatory, were placed the tombs of the Abbot Pons, and of Pierre le VÉnÉrable. The vault of the apse was adorned with a fine painting, of the end of the eleventh, or beginning of the twelfth century, representing the Eternal Father borne upon clouds, one hand raised, and the other placed upon the Apocalypse sealed with seven seals. At his feet was the Lamb without Blemish, and about Him were winged figures of man, the lion, the eagle, and the ox.

But, in spite of the realism of the sculpture and the painting, in spite of the gorgeous tapestries, the golden candelabra, the pearl-encrusted ornaments of every kind, which the noblest men and women of the time, and of later times, showered upon Cluny, it is in the sense of spacious dignity and majesty, rather than in the sense of ostentation and magnificence, that we must interpret the words of Hildebrand de Mans, when he said that, "If it were possible for the inhabitants of the heavenly mansions to be happy in an abode fashioned by the hand of man, Cluny would be the angels' walk (ambulatorium angelorum)."

Nor was the church less noble without than within. From the circular chapels lying about her transepts and her apse, along the collateral and the double row of flying buttresses,[84] rising higher than the narthex, the eye was lifted, stage after stage, high above her lofty nave, to the mighty towers that rose to the sky, in witness, for ever, one would have said, of Him whose Dwelling was not made with hands.

The conventual buildings were on the south side of the basilica. From the principal south transept, a processional, and a smaller, door, opened upon the great romanesque cloister, of which a fragment here and there remains, built into the modern work. It was similar in style to the other buildings of the period. Further south were the Lady Chapel and the great refectory. Abutting on the great wall of the Abbey, by the side of the Grosne, was a mill and a thirteenth century bake-house, which still exist. Among the many other buildings, chapels, baths, schools for the young, pharmacy, workshops, dormitories, and stables, which are the necessary equipment of a great monastery, was a large infirmary, with its own cloister and refectory—a small establishment within the larger one. On the east side, extending to the fortified wall that enclosed the whole monastery, were the gardens of the abbey.

Such, in its essential aspects, was the "ambulatorium angelorum." How did its occupants live? What was the rule observed within those walls? The rule, as kept in those early days, was stern and exacting. The first of the regulations was silence, except at stated intervals. In the church, in the dormitory, in the refectory, in the kitchen, absolute silence, broken only by the summoning bell or by the chanting of prayers. Like ghosts, the sandalled monks glided about the echoing corridors; deaf mutes speaking by signs. The times for speech were the mornings, after chapter, and evenings after sexte. A parlour was reserved for the talkers, where, seated, book in hand, they might converse on spiritual and other topics. Yet they were recommended rather to remain in the cloister, and there meditate, read, pray, or copy manuscripts. This was the hour, too, for drying their clothes in the sun, for visiting the sick in the infirmary, for washing their cups, or for sharpening their knives on the grindstone in the cloister. Their daily food was limited to bread, vegetables, and fruits—meat was given only to the sick—eggs, cheese, and fish were allowed only occasionally, and nothing whatever might be eaten after complines. At certain seasons, the use of fat for flavouring vegetables was forbidden. If wine were permitted, on days of great solemnity, and during exhausting fasts, it must be free from spirituous seasoning, and from the spice that flatters the palates of the worldly. Still less was it permitted to drink hypocras, or oriental or Italian liqueurs—the "little wine" of the apostle was to suffice them. Only two repasts a day were allowed, except to the young, or to those engaged in specially hard work.

The monks might shave one another once in three weeks, chanting psalms the while, and not until the days of decadence were they shaved by a secular barber. "In bygone times," says the chronicler, "they were not shaved, they were skinned."[85] They might not bathe often, lest the habit should engender softness, and they did not usually indulge in full ablution more than twice a year—before Christmas and Easter. Sick monks, however, might bathe as often as they pleased.

The clothing allowed to the brothers consisted of a woollen shirt of dark colour—one for the day, another for the night. Their garments were rustic in form and substance; such as were worn by the peasants. Over the tunic was a scapular, with a hood or capuchon attached, and over all the frock was sometimes worn. Precious stuffs, silks, and gay colours were forbidden; for it was unfitting, said the statutes, that monks should be apparelled like brides for the nuptial chamber. The strict rule of St. Benedict allowed no furs; but a concession was made to the rigour of the Burgundian climate, and the monks might wear sheep-skin or goat-skin cloaks in winter, and fur boots for sleeping in, but no rich and costly skins from foreign lands—"For those who are softly clothed dwell in kings' Palaces." No monk might eat or drink at other than the regular hours; he might not go out at night, nor leave the monastery without the abbot's permission. When on a journey, he should receive only monastic hospitality, and, in any event, must never accept wine or meat; nor might he eat outside the gates, unless it were impossible for him to return home before sunset.

The vice of property was resisted to the utmost. Each monk received from the Superior, in addition to his clothing, all necessary articles, such as a handkerchief, a knife, a needle, a writing pencil and tablet. Nothing was the monk's own; no brother possessed money; testaments were forbidden; and those who violated the precepts were excommunicated, and refused ecclesiastical burial.

Above all, the Clunisian monk must earn his bread with his hands. The earth, whence his body came, and whither it should return, must support him. This held good for long; but in later times, the monasteries increased in size, manual labour naturally became specialized, and some did little more than mend their clothes, wash their linen, clean and grease their boots, and take their turn in the kitchen.

"To speak truth," remarks Udalric, "the work which I saw done most often was to free the beans of the leaves which retarded their growth, to pluck the ill weeds from the garden, and sometimes to knead the bread in the bake-house." Manual work, however, remained always part of the strict rule. "Then will you be monks," said St. Benedict, "when you live by the work of your hands, after the example of the holy preachers of the monastic law." Bitter must it have been to Pierre le VÉnÉrable, the last of the great abbots, to have to write as he did of the growing decadence:—"Idleness is the enemy of the soul: and do we not see the greater part of the brothers ... both within and without the cloister, in a state of absolute inactivity. How few are they who read, still fewer they who write! Do not the greater number sleep, leaning against the walls, or do they not waste their day from dawn to sunset in vain and idle, or in what is yet worse, malicious conversation." But, in the earlier years of Cluny, the rule was not easily broken, nor broken with impunity. A continuous surveillance, day and night, was exercised so regularly, by monks called "circateurs," that scarcely the least fault could be committed unseen, and punishment, inflicted in grave cases by the abbot himself, followed hard upon the offence. Sometimes the delinquent was condemned to solitary confinement, or to stand, all day long, at the door of the church; sometimes he was flogged, in full chapter, by his brother monks, or, if the fault had been publicly committed, the whipping was administered before all the people. It was customary, also, to expose certain delinquents before the door of the basilica, at the hour of mass, while one of the servants of the abbey announced the cause of his penance to the worshippers as they entered. The sinner was denied all participation in the solemnities and in Christian communion; he was denied the kiss also. If he revolted against his punishment, the outraged monks would drag him voluntarily to a fearful dungeon, without door or window, into which he must descend by a ladder.

And over all their day of toil, of silence, of fasting, and of prayer, hung a shadow, dark as those that fell from the vaulted nave, or lingered at sunset in the cool cloister galleries—the shadow of ever-present death. When a brother died, each monk, with his own hand, must sew stitches in the winding-sheet, whose clinging folds should recall vividly to his spirit that all flesh is as grass, and that the way of life is the way of death.

The monks' day was divided between work, prayer, and psalmody; the latter sub-divided into the office and the mass, thus fulfilling literally the words of the psalmist;[86] "Seven times in the day have I celebrated Thy praises, and I rose in the middle of the night to confess Thy Name."

The intervals for rest or sleep were short, and, during a part of the year, the monks slept less than half the night. Udalric, the author of the widely-circulated manual of the customs of Cluny, gives a vivid picture of the discipline observed by the brothers during the "regular hours," as they were called. At the first sound of the bell announcing nocturnes, they sat up in bed, put on the frock without throwing off the blankets, finished dressing without showing their legs, and descended to the church. As it might well chance that one of them would be overcome by sleep during the psalmody or prayer, a brother was appointed to go the round of the choir, carrying a wooden lantern, which he would hold under the eyes of any monk whom he believed to be asleep. If he had made a mistake, and found that his brother was merely wrapped in meditation, he would bow low before him by way of excusing himself; if, on the contrary, the delinquent was really asleep, the light would be held awhile, close to his eyes. This warning would be repeated three times during the round, and if, at the third time, the light did not awaken the sleeper, the lantern would be left at his feet; and upon the somnolent monk, when he awoke, fell the duty of doing the next round.

At the signal for matins, the monks would descend to the cloister, and there wash their hands and faces, and comb themselves, returning to the choir before the last stroke of the bell. There, whether they were sitting or standing, the feet must be in line, and neither the long sleeves, nor the skirt of the frock, must touch the ground.

With the addition of regular hours for reading and study, such, in short, was the life led by the Clunisian monk, from the day of his entry, until the tolling of bells, and the coming of the brothers with cross, candles, and incense, announced that one more devotee had gone to receive—let us hope—the reward of a life of self-sacrifice.

One might be pardoned for supposing that an existence such as this we have outlined, would have been austere enough to satisfy even the most rigorous ascetics of the time. But it was not so. To old Pierre Damien, for example, when he rested awhile at Cluny, to nurse in good company his aged back, scarred by the strokes of iron rods, the rule seemed almost voluptuous. He spoke about it to Abbot Hugh.

"If you could abstain for two days more in the week from using fat in your victuals, you, who are so perfect in other points, would, in the matter of mortification, be in no way behind the anchorites."

The wary Abbot replied with a smile:—

"Before attempting, well-beloved father, to augment our merits by augmenting our abstinence, try yourself to bear, for eight days, the burden of our rule; and then judge whether we can add aught to our austerities."

The brave old ascetic accepted the challenge, and at the end of eight days decided that things might well remain as they were.[87] The rule of Cluny was more severe than his own.

Under the government of St. Hugues, grown old and gray, Cluny had reached the summit of worldly power, and of moral influence; with him, her best days passed. On the 29th April, 1109, the priests, loudly lamenting, were gathered round the body of their dead saint. Clothed in his sacerdotal robes, he lay, for three days, in the church, and a great crowd of lords and ladies, of bourgeois, woodsmen, labourers from field and vineyard, women and children, came to kiss his feet, and lift his raiment to their lips. On the day before, Bernard de Varennes heard Saint Denis the Areopagite announce to him, in a vision, that, if he wished to see again, for the last time, his friend and abbot, Hugues of Cluny, he must haste to the dying man. Bernard obeyed the summons, but, on his arrival, fell sick and remained three days in a lethargy. When he came to himself, he said to the monks around him, "Unhappy man that I am. I had come to salute my abbot, and he is dead before the grace is granted me. But what I might not see with the eyes of the body, I saw with the eyes of the spirit. I saw the dwellers in Heaven descend among men, and the Mother of God, brighter than the morning star, standing in the midst of the monks around the death-bed of Seigneur Hugues. At the moment of the passing of his soul, spirits, armed with arrows, flew to seize upon it, but the Mother of Mercy, raising her hand, struck them with terror, and put them to flight, as the wind scatters the autumn leaves. Martin, the pearl of priests, Benedict the sun of abbots, at the head of the heavenly cohorts, bore the soul of Hugues into a fair and fertile vineyard, that there it might rest awhile. Hugues, perceiving me in this place, addressed me thus: 'Eat, dear friend, these bunches of white grapes, eat and rest with me awhile; not for long am I here. When my feet are freed from the swelling and the dust of a long earthly pilgrimage, I shall pass into the home that God hath prepared for me throughout eternity. Recommend to Pons, my successor, to treasure humility and innocence, to forget his own needs for those of others, and to follow my example of monastic rule.'"

Pons did not follow Hugues' example of monastic rule. When his vanity, weakness, and love of pomp had alienated a portion of his following, he resigned his abbacy and retired. His successor, Hugues II. held office only a few months, when the task of presiding over the destinies of Cluny passed to Pierre le VÉnÉrable, the last of the great abbots, a name that already links us in memory with him whose destiny it was, by a return to simplicity, as a source of strength, to rival, and, for a time, to exceed the power of Cluny. I speak of St. Bernard, the champion of the Cistercian order. We shall meet him again at Citeaux and elsewhere.

It is probable that St. Hugues himself, by acquiring such great wealth for the abbey, prepared its ultimate downfall. Be that as it may, though the rhyming Burgundian proverb,

may not have been coined until a later century, it is certain that Cluny was fast acquiring wealth, and succumbing to a luxury utterly alien to the Spirit of Him Whose benediction was upon the poor and the humble. It was natural that the order, following the fashion of the age, should wish to house worthily the many priceless relics brought back by pious, though too credulous, crusaders from the Holy Land, and the members of the Clunisian school of art soon learned to vie with one another in fashioning chÂsses for the miraculous rod with which Moses brought forth water in the desert, or for the stone from Mount Sinai on which he kneeled when he received from God the table of the law, or for the alabaster vase from which Mary Magdalen anointed the Saviour's Feet.[88]

As the treasures grew in number, the skill of the artificers, and their passion for exercising it increased simultaneously, until, at last, the story of the treasures of Cluny, in the monastic inventories, is like a tale from the "Thousand and one Nights," told in gold and jewels. When there were no more relics to work for, the monks turned to what was next to hand, and soon, from the crosses, from the pastoral baton, from the candelabra of gold and silver, of crystal and ivory, from the draped altars, from the pontifical mitres, even, diamonds and rubies flashed, opals sparkled with their changing rays, while, sometimes, a softly-shining pearl dropped from the Abbot's sandal, as he stepped into the blaze of light in which the great altar was bathed.

Not less gorgeous were the sacerdotal robes, woven always of the most precious stuffs, and in the choicest colours, and worked, on body and sleeves, with an infinite number of designs, lions and griffons, kings and dragons, angels, eagles, leopards and serpents, crosses, arms, lilies, and roses. All the rich and varied symbolism of the times shone out from the robes of Cluny. Nor were the altars, statues, and tombs less gorgeous. The magnificent chÂsse of St. Hugues was of precious wood, entirely covered with silver, the reliefs representing, in gold, the mysteries of the Life and Death of the Saviour. The pictures and altar pieces were similarly treated. One of the statues of Mary was of gold; she held in her hand a silver candle adorned with great pearls; she was crowned with a golden crown; precious stones flashed upon her brow. The Infant Christ was playing with a golden rattle, and wore, upon His Baby head, a golden crown enriched with rubies and emeralds.

To such a Cluny there could only be one end. Her days, as a spiritual force, were spent. Henceforth, to the religious world, she was to be no more than a splendid memory; yet the soul of goodness that ever lives and moves in things seemingly evil, had reserved wonderful uses for the work that deft hands, otherwise idle, were still fashioning in the cloisters of Cluny. Her lions, her lilies, her crosses in wrought gold, her symbols in chased silver and in precious stones, had already awakened the spirit of emulation in a thousand brooding minds. Who shall tell the debt that Gothic art owes, that we, its inheritors, shall ever owe to the decadence of the mother abbey.

When we come to talk of Bernard and Citeaux, we shall hear again of Clunisian luxury; but we have not time, nor would it repay us, to follow, through all its stages, the decline and fall of this Mother Church of Europe, from its glorious position as "the light of the world," to a mere asylum for feudalism—interesting to the student of sociology, but no longer in touch with the great onward movements of history. The last three centuries of the Abbey's existence make sad reading. The envy and jealousy with which the monks were regarded on all sides, made it hard for them successfully to cultivate and harvest their enormous territories. Their rights and privileges, grown old and almost forgotten, could scarcely be asserted and maintained, except by threats and violence. The Revolution found the Benedictines in conflict with the town, over pasturage and other rights in the woods of the monastery; and, on July 29th, 1789, the abbey was threatened by a band of armed peasants, who were repulsed only by the united efforts of monks and townsmen.

On the 21st April, 1799, after considerable discussion, in which it appears that the inhabitants of Cluny did their best, or at least made an effort, to save the abbey, the buildings were sold to Citizen Batonard, a merchant of MÂcon, for the sum of two million, fourteen thousand francs.

In spite of the lively protests of the municipality, the new-comer at once proceeded to play havoc with the church ornaments, a feat which he followed up by making a new road, north and south, through the precincts, cutting the church in two. Later, the Empire completed what the Revolution had begun. In the summer of 1811, Cluny was shaken by a series of terrific explosions. They were blasting, with 75 bombs, the towers and sanctuary of the Abbey.[89]