294 T GO A -FISHING. 



When I was last in Italy we passed through the valley 

 by rail, and saw the great pile of the monastery at a dis- 

 tance. Years ago, when there were no rails in Italy, I 

 drove one Saturday night into the little village of San 

 Germano, where was a miserable inn, but in which Franz, 

 my German servant, made us comfortable. For Franz 

 was valet, cook, purveyor, a host in himself, who, though 

 but a servant, looked down on couriers, and was worth 

 any dozen of them condensed into one. 



On Sunday morning, though a tempest was blowing, I 

 climbed the hill to the monastery in time for the early 

 mass. And after it was over I remained alone in the 

 gorgeous chapel, occupied more with recalling the mighty 

 faith of the great old Benedictines than with looking at 

 the splendor which surrounded me. 



I have seen a great many fine buildings, many grand 

 ruins, but I know of no place where I was more impressed 

 with the grandeur of every thing than in this old pile. 

 Perhaps it was because of my respect for the order whose 

 wealth had constructed it ; for among the folios on my 

 library shelves there is no series of volumes that have 

 given me more employment and enjoyment than those 

 grand old Acta, the Deeds of the Order of St. Benedict. 



Let me remind you, if you have perchance forgotten it, 

 of the majesty of that great order. Founded in early 

 times by the distinguished priest whose name it bears, it 

 enrolled in its ranks the most illustrious men of a thou- 

 sand years. They were the instructors of all the youth 

 for centuries. They preserved for us all the great treas- 

 ures of ancient classics by their diligent and laborious 

 copying. From them sprang the Cistercians, the Carthu- 

 sians, the Monks of St. Bernard, the Trappists, and a 

 dozen other orders, all branches of the order of St. Bene- 



