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often in silver devices, sometimes in gold, and not infrequently

in silver and gold, with splendid jewels and precious stones to
add their value to that of the precious volume which they

adorned. The works of Justin, Seneca, Martial, Terence, and
Claudian were highly popular with the bibliophiles of early

times; and the writings of Ovid, Tully, Horace, Cato, Aristotle,
Sallust, Hippocrates, Macrobius, Augustine, Bede, Gregory,

Origen, etc. But for the veneration and love for books which the
monks of the mediaeval ages had, what would have been preserved

to us of the classics of the Greeks and the Romans?
The same auspicious fate that prompted those bibliomaniacal monks

to hide away manuscript treasures in the cellars of their
monasteries, inspired Poggio Bracciolini several centuries later

to hunt out and invade those sacred hiding-places, and these
quests were rewarded with finds whose value cannot be

overestimated. All that we have of the histories of Livy come to
us through Poggio's industry as a manuscript-hunter; this same

worthy found and brought away from different monasteries a
perfect copy of Quintilian, a Cicero's oration for Caecina, a

complete Tertullian, a Petronius Arbiter, and fifteen or twenty
other classics almost as valuable as those I have named. From

German monasteries, Poggio's friend, Nicolas of Treves, brought
away twelve comedies of Plautus and a fragment of Aulus Gellius.

Dear as their pagan books were to the monkish collectors, it was
upon their Bibles, their psalters, and their other religious

books that these mediaeval bibliomaniacs expended their choicest
art and their most loving care. St. Cuthbert's ``Gospels,''

preserved in the British Museum, was written by Egfrith, a monk,
circa 720; Aethelwald bound the book in gold and precious stones,

and Bilfrid, a hermit, illuminated it by prefixing to each gospel
a beautiful painting representing one of the Evangelists, and a

tessellated cross, executed in a most elaborate manner. Bilfrid
also illuminated the large capital letters at the beginning of

the gospels. This precious volume was still further enriched by
Aldred of Durham, who interlined it with a Saxon Gloss, or

version of the Latin text of St. Jerome.
``Of the exact pecuniary value of books during the middle ages,''

says Merryweather, ``we have no means of judging. The few
instances that have accidentally been recorded are totally

inadequate to enable us to form an opinion. The extravagant
estimate given by some as to the value of books in those days is

merely conjectural, as it necessarily must be when we remember
that the price was guided by the accuracy of the transcription,

the splendor of the binding (which was often gorgeous to excess),
and by the beauty and richness of the illuminations. Many of the

manuscripts of the middle ages are magnificent in the extreme;
sometimes inscribed in liquid gold on parchment of the richest

purple, and adorned with illuminations of exquisite
workmanship.''

With such a veneration and love for books obtaining in the
cloister and at the fireside, what pathos is revealed to us in

the supplication which invited God's blessing upon the beloved
tomes: ``O Lord, send the virtue of thy Holy Spirit upon these

our books; that cleansing them from all earthly things, by thy
holy blessing, they may mercifully enlighten our hearts and give

us true understanding; and grant that by thy teachings they may
brightly preserve and make full an abundance of good works

according to thy will.''
And what inspiration and cheer does every book-lover find in the

letter which that grand old bibliomaniac, Alcuin, addressed to
Charlemagne: ``I, your Flaccus, according to your admonitions

and good will, administer to some in the house of St. Martin the
sweets of the Holy Scriptures; others I inebriate with the study

of ancient wisdom; and others I fill with the fruits of
grammatical lore. Many I seek to instruct in the order of the

stars which illuminate the glorious vault of heaven, so that they
may be made ornaments to the holy church of God and the court of

your imperialmajesty; that the goodness of God and your kindness
may not be altogether unproductive of good. But in doing this I

discover the want of much, especially those exquisite books of
scholastic learning which I possessed in my own country, through

the industry of my good and most devout master, Egbert. I
therefore entreat your Excellence to permit me to send into

Britain some of our youths to procure those books which we so
much desire, and thus transplant into France the flowers of

Britain, that they may fructify and perfume, not only the garden
at York, but also the Paradise of Tours, and that we may say in

the words of the song: `Let my beloved come into his garden and
eat his pleasant fruit;' and to the young: `Eat, O friends;

drink, yea, drink abundantly, O beloved;' or exhort in the words
of the prophet Isaiah: `Every one that thirsteth to come to the

waters, and ye that have no money, come ye, buy and eat: yea,
come buy wine and milk, without money and without price.' ''

I was meaning to have somewhat to say about Alcuin, and had
intended to pay my respects to Canute, Alfred, the Abbot of St.

Albans, the Archbishop of Salzburg, the Prior of Dover, and
other mediaeval worthies, when Judge Methuen came in and

interrupted the thread of my meditation. The Judge brings me
some verses done recently by a poet-friend of his, and he asks me

to give them a place in these memoirs as illustrating the vanity
of human confidence.

One day I got a missive
Writ in a dainty hand,

Which made my manly bosom
With vanity expand.

'T was from a ``young admirer''
Who asked me would I mind

Sending her ``favorite poem''
``In autograph, and signed.''

She craved the boon so sweetly
That I had been a churl

Had I repulsed the homage
Of this gentle, timid girl;

With bright illuminations
I decked the manuscript,

And in my choicest paints and inks
My brush and pen I dipt.

Indeed it had been tedious
But that a flattered smile

Played on my rugged features
And eased my toil the while.

I was assured my poem
Would fill her with delight--

I fancied she was pretty--
I knew that she was bright!

And for a spell thereafter
That unknown damsel's face

With its worshipful expression
Pursued me every place;

Meseemed to hear her whisper:
``O, thank you, gifted sir,

For the overwhelming honor
You so graciously confer!''

But a catalogue from Benjamin's
Disproves what things meseemed--

Dispels with savage certainty
The flattering dreams I dreamed;

For that poor ``favorite poem,''
Done and signed in autograph,

Is listed in ``Cheap Items''
At a dollar-and-a-half.

The End



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