[iii]

BIBLIOMANIA

in

THE MIDDLE AGES

by

F. SOMNER MERRYWEATHER

With an Introduction by

CHARLES ORR

Librarian of Case Library

NEW YORK

MEYER BROTHERS & COMPANY

1900

[iv]

Copyright, 1900

By Meyer Bros. & Co.

Louis Weiss & Co.

Printers….

118 Fulton Street

… New York

[v]

Bibliomania in the Middle Ages

or

SKETCHES OF BOOKWORMS, COLLECTORS,
BIBLE STUDENTS, SCRIBES AND ILLUMINATORS

From the Anglo-Saxon and Norman Periods to the Introduction of Printing

into England, with Anecdotes Illustrating the History of the

Monastic Libraries of Great Britain in the Olden Time

by F. Somner Merryweather, with

an Introduction by Charles Orr,

Librarian of Case Library.

[vi]

CONTENTS

[vii]

INTRODUCTION

n every century for more than two
thousand years, many men have
owed their chief enjoyment of life
to books. The bibliomaniac of
today had his prototype in ancient
Rome, where book collecting was
fashionable as early as the first century of the
Christian era. Four centuries earlier there was an
active trade in books at Athens, then the center of
the book production of the world. This center
of literary activity shifted to Alexandria during
the third century b. c. through the patronage of
Ptolemy Soter, the founder of the Alexandrian
Museum, and of his son, Ptolemy Philadelphus;
and later to Rome, where it remained for many[viii]
centuries, and where bibliophiles and bibliomaniacs
were gradually evolved, and from whence in time
other countries were invaded.

For the purposes of the present work the middle
ages cover the period beginning with the seventh
century and ending with the time of the invention
of printing, or about seven hundred years, though
they are more accurately bounded by the years 500
and 1500 a. d. It matters little, however, since
there is no attempt at chronological arrangement.

About the middle of the present century there
began to be a disposition to grant to mediæval
times their proper place in the history of the preservation
and dissemination of books, and Merryweather’s
Bibliomania in the Middle Ages was one
of the earliest works in English devoted to the
subject. Previous to that time, those ten centuries
lying between the fall of the Roman Empire and
the revival of learning were generally referred to
as the Dark Ages, and historians and other writers
were wont to treat them as having been without
learning or scholarship of any kind.

Even Mr. Hallam,[1] with all that judicial temperament
and patient research to which we owe so
much, could find no good to say of the Church or
its institutions, characterizing the early university[ix]
as the abode of “indigent vagabonds withdrawn
from usual labor,” and all monks as positive enemies
of learning.

The gloomy survey of Mr. Hallam, clouded no
doubt by his antipathy to all things ecclesiastical,
served, however, to arouse the interest of the period,
which led to other studies with different results,
and later writers were able to discern below the
surface of religious fanaticism and superstition so
characteristic of those centuries, much of interest
in the history of literature; to show that every age
produced learned and inquisitive men by whom
books were highly prized and industriously collected
for their own sakes; in short, to rescue the
period from the stigma of absolute illiteracy.

If the reader cares to pursue the subject further,
after going through the fervid defense of the love
of books in the middle ages, of which this is the
introduction, he will find outside of its chapters
abundant evidence that the production and care of
books was a matter of great concern. In the
pages of Mores Catholici; or Ages of Faith, by
Mr. Kenelm Digby,[2] or of The Dark Ages, by Dr.
S. R. Maitland,[3] or of that great work of recent[x]
years, Books and their Makers during the Middle
Ages, by Mr. George Haven Putnam,[4] he will see
vivid and interesting portraits of a great multitude
of mediæval worthies who were almost lifelong
lovers of learning and books, and zealous laborers
in preserving, increasing and transmitting them.
And though little of the mass that has come down
to us was worthy of preservation on its own account
as literature, it is exceedingly interesting as a
record of centuries of industry in the face of such
difficulties that to workers of a later period might
have seemed insurmountable.

A further fact worthy of mention is that book
production was from the art point of view fully
abreast of the other arts during the period, as must
be apparent to any one who examines the collections
in some of the libraries of Europe. Much of
this beauty was wrought for the love of the art
itself. In the earlier centuries religious institutions
absorbed nearly all the social intellectual movements
as well as the possession of material riches
and land. Kings and princes were occupied with
distant wars which impoverished them and deprived
literature and art of that patronage accorded to it[xi]
in later times. There is occasional mention, however,
of wealthy laymen, whose religious zeal induced
them to give large sums of money for the
copying and ornamentation of books; and there
were in the abbeys and convents lay brothers whose
fervent spirits, burning with poetical imagination,
sought in these monastic retreats and the labor of
writing, redemption from their past sins. These
men of faith were happy to consecrate their whole
existence to the ornamentation of a single sacred
book, dedicated to the community, which gave
them in exchange the necessaries of life.

The labor of transcribing was held, in the
monasteries, to be a full equivalent of manual
labor in the field. The rule of St. Ferreol, written
in the sixth century, says that, “He who does not
turn up the earth with the plough ought to write
the parchment with his fingers.”

Mention has been made of the difficulties under
which books were produced; and this is a matter
which we who enjoy the conveniences of modern
writing and printing can little understand. The
hardships of the scriptorium were greatest, of
course, in winter. There were no fires in the often
damp and ill-lighted cells, and the cold in some of
the parts of Europe where books were produced
must have been very severe. Parchment, the material
generally used for writing upon after the[xii]
seventh century, was at some periods so scarce that
copyists were compelled to resort to the expedient
of effacing the writing on old and less esteemed
manuscripts.[5] The form of writing was stiff and
regular and therefore exceedingly slow and irksome.

In some of the monasteries the scriptorium was
at least at a later period, conducted more as a matter
of commerce, and making of books became in time
very profitable. The Church continued to hold
the keys of knowledge and to control the means of
productions; but the cloistered cell, where the monk
or the layman, who had a penance to work off for a
grave sin, had worked in solitude, gave way to the
apartment specially set aside, where many persons
could work together, usually under the direction of
a librarius or chief scribe. In the more carefully
constructed monasteries this apartment was so
placed as to adjoin the calefactory, which allowed
the introduction of hot air, when needed.

The seriousness with which the business of
copying was considered is well illustrated by the
consecration of the scriptorium which was often[xiii]
done in words which may be thus translated:
“Vouchsafe, O Lord, to bless this work-room of
thy servants, that all which they write therein may
be comprehended by their intelligence and realized
in their work.”

While the work of the scribes was largely that
of copying the scriptures, gospels, and books of
devotion required for the service of the church,
there was a considerable trade in books of a more
secular kind. Particularly was this so in England.
The large measure of attention given to the production
of books of legends and romances was
a distinguishing feature of the literature of England
at least three centuries previous to the invention
of printing. At about the twelfth century
and after, there was a very large production and
sale of books under such headings as chronicles,
satires, sermons, works of science and medicine,
treatises on style, prose romances and epics in
verse. Of course a large proportion of these
were written in or translated from the Latin, the
former indicating a pretty general knowledge of
that language among those who could buy or
read books at all. That this familiarity with
the Latin tongue was not confined to any particular
country is abundantly shown by various
authorities.

Mr. Merryweather, whose book, as has been[xiv]
intimated, is only a defense of bibliomania itself as it
actually existed in the middle ages, gives the reader
but scant information as to processes of book-making
at that time. But thanks to the painstaking
research of others, these details are now
a part of the general knowledge of the development
of the book. The following, taken from Mr.
Theodore De Vinne’s Invention of Printing, will,
we think, be found interesting:

“The size most in fashion was that now known
as the demy folio, of which the leaf is about ten
inches wide and fifteen inches long, but smaller
sizes were often made. The space to be occupied
by the written text was mapped out with faint
lines, so that the writer could keep his letters on a
line, at even distance from each other and within
the prescribed margin. Each letter was carefully
drawn, and filled in or painted with repeated
touches of the pen. With good taste, black ink
was most frequently selected for the text; red ink
was used only for the more prominent words, and
the catch-letters, then known as the rubricated letters.
Sometimes texts were written in blue, green,
purple, gold or silver inks, but it was soon discovered
that texts in bright color were not so
readable as texts in black.

“When the copyist had finished his sheet he
passed it to the designer, who sketched the border,[xv]
pictures and initials. The sheet was then given to
the illuminator, who painted it. The ornamentation
of a mediæval book of the first class is beyond
description by words or by wood cuts. Every inch
of space was used. Its broad margins were filled
with quaint ornaments, sometimes of high merit,
admirably painted in vivid colors. Grotesque initials,
which, with their flourishes, often spanned
the full height of the page, or broad bands of
floriated tracery that occupied its entire width,
were the only indications of changes of chapter or
subject. In printer’s phrase the composition was
“close-up and solid” to the extreme degree of compactness.
The uncommonly free use of red ink for
the smaller initials was not altogether a matter of
taste; if the page had been written entirely in black
ink it would have been unreadable through its
blackness. This nicety in writing consumed much
time, but the mediæval copyist was seldom governed
by considerations of time or expense. It was of
little consequence whether the book he transcribed
would be finished in one or in ten years. It was
required only that he should keep at his work
steadily and do his best. His skill is more to be
commended than his taste. Many of his initials
and borders were outrageously inappropriate for
the text for which they were designed. The gravest
truths were hedged in the most childish conceits.[xvi]
Angels, butterflies, goblins, clowns, birds, snails and
monkeys, sometimes in artistic, but much oftener
in grotesque and sometimes in highly offensive
positions are to be found in the illuminated borders
of copies of the gospels and writings of the fathers.

“The book was bound by the forwarder, who
sewed the leaves and put them in a cover of leather
or velvet; by the finisher, who ornamented the
cover with gilding and enamel. The illustration
of book binding, published by Amman in his Book
of Trades, puts before us many of the implements
still in use. The forwarder, with his customary
apron of leather, is in the foreground, making use
of a plow-knife for trimming the edges of a book.
The lying press, which rests obliquely against the
block before him, contains a book that has received
the operation of backing-up from a queer shaped
hammer lying upon the floor. The workman at
the end of the room is sewing together the sections
of a book, for sewing was properly regarded as a
man’s work, and a scientific operation altogether
beyond the capacity of the raw seamstress. The
work of the finisher is not represented, but the
brushes, the burnishers, the sprinklers and the wheel-shaped
gilding tools hanging against the wall
leave us no doubt as to their use. There is an air
of antiquity about everything connected with this
bookbindery which suggests the thought that its[xvii]
tools and usages are much older than those of
printing. Chevillier says that seventeen professional
bookbinders found regular employment in
making up books for the University of Paris, as
early as 1292. Wherever books were produced in
quantities, bookbinding was set apart as a business
distinct from that of copying.

“The poor students who copied books for their
own use were also obliged to bind them, which
they did in a simple but efficient manner by sewing
together the folded sheets, attaching them to narrow
parchment bands, the ends of which were made
to pass through a cover of stout parchment at the
joint near the back. The ends of the bands were
then pasted down under the stiffening sheet of the
cover, and the book was pressed. Sometimes the
cover was made flexible by the omission of the stiffening
sheet; sometimes the edges of the leaves
were protected by flexible and overhanging flaps
which were made to project over the covers; or by
the insertion in the covers of stout leather strings
with which the two covers were tied together.
Ornamentation was entirely neglected, for a book
of this character was made for use and not for
show. These methods of binding were mostly
applied to small books intended for the pocket;
the workmanship was rough, but the binding was
strong and serviceable.”[xviii]

The book of Mr. Merryweather, here reprinted,
is thought worthy of preservation in a series designed
for the library of the booklover. Its publication
followed shortly after that of the works of
Digby and Maitland, but shows much original
research and familiarity with early authorities; and
it is much more than either of these, or of any book
with which we are acquainted, a plea in defense of
bibliomania in the middle ages. Indeed the charm
of the book may be said to rest largely upon the
earnestness with which he takes up his self-imposed
task. One may fancy that after all he found it
not an easy one; in fact his “Conclusion” is a kind
of apology for not having made out a better case.
But this he believes he has proven, “that with all
their superstition, with all their ignorance, their
blindness to philosophic light—the monks of old
were hearty lovers of books; that they encouraged
learning, fostered it, and transcribed repeatedly the
books which they had rescued from the destruction
of war and time; and so kindly cherished and husbanded
them as intellectual food for posterity.
Such being the case, let our hearts look charitably
upon them; and whilst we pity them for their
superstition, or blame them for their pious frauds,
love them as brother men and workers in the mines
of literature.”

Of the author himself little can be learned. A[xix]
diligent search revealed little more than the entry
in the London directory which, in various years from
1840 to 1850, gives his occupation as that of
bookseller, at 14 King Street, Holborn. Indeed
this is shown by the imprint of the title-page of
Bibliomania, which was published in 1849. He
published during the same year Dies Dominicæ,
and in 1850 Glimmerings in the Dark, and Lives
and Anecdotes of Misers. The latter has been
immortalized by Charles Dickens as one of the
books bought at the bookseller’s shop by Boffin,
the Golden Dustman, and which was read to him
by the redoubtable Silas Wegg during Sunday
evenings at “Boffin’s Bower.”[6]

[xx]

[1]

CHAPTER I

n recent times, in spite of all those
outcries which have been so repeatedly
raised against the illiterate
state of the dark ages, many and
valuable efforts have been made
towards a just elucidation of those
monkish days. These labors have produced evidence
of what few anticipated, and some even now
deny, viz., that here and there great glimmerings
of learning are perceivable; and although debased,[2]
and often barbarous too, they were not quite so
bad as historians have usually proclaimed them. It
may surprise some, however, that an attempt should
be made to prove that, in the olden time in “merrie
Englande,” a passion which Dibdin has christened
Bibliomania, existed then, and that there were many
cloistered bibliophiles as warm and enthusiastic in
book collecting as the Doctor himself. But I must
here crave the patience of the reader, and ask him
to refrain from denouncing what he may deem a
rash and futile attempt, till he has perused the
volume and thought well upon the many facts
contained therein. I am aware that many of these
facts are known to all, but some, I believe, are
familiar only to the antiquary—the lover of musty
parchments and the cobwebbed chronicles of a
monastic age. I have endeavored to bring these
facts together—to connect and string them into a
continuous narrative, and to extract from them
some light to guide us in forming an opinion on the
state of literature in those ages of darkness and
obscurity; and here let it be understood that I
merely wish to give a fact as history records it. I
will not commence by saying the Middle Ages were
dark and miserably ignorant, and search for some
poor isolated circumstance to prove it; I will not
affirm that this was pre-eminently the age in which
real piety flourished and literature was fondly cherished,
and strive to find all those facts which show
its learning, purposely neglecting those which display
its unlettered ignorance: nor let it be deemed
ostentation when I say that the literary anecdotes
and bookish memoranda now submitted to the[3]
reader have been taken, where such a course was
practicable, from the original sources, and the references
to the authorities from whence they are derived
have been personally consulted and compared.

That the learning of the Middle Ages has been
carelessly represented there can be little doubt:
our finest writers in the paths of history have employed
their pens in denouncing it; some have
allowed difference of opinion as regards ecclesiastical
policy to influence their conclusions; and
because the poor scribes were monks, the most
licentious principles, the most dismal ignorance and
the most repulsive crimes have been attributed to
them. If the monks deserved such reproaches from
posterity, they have received no quarter; if they
possessed virtues as christians, and honorable sentiments
as men, they have met with no reward in
the praise or respect of this liberal age: they were
monks! superstitious priests and followers of Rome!
What good could come of them? It cannot be
denied that there were crimes perpetrated by men
aspiring to a state of holy sanctity; there are
instances to be met with of priests violating the
rules of decorum and morality; of monks revelling
in the dissipating pleasures of sensual enjoyments,
and of nuns whose frail humanity could not maintain
the purity of their virgin vows. But these
instances are too rare to warrant the slanders and
scurrility that historians have heaped upon them.
And when we talk of the sensuality of the monks,
of their gross indulgences and corporeal ease, we
surely do so without discrimination; for when we
speak of the middle ages thus, our thoughts are[4]
dwelling on the sixteenth century, its mocking piety
and superstitious absurdity; but in the olden time of
monastic rule, before monachism had burst its ancient
boundaries, there was surely nothing physically attractive
in the austere and dull monotony of a
cloistered life. Look at the monk; mark his hard,
dry studies, and his midnight prayers, his painful
fasting and mortifying of the flesh; what can we
find in this to tempt the epicure or the lover of
indolence and sloth? They were fanatics, blind and
credulous—I grant it. They read gross legends,
and put faith in traditionary lies—I grant it; but do
not say, for history will not prove it, that in the
middle ages the monks were wine bibbers and
slothful gluttons. But let not the Protestant reader
be too hastily shocked. I am not defending the
monastic system, or the corruption of the cloister—far
from it. I would see the usefulness of man
made manifest to the world; but the measure of my
faith teaches charity and forgiveness, and I can find
in the functions of the monk much that must have
been useful in those dark days of feudal tyranny
and lordly despotism. We much mistake the influence
of the monks by mistaking their position; we
regard them as a class, but forget from whence they
sprang; there was nothing aristocratic about them,
as their constituent parts sufficiently testify; they
were, perhaps, the best representatives of the people
that could be named, being derived from all classes
of society. Thus Offa, the Saxon king, and Cædman,
the rustic herdsman, were both monks. These are
examples by no means rare, and could easily be
multiplied. Such being the case, could not the[5]
monks more readily feel and sympathize with all,
and more clearly discern the frailties of their brother
man, and by kind admonition or stern reproof,
mellow down the ferocity of a Saxon nature, or the
proud heart of a Norman tyrant? But our object is
not to analyze the social influence of Monachism in
the middle ages: much might be said against it, and
many evils traced to the sad workings of its evil
spirit, but still withal something may be said in
favor of it, and those who regard its influence in
those days alone may find more to admire and defend
than they expected, or their Protestant prejudices
like to own.

But, leaving these things, I have only to deal
with such remains as relate to the love of books in
those times. I would show the means then in
existence of acquiring knowledge, the scarcity or
plentitude of books, the extent of their libraries,
and the rules regulating them; and bring forward
those facts which tend to display the general
routine of a literary monk, or the prevalence of
Bibliomania in those days.

It is well known that the great national and
private libraries of Europe possess immense collections
of manuscripts, which were produced and
transcribed in the monasteries, during the middle
ages, thousands there are in the rich alcoves of the
Vatican at Rome, unknown save to a choice and
favored few; thousands there are in the royal
library of France, and thousands too reposing on
the dusty shelves of the Bodleian and Cottonian
libraries in England; and yet, these numbers are
but a small portion—a mere relic—of the intel[6]lectual
productions of a past and obscure age.[7]
The barbarians, who so frequently convulsed the
more civilized portions of Europe, found a morbid
pleasure in destroying those works which bore
evidence to the mental superiority of their enemies.
In England, the Saxons, the Danes, and the
Normans were each successively the destroyers of
literary productions. The Saxon Chronicle, that
invaluable repository of the events of so many years,
bears ample testimony to numerous instances of the
loss of libraries and works of art, from fire, or by
the malice of designing foes. At some periods, so
general was this destruction, so unquenchable the
rapacity of those who caused it, that instead of
feeling surprised at the manuscripts of those ages
being so few and scanty, we have cause rather to
wonder that so many have been preserved. For
even the numbers which escaped the hands of the
early and unlettered barbarians met with an equally
ignominious fate from those for whom it would be
impossible to hold up the darkness of their age
as a plausible excuse for the commission of this
egregious folly. These men over whose sad deeds
the bibliophile sighs with mournful regret, were
those who carried out the Reformation, so glorious
in its results; but the righteousness of the means
by which those results were effected are very
equivocal indeed. When men form themselves into
a faction and strive for the accomplishment of one
purpose, criminal deeds are perpetrated with im[7]punity,
which, individually they would blush and
scorn to do; they feel no direct responsibility, no
personal restraint; and, such as possess fierce
passions, under the cloak of an organized body,
give them vent and gratification; and those whose
better feelings lead them to contemplate upon these
things content themselves with the conclusion, that
out of evil cometh good.

The noble art of printing was unable, with all
its rapid movements, to rescue from destruction the
treasures of the monkish age; the advocates of the
Reformation eagerly sought for and as eagerly
destroyed those old popish volumes, doubtless
there was much folly, much exaggerated superstition
pervading them; but there was also some truth,
a few facts worth knowing, and perhaps a little
true piety also, and it would have been no difficult
matter to have discriminated between the good and
the bad. But the careless grants of a licentious
monarch conferred a monastery on a court favorite
or political partizan without one thought for the
preservation of its contents. It is true a few years
after the dissolution of these houses, the industrious
Leland was appointed to search and rummage over
their libraries and to preserve any relic worthy of
such an honor; but it was too late, less learned
hands had rifled those parchment collections long
ago, mutilated their finest volumes by cutting out
with childish pleasure the illuminations with which
they were adorned; tearing off the bindings for the
gold claps which protected the treasures within,[8][8]
and chopping up huge folios as fuel for their blazing
hearths, and immense collections were sold as waste
paper. Bale, a strenuous opponent of the monks,
thus deplores the loss of their books: “Never had
we bene offended for the losse of our lybraryes
beynge so many in nombre and in so desolate
places for the moste parte, yf the chief monuments
and moste notable workes of our excellent wryters
had bene reserved, yf there had bene in every shyre
of Englande but one solemyne library to the preservacyon
of those noble workers, and preferrement
of good learnynges in oure posteryte it had bene
yet somewhat. But to destroye all without consyderacion,
is and wyll be unto Englande for ever a
most horryble infamy amonge the grave senyours
of other nations. A grete nombre of them whych
purchased those superstycyose mansyons reserved
of those lybrarye bokes, some to serve theyr jakes,
some to scoure theyr candelstyckes, and some to
rubbe theyr bootes; some they solde to the grossers
and sope sellers, and some they sent over see to the
bokebynders,[9] not in small nombre, but at tymes
whole shippes ful. I know a merchant man, whyche[9]
shall at thys tyme be nameless, that boughte the
contents of two noble lybraryes for xl shyllyngs
pryce, a shame is it to be spoken. Thys stuffe hathe
he occupyed in the stide of graye paper for the
space of more than these ten years, and yet hath
store ynough for as many years to come. A prodyguose
example is this, and to be abhorred of all
men who love theyr natyon as they shoulde do.”[10]

However pernicious the Roman religion might
have been in its practice, it argues little to the
honor of the reformers to have used such means as
this to effect its cure; had they merely destroyed
those productions connected with the controversies
of the day, we might perhaps have excused it, on
the score of party feeling; but those who were commissioned
to visit the public libraries of the kingdom
were often men of prejudiced intellects and shortsighted
wisdom, and it frequently happened that an
ignorant and excited mob became the executioners
of whole collections.[11] It would be impossible now
to estimate the loss. Manuscripts of ancient and
classic date would in their hands receive no more[10]
respect than some dry husky folio on ecclesiastical
policy; indeed, they often destroyed the works of
their own party through sheer ignorance. In a
letter sent by Dr. Cox to William Paget, Secretary,
he writes that the proclamation for burning books
had been the occasion of much hurt. “For New
Testaments and Bibles (not condemned by proclamation)
have been burned, and that, out of parish
churches and good men’s houses. They have burned
innumerable of the king’s majesties books concerning
our religion lately set forth.”[12] The ignorant
thus delighted to destroy that which they did not
understand, and the factional spirit of the more
enlightened would not allow them to make one
effort for the preservation of those valuable relics
of early English literature, which crowded the
shelves of the monastic libraries; the sign of the
cross, the use of red letters on the title page, the
illuminations representing saints, or the diagrams
and circles of a mathematical nature, were at all
times deemed sufficient evidence of their popish
origin and fitness for the flames.[13]

When we consider the immense number of MSS.
thus destroyed, we cannot help suspecting that, if
they had been carefully preserved and examined,
many valuable and original records would have been
discovered. The catalogues of old monastic establishments,
although containing a great proportion
of works on divine and ecclesiastical learning, testify[11]
that the monks did not confine their studies exclusively
to legendary tales or superstitious missals,
but that they also cultivated a taste for classical and
general learning. Doubtless, in the ruin of the
sixteenth century, many original works of monkish
authors perished, and the splendor of the transcript
rendered it still more liable to destruction; but I
confess, as old Fuller quaintly says, that “there
were many volumes full fraught with superstition
which, notwithstanding, might be useful to learned
men, except any will deny apothecaries the privilege
of keeping poison in their shops, when they can
make antidotes of them. But besides this, what
beautiful bibles! Rare fathers! Subtle schoolmen!
Useful historians! Ancient! Middle! Modern!
What painful comments were here amongst them!
What monuments of mathematics all massacred
together!”[14]

More than a cart load of manuscripts were taken
away from Merton College and destroyed, and a
vast number from the Baliol and New Colleges,
Oxford;[15] but these instances might be infinitely
multiplied, so terrible were those intemperate outrages.
All this tends to enforce upon us the
necessity of using considerable caution in forming
an opinion of the nature and extent of learning
prevalent during those ages which preceded the
discovery of the art of printing.

[12]

[13]

CHAPTER II

n this chapter I shall proceed to inquire
into the duties of the monkish
amanuensis, and show by what laws
and regulations the monastic libraries
were governed. The monotonous
habits of a cloistered bibliophile
will, perhaps, appear dry and fastidious, but
still it is curious and interesting to observe how
carefully the monks regarded their vellum tomes,
how indefatigably they worked to increase their
stores, and how eagerly they sought for books.
But besides being regarded as a literary curiosity,
the subject derives importance by the light it throws
on the state of learning in those dark and “bookless”
days, and the illustrations gleaned in this way
fully compensate for the tediousness of the research.

As a bibliophile it is somewhat pleasing to trace[14]
a deep book passion growing up in the barrenness
of the cloister, and to find in some cowled monk a
bibliomaniac as warm and enthusiastic in his way
as the renowned “Atticus,” or the noble Roxburghe,
of more recent times. It is true we can draw no
comparison between the result of their respective
labors. The hundreds, which in the old time were
deemed a respectable if not an extensive collection,
would look insignificant beside the ostentatious
array of modern libraries.

But the very tenor of a monastic life compelled
the monk to seek the sweet yet silent companionship
of books; the rules of his order and the regulations
of his fraternity enforced the strictest silence
in the execution of his daily and never-ceasing
duties. Attending mass, singing psalms, and midnight
prayers, were succeeded by mass, psalms and
prayers in one long undeviating round of yearly
obligations; the hours intervening between these
holy exercises were dull and tediously insupportable
if unoccupied. Conversation forbidden, secular
amusements denounced, yet idleness reproached,
what could the poor monk seek as a relief in this
distress but the friendly book; the willing and
obedient companion of every one doomed to lonely
hours and dismal solitude?

The pride and glory of a monastery was a well
stored library, which was committed to the care of
the armarian, and with him rested all the responsibility
of its preservation. According to the Consuetudines
Canonicorum Regularium, it was his duty
to have all the books of the monastery in his keeping
catalogued and separately marked with their proper[15]
names.[16] Some of these old catalogues have been
preserved, and, viewed as bibliographical remains
of the middle ages, are of considerable importance;
indeed, we cannot form a correct idea of the literature
of those remote times without them. Many
productions of authors are recorded in these brief
catalogues whose former existence is only known
to us by these means. There is one circumstance
in connexion with them that must not be forgotten:
instead of enumerating all the works which each
volume contained, they merely specified the first,
so that a catalogue of fifty or a hundred volumes
might probably have contained nearly double that
number of distinct works. I have seen MSS. formerly
belonging to monasteries, which have been
catalogued in this way, containing four or five
others, besides the one mentioned. Designed rather
to identify the book than to describe the contents
of each volume, they wrote down the first word or
two of the second leaf—this was the most prevalent
usage; but they often adopted other means, sometimes
giving a slight notice of the works which a
volume contained; others took the precaution of
noting down the last word of the last leaf but one,[17]
a great advantage, as the monkish student could
more easily detect at a glance whether the volume
was perfect. The armarian was, moreover, particularly
enjoined to inspect with scrupulous care
the more ancient volumes, lest the moth-worms
should have got at them, or they had become cor[16]rupt
or mutilated, and, if such were the case, he
was with great care to restore them. Probably the
armarian was also the bookbinder to the monastery
in ordinary cases, for he is here directed to cover
the volumes with tablets of wood, that the inside
may be preserved from moisture, and the parchment
from the injurious effects of dampness. The
different orders of books were to be kept separate
from one another, and conveniently arranged; not
squeezed too tight, lest it should injure or confuse
them, but so placed that they might be easily distinguished,
and those who sought them might find
them without delay or impediment.[18] Bibliomaniacs
have not been remarkable for their memory or
punctuality, and in the early times the borrower
was often forgetful to return the volume within the
specified time. To guard against this, many rules
were framed, nor was the armarian allowed to lend
the books, even to neighboring monasteries, unless
he received a bond or promise to restore them
within a certain time, and if the person was entirely
unknown, a book of equal value was required as a
security for its safe return. In all cases the armarian
was instructed to make a short memorandum of the
name of the book which he had lent or received.
The “great and precious books” were subject to
still more stringent rules, and although under the
conservation of the librarian, he had not the privilege
of lending them to any one without the distinct
permission of the abbot.[19] This was, doubtless,[17]
practised by all the monastic libraries, for all generously
lent one another their books. In a collection
of chapter orders of the prior and convent of
Durham, bearing date 1235, it is evident that a
similar rule was observed there, which they were
not to depart from except at the desire of the
bishop.[20] According to the constitutions for the
government of the Abingdon monastery, the library
was under the care of the Cantor, and all the writings
of the church were consigned to his keeping.
He was not allowed to part with the books or lend
them without a sufficient deposit as a pledge for
their safe return, except to persons of consequence
and repute.[21] This was the practice at a much later
period. When that renowned bibliomaniac, Richard
de Bury, wrote his delightful little book called
Philobiblon, the same rules were strictly in force.
With respect to the lending of books, his own
directions are that, if any one apply for a particular
volume, the librarian was to carefully consider
whether the library contained another copy of it;
if so, he was at liberty to lend the book, taking
care, however, that he obtained a security which
was to exceed the value of the loan; they were at
the same time to make a memorandum in writing
of the name of the book, and the nature of the
security deposited for it, with the name of the
party to whom it was lent, with that of the officer
or librarian who delivered it.[22]

We learn by the canons before referred to, that[18]
the superintendence of all the writing and transcribing,
whether in or out of the monastery, belonged
to the office of the armarian, and that it was
his duty to provide the scribes with parchment and
all things necessary for their work, and to agree
upon the price with those whom he employed. The
monks who were appointed to write in the cloisters
he supplied with copies for transcription; and that
no time might be wasted, he was to see that a
good supply was kept up. No one was to give to
another what he himself had been ordered to
write, or presume to do anything by his own will
or inclination. Nor was it seemly that the armarian
even should give any orders for transcripts
to be made without first receiving the permission
of his superior.[23]

We here catch a glimpse of the quiet life of a
monkish student, who labored with this monotonous
regularity to amass his little library. If we
dwell on these scraps of information, we shall discover
some marks of a love of learning among
them, and the liberality they displayed in lending
their books to each other is a pleasing trait to
dwell upon. They unhesitatingly imparted to
others the knowledge they acquired by their own
study with a brotherly frankness and generosity
well becoming the spirit of a student. This they
did by extensive correspondence and the temporary
exchange of their books. The system of loan,[19]
which they in this manner carried on to a considerable
extent, is an important feature in connection
with our subject; innumerable and interesting
instances of this may be found in the
monastic registers, and the private letters of the
times. The cheapness of literary productions of
the present age render it an absolute waste of
time to transcribe a whole volume, and except with
books of great scarcity we seldom think of borrowing
or lending one; having finished its perusal
we place it on the shelf and in future regard it as
a book of reference; but in those days one volume
did the work of twenty. It was lent to a neighboring
monastery, and this constituted its publication;
for each monastery thus favored, by the aid
perhaps of some half dozen scribes, added a copy
to their own library, and it was often stipulated
that on the return of the original a correct duplicate
should accompany it, as a remuneration to its
author. Nor was the volume allowed to remain
unread; it was recited aloud at meals, or when
otherwise met together, to the whole community.
We shall do well to bear this in mind, and not
hastily judge of the number of students by a comparison
with the number of their books. But it
was not always a mere single volume that the
monks lent from their library. Hunter has printed[24]
a list of books lent by the Convent of Henton,
a. d. 1343, to a neighboring monastery, containing
twenty volumes. The engagement to restore these
books was formally drawn up and sealed.

In the monasteries the first consideration was[20]
to see that the library was well stored with those
books necessary for the performance of the various
offices of the church, but besides these the library
ought, according to established rules, to contain for
the “edification of the brothers” such as were fit and
needful to be consulted in common study. The
Bible and great expositors; Bibliothecæ et majores
expositores, books of martyrs, lives of saints, homilies,
etc.;[25] these and other large books the monks
were allowed to take and study in private, but the
smaller ones they could only study in the library,
lest they should be lost or mislaid. This was also
the case with respect to the rare and choice
volumes. When the armarian gave out books to
the monks he made a note of their nature, and
took an exact account of their number, so that he
might know in a moment which of the brothers
had it for perusal.[26] Those who studied together
were to receive what books they choose; but when
they had satisfied themselves, they were particularly
directed to restore them to their assigned
places; and when they at any time received from
the armarian a book for their private reading, they
were not allowed to lend it to any one else, or to
use it in common, but to reserve it especially for
his own private reading. The same rule extended
to the singers, who if they required books for their
studies, were to apply to the abbot.[27] The sick
brothers were also entitled to the privilege of
receiving from the armarian books for their solace[21]
and comfort; but as soon as the lamps were lighted
in the infirmary the books were put away till the
morning, and if not finished, were again given out
from the library.[28] In the more ancient monasteries
a similar case was observed with respect to
their books. The rule of St. Pacome directed
that the utmost attention should be paid to their
preservation, and that when the monks went to the
refectory they were not to leave their books open,
but to carefully close and put them in their assigned
places. The monastery of St. Pacome contained
a vast number of monks; every house, says
Mabillon, was composed of not less than forty
monks, and the monastery embraced thirty or forty
houses. Each monk, he adds, possessed his book,
and few rested without forming a library; by which
we may infer that the number of books was considerable.[29]
Indeed, it was quite a common practice
in those days, scarce as books were, to allow
each of the monks one or more for his private
study, besides granting them access to the library.
The constitutions of Lanfranc, in the year 1072,
directed the librarian, at the commencement of
Lent, to deliver a book to each of the monks for
their private reading, allowing them a whole year
for its perusal.[30] There is one circumstance connected
with the affairs of the library quite characteristic
of monkish superstition, and bearing painful
testimony to their mistaken ideas of what consti[22]tuted
“good works.” In Martene’s book there is a
chapter, De Scientia et Signis—degrading and sad;
there is something withal curious to be found in it.
After enjoining the most scrupulous silence in the
church, in the refectory, in the cloister, and in the
dormitory, at all times, and in all seasons; transforming
those men into perpetual mutes, and even
when “actually necessary,” permitting only a whisper
to be articulated “in a low voice in the ear,”
submissa voce in aure, it then proceeds to describe
a series of fantastic grimaces which the monks
were to perform on applying to the armarian for
books. The general sign for a book, generali signi
libri, was to “extend the hand and make a movement
as if turning over the leaves of a book.” For
a missal the monk was to make a similar movement
with a sign of the cross; for the gospels the sign
of the cross on the forehead; for an antiphon or
book of responses he was to strike the thumb and
little finger of the other hand together; for a book
of offices or gradale to make the sign of a cross
and kiss the fingers; for a tract lay the hand on
the abdomen and apply the other hand to the
mouth; for a capitulary make the general sign
and extend the clasped hands to heaven; for a
psalter place the hands upon the head in the form
of a crown, such as the king is wont to wear.[31]
Religious intolerance was rampant when this rule
was framed; hot and rancorous denunciation was
lavished with amazing prodigality against works of
loose morality or heathen origin; nor did the
monks feel much compassion—although they loved[23]
to read them—for the old authors of antiquity.
Pagans they were, and therefore fit only to be
named as infidels and dogs, so the monk was
directed for a secular book, “which some pagan
wrote after making the general sign to scratch his
ear with his hand, just as a dog itching would do
with his feet, because infidels are not unjustly
compared to such creatures—quia nec immerito
infideles tali animanti contparantur.“[32] Wretched
bigotry and puny malice! Yet what a sad reflection
it is, that with all the foul and heartburning
examples which those dark ages of the monks
afford, posterity have failed to profit by them—religious
intolerance, with all its vain-glory and
malice, flourishes still, the cankering worm of
many a Christian blossom! Besides the duties
which we have enumerated, there were others
which it was the province of the armarian to fulfil.
He was particularly to inspect and collate those
books which, according to the decrees of the church,
it was unlawful to possess different from the authorized
copies; these were the bible, the gospels, missals,
epistles, collects graduales, antiphons, hymns, psalters,
lessions, and the monastic rules; these were
always to be alike even in the most minute point.[33]
He was moreover directed to prepare for the use of
the brothers short tables respecting the times mentioned
in the capitulary for the various offices of
the church, to make notes upon the matins, the
mass, and upon the different orders.[34] In fact, the[24]
monkish amanuensis was expected to undertake all
those matters which required care and learning
combined. He wrote the letters of the monastery,
and often filled the office of secretary to my Lord
Abbot. In the monasteries of course the services
of the librarian were unrequited by any pecuniary
remuneration, but in the cathedral libraries a certain
salary was sometimes allowed them. Thus we learn
that the amanuensis of the conventual church of
Ely received in the year 1372 forty-three shillings
and fourpence for his annual duties;[35] and Oswald,
Bishop of Worcester, in the tenth century, gave
considerable landed possessions to a monk of that
church as a recompense for his services as librarian.[36]
In some monasteries, in the twelfth century, if not
earlier, they levied a tax on all the members of the
community, who paid a yearly sum to the librarian
for binding, preserving, and purchasing copies for
the library. One of these rules, bearing date 1145,
was made by Udon, Abbot of St. Père en Vallée à
Chantres, and that it might be more plausibly
received, he taxed himself as well as all the members
of his own house.[37] The librarian sometimes,
in addition to his regular duties, combined the
office of precentor to the monastery.[38] Some of
their account-books have been preserved, and by
an inspection of them, we may occasionally gather[25]
some interesting and curious hints, as to the cost
of books and writing materials in those times.
As may be supposed, the monkish librarians often
became great bibliophiles, for being in constant
communication with choice manuscripts, they soon
acquired a great mania for them. Posterity are
also particularly indebted to the pens of these book
conservators of the middle ages; for some of the
best chroniclers and writers of those times were
humble librarians to some religious house.

Not only did the bibliophiles of old exercise
the utmost care in the preservation of their darling
books, but the religious basis of their education
and learning prompted them to supplicate the
blessing of God upon their goodly tomes. Although
I might easily produce other instances, one
will suffice to give an idea of their nature: “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 teaching,
they may brightly preserve and make full an abundance
of good works according to thy will.”[39]

[26]

[27]

CHAPTER III

s the monasteries were the schools
of learning, so their occupants were
the preservers of literature, and, as
Herault observes, had they not
taken the trouble to transcribe
books, the ancients had been lost
to us for ever; to them, therefore, we owe much.
But there are many, however, who suppose that
the monastic establishments were hotbeds of superstition
and fanaticism, from whence nothing of a
useful or elevated nature could possibly emanate.
They are too apt to suppose that the human intellect
must be altogether weak and impotent when
confined within such narrow limits; but truth and
knowledge can exist even in the dark cells of a
gloomy cloister, and inspire the soul with a fire
that can shed a light far beyond its narrow pre[28]cincts.
Indeed, I scarce know whether to regret,
as some appear to do, that the literature and
learning of those rude times was preserved and
fostered by the Christian church; it is said, that
their strict devotion and religious zeal prompted
them to disregard all things but a knowledge of
those divine, but such is not the case; at least, I
have not found it so; it is true, as churchmen, they
were principally devoted to the study of divine and
ecclesiastical lore; but it is also certain that in that
capacity they gradually infused the mild spirit of
their Master among the darkened society over
which they presided, and among whom they shone
as beacons of light in a dreary desert. But the
church did more than this. She preserved to posterity
the profane learnings of Old Greece and
Rome; copied it, multiplied it, and spread it. She
recorded to after generations in plain, simple
language, the ecclesiastical and civil events of the
past, for it is from the terse chronicles of the
monkish churchmen that we learn now the history
of what happened then. Much as we may
dislike the monastic system, the cold, heartless,
gloomy ascetic atmosphere of the cloister, and
much as we may deplore the mental dissipation of
man’s best attributes, which the system of those
old monks engendered, we must exercise a cool
and impartial judgment, and remember that what
now would be intolerable and monstrously inconsistent
with our present state of intellectuality,
might at some remote period, in the ages of darkness
and comparative barbarism, have had its virtues
and beneficial influences. As for myself, it[29]
would be difficult to convince me, with all those
fine relics of their deeds before me, those beauteous
fanes dedicated to piety and God, those libraries
so crowded with their vellum tomes, so gorgeously
adorned, and the abundant evidence which history
bears to their known charity and hospitable love,
that these monks and their system was a scheme
of dismal barbarism; it may be so, but my reading
has taught me different; but, on the other hand,
although the monks possessed many excellent
qualities, being the encouragers of literature, the
preservers of books, and promulgators of civilization,
we must not hide their numerous and palpable
faults, or overlook the poison which their
system of monachism ultimately infused into the
very vitals of society. In the early centuries,
before the absurdities of Romanism were introduced,
the influence of the monastic orders was
highly beneficial to our Saxon ancestors, but in
after ages the Church of England was degraded
by the influence of the fast growing abominations
of Popedom. She drank copiously of the deadly
potion, and became the blighted and ghostly
shadow of her former self. Forgetting the humility
of her divine Lord, she sought rather to
imitate the worldly splendor and arrogance of her
Sovereign Pontiff. The evils too obviously existed
to be overlooked; but it is not my place to further
expose them; a more pleasing duty guides my pen;
others have done all this, lashing them painfully
for their oft-told sins. Frail humanity glories in
chastizing the frailty of brother man. But we will
not denounce them here, for did not the day of[30]
retribution come? And was not justice satisfied?
Having made these few preliminary remarks, let
us, in a brief manner, inquire into the system observed
in the cloisters by the monks for the preservation
and transcription of manuscripts. Let
us peep into the quiet cells of those old monks,
and see whether history warrants the unqualified
contempt which their efforts in this department
have met with.

In most monasteries there were two kinds of
Scriptoria, or writing offices; for in addition to the
large and general apartment used for the transcription
of church books and manuscripts for the
library, there were also several smaller ones occupied
by the superiors and the more learned members
of the community, as closets for private
devotion and study. Thus we read, that in the
Cistercian orders there were places set apart for
the transcription of books called Scriptoria, or
cells assigned to the scribes, “separate from each
other,” where the books might be transcribed in
the strictest silence, according to the holy rules of
their founders.[40] These little cells were usually
situated in the most retired part of the monastery,
and were probably incapable of accommodating
more than one or two persons;[41] dull and comfortless
places, no doubt, yet they were deemed great
luxuries, and the use of them only granted to such
as became distinguished for their piety, or erudition.
We read that when David went to the Isle of
Wight, to Paulinus, to receive his education, he[31]
used to sup in the Refectory, but had a Scriptorium,
or study, in his cell, being a famous scribe.[42]
The aged monks, who often lived in these little
offices, separate from the rest of the scribes, were
not expected to work so arduously as the rest.
Their employment was comparatively easy; nor
were they compelled to work so long as those in
the cloister.[43] There is a curious passage in Tangmar’s
Life of St. Bernward, which would lead us
to suspect that private individuals possessed Scriptoria;
for, says he, there are Scriptoria, not only
in the monasteries, but in other places, in which
are conceived books equal to the divine works of
the philosophers.[44] The Scriptorium of the monastery
in which the general business of a literary
nature was transacted, was an apartment far more
extensive and commodious, fitted up with forms and
desks methodically arranged, so as to contain conveniently
a great number of copyists. In some of
the monasteries and cathedrals, they had long
ranges of seats one after another, at which were
seated the scribes, one well versed in the subject
on which the book treated, recited from the copy
whilst they wrote; so that, on a word being given
out by him, it was copied by all.[45] The multiplication
of manuscripts, under such a system as this,
must have been immense; but they did not always[32]
make books, fecit libros, as they called it, in this
wholesale manner, but each monk diligently labored
at the transcription of a separate work.

The amount of labor carried on in the Scriptorium,
of course, in many cases depended upon
the revenues of the abbey, and the disposition of
the abbot; but this was not always the case, as in
some monasteries they undertook the transcription
of books as a matter of commerce, and added broad
lands to their house by the industry of their pens.
But the Scriptorium was frequently supported by
resources solely applicable to its use. Laymen,
who had a taste for literature, or who entertained
an esteem for it in others, often at their death
bequeathed estates for the support of the monastic
Scriptoria. Robert, one of the Norman leaders,
gave two parts of the tythes of Hatfield, and the
tythes of Redburn, for the support of the Scriptorium
of St. Alban’s.[46] The one belonging to the
monastery of St. Edmundsbury was endowed with
two mills,[47] and in the church of Ely there is a
charter of Bishof Nigellus, granting to the Scriptorium
of the monastery the tythes of Wythessey
and Impitor, two parts of the tythes of the Lordship
of Pampesward, with 2s. 2d., and a messuage
in Ely ad faciendos et emandandos libros.[48]

The abbot superintended the management of
the Scriptorium, and decided upon the hours for
their labor, during which time they were ordered[33]
to work with unremitting diligence, “not leaving
to go and wander in idleness,” but to attend solely
to the business of transcribing. To prevent detraction
or interruption, no one was allowed to
enter except the abbot, the prior, the sub-prior,
and the armarian,[49] as the latter took charge of all
the materials and implements used by the transcribers,
it was his duty to prepare and give them
out when required; he made the ink and cut the
parchment ready for use. He was strictly enjoined,
however, to exercise the greatest economy in supplying
these precious materials, and not to give
more copies “nec artavos, nec cultellos, nec scarpellæ,
nec membranes,” than was actually necessary,
or than he had computed as sufficient for the work;
and what the armarian gave them the monks were
to receive without contradiction or contention.[50]

The utmost silence prevailed in the Scriptorium;
rules were framed, and written admonitions hung
on the walls, to enforce the greatest care and
diligence in copying exactly from the originals. In
Alcuin’s works we find one of these preserved; it is
a piece inscribed “Ad Musæum libros scribentium;”
the lines are as follows:

Other means were resorted to besides these to
preserve the text of their books immaculate, it was
a common practice for the scribe at the end of his
copy, to adjure all who transcribed from it to use
the greatest care, and to refrain from the least
alteration of word or sense. Authors more especially
followed this course, thus at the end of some
we find such injunctions as this.

“I adjure you who shall transcribe this book,
by our Lord Jesus Christ and by his glorious
coming, who will come to judge the quick and the
dead, that you compare what you transcribe and
diligently correct it by the copy from which you
transcribe it—this adjuration also—and insert it in
your copy.”[52]

The Consuetudines Canonicorum, before referred
to, also particularly impressed this upon the
monks, and directed that all the brothers who were
engaged as scribes, were not to alter any writing,
although in their own mind they might think it
proper, without first receiving the sanction of the
abbot, “on no account were they to commit so great
a presumption.”[53] But notwithstanding that the[35]
scribes were thus enjoined to use the utmost care
in copying books, doubtless an occasional error
crept in, which many causes might have produced,
such as bad light, haste, a little drowsiness, imperfect
sight, or even a flickering lamp was sufficient
to produce some trivial error; but in works of
importance the smallest error is of consequence, as
some future scribe puzzled by the blunder, might,
in an attempt to correct, still more augment the
imperfection; to guard against this, with respect to
the Scriptures, the most critical care was enforced.
Monks advanced in age were alone allowed to
transcribe them, and after their completion they
were read—revised—and reread again, and it is by
that means that so uniform a reading has been
preserved, and although slight differences may here
and there occur, there are no books which have
traversed through the shadows of the dark ages,
that preserve their original text so pure and uncorrupt
as the copies of the Scriptures, the fathers
of the church, and the ancient writings of the classic
authors; sometimes, it is true, a manuscript of the
last order is discovered possessing a very different
reading in some particular passage; but these appear
rather as futile emendations or interpolations of the
scribe than as the result of a downright blunder,
and are easily perceivable, for when the monkish
churchmen tampered with ancient copies, it generally
originated in a desire to smooth over the
indecencies of the heathen authors, and so render
them less liable to corrupt the holy contemplations
of the devotee; and while we blame the pious fraud,
we cannot but respect the motive that dictated it.

[36]

But as regards the Scriptures, we talk of the
carelessness of the monks and the interpolations
of the scribes as if these were faults peculiar to the
monastic ages alone; alas! the history of Biblical
transmission tells us differently, the gross perversions,
omissions, and errors wrought in the
holy text, proclaim how prevalent these same
faults have been in the ages of printed literature,
and which appear more palpable by being produced
amidst deep scholars, and surrounded with all the
critical acumen of a learned age. Five or six
thousand of these gross blunders, or these wilful
mutilations, protest the unpleasant fact, and show
how much of human grossness it has acquired,
and how besmeared with corruption those sacred
pages have become in passing through the hands
of man, and the “revisings” of sectarian minds. I
am tempted to illustrate this by an anecdote related
by Sir Nicholas L’Estrange of Hunstanton,
and preserved in a MS. in the Harlein collection.—”Dr.
Usher, Bish. of Armath, being to preach
at Paules Crosse and passing hastily by one of the
stationers, called for a Bible, and had a little one
of the London edition given him out, but when he
came to looke for his text, that very verse was
omitted in the print: which gave the first occasion
of complaint to the king of the insufferable negligence,
and insufficience of the London printers
and presse, and bredde that great contest that
followed, betwixt the univers. of Cambridge and
London stationers, about printing of the Bibles.”[54][37]
Gross and numerous indeed were the errors of the
corrupt bible text of that age, and far exceeding
even the blunders of monkish pens, and certainly
much less excusable, for in those times they seldom
had a large collection of codices to compare, so
that by studying their various readings, they could
arrive at a more certain and authentic version.
The paucity of the sacred volume, if it rendered
their pens more liable to err, served to enforce
upon them the necessity of still greater scrutiny.
On looking over a monastic catalogue, the first
volume that I search for is the Bible; and, I feel
far more disappointment if I find it not there, than
I do at the absence of Horace or Ovid—there is
something so desolate in the idea of a Christian
priest without the Book of Life—of a minister of
God without the fountain of truth—that however
favorably we may be prone to regard them, a
thought will arise that the absence of this sacred
book may perhaps be referred to the indolence of
the monkish pen, or to the laxity of priestly piety.
But such I am glad to say was not often the case;
the Bible it is true was an expensive book, but can
scarcely be regarded as a rare one; the monastery
was indeed poor that had it not, and when once
obtained the monks took care to speedily transcribe
it. Sometimes they only possessed detached
portions, but when this was the case they generally
borrowed of some neighboring and more fortunate
monastery, the missing parts to transcribe, and so
complete their own copies. But all this did not
make the Bible less loved among them, or less
anxiously and ardently studied, they devoted their[38]
days, and the long hours of the night, to the
perusal of those pages of inspired truth,[55] and it is
a calumny without a shadow of foundation to declare
that the monks were careless of scripture
reading; it is true they did not apply that vigor
of thought, and unrestrained reflection upon it
which mark the labors of the more modern student,
nor did they often venture to interpret the
hidden meaning of the holy mysteries by the
powers of their own mind, but were guided in this
important matter by the works of the fathers. But
hence arose a circumstance which gave full exercise
to their mental powers and compelled the
monk in spite of his timidity to think a little for
himself. Unfortunately the fathers, venerable and
venerated as they were, after all were but men,
with many of the frailties and all the fallabilities
of poor human nature; the pope might canonize
them, and the priesthood bow submissively to
their spiritual guidance, still they remained for all
that but mortals of dust and clay, and their bulky
tomes yet retain the swarthiness of the tomb about
them, the withering impress of humanity. Such
being the case we, who do not regard them quite
so infallible, feel no surprise at a circumstance
which sorely perplexed the monks of old, they unchained
and unclasped their cumbrous “Works of[39]
the Fathers,” and pored over those massy expositions
with increasing wonder; surrounded by
these holy guides, these fathers of infallibility,
they were like strangers in a foreign land, did they
follow this holy saint they seemed about to forsake
the spiritual direction of one having equal
claims to their obedience and respect; alas! for
poor old weak tradition, those fabrications of man’s
faulty reason were found, with all their orthodoxy,
to clash woefully in scriptural interpretation. Here
was a dilemma for the monkish student! whose
vow of obedience to patristical guidance was thus
sorely perplexed; he read and re-read, analyzed
passage after passage, interpreted word after word;
and yet, poor man, his laborious study was fruitless
and unprofitable! What bible student can refrain
from sympathizing with him amidst these torturing
doubts and this crowd of contradiction, but after
all we cannot regret this, for we owe to it more
than my feeble pen can write, so immeasurable
have been the fruits of this little unheeded circumstance.
It gave birth to many a bright independent
declaration, involving pure lines of scripture
interpretation, which appear in the darkness of
those times like fixed stars before us; to this, in
Saxon days, we are indebted for the labors of
Ælfric and his anti-Roman doctrines, whose soul
also sympathized with a later age by translating
portions of the Bible into the vulgar tongue, thus
making it accessible to all classes of the people.
To this we are indebted for all the good that resulted
from those various heterodoxies and heresies,
which sometimes disturbed the church during the[40]
dark ages; but which wrought much ultimate
good by compelling the thoughts of men to dwell
on these important matters. Indeed, to the instability
of the fathers, as a sure guide, we may
trace the origin of all those efforts of the human
mind, which cleared the way for the Reformation,
and relieved man from the shackles of these spiritual
guides of the monks.

But there were many cloistered Christians who
studied the bible undisturbed by these shadows
and doubts, and who, heedless of patristical lore
and saintly wisdom, devoured the spiritual food
in its pure and uncontaminating simplicity—such
students, humble, patient, devoted, will be
found crowding the monastic annals, and yielding
good evidence of the same by the holy tenor
of their sinless lives, their Christian charity and
love.

But while so many obtained the good title of
an “Amator Scripturarum,” as the bible student
was called in those monkish days, I do not pretend
to say that the Bible was a common book among
them, or that every monk possessed one—far different
indeed was the case—a copy of the Old
and New Testament often supplied the wants of
an entire monastery, and in others, as I have said
before, only some detached portions were to be
found in their libraries. Sometimes they were
more plentiful, and the monastery could boast of
two or three copies, besides a few separate portions,
and occasionally I have met with instances
where besides several Biblia Optima, they enjoyed
Hebrew codices and translations, with numerous[41]
copies of the gospels. We must not forget, however,
that the transcription of a Bible was a work
of time, and required the outlay of much industry
and wealth. “Brother Tedynton,” a monk of Ely,
commenced a Bible in 1396, and was several years
before he completed it. The magnitude of the
undertaking can scarcely be imagined by those
unpractised in the art of copying, but when the
monk saw the long labor of his pen before him,
and looked upon the well bound strong clasped
volumes, with their clean vellum folios and fine
illuminations, he seemed well repaid for his years
of toil and tedious labor, and felt a glow of pious
pleasure as he contemplated his happy acquisition,
and the comfort and solace which he should hereafter
derive from its holy pages! We are not
surprised then, that a Bible in those days should
be esteemed so valuable, and capable of realizing a
considerable sum. The monk, independent of its
spiritual value, regarded it as a great possession,
worthy of being bestowed at his death, with all the
solemnity of a testamentary process, and of being
gratefully acknowledged by the fervent prayers of
the monkish brethren. Kings and nobles offered
it as an appropriate and generous gift, and bishops
were deemed benefactors to their church by adding
it to the library. On its covers were written
earnest exhortations to the Bible student, admonishing
the greatest care in its use, and leveling
anathemas and excommunications upon any one
who should dare to purloin it. For its greater
security it was frequently chained to a reading
desk, and if a duplicate copy was lent to a neigh[42]boring
monastery they required a large deposit, or
a formal bond for its safe return.[56] These facts,
while they show its value, also prove how highly
it was esteemed among them, and how much the
monks loved the Book of Life.

But how different is the picture now—how opposite
all this appears to the aspect of bible propagation
in our own time. Thanks to the printing-press,
to bible societies, and to the benevolence of God,
we cannot enter the humblest cottage of the poorest
peasant without observing the Scriptures on his
little shelf—not always read, it is true—nor always
held in veneration as in the old days before us—its
very plentitude and cheapness takes off its attraction
to irreligious and indifferent readers, but to poor
and needy Christians what words can express the
fulness of the blessing. Yet while we thank God
for this great boon, let us refrain from casting uncharitable
reflections upon the monks for its comparative
paucity among them. If its possession was
not so easily acquired, they were nevertheless true
lovers of the Bible, and preserved and multiplied it
in dark and troublous times.

Our remarks have hitherto applied to the monastic
scribes alone; but it is necessary here to speak
of the secular copyists, who were an important class
during the middle ages, and supplied the functions
of the bibliopole of the ancients. But the transcribing
trade numbered three or four distinct bran[43]ches.
There were the Librarii Antiquarii, Notarii,
and the Illuminators—occasionally these professions
were all united in one—where perseverance or talent
had acquired a knowledge of these various arts.
There appears to have been considerable competition
between these contending bodies. The notarii were
jealous of the librarii, and the librarii in their turn
were envious of the antiquarii, who devoted their
ingenuity to the transcription and repairing of old
books especially, rewriting such parts as were
defective or erased, and restoring the dilapidations
of the binding. Being learned in old writings they
corrected and revised the copies of ancient codices;
of this class we find mention as far back as the time
of Cassiodorus and Isidore.[57] “They deprived,”
says Astle, “the poor librarii, or common scriptores,
of great part of their business, so that they found it
difficult to gain a subsistence for themselves and
their families. This put them about finding out
more expeditious methods of transcribing books.
They formed the letters smaller, and made use of
more conjugations and abbreviations than had been
usual. They proceeded in this manner till the
letters became exceedingly small and extremely
difficult to be read.”[58] The fact of there existing a
class of men, whose fixed employment or profession
was solely confined to the transcription of ancient
writings and to the repairing of tattered copies, in
contradistinction to the common scribes, and depending
entirely upon the exercise of their art as a[44]
means of obtaining a subsistence, leads us to the
conclusion that ancient manuscripts were by no
means so very scarce in those days; for how absurd
and useless it would have been for men to qualify
themselves for transcribing these antiquated and
venerable codices, if there had been no probability
of obtaining them to transcribe. The fact too of its
becoming the subject of so much competition proves
how great was the demand for their labor.[59]

We are unable, with any positive result, to discover
the exact origin of the secular scribes, though
their existence may probably be referred to a very
remote period. The monks seem to have monopolized
for some ages the “Commercium Librorum,”[60]
and sold and bartered copies to a considerable
extent among each other. We may with some
reasonable grounds, however, conjecture that the
profession was flourishing in Saxon times; for we
find several eminent names in the seventh and
eighth centuries who, in their epistolary correspondence,
beg their friends to procure transcripts
for them. Benedict, Bishop of Wearmouth, purchased
most of his book treasures at Rome, which
was even at that early period probably a famous
mart for such luxuries, as he appears to have
journeyed there for that express purpose. Some of
the books which he collected were presents from[45]
his foreign friends; but most of them, as Bede tells
us, were bought by himself, or in accordance with
his instructions, by his friends.[61] Boniface, the
Saxon missionary, continually writes for books to
his associates in all parts of Europe. At a subsequent
period the extent and importance of the
profession grew amazingly; and in Italy its followers
were particularly numerous in the tenth century, as
we learn from the letters of Gerbert, afterwards
Silvester II., who constantly writes, with the cravings
of a bibliomaniac, to his friends for books, and begs
them to get the scribes, who, he adds, in one of his
letters, may be found in all parts of Italy,[62] both in
town and in the country, to make transcripts of
certain books for him, and he promises to reimburse
his correspondent all that he expends for the same.

These public scribes derived their principal employment
from the monks and the lawyers; from
the former in transcribing their manuscripts, and
by the latter in drawing up their legal instruments.
They carried on their avocation at their own homes
like other artisans; but sometimes when employed
by the monks executed their transcripts within the
cloister, where they were boarded, lodged, and
received their wages till their work was done. This
was especially the case when some great book was
to be copied, of rarity and price; thus we read of[46]
Paulinus, of St. Albans, sending into distant parts
to obtain proficient workmen, who were paid so
much per diem for their labor; their wages were
generously supplied by the Lord of Redburn.[63]

The increase of knowledge and the foundation
of the universities gave birth to the booksellers.
Their occupation as a distinct trade originated at a
period coeval with the foundation of these public
seminaries, although the first mention that I am
aware of is made by Peter of Blois, about the year
1170. I shall have occasion to speak more hereafter
of this celebrated scholar, but I may be excused for
giving the anecdote here, as it is so applicable to
my subject. It appears, then, that whilst remaining
in Paris to transact some important matter for the
King of England, he entered the shop of “a public
dealer in books”—for be it known that the archdeacon
was always on the search, and seldom missed
an opportunity of adding to his library—the bookseller,
Peter tells us, offered him a tempting collection
on Jurisprudence; but although his knowledge
of such matters was so great that he did not require
them for his own use, he thought they might be
serviceable to his nephew, and after bargaining a
little about the price he counted down the money
agreed upon and left the stall; but no sooner was
his back turned than the Provost of Sexeburgh
came in to look over the literary stores of the
stationer, and his eye meeting the recently sold
volume, he became inspired with a wish to possess
it; nor could he, on hearing it was bought and
paid for by another, suppress his anxiety to obtain[47]
the treasure; but, offering more money, actually
took the volume away by force. As may be supposed,
Archdeacon Peter was sorely annoyed at
this behavior; and “To his dearest companion
and friend Master Arnold of Blois, Peter of Blois
Archdeacon of Bath sent greeting,” a long and
learned letter, displaying his great knowledge of
civil law, and maintaining the illegality of the provost’s
conduct.[64] The casual way in which this is
mentioned make it evident that the “publico mangone
Librorum” was no unusual personage in those
days, but belonged to a common and recognized
profession.

The vast number of students who, by the foundation
of universities, were congregated together,
generated of course a proportionate demand for
books, which necessity or luxury prompted them
eagerly to purchase: but there were poor as well
as rich students educated in these great seminaries
of learning, whose pecuniary means debarred them
from the acquisition of such costly luxuries; and
for this and other cogent reasons the universities
deemed it advantageous, and perhaps expedient, to
frame a code of laws and regulations to provide
alike for the literary wants of all classes and degrees.
To effect this they obtained royal sanction
to take the trade entirely under their protection,[48]
and eventually monopolized a sole legislative power
over the Librarii.

In the college of Navarre a great quantity of
ancient documents are preserved, many of which
relate to this curious subject. They were deposited
there by M. Jean Aubert in 1623, accompanied by
an inventory of them, divided into four parts by
the first four letters of the alphabet. In the
fourth, under D. 18, there is a chapter entitled
“Des Libraires Appretiateurs, Jurez et Enlumineurs,”
which contains much interesting matter relating
to the early history of bookselling.[65] These
ancient statutes, collected and printed by the University
in the year 1652,[66] made at various times,
and ranging between the years 1275 and 1403,
give us a clear insight into the matter.

The nature of a bookseller’s business in those
days required no ordinary capacity, and no shallow
store of critical acumen; the purchasing of manuscripts,
the work of transcription, the careful revisal,
the preparation of materials, the tasteful illuminations,
and the process of binding, were each employments
requiring some talent and discrimination,
and we are not surprised, therefore, that the avocation
of a dealer and fabricator of these treasures[49]
should be highly regarded, and dignified into a
profession, whose followers were invested with all
the privileges, freedoms and exemptions, which the
masters and students of the university enjoyed.[67]
But it required these conciliations to render the
restrictive and somewhat severe measures, which
she imposed on the bookselling trade, to be received
with any degree of favor or submission. For whilst
the University of Paris, by whom these statutes
were framed, encouraged and elevated the profession
of the librarii, she required, on the other hand,
a guarantee of their wealth and mental capacity,
to maintain and to appreciate these important concessions;
the bookseller was expected indeed to be
well versed in all branches of science, and to be
thoroughly imbued with a knowledge of those subjects
and works of which he undertook to produce
transcripts.[68] She moreover required of him testimonials
to his good character, and efficient security,
ratified by a solemn oath of allegiance,[69] and a promise
to observe and submit to all the present and
future laws and regulations of the university. In
some cases, it appears that she restricted the number
of librarii, though this fell into disuse as the
wants of the students increased. Twenty-four seems
to have been the original number,[70] which is sufficiently
great to lead to the conclusion that bookselling
was a flourishing trade in those old days.[50]
By the statutes of the university, the bookseller
was not allowed to expose his transcripts for sale,
without first submitting them to the inspection
of certain officers appointed by the university, and
if an error was discovered, the copies were ordered
to be burnt or a fine levied on them, proportionate
to their inaccuracy. Harsh and stringent
as this may appear at first sight, we shall modify
our opinion, on recollecting that the student was
in a great degree dependent upon the care of the
transcribers for the fidelity of his copies, which
rendered a rule of this nature almost indispensable;
nor should we forget the great service it bestowed
in maintaining the primitive accuracy of ancient
writers, and in transmitting them to us through
those ages in their original purity.[71]

In these times of free trade and unrestrained
commercial policy, we shall regard less favorably a
regulation which they enforced at Paris, depriving
the bookseller of the power of fixing a price upon
his own goods. Four booksellers were appointed
and sworn in to superintend this department, and
when a new transcript was finished, it was brought
by the bookseller, and they discussed its merits and
fixed its value, which formed the amount the bookseller
was compelled to ask for it; if he demanded
of his customer a larger sum, it was deemed a
fraudulent imposition, and punishable as such.
Moreover, as an advantage to the students, the
bookseller was expected to make a considerable
reduction in his profits in supplying them with
books; by one of the laws of the university, his[51]
profit on each volume was confined to four deniers
to student, and six deniers to a common purchaser.
The librarii were still further restricted in the economy
of their trade, by a rule which forbade any
one of them to dispose of his entire stock of books
without the consent of the university; but this, I
suspect, implied the disposal of the stock and trade
together, and was intended to intimate that the introduction
of the purchaser would not be allowed,
without the cognizance and sanction of the university.[72]
Nor was the bookseller able to purchase
books without her consent, lest they should be of
an immoral or heretical tendency; and they were
absolutely forbidden to buy any of the students,
without the permission of the rector.

But restricted as they thus were, the book merchants
nevertheless grew opulent, and transacted
an important and extensive trade; sometimes they
purchased parts and sometimes they had whole
libraries to sell.[73] Their dealings were conducted
with unusual care, and when a volume of peculiar
rarity or interest was to be sold, a deed of conveyance
was drawn up with legal precision, in the presence
of authorized witnesses.

In those days of high prices and book scarcity,
the poor student was sorely impeded in his progress;
to provide against these disadvantages, they
framed a law in 1342, at Paris, compelling all
public booksellers to keep books to lend out on
hire. The reader will be surprised at the idea of[52]
a circulating library in the middle ages! but there
can be no doubt of the fact, they were established
at Paris, Toulouse, Vienna, and Bologne. These
public librarians, too, were obliged to write out regular
catalogues of their books and hang them up
in their shops, with the prices affixed, so that the
student might know beforehand what he had to
pay for reading them. I am tempted to give a few
extracts from these lists:

• St. Gregory’s Commentaries upon Job, for reading 100 pages, 8 sous.
• St. Gregory’s Book of Homilies, 28 pages for 12 deniers.
• Isidore’s De Summa bona, 24 pages, 12 deniers.
• Anselm’s De Veritate de Libertate Arbitrii, 40 pages, 2 sous.
• Peter Lombard’s Book of Sentences, 3 sous.
• Scholastic History, 3 sous.
• Augustine’s Confessions, 21 pages, 4 deniers.
• Gloss on Matthew, by brother Thomas Aquinas, 57 pages, 3 sous.
• Bible Concordance, 9 sous.
• Bible, 10 sous.[74]

This rate of charge was also fixed by the
university, and the students borrowing these books
were privileged to transcribe them if they chose;
if any of them proved imperfect or faulty, they
were denounced by the university, and a fine imposed
upon the bookseller who had lent out the
volume.

This potent influence exercised by the universities
over booksellers became, in time, much
abused, and in addition to these commercial
restraints, they assumed a still less warrantable[53]
power over the original productions of authors;
and became virtually the public censors of books,
and had the power of burning or prohibiting any
work of questionable orthodoxy. In the time of
Henry the Second, a book was published by being
read over for two or three successive days, before
one of the universities, and if they approved of its
doctrines and bestowed upon it their approbation,
it was allowed to be copied extensively for sale.

Stringent as the university rules were, as
regards the bookselling trade, they were, nevertheless,
sometimes disregarded or infringed; some
ventured to take more for a book than the sum
allowed, and, by prevarication and secret contracts,
eluded the vigilance of the laws.[75] Some were
still bolder, and openly practised the art of a scribe
and the profession of a bookseller, without knowledge
or sanction of the university. This gave
rise to much jealousy, and in the University of
Oxford, in the year 1373, they made a decree
forbidding any person exposing books for sale
without her licence.[76]

Now, considering all these usages of early bookselling,
their numbers, their opulence, and above
all, the circulating libraries which the librarii
established, can we still retain the opinion that
books were so inaccessible in those ante-printing
days, when we know that for a few sous the booklover
could obtain good and authenticated copies
to peruse, or transcribe? It may be advanced that
these facts solely relate to universities, and were[54]
intended merely to insure a supply of the necessary
books in constant requisition by the students,
but such was not the case; the librarii were
essentially public Librorum Venditores, and were
glad to dispose of their goods to any who could
pay for them. Indeed, the early bibliomaniacs
usually flocked to these book marts to rummage
over the stalls, and to collect their choice volumes.
Richard de Bury obtained many in this way, both
at Paris and at Rome.

Of the exact pecuniary value of books during
the middle ages, 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.[77]
Many of the manuscripts of the middle ages are
magnificent in the extreme. Sometimes they
inscribed the gospels and the venerated writings of
the fathers with liquid gold, on parchment of the
richest purple,[78] and adorned its brilliant pages
with illuminations of exquisite workmanship.

[55]

The first specimens we have of an attempt to
embellish manuscripts are Egyptian. It was a
common practice among them at first to color the
initial letter of each chapter or division of their
work, and afterwards to introduce objects of various
kinds into the body of the manuscript.

The splendor of the ancient calligraphical productions
of Greece,[79] and the still later ones of
Rome, bear repeated testimony that the practice of
this art had spread during the sixth century, if not
earlier, to these powerful empires. England was
not tardy in embracing this elegant art. We have
many relics of remote antiquity and exquisite workmanship
existing now, which prove the talent and
assiduity of our early Saxon forefathers.

In Ireland the illuminating art was profusely
practised at a period as early as the commencement
of the seventh century, and in the eighth we find it
holding forth eminent claims to our respect by the
beauty of their workmanship, and the chastity of
their designs. Those well versed in the study of
these ancient manuscripts have been enabled, by
extensive but minute observation, to point out their
different characteristics in various ages, and even
to decide upon the school in which a particular
manuscript was produced.

These illuminations, which render the early
manuscripts of the monkish ages so attractive,[56]
generally exemplify the rude ideas and tastes of
the time. In perspective they are wofully deficient,
and manifest but little idea of the picturesque or
sublime; but here and there we find quite a gem of
art, and, it must be owned, we are seldom tired by
monotony of coloring, or paucity of invention. A
study of these parchment illustrations afford considerable
instruction. Not only do they indicate
the state of the pictorial art in the middle ages,
but also give us a comprehensive insight into the
scriptural ideas entertained in those times; and the
bible student may learn much from pondering on
these glittering pages; to the historical student,
and to the lover of antiquities, they offer a verdant
field of research, and he may obtain in this way
many a glimpse of the manners and customs of
those old times which the pages of the monkish
chroniclers have failed to record.

But all this prodigal decoration greatly enhanced
the price of books, and enabled them to
produce a sum, which now to us sounds enormously
extravagant. Moreover, it is supposed that the
scarcity of parchment limited the number of books
materially, and prevented their increase to any
extent; but I am prone to doubt this assertion, for
my own observations do not help to prove it. Mr.
Hallam says, that in consequence of this, “an unfortunate
practice gained ground of erasing a manuscript
in order to substitute another on the same
skin. This occasioned, probably, the loss of many
ancient authors who have made way for the legends
of saints, or other ecclesiastical rubbish.”[80] But we[57]
may reasonably question this opinion, when we
consider the value of books in the middle ages, and
with what esteem the monks regarded, in spite of
all their paganism, those “heathen dogs” of the
ancient world. A doubt has often forced itself upon
my mind when turning over the “crackling leaves”
of many ancient MSS., whether the peculiarity
mentioned by Montfaucon, and described as parchment
from which former writing had been erased,
may not be owing, in many cases, to its mode of
preparation. It is true, a great proportion of the
membrane on which the writings of the middle ages
are inscribed, appear rough and uneven, but I could
not detect, through many manuscripts of a hundred
folios—all of which evinced this roughness—the unobliterated
remains of a single letter. And when I
have met with instances, they appear to have been
short writings—perhaps epistles; for the monks
were great correspondents, and, I suspect, kept
economy in view, and often carried on an epistolary
intercourse, for a considerable time, with a very
limited amount of parchment, by erasing the letter
to make room for the answer. This, probably, was
usual where the matter of their correspondence
was of no especial importance; so that, what our
modern critics, being emboldened by these faint
traces of former writing, have declared to possess
the classic appearance of hoary antiquity, may be
nothing more than a complimentary note, or the
worthless accounts of some monastic expenditure.
But, careful as they were, what would these monks[58]
have thought of “paper-sparing Pope,” who wrote
his Iliad on small pieces of refuse paper? One of
the finest passages in that translation, which describes
the parting of Hector and Andromache, is
written on part of a letter which Addison had
franked, and is now preserved in the British
Museum. Surely he could afford, these old monks
would have said, to expend some few shillings for
paper, on which to inscribe that for which he was
to receive his thousand pounds.

But far from the monastic manuscripts displaying
a scantiness of parchment, we almost invariably find
an abundant margin, and a space between each line
almost amounting to prodigality; and to say that
the “vellum was considered more precious than the
genius of the author,”[81] is absurd, when we know
that, in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, a
dozen skins of parchment could be bought for sixpence;
whilst that quantity written upon, if the
subject possessed any interest at all, would fetch
considerably more, there always being a demand
and ready sale for books.[82] The supposition, therefore,
that the monastic scribes erased classical
manuscripts for the sake of the material, seems
altogether improbable, and certainly destitute of
proof. It is true, many of the classics, as we have
them now, are but mere fragments of the original[59]
work. For this, however, we have not to blame
the monks, but barbarous invaders, ravaging flames,
and the petty animosities of civil and religious
warfare for the loss of many valuable works of the
classics. By these means, one hundred and five
books of Livy have been lost to us, probably forever.
For the thirty which have been preserved, our
thanks are certainly due to the monks. It was from
their unpretending and long-forgotten libraries that
many such treasures were brought forth at the
revival of learning, in the fifteenth century, to
receive the admiration of the curious, and the study
of the erudite scholar. In this way Poggio Bracciolini
discovered many inestimable manuscripts.
Leonardo Aretino writes in rapturous terms on
Poggio’s discovery of a perfect copy of Quintillian.
“What a precious acquisition!” he exclaims, “what
unthought of pleasure to behold Quintillian perfect
and entire!”[83] In the same letter we learn that
Poggio had discovered Asconius and Flaccus in the
monastery of St. Gall, whose inhabitants regarded
them without much esteem. In the monastery of
Langres, his researches were rewarded by a copy of
Cicero’s Oration for Cæcina. With the assistance
of Bartolomeo di Montepulciano, he discovered
Silius Italicus, Lactantius, Vegetius, Nonius Marcellus,
Ammianus Marcellus, Lucretius, and Columella,
and he found in a monastery at Rome a
complete copy of Turtullian.[84] In the fine old
monastery of Casino, so renowned for its classical
library in former days, he met with Julius Frontinus[60]
and Firmicus, and transcribed them with his own
hand. At Cologne he obtained a copy of Petronius
Arbiter. But to these we may add Calpurnius’s
Bucolic,[85] Manilius, Lucius Septimus, Coper, Eutychius,
and Probus. He had anxious hopes of
adding a perfect Livy to the list, which he had been
told then existed in a Cistercian Monastery in
Hungary, but, unfortunately, he did not prosecute
his researches in this instance with his usual energy.
The scholar has equally to regret the loss of a
perfect Tacitus, which Poggio had expectations of
from the hands of a German monk. We may still
more deplore this, as there is every probability that
the monks actually possessed the precious volume.[86]
Nicolas of Treves, a contemporary and friend of
Poggio’s, and who was infected, though in a slight
degree, with the same passionate ardor for collecting
ancient manuscripts, discovered, whilst exploring
the German monasteries, twelve comedies
of Plautus, and a fragment of Aulus Gellius.[87] Had
it not been for the timely aid of these great men,
many would have been irretrievably lost in the many
revolutions and contentions that followed; and, had
such been the case, the monks, of course, would
have received the odium, and on their heads the
spleen of the disappointed student would have been
prodigally showered.

[61]

CHAPTER IV

n the foregoing chapters I have endeavored
to give the reader an insight into the means by
which the monks multiplied their books, the opportunities
they had of obtaining them, the rules of
their libraries and scriptoria, and the duties of a
monkish librarian. I now proceed to notice some
of the English monastic libraries of the middle
ages, and by early records and old manuscripts
inquire into their extent, and revel for a time
among the bibliomaniacs of the cloisters. On the
spot where Christianity—more than twelve hundred
years ago—first obtained a permanent footing in
Britain, stands the proud metropolitan cathedral of
Canterbury—a venerable and lasting monument of
ancient piety and monkish zeal. St. Augustine,
who brought over the glad tidings of the Christian
faith in the year 596, founded that noble structure[62]
on the remains of a church which Roman Christians
in remote times had built there. To write the
literary history of its old monastery would spread
over more pages than this volume contains, so
many learned and bookish abbots are mentioned in
its monkish annals. Such, however, is beyond the
scope of my present design, and I have only to turn
over those ancient chronicles to find how the love
of books flourished in monkish days; so that, whilst
I may here and there pass unnoticed some ingenious
author, or only casually remark upon his talents,
all that relate to libraries or book-collecting, to
bibliophiles or scribes, I shall carefully record; and,
I think, from the notes now lying before me, and
which I am about to arrange in something like
order, the reader will form a very different idea of
monkish libraries than he previously entertained.

The name that first attracts our attention in the
early history of Canterbury Church is that of
Theodore of Tarsus, the father of Anglo-Saxon
literature, and certainly the first who introduced
bibliomania into this island; for when he came on
his mission from Rome in the year 668 he brought
with him an extensive library, containing many
Greek and Latin authors, in a knowledge of which
he was thoroughly initiated. Bede tells us that
he was well skilled in metrical art, astronomy, arithmetic,
church music, and the Greek and Latin
languages.[88] At his death[89] the library of Christ[63]
Church Monastery was enriched by his valuable
books, and in the time of old Lambarde some of
them still remained. He says, in his quaint way,
“The Reverend Father Mathew, nowe Archbishop
of Canterburie, whose care for the conservation of
learned monuments can never be sufficiently commended,
shewed me, not long since, the Psalter of
David, and sundrie homilies in Greek; Homer also
and some other Greeke authors beautifully wrytten
on thicke paper, with the name of this Theodore
prefixed in the fronte, to whose librarie he reasonably
thought, being thereto led by shew of great
antiquitie that they sometimes belonged.”[90]

Tatwine was a great book lover, if not a bibliomaniac.
“He was renowned for religious wisdom,
and notably learned in Sacred Writ.”[91] If he wrote
the many pieces attributed to him, his pen must
have been prolific and his reading curious and
diversified. He is said to have composed on profane
and sacred subjects, but his works were unfortunately
destroyed by the Danish invaders, and a book
of poems and one of enigmas are all that have
escaped their ravages. The latter work, preserved
in our National Library, contains many curious
hints, illustrative of the manners of those remote
days.[92]

Nothelm, or the Bold Helm, succeeded this
interesting author; he was a learned and pious
priest of London. The bibliomaniac will somewhat[64]
envy the avocation of this worthy monk whilst
searching over the rich treasures of the Roman
archives, from whence he gleaned much valuable
information to aid Bede in compiling his history of
the English Church.[93] Not only was he an industrious
scribe but also a talented author, if we are to
believe Pits, who ascribes to him several works,
with a Life of St. Augustine.[94]

It is well known that St. Dunstan was an ingenious
scribe, and so passionately fond of books, that
we may unhesitatingly proclaim him a bibliomaniac.
He was a native of Wessex, and resided with his
father near Glastonbury Abbey, which holy spot
many a legendary tale rendered dear to his youthful
heart. He entered the Abbey, and devoted his
whole time to reading the wondrous lives and
miracles of ascetic men till his mind became excited
to a state of insanity by the many marvels and
prodigies which they unfolded; so that he acquired
among the simple monks the reputation of one
holding constant and familiar intercourse with the
beings of another world. On his presentation to
the king, which was effected by the influence of
his uncle Athelm, Archbishop of Canterbury, he
soon became a great favorite, but excited so much
jealousy there, that evil reports were industriously
spread respecting him. He was accused of
practising magical arts and intriguing with the
devil. This induced him to retire again into the
seclusion of a monastic cell, which he constructed[65]
so low that he could scarcely stand upright in
it. It was large enough, however, to hold his
forge and other apparatus, for he was a proficient
worker in metals, and made ornaments, and bells
for his church. He was very fond of music,
and played with exquisite skill upon the harp.[95]
But what is more to our purpose, his biographer
tells us that he was remarkably skilful in writing
and illuminating, and transcribed many books,
adorning them with beautiful paintings, whilst in
this little cell.[96] One of them is preserved in the
Bodleian Library at Oxford. On the front is a
painting of St. Dunstan kneeling before our Saviour,
and at the top is written “Pictura et Scriptura
hujus pagine subtas visi est de propria manu sei
Dunstani.”[97] But in the midst of these ingenious
pursuits he did not forget to devote many hours to
the study of the Holy Scriptures, as also to the
diligent transcription and correction of copies of
them,[98] and thus arming himself with the sacred
word, he was enabled to withstand the numerous
temptations which surrounded him. Sometimes
the devil appeared as a man, and at other times he
was still more severely tempted by the visitations
of a beautiful woman, who strove by the most
alluring blandishments to draw that holy man from
the paths of Christian rectitude. In the tenth
century such eminent virtues could not pass un[66]rewarded,
and he was advanced to the Archbishopric
of Canterbury in the year 961, but his after life
is that of a saintly politician, and displays nothing
that need be mentioned here.

In the year 969,[99] Ælfric, abbot of St. Alban’s,
was elected archbishop of Canterbury. His identity
is involved in considerable doubt by the many
contemporaries who bore that name, some of
whom, like him, were celebrated for their talent
and erudition; but, leaving the solution of this
difficulty to the antiquarian, we are justified in
saying that he was of noble family, and received
his education under Ethelwold, at Abingdon, about
the year 960. He accompanied his master to Winchester,
and Elphegus, bishop of that see, entertained
so high an opinion of Ælfric’s learning
and capacity, that he sent him to superintend the
recently founded monastery of Cerne, in Devonshire.
He there spent all his hours, unoccupied
by the duties of his abbatical office, in the transcription
of books and the nobler avocations of an
author. He composed a Latin Grammar, a work
which has won for him the title of “The Grammarian,”
and he greatly helped to maintain the
purity of the Christian church by composing a
large collection of homilies, which became exceedingly
popular during the succeeding century, and
are yet in existence. The preface to these homilies
contain several very curious passages illustrative of
the mode of publication resorted to by the monkish
authors, and on that account I am tempted to make
the following extracts:

[67]

“I, Ælfric, the scholar of Ethelwold, to the courteous
and venerable Bishop Sigeric, in the Lord.

“Although it may appear to be an attempt of
some rashness and presumption, yet have I ventured
to translate this book out of the Latin writers, especially
those of the ‘Holy Scriptures,’ into our common
language; for the edification of the ignorant,
who only understand this language when it is either
read or heard. Wherefore I have not used obscure
or unintelligible words, but given the plain English.
By which means the hearts, both of the readers and
of the hearers, may be reached more easily; because
they are incapable of being otherwise instructed,
than in their native tongue. Indeed, in our translation,
we have not ever been so studious to render
word for word, as to give the true sense and
meaning of our authors. Nevertheless, we have
used all diligent caution against deceitful errors,
that we may not be found seduced by any heresy,
nor blinded by any deceit. For we have followed
these authors in this translation, namely, St. Austin
of Hippo, St. Jerome, Bede, Gregory, Smaragdus,
and sometimes Haymo, whose authority is admitted
to be of great weight with all the faithful. Nor
have we only expounded the treatise of the gospels;…
but have also described the passions and
lives of the saints, for the use of the unlearned of
this nation. We have placed forty discourses in
this volume, believing this will be sufficient for one
year, if they be recited entirely to the faithful, by
the ministers of the Lord. But the other book
which we have now taken in hand to compose
will contain those passions or treatises which are[68]
omitted in this volume.” … “Now, if any one find
fault with our translation, that we have not always
given word for word, or that this translation is not
so full as the treatise of the authors themselves, or
that in handling of the gospels we have run them
over in a method not exactly conformable to the
order appointed in the church, let him compose a
book of his own; by an interpretation of deeper
learning, as shall best agree with his understanding,
this only I beseech him, that he may not pervert
this version of mine, which I hope, by the grace of
God, without any boasting, I have, according to
the best of my skill, performed with all diligence.
Now, I most earnestly entreat your goodness, my
most gentle father Sigeric, that you will vouchsafe
to correct, by your care, whatever blemishes of
malignant heresy, or of dark deceit, you shall meet
with in my translation, and then permit this little
book to be ascribed to your authority, and not
to the meanness of a person of my unworthy
character. Farewell in the Almighty God continually.
Amen.”[100]

I have before alluded to the care observed by
the scribes in copying their manuscripts, and the
moderns may deem themselves fortunate that they
did so; for although many interpolations, or emendations,
as they called them, occur in monkish transcripts,
on the whole, their integrity, in this respect,
forms a redeeming quality in connexion with their
learning. In another preface, affixed to the second
collection of his homilies, Ælfric thus explains his
design in translating them:[69]

“Ælfric, a monk and priest, although a man of
less abilities than are requisite for one in such
orders, was sent, in the days of King Æthelred,
from Alphege, the bishop and successor of Æthelwold,
to a monastery which is called Cernel, at the
desire of Æthelmer, the Thane, whose noble birth
and goodness is everywhere known. Then ran it
in my mind, I trust, through the grace of God,
that I ought to translate this book out of the
Latin tongue into the English language not upon
presumption of great learning, but because I saw
and heard much error in many English books,
which ignorant men, through their simplicity, esteemed
great wisdom, and because it grieved me
that they neither knew, nor had the gospel learning
in their writing, except from those men that understood
Latin, and those books which are to be had
of King Alfred’s, which he skilfully translated from
Latin into English.”[101]

From these extracts we may gain some idea of
the state of learning in those days, and they would
seem, in some measure, to justify the opinion, that
the laity paid but little attention to such matters,
and I more anxiously present the reader with these
scraps, because they depict the state of literature
in those times far better than a volume of conjecture
could do. It is not consistent with my design
to enter into an analysis of these homilies. Let
the reader, however, draw some idea of their nature
from the one written for Easter Sunday, which has
been deemed sufficient proof that the Saxon Church
ever denied the Romish doctrine of transubstanti[70]ation;
for he there expressly states, in terms so
plain that all the sophistry of the Roman Catholic
writers cannot pervert its obvious meaning, that
the bread and wine is only typical of the body and
blood of our Saviour.

To one who has spent much time in reading
the lives and writings of the monkish theologians,
how refreshing is such a character as that of Ælfric’s.
Often, indeed, will the student close the volumes
of those old monastic writers with a sad, depressed,
and almost broken heart; so often will he find men
who seem capable of better things, who here and
there breathe forth all the warm aspirations of a
devout and Christian heart, bowed down and
grovelling in the dust, as it were, to prove their
blind submission to the Pope, thinking, poor fellows!—for
from my very heart I pity them—that
by so doing they were preaching that humility so
acceptable to the Lord.

Cheering then, to the heart it is to find this
monotony broken by such an instance, and although
we find Ælfric occasionally diverging into the paths
of papistical error, he spreads a ray of light over
the gloom of those Saxon days, and offers pleasing
evidence that Christ never forsook his church;
that even amidst the peril and darkness of those
monkish ages there were some who mourned,
though it might have been in a monastery, submissive
to a Roman Pontiff, the depravity and corruption
with which the heart of man had marred it.

To still better maintain the discipline of the
church, he wrote a set of canons, which he addressed
to Wulfin, or Wulfsine, bishop of Sher[71]bourne.
With many of the doctrines advocated
therein, the protestant will not agree; but the
bibliophile will admit that he gave an indication of
his love of books by the 21st Canon, which directs
that, “Before a priest can be ordained, he must be
armed with the sacred books, for the spiritual
battle, namely, a Psalter, Book of Epistles, Book of
Gospels, the Missal Book, Books of Hymns, the
Manual, or Euchiridion, the Gerim, the Passional,
the Pænitential, and the Lectionary, or Reading
Book; these the diligent priest requires, and let
him be careful that they are all accurately written,
and free from faults.”[102]

About the same time, Ælfric wrote a treatise
on the Old and New Testaments, and in it we find
an account of his labors in Biblical Literature. He
did more in laying open the holy mysteries of the
gospel to the perusal of the laity, by translating
them into the Saxon tongue, than any other before
him. He gave them, in a vernacular version, the
Pentateuch, Joshua, Judges, Esther, Job, Judith,
two Books of Maccabees, and a portion of the
Book of Kings, and it is for these labors, above
all others, that the bible student will venerate his
name, but he will look, perhaps, anxiously, hopefully,
to these early attempts at Bible propagation,
and expect to observe the ecclesiastical orders, at
least, shake off a little of their absurd dependence
on secondary sources for biblical instruction. But,
no; they still sadly clung to traditional interpretation;
they read the Word of God mystified by
the fathers, good men, many of them, devout[72]
and holy saints, but why approach God through
man, when we have His own prescription, in sweet
encouraging words, to come, however humble or
lowly we may be, to His throne, and ask with our
own lips for those blessings so needful for the soul.
Ælfric, in a letter addressed to Sigwerd, prefixed
to his Treatise on the Old and New Testament,
thus speaks of his biblical labors:

“Abbot Elfricke greeteth friendly, Sigwerd at
last Heolon. True it is I tell thee that very wise is
he who speaketh by his doings; and well proceedeth
he doth with God and the world who furnisheth
himselfe with good works. And very plaine it is
in holy scripture, that holy men employed in well
doing were in this world held in good reputation,
and as saints now enjoy the kingdom of heaven,
and the remembrance of them continueth for ever,
because of their consent with God and relying on
him, carelesse men who lead their life in all idleness
and so end it, the memory of them is forgotten in
holy writ, saving that the Old Testament records
their ill deeds and how they were therefore comdemned.
Thou hast oft entreated me for English
Scripture …. and when I was with thee great mone
thou madest that thou couldst get none of my
writings. Now will I that thou have at least this
little, since knowledge is so acceptable to thee, and
thou wilt have it rather than be altogether without
my books…… God bestoweth sevenfold grace on
mankind, (whereof I have already written in another
English Treatise,) as the prophet Isaiah hath
recorded in the book of his prophesie.” In speaking
of the remaining books of the Pentateuch, he does[73]
so in a cursory manner, and excuses himself because
he had “written thereof more at large.”
“The book which Moses wrote, called the book of
Joshua, sheweth how he went with the people of
Israel unto Abraham’s country, and how he won it,
and how the sun stood still while he got the victory,
and how he divided the land; this book also I
turned into English for prince Ethelverd, wherein
a man may behold the great wonders of God really
fulfilled.” …… “After him known it is that there were
in the land certaine judges over Israel, who guided
the people as it is written in the book of Judges …..
of this whoso hath desire to hear further, may read
it in that English book which I translated concerning
the same.” ….. “Of the book of Kings, I
have translated also some part into English,” “the
book of Esther, I briefly after my manner translated
into English,” and “The Widow Judith who
overcame Holophernes, the Syrian General, hath
her book also, among these, concerning her own
victory and Englished according to my skill for
your example, that ye men may also defend your
country by force of arms, against the invasion of a
foreign host.” “Two books of Machabeus, to the
glory of God, I have turned also into English, and
so read them, you may if you please, for your instruction.”
And at the end we find him again admonishing
the scribes to use the pen with faithfulness.
“Whosoever,” says he, “shall write out this
book, let him write it according to the copy, and
for God’s love correct it, that it be not faulty, less
he thereby be discredited, and I shent.”[103]

[74]

This learned prelate died on the 16th of November,
1006, after a life spent thus in the service of
Christ and the cause of learning; by his will he
bequeathed to the Abbey of St. Alban’s, besides
some landed possessions, his little library of books;[104]
he was honorably buried at Abingdon, but during
the reign of Canute, his bones were removed to
Canterbury.

Passing on a few years, we come to that period
when a new light shone upon the lethargy of the
Saxons; the learning and erudition which had been
fostering in the snug monasteries of Normandy,
hitherto silent—buried as it were—but yet fast
growing to maturity, accompanied the sword of the
Norman duke, and added to the glory of the conquering
hero, by their splendid intellectual endowments.
All this emulated and roused the Saxons
from their slumber; and, rubbing their laziness
away, they again grasped the pen with the full nerve
and energy of their nature; a reaction ensued,
literature was respected, learning prospered, and
copious work flowed in upon the scribes; the crackling
of parchment, and the din of controversy
bespoke the presence of this revival in the cloisters
of the English monasteries; books, the weapons
spiritual of the monks, libraries, the magazines of
the church militant were preserved, amassed, and at
last deemed indispensable.[105] Such was the effect on[75]
our national literature of that gushing in of the
Norman conquerors, so deeply imbued with learning,
so polished, and withal so armed with classical
and patristic lore were they.

Foremost in the rank we find the learned Lanfranc,
that patron of literature, that indefatigable
scribe and anxious book collector, who was endowed
with an erudition far more deep and comprehensive
than any other of his day. He was born at Pavia,
in 1005, and received there the first elements of his
education;[106] he afterwards went to Bologna, and from
thence to Avranches, where he undertook the education
of many celebrated scholars of that century,
and instructed them in sacred and secular learning,
in sacris et secularibus erudivi literis.[107] Whilst proceeding
on a journey to Rome he was attacked by
some robbers, who maltreated and left him almost
dead; in this condition he was found by some
peasants who conveyed him to the monastery of
Bec; the monks with their usual hospitable charity
tended and so assiduously nourished him in his
sickness, that on his recovery he became one of
their fraternity. A few years after, he was appointed
prior and founded a school there, which did
immense service to literature and science; he also
collected a great library which was renowned
and esteemed in his day,[108] and he increased their
value by a critical revisal of their text. He was
well aware that in works so voluminous as those of[76]
the fathers, the scribes through so many generations
could not be expected to observe an unanimous
infallibility; but knowing too that even the most
essential doctrines of the holy and catholic church
were founded on patristical authority, he was deeply
impressed with the necessity of keeping their writings
in all their primitive integrity; an end so
desirable, well repaid the tediousness of the undertaking,
and he cheerfully spent much time in collecting
and comparing codices, in studying their
various readings or erasing the spurious interpolations,
engendered by the carelessness or the
pious frauds of monkish scribes.[109] He lavished his
care in a similar manner on the Bible: considering
the far distant period from which that holy volume
has descended to us, it is astounding that the vicissitudes,
the perils, the darkness of near eighteen
hundred years, have failed to mar the divinity of
that sacred book; not all the blunders of nodding
scribes could do it, not all the monkish interpolations,
or the cunning of sectarian pens could do it,
for in all times the faithful church of Christ watched
over it with a jealous care, supplied each erasure
and expelled each false addition. Lanfranc was
one of the most vigilant of these Scripture guards,
and his own industry blest his church with the bible
text, purified from the gross handmarks of human
meddling. I learn, from the Benedictines of St.
Maur, that there is still preserved in the Abbey of
St. Martin de Sécz, the first ten conferences of[77]
Cassian corrected by the efficient hand of this great
critical student, at the end of the manuscript these
words are written, “Hucusque ago Lanfrancus correxi.”[110]
The works of St. Ambrose, on which he
bestowed similar care, are preserved in the library
of St. Vincent du Mans.[111]

When he was promoted to the See of Canterbury,
he brought with him a copious supply of
books, and spread the influence of his learning over
the English monasteries; but with all the cares
inseparably connected with the dignity of Primate
of England, he still found time to gratify his bookloving
propensities, and to continue his critical
labors; indeed he worked day and night in the
service of the church, servitio Ecclesiæ, and in correcting
the books which the scribes had written.[112]
From the profusion of his library he was enabled
to lend many volumes to the monks, so that by
making transcripts, they might add to their own
stores—thus we know that he lent to Paulen, Abbot
of St. Albans, a great number, who kept his scribes
hard at work transcribing them, and built a scriptorium
for the transaction of these pleasing labors;
but more of this hereafter.

Anselm, too, was a renowned and book-loving
prelate, and if his pride and haughtiness wrought
warm dissensions and ruptures in the church, he
often stole away to forget them in the pages of his
book. At an early age he acquired this fondness[78]
for reading, and whilst engaged as a monkish
student, he applied his mind to the perusal of
books with wonderful perseverance, and when some
favorite volume absorbed his attention, he could
scarce leave it night or day.[113] Industry so indefatigable
ensured a certain success, and he became
eminent for his deep and comprehensive learning;
his epistles bear ample testimony to his extensive
reading and intimate acquaintance with the authors
of antiquity;[114] in one of his letters he praises a
monk named Maurice, for his success in study,
who was learning Virgil and some other old writers,
under Arnulph the grammarian.

All day long Anselm was occupied in giving
wise counsel to those that needed it; and a great
part of the night pars maxima noctis he spent in
correcting his darling volumes, and freeing them
from the inaccuracies of the scribes.[115] The oil in
the lamp burnt low, still that bibliomaniac studiously
pursued his favorite avocation. So great
was the love of book-collecting engrafted into his
mind, that he omitted no opportunity of obtaining
them—numerous instances occur in his epistles of
his begging the loan of some volume for transcription;[116]
in more than one, I think, he asks for portions
of the Holy Scriptures which he was always
anxious to obtain to compare their various readings,
and to enable him with greater confidence to correct
his own copies.

[79]

In the early part of the twelfth century, the
monks of Canterbury transcribed a vast number of
valuable manuscripts, in which they were greatly
assisted by monk Edwine, who had arrived at considerable
proficiency in the calligraphical art, as a
volume of his transcribing, in Trinity college, Cambridge,
informs us;[117] it is a Latin Psalter, with a
Saxon gloss, beautifully illuminated in gold and
colors; at the end appears the figure of the monkish
scribe, holding the pen in his hand to indicate his
avocation, and an inscription extols his ingenuity
in the art.[118]

Succeeding archbishops greatly enriched the
library at Canterbury. Hubert Walter, who was
appointed primate in 1191, gave the proceeds of
the church of Halgast to furnish books for the
library;[119] and Robert Kildwardly, archbishop in
1272, a man of great learning and wisdom, a
remarkable orator and grammarian, wrote a great
number of books, and was passionately fond of
collecting them.[120]

I learn from Wanley, that there is a large folio
manuscript in the library of Trinity Hall, Cambridge,
written about the time of Henry V. by a monk of
St. Augustine’s Abbey, Canterbury, containing the
history of Christ Church; this volume proves its
author to have been something of a bibliophile,
and that is why I mention it, for he gives an[80]
account of some books then preserved, which were
sent over by Pope Gregory to St. Augustine; these
precious volumes consisted of a Bible in two
volumes, called “Biblia Gregorian,” beautifully
written, with some of the leaves tinted with purple
and rose-color, and the capital letters rubricated.
This interesting and venerable MS. so immediately
connected with the first ages of the Christian
church of Britain, was in existence in the time of
James I., as we learn by a passage in a scarce tract
entitled “A Petition Apologetical,” addressed by
the Catholics to his majesty, where, as a proof that
we derive our knowledge of Scripture originally
from the church of Rome; they say, “The very
original Bible, the self-same Numero which St.
Gregory sent in with our apostle, St. Augustine,
being as yet reserved by God’s special providence,
as testimony that what Scriptures we have, we had
them from Rome.“[121]

He next mentions two Psalters, one of which I
have seen; it is among the manuscripts in the Cotton
collection,[122] and bears full evidence of its great
antiquity. This early gem of biblical literature
numbers 160 folios; it contains the Roman Psalter,
with a Saxon interlinear translation, written on
stout vellum, in a clear, bold hand. On opening
the volume, we find the first page enriched with a
dazzling specimen of monkish skill—it is a painting
of our Saviour pointing with his right hand to
heaven, and in his left holding the sacred book;
the corners are occupied with figures of animals,[81]
and the whole wrought on a glittering ground
work, is rendered still more gorgeous by the contrast
which the purple robes of Jesus display; on
the reverse of this fine illumination there is a beautiful
tesselated ornament, interwoven with animals,
flowers, and grotesque figures, around which are
miniatures of our Saviour, David, and some of the
apostles. In a line at the bottom the word Catvsvir
is inscribed. Very much inferior to this in point of
art is the illumination, at folio 31, representing
David playing his harp, surrounded by a musical
coterie; it is probably the workmanship of a more
modern, but less skilful scribe of the Saxon school.
The smaller ornaments and initial letters throughout
the manuscript display great intricacy of
design.

The writer next describes two copies of the
Gospels, both now in the Bodleian Collection at
Oxford. A Passionarium Sanctorum, a book for
the altar, on one side of which was the image of
our Saviour wrought in gold, and lastly, an exposition
of the Epistles and Gospels; the monkish
bookworm tells us that these membraneous treasures
were the most ancient books in all the
churches of England.[123]

A good and liberal monk, named Henry De
Estria, who was elected prior in the year 1285, devoted
both his time and wealth to the interests of
his monastery, and is said to have expended £900
in repairing the choir and chapter-house.[124] He[82]
wrote a book beginning, “Memoriale Henerici
Prioris Monasteri Xpi Cantuariæ,”[125] now preserved
in the Cotton collection; it contains the most
extensive monastic catalogue I had ever seen, and
sufficiently proves how Bibliomania flourished in
that noble monastery. It occupies no less than
thirty-eight treble-columned folio pages, and contains
the titles of more than three thousand works.
To attempt to convey to the reader an idea of this
curious and sumptuous library, without transcribing
a large proportion of its catalogue, I am afraid
will be a futile labor; but as that would occupy
too much space, and to many of my readers be,
after all, dry and uninteresting, I shall merely give
the names of some of the most conspicuous. Years
indeed it must have required to have amassed a
collection so brilliant and superb in those days of
book scarcity. Surprise and wonder almost surpass
the admiration we feel at beholding this proud
testimonial of monkish industry and early bibliomania.
Many a choice scribe, and many an Amator
Librorum must have devoted his pen and purse to
effect so noble an acquisition. Like most of the
monastic libraries, it possessed a great proportion
of biblical literature—copies of the Bible whole
and in parts, commentaries on the same, and numerous
glossaries and concordances show how
much care the monks bestowed on the sacred
writings, and how deeply they were studied in
those old days. In patristic learning the library
was unusually rich, embracing the most eminent
and valuable writings of the Fathers, as may be[83]
seen by the following names, of whose works the
catalogue enumerates many volumes:

• Augustine.
• Ambroise.
• Anselm.
• Alcuin.
• Aldelm.
• Benedict.
• Bernard.
• Bede.
• Beranger.
• Chrysostom.
• Eusebius.
• Fulgentius.
• Gregory.
• Hillarius.
• Isidore.
• Jerome.
• Lanfranc.
• Origen.

Much as we may respect them for all this, our
gratitude will materially increase when we learn
how serviceable the monks of Canterbury were in
preserving the old dead authors of Greece and
Rome. We do not, from the very nature of their
lives being so devoted to religion and piety, expect
this; and knowing, too, what “heathen dogs” the
monks thought these authors of idolatry, combined
with our notion, that they, far from being
the conservers, were the destroyers, of classic
MSS., for the sake, as some tell us, of the parchment
on which they were inscribed, we are somewhat
staggered in our opinion to find in their
library the following brilliant array of the wise
men of the ancient world:

• Aristotle,
• Boethius,
• Cicero,
• Cassiodorus,
• Donatus,
• Euclid,
• Galen,
• Justin,
• Josephus,
• Lucan,
• Martial,
• Marcianus,
• Macrobius,
• Orosius,
• Plato,
• Priscian,
• Prosper,
• Prudentius,
• Suetonius,
• Sedulus,
• Seneca,
• Terence,
• Virgil,
• Etc., etc.

Nor were they mere fragments of these authors,
but, in many cases, considerable collections; of[84]
Aristotle, for instance, they possessed numerous
works, with many commentaries upon him. Of
Seneca a still more extensive and valuable one;
and in the works of the eloquent Tully, they were
also equally rich. Of his Paradoxa, de Senectute,
de Amiticia, etc., and his Offices, they had more
copies than one, a proof of the respect and esteem
with which he was regarded. In miscellaneous
literature, and in the productions of the middle
age writers, the catalogue teems with an abundant
supply, and includes:

• Rabanus Maurus,
• Thomas Aquinas,
• Peter Lombard,
• Athelard,
• William of Malmsbury,
• John of Salisbury,
• Girald Barry,
• Thomas Baldwin,
• Brutus,
• Robert Grosetete,
• Gerlandus,
• Gregory Nazianzen,
• History of England,
• Gesti Alexandri Magni,
• Hystoria Longobardos,
• Hystoriæ Scholasticæ,
• Chronicles Latine et Anglice,
• Chronographia Necephori.

But I trust the reader will not rest satisfied with
these few samples of the goodly store, but inspect
the catalogue for himself. It would occupy, as I
said before, too much space to enumerate even a
small proportion of its many treasures, which treat
of all branches of literature and science, natural
history, medicine, ethics, philosophy, rhetoric, grammar,
poetry, and music; each shared the studious
attention of the monks, and a curious “Liber de
Astronomia” taught them the rudiments of that
sublime science, but which they were too apt to
confound with its offspring, astrology, as we may
infer, was the case with the monks of Canterbury,[85]
for their library contained a “Liber de Astrolœbus,”
and the “Prophesies of Merlin.”

Many hints connected with the literary portion
of a monastic life may sometimes be found in these
catalogues. It was evidently usual at Christ Church
Monastery to keep apart a number of books for
the private study of the monks in the cloister,
which I imagine they were at liberty to use at any
time.[126]

A portion of the catalogue of monk Henry is
headed “Lib. de Armariole Claustre,”[127] under which it
is pleasing to observe a Bible, in two volumes, specified
as for the use of the infirmary, with devotional
books, lives of the fathers, a history of England,
the works of Bede, Isidore, Boethius, Rabanus
Maurus, Cassiodorus, and many others of equal
celebrity. In another portion of the manuscript,
we find a list of their church books, written at the
same time;[128] it affords a brilliant proof of the plentitude
of the gospels among them; for no less than
twenty-five copies are described. We may judge
to what height the art of bookbinding had arrived
by the account here given of these precious volumes.
Some were in a splendid coopertoria of gold and
silver, and others exquisitely ornamented with
figures of our Saviour and the four Evangelists.[129]
But this extravagant costliness rendered them attractive
objects to pilfering hands, and somewhat
accounts for the lament of the industrious Somner,[86]
who says that the library was “shamefully robbed
and spoiled of them all.”[130]

Our remarks on the monastic library at Canterbury
are drawing to a close. Henry Chiclely,
archbishop in 1413, an excellent man, and a great
promoter of learning, rebuilt the library of the
church, and furnished it with many a choice tome.[131]
His esteem for literature was so great, that he built
two colleges at Oxford.[132] William Sellinge, who
was a man of erudition, and deeply imbued with
the book-loving mania, was elected prior in 1472.
He is said to have studied at Bonania, in Italy;
and, during his travels, he gathered together “all
the ancient authors, both Greek and Latine, he
could get,” and returned laden with them to his own
country. Many of them were of great rarity, and
it is said that a Tully de Republica was among
them. Unfortunately, they were all burnt by a
fire in the monastery.[133]

I have said enough, I think, to show that books
were eagerly sought after, and deeply appreciated,
in Canterbury cloisters during the middle ages, and
when the reader considers that these facts have
been preserved from sheer accident, and, therefore,
only enable us to obtain a partial glimpse of the[87]
actual state of their library, he will be ready to
admit that bibliomania existed then, and will feel
thankful, too, that it did, for to its influence, surely,
we are indebted for the preservation of much that
is valuable and instructive in history and general
literature.[134]

We can scarcely leave Kent without a word or
two respecting the church of the Rochester monks.
It was founded by King Ethelbert, who conferred
upon it the dignities of an episcopal see, in the
year 600; and, dedicating it to St. Andrew, completed
the good work by many donations and
emoluments. The revenues of the see were always
limited, and it is said that its poverty caused it to
be treated with kind forbearance by the ecclesiastical
commissioners at the period of the Reformation.

I have not been able to meet with any catalogue
of its monastic library, and the only hints I
can obtain relative to their books are such as may
be gathered from the recorded donations of its
learned prelates and monks. In the year 1077,
Gundulph, a Norman bishop, who is justly celebrated
for his architectural talents, rebuilt the
cathedral, and considerable remains of this structure
are still to be seen in the nave and west front,
and display that profuse decoration united with
ponderous stability, for which the Norman buildings
are so remarkable. This munificent prelate[88]
also enriched the church with numerous and costly
ornaments; the encouragement he gave to learning
calls for some notice here. Trained in one of the
most flourishing of the Norman schools, we are not
surprised that in his early youth he was so studious
and inquisitive after knowledge as to merit the
especial commendation of his biographer.[135] William
of Malmsbury, too, highly extols him “for his
abundant piety,” and tells us that he was not inexperienced
in literary avocations; he was polished
and courageous in the management of judicial
affairs, and a close, devoted student of the divine
writings;[136] as a scribe he was industrious and critical,
and the great purpose to which he applied his
patience and erudition was a careful revisal of the
Holy Scriptures. He purged the sacred volume of
the inadvertencies of the scribes, and restored the
purity of the text; for transcribing after transcribing
had caused some errors and diversity of readings
to occur, between the English and foreign
codices, in spite of all the pious care of the monastic
copyists; this was perplexing, an uniformity was
essential and he undertook the task;[137] labors so
valuable deserve the highest praise, and we bestow
it more liberally upon him for this good work than
we should have done had he been the compiler of
crude homilies or the marvellous legends of saints.
The high veneration in which Gundulph held the
patristic writings induced him to bestow his attention
in a similar manner upon them, he compared[89]
copies, studied their various readings and set to
work to correct them. The books necessary for
these critical researches he obtained from the
libraries of his former master, Bishop Lanfranc,
St. Anselm, his schoolfellow, and many others who
were studying at Bec, but besides this, he corrected
many other authors, and by comparing them with
ancient manuscripts, restored them to their primitive
beauty. Fabricius[138] notices a fine volume, which
bore ample testimony to his critical erudition and
dexterity as a scribe. It is described as a large
Bible on parchment, written in most beautiful
characters, it was proved to be his work by this
inscription on its title page, “Prima pars Bibliæ
per bona memoriæ Gundulphum Rossensem Episcopum.”
This interesting manuscript, formerly in
the library of the monks of Rochester, was regarded
as one of their most precious volumes. An
idea of the great value of a Bible in those times
may be derived from the curious fact that the bishop
made a decree directing “excommunication to be
pronounced against whosoever should take away or
conceal this volume, or who should even dare to
conceal the inscription on the front, which indicated
the volume to be the property of the church of
Rochester.” But we must bear in mind that this was
no ordinary copy, it was transcribed by Gundulph’s
own pen, and rendered pure in its text by his
critical labors. But the time came when anathemas
availed nought, and excommunication was divested
of all terror. “Henry the Eighth,” the “Defender
of the Faith,” frowned destruction upon the monks,[90]
and in the tumult that ensued, this treasure was
carried away, anathema and all. Somehow or
other it got to Amsterdam, perhaps sent over in
one of those “shippes full,” to the bookbinders,
and having passed through many hands, at last
found its way into the possession of Herman Van
de Wal, Burgomaster of Amsterdam; since then it
was sold by public auction, but has now I believe
been lost sight of.[139] Among the numerous
treasures which Gundulph gave to his church, he
included a copy of the Gospels, two missals and a
book of Epistles.[140] Similar books were given by
succeeding prelates; Radolphus, a Norman bishop
in 1108, gave the monks several copies of the gospels
beautifully adorned.[141] Earnulphus, in the year
1115, was likewise a benefactor in this way; he
bestowed upon them, besides many gold and silver
utensils for the church, a copy of the gospels,
lessons for the principal days, a benedictional, or
book of blessings, a missal, handsomely bound, and
a capitular.[142] Ascelin, formerly prior of Dover,
and made bishop of Rochester, in the year 1142,
gave them a Psalter and the Epistles of St. Paul,
with a gloss.[143] He was a learned man, and excessively
fond of books; a passion which he had
acquired no doubt in his monastery of Dover which
possessed a library of no mean extent.[144] He[91]
wrote a commentary on Isaiah, and gave it to the
monastery; Walter, archdeacon of Canterbury,
who succeeded Ascelin, gave a copy of the gospels
bound in gold, to the church;[145] and Waleran,
elected bishop in the year 1182, presented them
with a glossed Psalter, the Epistles of Paul, and
the Sermons of Peter.[146]

Glanvill, bishop in the year 1184, endeavored
to deprive the monks of the land which Gundulph
had bestowed upon them; this gave to rise to many
quarrels[147] which the monks never forgave; it is
said that he died without regret, and was buried
without ceremony; yet the curious may still inspect
his tomb on the north side of the altar, with
his effigies and mitre lying at length upon it.[148]
Glanvill probably repented of his conduct, and he
strove to banish all animosity by many donations;
and among other treasures, he gave the monks the
five books of Moses and other volumes.[149]

Osbern of Shepey, who was prior in the year
1189, was a great scribe and wrote many volumes
for the library; he finished the Commentary of
Ascelin, transcribed a history of Peter, a Breviary
for the chapel, a book called De Claustra animæ,
and wrote the great Psalter which is chained to
the choir and window of St. Peter’s altar.[150]
Ralph de Ross, and Heymer de Tunebregge,[151][92]
also bestowed gifts of a similar nature upon the
monks; but the book anecdotes connected with
this monastic fraternity are remarkably few, barren
of interest, and present no very exalted idea of
their learning.[152]

[93]

CHAPTER V

he Benedictine monastery of Lindesfarne,
or the Holy Island, as
it was called, was founded through
the instrumentality of Oswald, the
son of Ethelfrith, king of Northumberland,
who was anxious for
the promulgation of the Christian faith within
his dominions. Aidan, the first bishop of whom
we have any distinct account, was appointed about
the year 635. Bede tells us that he used frequently
to retire to the Isle of Farne, that he
might pray in private and be undisturbed.[153] This
small island, distant about nine miles from the
church of Lindesfarne, obtained great celebrity[94]
from St. Cuthbert, who sought that quiet spot and
led there a lonely existence in great continence
of mind and body.[154] In 685 he was appointed to the
see of Lindesfarne, where, by his pious example
and regular life, he instructed many in their religious
duties. The name of this illustrious saint is
intimately connected with a most magnificent specimen
of calligraphical art of the eighth century,
preserved in the British Museum,[155] and well known
by the name of the Durham Book, or Saint
Cuthbert’s Gospels; it was written some years after
the death of that Saint, in honor of his memory,
by Egfrith, a monk of Lindesfarne, who was made
bishop of that see in the year 698. At Egfrith’s
death in 721, his successor, Æthilwald, most beautifully
bound it in gold and precious stones, and
Bilfrid, a hermit, richly illuminated it by prefixing
to each gospel a beautiful painting representing
one of the Evangelists, and a tesselated cross,
executed in a most elaborate manner. He also
displayed great skill by illuminating the large capital
letters at the commencement of each gospel.[156]
Doubtless, the hermit Bilfrid was an eminent
artist in his day. Aldred, the Glossator, a priest
of Durham, about the year 950, still more enriched
this precious volume by interlining it with a Saxon
Gloss, or version of the Latin text of St. Jerome,
of which the original manuscript is a copy.[157] It is[95]
therefore, one of the most venerable of those early
attempts to render the holy scriptures into the
vernacular tongue, and is on that account an interesting
relic to the Christian reader, and, no doubt,
formed the choicest volume in the library of
Lindesfarne.[158]

But imperfectly, indeed, have I described the
splendid manuscript which is now lying, in all its
charms, before me. And as I mark its fine old
illuminations, so bright in color, and so chaste in
execution, the accuracy of its transcription, and
the uniform beauty of its calligraphy, my imagination
carries me back to the quiet cloister of
the old Saxon scribe who wrote it, and I can
see in Egfrith, a bibliomaniac, of no mean pretensions,
and in Bilfrid, a monkish illuminator,
well initiated in the mysteries of his art. The
manuscript contains 258 double columned folio
pages, and the paintings of the Evangelists each
occupy an entire page. We learn the history
of its production from a very long note at the
end of the manuscript, written by the hand of the
glossator.[159]

But sad misfortunes were in store for the holy
monks, for about 793, or a little earlier, when
Highbald was abbot, the Danes burnt down the
monastery and murdered the ecclesiastics; “most[96]
dreadful lightnings and other prodigies,” says
Simeon of Durham, “are said to have portended
the impending ruin of this place; on the 7th of
June they came to the church of Lindesfarne,
miserably plundered all places, overthrew the
altars, and carried away all the treasures of the
church, some of the monks they slew, some they carried
away captives, some they drowned in the sea,
and others much afflicted and abused they turned
away naked.”[160] Fortunately some of the poor
monks escaped, and after a short time returned
to their old spot, and with religious zeal set about
repairing the damage which the sacred edifice had
sustained; after its restoration they continued comparatively
quiet till the time of Eardulfus, when
the Danes in the year 875, again invaded England
and burned down the monastery of Lindesfarne.
The monks obtained some knowledge of their
coming and managed to effect their escape, taking
with them the body of St. Cuthbert, which they
highly venerated, with many other honored relics;
they then set out with the bishop Eardulfus and
the abbot Eadrid at their head on a sort of pilgrimage
to discover some suitable resting place
for the remains of their saint; but finding no safe
locality, and becoming fatigued by the irksomeness
of the journey, they as a last resource resolved
to pass over to Ireland. For this purpose they
proceeded to the sea, but no sooner were they on
board the ship than a terrific storm arose, and had
it not been for the fond care of their patron saint,
a watery grave would have been forever their[97]
resting place; but, as it was, their lives were spared,
and the holy bones preserved to bless mankind,
and work wondrous miracles in the old church
of the Saxon monks. Nevertheless, considerable
damage was sustained, and the fury of the angry
waves forced them back again to the shore. The
monks deeming this an indication of God’s will
that they should remain, decided upon doing so,
and leaving the ship, they agreed to proceed on
their way rejoicing, and place still greater trust
in the mercy of God and the miraculous influence
of St. Cuthbert’s holy bones; but some whose
reliance on Divine providence appears not so conspicuous,
became dissatisfied, and separated from
the rest till at last only seven monks were left
besides their bishop and abbot. Their relics were
too numerous and too cumbersome to be conveyed
by so small a number, and they knew not how to
proceed; but one of the seven whose name was
Hanred had a vision, wherein he was told that
they should repair to the sea, where they would
find a book of Gospels adorned with gold and
precious stones, which had been lost out of the
ship when they were in the storm; and that after
that he should see a bridle hanging on a tree,
which he should take down and put upon a horse
that would come to him, which horse he should
put to a cart he would also find, to carry the holy
body, which would be an ease to them. All these
things happening accordingly, they travelled with
more comfort, following the horse, which way
soever he should lead. The book above mentioned
was no ways damaged by the water, and is still[98]
preserved in the library at Durham,[161] where it
remained till the Reformation, when it was stript
of its jewelled covering, and after passing through
many hands, ultimately came into the possession
of Sir Robert Cotton, in whose collection, as we
have said before, it is now preserved in the British
Museum.

I cannot refrain, even at the risk of incurring
some blame for my digression, presenting the
reader with a part of a letter full of fraternal love,
which Alcuin addressed to the monks of Lindesfarne
on this sad occasion.

“Your dearest fraternity,” says he, “was wont
to afford me much joy. But now how different!
though absent, I deeply lament the more your
tribulations and calamities; the manner in which
the Pagans contaminate the sanctuaries of God,
and shed the blood of saints around the altar,
devastating the joy of our house, and trampling on
the bodies of holy men in the temple of God, as
though they were treading on a dunghill in the
street. But of what effect is our wailing unless we
come before the altars of Christ and cry, ‘Spare
me, O Lord! spare thy people, and take not thine
inheritance from them;’ nor let the Pagans say,
‘Where is the God of the Christians?’ Besides
who is to pacify the churches of Britain, if
St. Cuthbert cannot defend them with so great a
number of saints? Nevertheless do not trouble
the mind about these things, for God chasteneth
all the sons whom he receiveth, and therefore
perhaps afflicts you the more, because he the more[99]
loveth you. Jerusalem, the delightful city of God,
was lost by the Chaldean scourge; and Rome, the
city of the holy Apostles and innumerable martyrs,
was surrounded by the Pagans and devastated.
Well nigh the whole of Europe is evacuated by
the scourging sword of the Goths or the Huns.
But in the same manner in which God preserved
the stars to illuminate the heavens, so will He
preserve the churches to ornament, and in their
office to strengthen and increase the Christian
religion.”[162]

Thus it came to pass that Eardulphus was the
last bishop of Lindesfarne and the first of Cunecacestre,
or Chester-upon-the-Street, to which place
his see was removed previous to its final settlement
at Durham.

After a succession of many bishops, some recorded
as learned and bookish by monkish annalists,
and nearly all benefactors in some way to
their church, we arrive at the period when Aldwine
was consecrated bishop of that see in the year
990. The commotions of his time made his presidency
a troubled and harassing one. Sweyn, king
of Denmark, and Olauis, king of Norway, invaded
England, and spreading themselves in bodies over
the kingdom, committed many and cruel depredations;
a strong body of these infested the
northern coast, and approached the vicinity of
Chester-on-the-Street. This so alarmed Aldwine,
that he resolved to quit his church—for the great
riches and numerous relics of that holy place were
attractive objects to the plundering propensities of[100]
the invaders. Carrying, therefore, the bones of
St. Cuthbert with them—for that box of mortal
dust was ever precious in the sight of those old
monks—and the costly treasures of the church, not
forgetting their books, the monks fled to Ripon,
and the see, which after similar adversities their
predecessors one hundred and thirteen years ago
had settled at Chester, was forever removed. It
is true three or four months after, as Symeon of
Durham tells us, they attempted to return, but
when they reached a place called Werdelan, “on
the east and near unto Durham,” they could not
move the bier on which the body of St. Cuthbert
was carried, although they applied their united
strength to effect it. The superstition, or perhaps
simplicity, of the monks instantly interpreted this
into a manifestation of divine interference, and
they resolved not to return again to their old spot.
And we are further told that after three days’
fasting and prayer, the Lord vouchsafed to reveal
to them that they should bear the saintly burden
to Durham, a command which they piously and
cheerfully obeyed. Having arrived there, they
fixed on a wild and uncultivated site, and making
a simple oratory of wattles for the temporary reception
of their relics, they set zealously to work—for
these old monks well knew what labor was—to
cut down wood, to clear the ground, and build an
habitation for themselves. Shortly after, in the
wilderness of that neglected spot, the worthy
bishop Aldwine erected a goodly church of stone
to the honor of God, and as a humble tribute of
gratitude and love; and so it was that Aldwine,[101]
the last bishop of Chester-on-the-Street, was the
first of Durham.

When William Carelepho, a Norman monk,
was consecrated bishop, the church had so increased
in wealth and usefulness, that fresh wants
arose, more space was requisite, and a grander
structure would be preferable; the bishop thereupon
pulled the old church of Aldwine down and
commenced the erection of a more magnificent one
in its place, as the beauty of Durham cathedral
sufficiently testifies even now; and will not the
lover of artistic beauty award his praise to the
Norman bishop—those massive columns and stupendous
arches excite the admiring wonder of all;
built on a rocky eminence and surrounded by all
the charms of a romantic scenery, it is one of the
finest specimens of architecture which the enthusiasm
of monkish days dedicated to piety and to
God. Its liberal founder however did not live to
see it finished, for he died in the year 1095, two
years after laying its foundation stone. His bookloving
propensities have been honorably recorded,
and not only was he fond of reading, but kept the
pens of the scribes in constant motion, and used
himself to superintend the transcription of manuscripts,
as the colophon of a folio volume in Durham
library fully proves.[163] The monkish bibliophiles
of his church received from him a precious
gift of about 40 volumes, containing among other
valuable books Prosper, Pompeii, Tertullian, and a
great Bible in two volumes.[164]

[102]

It would have been difficult perhaps to have
found in those days a body of monks so “bookish”
as those of Durham; not only did they transcribe
with astonishing rapidity, proving that there was
no want of vellum there, but they must have
bought or otherwise collected a great number of
books; for the see of Durham, in the early part of
the 12th century, could show a library embracing
nearly 300 volumes.[165]

Nor let the reader imagine that the collection
possessed no merit in a literary point of view, or
that the monks cared for little else save legends of
saints or the literature of the church; the catalogue
proves them to have enjoyed a more liberal and a
more refined taste, and again display the cloistered
students of the middle ages as the preservers of
classic learning. This is a point worth observing
on looking over the old parchment catalogues of
the monks; for as by their Epistles we obtain a
knowledge of their intimacy with the old writers,
and the use they made of them, so by their catalogues
we catch a glimpse of the means they possessed
of becoming personally acquainted with
their beauties; by the process much light may be
thrown on the gloom of those long past times, and
perhaps we shall gain too a better view of the state
of learning existing then. But that the reader
may judge for himself, I extract the names of some
of the writers whom the monks of Durham preserved
and read:

[103]

• Alcuin.
• Ambrose.
• Aratores.
• Anselm.
• Augustine.
• Aviany.
• Bede.
• Boethius.
• Bernard.
• Cassian.
• Cassiodorus.
• Claudius.
• Cyprian.
• Donatus.
• Esop.
• Eutropius.
• Galen.
• Gregory.
• Haimo.
• Horace.
• Homer.
• Hugo.
• Juvenal.
• Isidore.
• Josephus.
• Lucan.
• Marcianus.
• Maximian.
• Orosius.
• Ovid.
• Prudentius.
• Prosper.
• Persius.
• Priscian.
• Peter Lombard.
• Plato.
• Pompeius Trogus.
• Quintilian.
• Rabanus.
• Solinus.
• Servius.
• Statius.
• Terence.
• Tully.
• Theodulus.
• Virgil.
• Gesta Anglorum.
• Gesta Normanorum.

Hugh de Pussar,[166] consecrated bishop in 1153,
is the next who attracts our attention by his bibliomanical
renown. He possessed perhaps the finest
copy of the Holy Scriptures of any private collector;
and he doubtless regarded his “unam Bibliam in
iv. magnis voluminibus,” with the veneration of a
divine and the fondness of a student. He collected
what in those times was deemed a respectable
library, and bequeathed no less than sixty or
seventy volumes to the Durham monks, including
his great Bible, which has ever since been preserved
with religious care; from a catalogue of them we
learn his partiality for classical literature; a Tully,
Sedulus, Priscian, and Claudius, are mentioned
among them.[167]

[104]

Anthony Bek, who was appointed to the see in
the year 1283, was a most ambitious and haughty
prelate, and caused great dissensions in his church.
History proves how little he was adapted for the
responsible duties of a bishop, and points to the
field of battle or civil pomp as most congenial to
his disposition. He ostentatiously displayed the
splendor of a Palatine Prince, when he contributed
his powerful aid to the cause of his sovereign, in
the Scottish war, by a retinue of 500 horse, 1000
foot, 140 knights, and 26 standard bearers,[168] rendered
doubly imposing in those days of saintly
worship and credulity, by the patronage of St.
Cuthbert, under whole holy banner they marched
against a brave and noble foe. His arbitrary
temper caused sad quarrels in the cloister, which
ultimately gave rise to a tedious law proceeding
between him and the prior about the year 1300;[169]
from a record of this affair we learn that the bishop
had borrowed some books from the library which
afterwards he refused to return; there was among
them a Decretal, a history of England, a Missal,
and a volume called “The book of St. Cuthbert,
in which the secrets of the monastery are written,”
which was alone valued at £200,[170] probably in consideration
of the important and delicate matters
contained therein.

[105]

These proceedings were instituted by prior
Hoton, who was fond of books, and had a great
esteem for learning; he founded a college at Oxford
for the monkish students of his church.[171] On
more than one occasion he sent parcels of books
to Oxford; in a list of an early date it appears that
the monks of Durham sent at one time twenty
volumes, and shortly after fifteen more, consisting
principally of church books and lives of saints.[172]
The numbers thus taken from their library the
monks, with that love of learning for which they
were so remarkable, anxiously replaced, by purchasing
about twenty volumes, many of which contained
a great number of small but choice pieces.[173]

Robert de Graystane, a monk of Durham, was
elected bishop by the prior and chapter, and confirmed
on the 10th of November, 1333, but the
king, Edward III., wishing to advance his treasurer
to that see, refused his sanction to the proceeding;
monk Robert was accordingly deposed, and
Richard Angraville received the mitre in his stead.
He was consecrated on the 19th of December in
the same year, by John Stratford, archbishop of
Canterbury, and installed by proxy on the 10th of
January, 1334.

Angraville, Aungerville, or as he is more commonly
called Richard de Bury, is a name which
every bibliophile will honor and esteem; he was
indeed a bibliomaniac of the first order, and a
sketch of his life is not only indispensable here,[106]
but cannot fail to interest the book-loving reader.
But before entering more at large into his bookish
propensities and talents, it will be necessary to say
something of his early days and the illustrious
career which attended his political and ecclesiastical
life. Richard de Bury, the son of Sir Richard
Angraville, was born, as his name implies, at Bury
St. Edmunds, in Suffolk, in the year 1287.[174]

Great attention was paid to the instruction of
his youthful mind by his maternal uncle, John de
Willowby, a priest, previous to his removal to Oxford.
At the university he obtained honorable
distinction, as much for his erudition and love of
books as for the moral rectitude of his behavior.
These pleasing traits were the stepping stones to
his future greatness, and on the strength of them
he was selected as one fully competent to undertake
the education of Edward Prince of Wales,
afterwards the third king of that name; and to
Richard de Bury “may be traced the love for literature
and the arts displayed by his pupil when on
the throne. He was rewarded with the lucrative
appointment of treasurer of Gascony.”[175]

When Edward, the prince of Wales, was sent
to Paris to assume the dominion of Guienne, which
the king had resigned in his favor, he was accompanied
by queen Isabella, his mother, whose criminal
frailty, and afterwards conspiracy, with Mortimer,
aroused the just indignation of her royal husband;
and commenced those civil dissensions which ren[107]dered
the reign of Edward II. so disastrous and
turbulent. It was during these commotions that
Richard de Bury became a zealous partizan of the
queen, to whom he fled, and ventured to supply
her pecuniary necessities from the royal revenues;
for this, however, he was surrounded with imminent
danger; for the king, instituting an inquiry into
these proceedings, attempted his capture, which he
narrowly escaped by secreting himself in the belfry
of the convent of Brothers Minor at Paris.[176]

When the “most invincible and most magnificent
king” Edward III. was firmly seated upon the
throne, dignity and power was lavishly bestowed
on this early bibliomaniac. In an almost incredible
space of time he was appointed cofferer to the
king, treasurer of the wardrobe, archdeacon of
Northampton, prebendary of Lincoln, Sarum, Litchfield,
and shortly afterwards keeper of the privy
seal, which office he held for five years. During
this time he twice undertook a visit to Italy, on a
mission to the supreme pontiff, John XXII., who
not only entertained him with honor and distinction,
but appointed him chaplain to his principal
chapel, and gave him a bull, nominating him to the
first vacant see in England.

He acquired whilst there an honor which reflected
more credit than even the smiles of his holiness—the
brightest of the Italian poets, Petrarch
of never dying fame—bestowed upon him his
acquaintance and lasting friendship. De Bury
entered Avignon for the first time in the same[108]
year that Petrarch took up his residence there, in
the house of Colonna, bishop of Lombes: two such
enlightened scholars and indefatigable book collectors,
sojourning in the same city, soon formed
an intimacy.[177] How interesting must their friendly
meetings have been, and how delightful the hours
spent in Petrarch’s library, which was one of great
extent and rarity; and it is probable too that De
Bury obtained from the poet a few treasures to
enrich his own stores; for the generosity of Petrarch
was so excessive, that he could scarcely withhold
what he knew was so dearly coveted. His benevolence
on one occasion deprived him and posterity
of an inestimable volume; he lent some manuscripts
of the classics to his old master, who, needing
pecuniary aid, pawned them, and Cicero’s books,
De Gloria, were in this manner irrecoverably lost.[178]
Petrarch acted like a true lover of learning; for
when the shadows of old age approached, he
presented his library, full of rare and ancient
manuscripts, many of them enriched by his own
notes, to the Venetian Senate, and thus laid the
foundation of the library of Saint-Marc; he always
employed a number of transcribers, who invariably
accompanied him on his journeys, and he kept
horses to carry his books.[179] His love of reading
was intense. “Whether,” he writes in one of his
epistles, “I am being shaved, or having my hair
cut, whether I am riding on horseback or taking
my meals, I either read myself or get some one to[109]
read to me; on the table where I dine, and by the
side of my bed, I have all the materials for writing.“[180]
With the friendship of such a student, how charming
must have been the visit of the English ambassador,
and how much valuable and interesting
information must he have gleaned by his intercourse
with Petrarch and his books. At Rome
Richard de Bury obtained many choice volumes
and rare old manuscripts of the classics; for at
Rome indeed, at that time, books had become an
important article of commerce, and many foreign
collectors besides the English bibliomaniac resorted
there for these treasures: to such an extend was
this carried on, that the jealousy of Petrarch was
aroused, who, in addressing the Romans, exclaims:
“Are you not ashamed that the wrecks of your
ancient grandeur, spared by the inundation of the
barbarians, are daily sold by your miscalculating
avarice to foreigners? And that Rome is no where
less known and less loved than at Rome?”[181]

The immense ecclesiastical and civil revenues
which Aungraville enjoyed, enabled him whilst in
Italy to maintain a most costly and sumptuous
establishment: in his last visit alone he is said to
have expended 5,000 marks, and he never appeared
in public without a numerous retinue of twenty
clerks and thirty-six esquires; an appearance which
better became the dignity of his civil office, than
the Christian humility of his ecclesiastical functions.
On his return from this distinguished sojourn,
he was appointed, as we have said before,[110]
through the instrumentality of Edward III., to the
bishopric of Durham. But not content with these
high preferments, his royal master advanced him to
still greater honor, and on the 28th of September,
1334, he was made Lord Chancellor of England,
which office he filled till the 5th of June, 1335, when
he exchanged it for that of high treasurer. He
was twice appointed ambassador to the king of
France, respecting the claims of Edward of England
to the crown of that country. De Bury,
whilst negociating this affair, visited Antwerp and
Brabant for the furtherance of the object of his
mission, and he fully embraced this rare opportunity
of adding to his literary stores, and returned
to his fatherland well laden with many choice and
costly manuscripts; for in all his perilous missions
he carried about with him, as he tells us, that love
of books which many waters could not extinguish,
but which greatly sweetened the bitterness of
peregrination. Whilst at Paris he was especially
assiduous in collecting, and he relates with intense
rapture, how many choice libraries he found there
full of all kinds of books, which tempted him to
spend his money freely; and with a gladsome heart
he gave his dirty lucre for treasures so inestimable
to the bibliomaniac.

Before the commencement of the war which
arose from the disputed claims of Edward, Richard
de Bury returned to enjoy in sweet seclusion his
bibliomanical propensities. The modern bibliophiles
who know what it is to revel in the enjoyment
of a goodly library, luxuriant in costly bindings
and rich in bibliographical rarities, who are[111]
fully susceptible to the delights and exquisite sensibilities
of that sweet madness called bibliomania,
will readily comprehend the multiplied pleasures
of that early and illustrious bibliophile in the seclusion
of Auckland Palace; he there ardently applied
his energies and wealth to the accumulation of
books; and whilst engaged in this pleasing avocation,
let us endeavor to catch a glimpse of him.
Chambre, to whom we are indebted for many of
the above particulars, tells us that Richard de Bury
was learned in the governing of his house, hospitable
to strangers, of great charity, and fond of
disputation with the learned, but he principally
delighted in a multitude of books, Iste summe delectabatur
multitudine librorum,[182] and possessed more
books than all the bishops put together, an assertion
which requires some modification, and must
not be too strictly regarded, for book collecting at
that time was becoming a favorite pursuit; still the
language of Chambre is expressive, and clearly
proves how extensive must have been his libraries,
one of which he formed in each of his various
palaces, diversis maneriis. So engrossed was that
worthy bishop with the passion of book collecting,
that his dormitory was strewed jucebant with them,
in every nook and corner choice volumes were
scattered, so that it was almost impossible for any
person to enter without placing his feet upon some
book.[183] He kept in regular employment no small
assemblage of antiquaries, scribes, bookbinders,
correctors, illuminators, and all such persons who[112]
were capable of being useful in the service of
books, librorum servitiis utiliter.[184]

During his retirement he wrote a book, from
the perusal of which the bibliomaniac will obtain a
full measure of delight and instruction. It is a faithful
record of the life and experience of this bibliophile
of the olden time. He tells us how he collected
his vellum treasures—his “crackling tomes”
so rich in illuminations and calligraphic art!—how
he preserved them, and how he would have others
read them. Costly indeed must have been the
book gems he amassed together; for foreign countries,
as well as the scribes at home, yielded ample
means to augment his stores, and were incessantly
employed in searching for rarities which his heart
yearned to possess. He completed his Philobiblon
at his palace at Auckland on the 24th of January,
1344.[185]

[113]

We learn from the prologue to this rare and
charming little volume how true and genuine a
bibliomaniac was Richard de Bury, for he tells us
there, that a vehement love amor excitet of books
had so powerfully seized all the faculties of his
mind, that dismissing all other avocations, he had
applied the ardor of his thoughts to the acquisition
of books. Expense to him was quite an afterthought,
and he begrudged no amount to possess
a volume of rarity or antiquity. Wisdom, he says,
is an infinite treasure infinitus thesaurus, the value
of which, in his opinion, was beyond all things; for
how, he asks, can the sum be too great which purchases
such vast delight. We cannot admire the
purity of his Latin so much as the enthusiasm
which pervades it; but in the eyes of the bibliophile
this will amply compensate for his minor imperfections.
When expatiating on the value of his
books he appears to unbosom, as it were, all the
inward rapture of love. A very helluo librorum—a
very Maliabechi of a collector, yet he encouraged
no selfish feeling to alloy his pleasure or to mingle
bitterness with the sweets of his avocation. His
knowledge he freely imparted to others, and his
books he gladly lent. This is apparent in the
Philobiblon; and his generous spirit warms his diction—not
always chaste—into a fluent eloquence.
His composition overflows with figurative expressions,
yet the rude, ungainly form on which they[114]
are moulded deprive them of all claim to elegance
or chastity; but while the homeliness of his diction
fails to impress us with an idea of his versatility as
a writer, his chatty anecdotal style rivets and keeps
the mind amused, so that we rise from the little
book with the consciousness of having obtained
much profit and satisfaction from its perusal. Nor
is it only the bibliomaniac who may hope to taste
this pleasure in devouring the sweet contents of
the Philobiblon; for there are many hints, many
wise sayings, and many singular ideas scattered
over its pages, which will amuse or instruct the
general reader and the lover of olden literature.
We observe too that Richard de Bury, as a
writer, was far in advance of his age, and his work
manifests an unusual freedom and independence
of mind in its author; for although living in
monkish days, when the ecclesiastics were almost
supreme in power and wealth, he was fully sensible
of the vile corruptions and abominations
which were spreading about that time so fearfully
among some of the cloistered devotees—the spotless
purity of the primitive times was scarce known
then—and the dark periods of the middle ages were
bright and holy, when compared with the looseness
and carnality of those turbulent days. Richard de
Bury dipped his pen in gall when he spoke of these
sad things, and doubtless many a revelling monk
winced under the lashing words he applied to them;
not only does he upbraid them for their carelessness
in religion, but severely reprimands their inattention
to literature and learning. “The monks,” he
says, “in the present day seem to be occupied in[115]
emptying cups, not in correcting codices, Calicibus
epotandis, non codicibus emendandis, which they
mingle with the lascivious music of Timotheus, and
emulate his immodest manners, so that the sportive
song cantus ludentis, and not the plaintive hymn,
proceeds from the cells of the monks. Flocks and
fleeces, grain and granaries, gardens and olives,
potions and goblets, are in this day lessons and
studies of the monks, except some chosen few.“[186] He
speaks in equally harsh terms of the religious mendicants.
He accuses them of forgetting the words
and admonitions of their holy founder, who was a
great lover of books. He wishes them to imitate the
ancient members of that fraternity, who were poor
in spirit, but most rich in faith. But it must be remembered,
that about this time the mendicant friars
were treated with undeserved contempt, and much
ill feeling rose against them among the clergy, but
the clergy were somewhat prejudiced in their judgment.
The order of St. Dominic, which a century
before gloried in the approbation of the pope, and
in the enjoyment of his potential bulls, now winced
under gloomy and foreboding frowns. The sovereign
Pontiff Honorius III. gratefully embraced the
service of these friars, and confirmed their order
with important privileges. His successor, Gregory
IX., ratified these favors to gain their useful aid in
propping up the papal power, and commanded the
ecclesiastics by a bull to receive these “well-beloved
children and preaching friars” of his, with[116]
hospitality and respect. Thus established, they
were able to bear the tossings to and fro which succeeding
years produced; but in Richard de Bury’s
time darker clouds were gathering—great men had
severely chastized them with their pens and denounced
them in their preachings. Soon after a
host of others sprang up—among the most remarkable
of whom were Johannes Poliaco, and Fitzralph,
Archbishop of Armagh, who was a dear
friend and chaplain of Richard de Bury’s and many
learned disputations were carried on between them.[187]
The celebrated oration of Fitzralph’s, cited in the
presence of the pope, was a powerful blow to the
mendicant friars—an examination of the matter has
rather perplexed than cleared the subject, and I
find it difficult which side to favor, the clergy
seem to denounce the begging friars more from
envy and interested motives, for they looked with
extreme jealousy at the encroachments they had
made upon their ecclesiastical functions of confession,
absolution, etc., so profitable to the church in
those days. In these matters the church had
hitherto reserved a sole monopoly, and the clergy
now determined to protect it with all the powers of
oratorial denunciation; but, looking beyond this
veil of prejudice, I am prone to regard them favorably,
for their intense love of books, which
they sought for and bought up with passionate
eagerness. Fitzralph, quite unintentionally, bestows
a bright compliment upon them, and as it bears
upon our subject and illustrates the learning of[117]
the time, I am tempted to give a few extracts; he
sorely laments the decrease of the number of students
in the university of Oxford; “So,” says he,
“that yet in my tyme, in the universitie of Oxenford,
were thirty thousand Scolers at ones; and
now beth unnethe[188] sixe thousand.”[189] All the
blame of this he lays to the friars, and accuses them
of doing “more grete damage to learning.” “For
these orders of beggers, for endeless wynnynges
that thei geteth by beggyng of the forseide pryvyleges
of schriftes and sepultures and othere, thei
beth now so multiplyed in conventes and in persons.
That many men tellith that in general studies unnethe,
is it founde to sillynge a profitable book of
ye faculte of art, of dyvynyte, of lawe canon, of
phisik, other of lawe civil, but alle bookes beth
y-bougt of Freres, so that en ech convent of Freres
is a noble librarye and a grete,[190] and so that ene
rech Frere that hath state in scole, siche as thei beth
nowe, hath an hughe librarye. And also y-sent of
my Sugettes[191] to scole thre other foure persons,
and hit is said me that some of them beth come
home azen for thei myst nougt[192] finde to selle ovn
goode Bible; nother othere couenable[193] books.”
This strange accusation proves how industriously
the friars collected books, and we cannot help
regarding them with much esteem for doing so.
Richard de Bury fully admits his obligations to the
mendicants, from whom he obtained many choice
transcripts. “When indeed,” says he, “we hap[118]pened
to turn aside to the towns and places where
the aforesaid paupers had convents, we were not
slack in visiting their chests and other repositories
of books, for there, amidst the deepest poverty, we
found the most exalted riches treasured up; there,
in their satchells and baskets, we discovered not
only the crumbs that fell from the master’s table
for the little dogs, but indeed the shew bread without
leaven, the bread of angels, containing in itself
all that is delectable;“ and moreover, he says, that
he found these friars “not selfish hoarders, but
meet professors of enlightened knowledge.”[194]

In the seventh chapter of his work, he deplores
the sad destruction of books by war and fire, and
laments the loss of the 700,000 volumes, which
happened in the Alexandrian expedition; but the
eighth chapter is the one which the bibliomaniac
will regard with the greatest interest, for Richard
de Bury tells us there how he collected together
his rich and ample library. “For although,” he
writes, “from our youth we have ever been delighted
to hold special and social communion with literary
men and lovers of books, yet prosperity attending
us, having obtained the notice of his majesty the
king, and being received into his own family, we
acquired a most ample facility of visiting at pleasure
and of hunting, as it were, some of the most delightful
covers, the public and private libraries privatas
tum communes, both of the regulars and seculars.
Indeed, while we performed the duties of Chancellor
and Treasurer of the most invincible and ever
magnificently triumphant king of England, Ed[119]ward
III., of that name after the conquest, whose
days may the Most High long and tranquilly deign
to preserve. After first inquiring into the things
that concerned his court, and then the public affairs
of his kingdom, an easy opening was afforded us,
under the countenance of royal favor, for freely
searching the hiding places of books. For the
flying fame of our love had already spread in all
directions, and it was reported not only that we had
a longing desire for books, and especially for old
ones, but that any one could more easily obtain our
favors by quartos than by money.[195] Wherefore,
when supported by the bounty of the aforesaid
prince of worthy memory, we were enabled to
oppose or advance, to appoint or discharge; crazy
quartos and tottering folios, precious however in
our sight as well as in our affections, flowed in most
rapidly from the great and the small, instead of new
year’s gift and remunerations, and instead of presents
and jewels. Then the cabinets of the most
noble monasteries tunc nobilissimos monasterios
were opened, cases were unlocked, caskets were
unclasped and sleeping volumes soporata volumina
which had slumbered for long ages in their sepulchres
were roused up, and those that lay hid in
dark places in locis tenebrosis were overwhelmed
with the rays of a new light. Books heretofore[120]
most delicate now become corrupted and abominable,
lay lifeless, covered indeed with the excrements
of mice and pierced through with the gnawing
of worms; and those that were formerly clothed
with purple and fine linen were now seen reposing
in dust and ashes, given over to oblivion and the
abode of moths. Amongst these, nevertheless, as
time served, we sat down more voluptuously than
the delicate physician could do amidst his stores of
aromatics, and where we found an object of love,
we found also an assuagement. Thus the sacred
vessel of science came into the power of our disposal,
some being given, some sold, and not a few
lent for a time. Without doubt many who perceived
us to be contented with gifts of this kind,
studied to contribute these things freely to our use,
which they could most conveniently do without themselves.
We took care, however, to conduct the business
of such so favorably, that the profit might accrue
to them; justice suffered therefore no detriment.”
Of this, however, a doubt will intrude itself upon
our minds, in defiance of the affirmation of my Lord
Chancellor; indeed, the paragraph altogether is unfavorable
to the character of so great a man, and
fully proves the laxity of opinion, in those days of
monkish supremacy, on judicial matters; but we
must be generous, and allow something for the
corrupt usages of the age, but I cannot omit a
circumstance clearly illustrative of this point, which
occurred between the bibliomanical Chancellor and
the abbot of St. Alban’s, the affair is recorded in
the chronicle of the abbey, and transpired during
the time Richard de Bury held the privy seal; in[121]
that office he appears to have favored the monks
of the abbey in their disputes with the townspeople
of St. Alban’s respecting some possessions to which
the monks tenaciously adhered and defended as
their rightful property. Richard de Wallingford,
who was then abbot, convoked the elder monks
convocatis senioribus, and discussed with them, as to
the most effectual way to obtain the goodwill and
favor of de Bury; after due consideration it was
decided that no gift was likely to prove so acceptable
to that father of English bibliomania as a present
of some of their choice books, and it was at last
agreed to send four volumes, “that is to say Terence,
a Virgil, a Quintilian, and Jerome against Ruffinus,”
and to sell him many others from their library; this
they sent him intimation of, and a purchase was
ultimately agreed upon between them. The monks
sold to that rare collector, thirty-two choice tomes
triginta duos libros, for the sum of fifty pounds of
silver quinginta libris argenti.[196] But there were other
bibliophiles and bookworms than Richard de Bury
in old England then; for many of the brothers of
St. Alban’s who had nothing to do with this transaction,
cried out loudly against it, and denounced
rather openly the policy of sacrificing their mental
treasures for the acquisition of pecuniary gain, but
fortunately the loss was only a temporary one, for
on the death of Richard de Bury many of these
volumes were restored to the monks, who in return[122]
became the purchasers from his executors of many
a rare old volume from the bishop’s library.[197] To
resume our extracts from the Philobiblon, De Bury
proceeds to further particulars relative to his book-collecting
career, and becomes quite eloquent in
detailing these circumstances; but from the eighth
chapter we shall content ourselves with one more
paragraph. “Moreover,” says he, “if we could
have amassed cups of gold and silver, excellent
horses, or no mean sums of money, we could in
those days have laid up abundance of wealth for
ourselves. But we regarded books not pounds,
and valued codices more than florens, and preferred
paltry pamphlets to pampered palfreys.[198] In addition
to this we were charged with frequent embassies
of the said prince of everlasting memory,
and owing to the multiplicity of state affairs, we
were sent first to the Roman chair, then to the
court of France, then to the various other kingdoms
of the world, on tedious embassies and in
perilous times, carrying about with us that fondness
for books, which many waters could not extinguish.”[199]
The booksellers found Richard de Bury
a generous and profitable customer, and those[123]
residing abroad received commissions constantly
from him. “Besides the opportunities,” he writes,
“already touched upon, we easily acquired the
notice of the stationers and librarians, not only
within the provinces of our native soil, but of those
dispersed over the kingdoms of France, Germany,
and Italy.”[200]

Such was bibliomania five hundred years ago!
and does not the reader behold in it the very type
and personification of its existence now? does he
not see in Richard de Bury the prototype of a
much honored and agreeable bibliophile of our own
time? Nor has the renowned “Maister Dibdin”
described his book-hunting tours with more enthusiasm
or delight; with what a thrill of rapture
would that worthy doctor have explored those
monastic treasures which De Bury found hid in
locis tenebrosis, antique Bibles, rare Fathers, rich
Classics or gems of monkish lore, enough to fire
the brain of the most lymphatic bibliophile, were
within the grasp of the industrious and eager
Richard de Bury—that old “Amator Librorum,”
like his imitators of the present day, cared not
whither he went to collect his books—dust and
dirt were no barriers to him; at every nook and
corner where a stationer’s stall[201] appeared, he[124]
would doubtless tarry in defiance of the cold winds
or scorching sun, exploring the ancient tomes
reposing there. Nor did he neglect the houses
of the country rectors; and even the humble
habitations of the rustics were diligently ransacked
to increase his collections, and from these sources
he gleaned many rude but pleasing volumes, perhaps
full of old popular poetry! or the wild
Romances of Chivalry which enlivened the halls
and cots of our forefathers in Gothic days.

We must not overlook the fact that this
Treatise on the Love of Books was written as an
accompaniment to a noble and generous gift.
Many of the parchment volumes which De Bury
had collected in his “perilous embassies,” he gave,
with the spirit of a true lover of learning, to the
Durham College at Oxford, for the use of the
Students of his Church. I cannot but regret that
the names of these books, of which he had made a
catalogue,[202] have not been preserved; perhaps the
document may yet be discovered among the vast
collections of manuscripts in the Oxonian libraries;
but the book, being written for this purpose, the
author thought it consistent that full directions
should be given for the preservation and regulation
of the library, and we find the last chapter devoted
to this matter; but we must not close the Philobiblon
without noticing his admonitions to the
students, some of whom he upbraids for the care[125]lessness
and disrespect which they manifest in perusing
books. “Let there,” says he, with all the
veneration of a passionate booklover, “be a modest
decorum in opening and closing of volumes, that
they may neither be unclasped with precipitous
haste, nor thrown aside after inspection without
being duly closed.”[203] Loving and venerating a
book as De Bury did, it was agony to see a volume
suffering under the indignities of the ignorant or
thoughtless student whom he thus keenly satirizes:
“You will perhaps see a stiffnecked youth lounging
sluggishly in his study, while the frost pinches him
in winter time; oppressed with cold his watery
nose drops, nor does he take the trouble to wipe it
with his handkerchief till it has moistened the book
beneath it with its vile dew;” nor is he “ashamed
to eat fruit and cheese over an open book, or to
transfer his empty cup from side to side; he reclines
his elbow on the volume, turns down the
leaves, and puts bits of straw to denote the place
he is reading; he stuffs the book with leaves and
flowers, and so pollutes it with filth and dust.”
With this our extracts from the Philobiblon must
close; enough has been said and transcribed to
place the Lord Chancellor of the puissant King
Edward III. among the foremost of the bibliomaniacs
of the past, and to show how valuable
were his efforts to literature and learning; indeed,
like Petrarch in Italy was Richard De Bury in[126]
England: both enthusiastic collectors and preservers
of ancient manuscripts, and both pioneers of
that revival of European literature which soon
afterwards followed. In the fourteenth century
we cannot imagine a more useful or more essential
person than the bibliomaniac, for that surely was
the harvest day for the gathering in of that food
on which the mind of future generations were to
subsist. And who reaped so laboriously or gleaned
so carefully as those two illustrious scholars?

Richard de Bury was no unsocial bookworm;
for whilst he loved to seek the intercourse of the
learned dead, he was far from being regardless of
the living. Next to his clasped vellum tomes,
nothing afforded him so much delight as an erudite
disputation with his chaplains, who were mostly
men of acknowledged learning and talent; among
them were “Thomas Bradwardyn, afterwards
Archbishop of Canterbury; and Richard Fitz-Raufe,
afterwards Archbishop of Armagh; Walter
Burley, John Maudyt, Robert Holcote, Richard of
Kilwington, all Doctors in Theology, omnes Doctores
in Theologia; Richard Benworth, afterwards
Bishop of London, and Walter Segraffe, afterwards
Bishop of Chester;”[204] with these congenial spirits
Richard de Bury held long and pleasing conversations,
doubtless full of old bookwisdom and quaint
Gothic lore, derived from still quainter volumes;
and after meals I dare say they discussed the choice
volume which had been read during their repast, as
was the pious custom of those old days, and which
was not neglected by De Bury, for “his manner[127]
was at dinner and supper time to have some good
booke read unto him.”[205]

And now in bidding farewell to the illustrious
Aungraville—for little more is known of his biography—let
me not forget to pay a passing tribute
of respect to his private character, which is right
worthy of a cherished remembrance, and derives its
principal lustre from the eminent degree in which
he was endowed with the greatest of Christian virtues,
and which, when practised with sincerity, covereth
a multitude of sins; his charity, indeed, forms
a delightful trait in the character of that great man;
every week he distributed food to the poor; eight
quarters of wheat octo quarteria frumenti, and the
fragments from his own table comforted the indigent
of his church; and always when he journeyed from
Newcastle to Durham, he distributed twelve marks
in relieving the distresses of the poor; from Durham
to Stockton eight marks; and from the same
place to his palace at Aukeland five marks; and
and when he rode from Durham to Middleham he
gave away one hundred shillings.[206] Living in troublous
times, we do not find his name coupled with
any great achievement in the political sphere; his
talents were not the most propitious for a statesman
among the fierce barons of the fourteenth
century; his spirit loved converse with the departed
great, and shone more to advantage in the quite
closet of the bibliomaniac, or in fulfilling the benevolent
duties of a bishop. Yet he was successful
in all that the ambition of a statesman could desire,[128]
the friend and confidant of his king; holding the
highest offices in the state compatible with his
ecclesiastical position, with wealth in abundance,
and blessed with the friendship of the learned and
the good, we find little in his earthly career to
darken the current of his existence, or to disturb
the last hours of a life of near three score years.
He died lamented, honored, and esteemed, at
Aukeland palace, on the fourteenth of April, in the
year 1345, in the fifty-eighth year of his age, and
was buried with all due solemnity before the altar
of the blessed Mary Magdalene, at the south angle
of the church of Durham. His bones are now
mingled with the dust and gone, but his memory is
engraven on tablets of life; the hearts of all bibliomaniacs
love and esteem his name for the many
virtues with which it was adorned, and delight to
chat with his choice old spirit in the Philobiblon,
so congenial to their bookish souls. No doubt the
illustrious example of Richard de Bury tended
materially to spread far and wide the spirit of bibliomania.
It certainly operated powerfully on the
monks of Durham, who not only by transcribing, but
at the cost of considerable sums of money, greatly
increased their library. A catalogue of the collection,
taken some forty years after the death of De
Bury, is preserved to this day at Durham, and
shows how considerably they augmented it during
a space of two hundred years, or from the time
when the former list was written. If the bibliomaniac
can obtain a sight of this ancient catalogue,
he will dwell over it with astonishment and delight—immaculate
volumes of Scripture—fathers and[129]
classics bespeak its richness and extent, and Robert
of Langchester, the librarian who wrote it, with
pious preference places first on the list the magnificent
Bible which bishop Hugo gave them many
years before. This rare biblical treasure, then
the pride and glory of the collection, is now in the
Durham Library; but to look upon that fair manuscript
will make the blood run cold—barbarous
desecration has been committed by some bibliopegistical
hand; the splendid illuminations so rich
and spirited, which adorned the beauteous tomes,
dazzled an ignorant mind, who cut them out and
robbed it of half its interest and value.

From near 600 volumes which the list enumerates,
I cannot refrain from naming two or three.
I have searched over its biblical department in vain
to discover mention of the celebrated “Saint Cuthbert’s
Gospels.” It is surprising they should have
forgotten so rich a gem, for although four copies of
the Gospels appear, not one of them answers to its
description; two are specified as “non glos;” it
could not have been either of those, another, the
most interesting of the whole, is recorded as the
venerable Bede’s own copy! What bibliophile can
look unmoved upon those time-honored pages,
without indeed all the warmth of his booklove
kindling forth into a very frenzy of rapture and
veneration! So fairly written, and so accurately
transcribed, it is one of the most precious of the
many gems which now crowd the shelves of the
Durham Library, and is well worth a pilgrimage to
view it.[207] But this cannot be St. Cuthbert’s Gospels,[130]
and the remaining copy is mentioned as “Quarteur
Evangelum,” fol. ii. “se levantem;” now I have
looked at the splendid volume in the British
Museum, to see if the catchword answered to this
description, but it does not; so it cannot be this,
which I might have imagined without the trouble
of a research, for if it was, they surely would not
have forgotten to mention its celebrated coopertoria.

Passing a splendid array of Scriptures whole
and in parts, for there was no paucity of sacred
volumes in that old monkish library, and fathers,
doctors of the Church, schoolmen, lives of saints,
chronicles, profane writers, philosophical and logical
treatises, medical works, grammars, and books
of devotion, we are particularly struck with the
appearance of so many fine classical authors.
Works of Virgil (including the Æneid), Pompeius
Trogus, Claudius, Juvenal, Terence, Ovid, Prudentius,
Quintilian, Cicero, Bœthius, and a host of
others are in abundance, and form a catalogue
rendered doubly exciting to the bibliophile by the
insertion of an occasional note, which tells of its
antiquity,[208] rarity, or value. In some of the volumes
a curious inscription was inserted, thundering
a curse upon any who would dare to pilfer it
from the library, and for so sacrilegious a crime,
calling down upon them the maledictions of Saints
Maria, Oswald, Cuthbert, and Benedict.[209] A volume[131]
containing the lives of St. Cuthbert, St. Oswald,
and St. Aydani, is described as “Liber speciales et
preciosus cum signaculo deaurato.”

Thomas Langley, who was chancellor of England
and bishop of Durham in the year 1406, collected
many choice books, and left some of them to
the library of Durham church; among them a copy
of Lyra’s Commentaries stands conspicuous; he also
bequeathed a number of volumes to many of his
private friends.

There are few monastic libraries whose progress
we can trace with so much satisfaction as the one
now under consideration, for we have another catalogue
compiled during the librarianship of John
Tyshbourne, in the year 1416,[210] in which many
errors appearing in the former ones are carefully
corrected; books which subsequent to that time
had been lost or stolen are here accounted for;
many had been sent to the students at Oxford, and
others have notes appended, implying to whom the
volume had been lent; thus to a “Flores Bernardi,”
occurs “Prior debit, I Kempe Episcopi
Londoni.” It is, next to Monk Henry’s of Canterbury,
one of the best of all the monkish catalogues
I have seen; not so much for its extent, as that
here and there it fully partakes of the character of
a catalogue raisonné; for terse sentences are
affixed to some of the more remarkable volumes,
briefly descriptive of their value; a circumstance
seldom observable in these early attempts at
bibliography.

In taking leave of Durham library, need I say[132]
that the bibliomaniacs who flourished there in the
olden time, not only collected their books with so
much industry, but knew well how to use them too.
The reader is doubtless aware how many learned
men dwelled in monkish time within those ancient
walls; and if he is inquisitive about such things has
often enjoyed a few hours of pleasant chat over
the historic pages of Symeon of Durham,[211] Turgot
and Wessington,[212] and has often heard of brothers
Lawrence,[213] Reginald,[214] and Bolton; but although
unheeded now, many a monkish bookworm, glorying
in the strict observance of Christian humility,
and so unknown to fame, lies buried beneath that
splendid edifice, as many monuments and funeral
tablets testify and speak in high favor of the great
men of Durham. If the reader should perchance
to wander near that place, his eye will be attracted
by many of these memorials of the dead; and a
few hours spent in exploring them will serve to
gain many additional facts to his antiquarian lore,
and perhaps even something better too. For I
know not a more suitable place, as far as outward
circumstances are concerned, than an old sanctuary
of God to prepare the mind and lead it to think
of death and immortality. We read the names of
great men long gone; of wealthy worldlings, whose
fortunes have long been spent; of ambitious states[133]men
and doughty warriors, whose glory is fast fading
as their costly mausoleums crumble in the
hands of time, and whose stone tablets, green with
the lichens’ hue, manifest how futile it is to hope to
gain immortality from stone, or purchase fame by
the cold marble trophies of pompous grief; not
that on their glassy surface the truth is always
faithfully mirrored forth, even when the thoughts
of holy men composed the eulogy; the tombs of old
knew as well how to lie as now, and even ascetic
monks could become too warm in their praises of
departed worth; for whilst they blamed the great
man living, with Christian charity they thought
only of his virtues when they had nothing but his
body left, and murmured long prayers, said tedious
masses, and kept midnight vigils for his soul. For
had he not shown his love to God by his munificence
to His Church on earth? Benedicite, saith
the monks.

[134]

[135]

CHAPTER VI

he low marshy fens of Lincolnshire
are particularly rich in
monastic remains; but none prove
so attractive to the antiquary as
the ruins of the splendid abbey of
Croyland. The pen of Ingulphus
has made the affairs of that old
monastery familiar to us; he has told us of its prospering
and its misfortunes, and we may learn moreover
from the pages of the monk how many wise
and virtuous men, of Saxon and Norman days,
were connected with this ancient fabric, receiving
education there, or devoting their lives to piety
within its walls. It was here that Guthlac, a Saxon
warrior, disgusted with the world, sought solitude[136]
and repose; and for ten long years he led a hermit’s
life in that damp and marshy fen; in prayer and fasting,
working miracles, and leading hearts to God,
he spent his lonely days, all which was rewarded by
a happy and peaceful death, and a sanctifying of
his corporeal remains—for many wondrous miracles
were wrought by those holy relics.

Croyland abbey was founded on the site of
Guthlac’s hermitage, by Ethelred, king of Mercia.
Many years before, when he was striving for the
crown of that kingdom, his cousin, Crobrid, who
then enjoyed it, pursued him with unremitting
enmity; and worn out, spiritless and exhausted, the
royal wanderer sought refuge in the hermit’s cell.
The holy man comforted him with every assurance
of success; and prophesied that he would soon obtain
his rights without battle or without bloodshed;[215]
in return for these brighter prospects, and these
kind wishes, Ethelred promised to found a monastery
on that very spot in honor of God and St.
Guthlac, which promise he faithfully fulfilled in the
year 716, and “thus the wooden oratory was followed
by a church of stone.” Succeeding benefactors
endowed, and succeeding abbots enriched it
with their learning; and as years rolled by so it
grew and flourished till it became great in wealth
and powerful in its influence. But a gloomy day
approached—the Danes destroyed that noble structure,
devastating it by fire, and besmearing its holy
altars with the blood of its hapless inmates. But
zealous piety and monkish perseverance again
restored it, with new and additional lustre; and[137]
besides adding to the splendor of the edifice, augmented
its internal comforts by forming a library
of considerable importance and value. We may
judge how dearly they valued a Bibliotheca in those
old days by the contribution of one benevolent
book-lover—Egebric, the second abbot of that
name, a man whom Ingulphus says was “far more
devoted to sacred learning and to the perusal of
books than skilled in secular matters,”[216] gladdened
the hearts of the monks with a handsome library,
consisting of forty original volumes in various
branches of learning, and more than one hundred
volumes of different tracts and histories,[217] besides
eighteen books for the use of the divine offices
of the church. Honor to the monk who, in the
land of dearth, could amass so bountiful a provision
for the intellect to feed upon; and who encouraged
our early literature—when feeble and
trembling by the renewed attacks of rapacious
invaders—by such fostering care.

In the eleventh century Croyland monastery
was doomed to fresh misfortunes; a calamitous fire,
accidental in its origin, laid the fine monastery
in a heap of ruins, and scattered its library in
blackened ashes to the winds.[218] A sad and irre[138]parable
loss was that to the Norman monks and
to the students of Saxon history in modern times;
for besides four hundred Saxon charters, deeds, etc.,
many of the highest historical interest and value
beautifully illuminated in gold (aureis pictures)
and written in Saxon characters,[219] the whole of
the choice and ample library was burnt, containing
seven hundred volumes, besides the books of divine
offices—the Antiphons and Grailes. I will not
agonize the bibliophile by expatiating further on
the sad work of destruction; but is he not somewhat
surprised that in those bookless days seven
hundred volumes should have been amassed together,
besides a lot of church books and Saxon
times?

Ingulphus, who has so graphically described the
destruction of Croyland monastery by the Danes
in 870, has also given the particulars of their proceedings
at the monastery of Peterborough, anciently
called Medeshamstede, to which they immediately
afterwards bent their steps. The monks,
on hearing of their approach, took the precaution
to guard the monastery by all the means in their
power; but the quiet habits of monastic life were
ill suited to inspire them with a warlike spirit, and
after a feeble resistance, their cruel enemies (whom
the monks speak of in no gentle terms, as the
reader may imagine), soon effected an entrance;
in the contest however Tulla, the brother of
Hulda, the Danish leader, was slain by a stone
thrown by one of the monks from the walls; this
tended to kindle the fury of the besiegers, and[139]
so exasperated Hulda that it is said he killed with
his own hand the whole of the poor defenceless
monks, including their venerable abbot. The sacred
edifice, completely in their hands, was soon laid
waste; they broke down the altars, destroyed the
monuments, and—much will the bibliophile deplore
it—set fire to their immense library “ingens bibliotheca,”
maliciously tearing into pieces all their
valuable and numerous charters, evidences, and
writings. The monastery, says the historian, continued
burning for fifteen days.[220] This seat of Saxon
learning was left buried in its ruins for near one
hundred years, when Athelwold, bishop of Winchester,
in the year 966, restored it; but in the course
of time, after a century of peaceful repose, fresh
troubles sprang up. When Turoldus, a Norman,
who had been appointed by William the Conqueror,
was abbot, the Danes again paid them a visit of
destruction. Hareward de Wake having joined a
Danish force, proceeded to the town of Peterborough;
fortunately the monks obtained some
intelligence of their coming, which gave Turoldus
time to repair to Stamford with his retinue. Taurus,
the Sacrist, also managed to get away, carrying with
him some of their treasures, and among them a
text of the Gospels, which he conveyed to his superior
at Stamford, and by that means preserved
them. On the arrival of the Danes, the remaining
monks were prepared to offer a somewhat stern
resistance, but without effect; for setting fire to the
buildings, the Danes entered through the flames
and smoke, and pillaged the monastery of all its[140]
valuable contents; and that which they could not
carry away, they destroyed: not even sparing the
shrines of holy saints, or the miracle-working dust
contained therein. The monks possessed a great
cross of a most costly nature, which the invaders
endeavored to take away, but could not on account
of its weight and size; however, they broke
off the gold crown from the head of the crucifix,
and the footstool under its feet, which was made of
pure gold and gems; they also carried away two
golden biers, on which the monks carried the relics
of their saints; with nine silver ones. There was
certainly no monachal poverty here, for their
wealth must have been profuse; besides the above
treasures, they took twelve crosses, made of gold
and silver; they also went up to the tower and
took away a table of large size and value, which
the monks had hid there, trusting it might escape
their search; it was a splendid affair, made of gold
and silver and precious stones, and was usually
placed before the altar. But besides all this, they
robbed them of that which those poor monkish bibliophiles
loved more than all. Their library, which
they had collected with much care, and which contained
many volumes, was carried away, “with
many other precious things, the like of which were
not to be found in all England.”[221] The abbot and
those monks who fortunately escaped, afterwards
returned, sad and sorrowful no doubt; but trusting
in their Divine Master and patron Saint, they ultimately
succeeded in making their old house habitable
again, and well fortified it with a strong wall,[141]
so that formerly it used to be remarked that this
building looked more like a military establishment
than a house of God.

Eminently productive was the monastery of
Peterborough in Saxon bibliomaniacs. Its ancient
annals prove how enthusiastically they collected
and transcribed books. There were few indeed of
its abbots who did not help in some way or other
to increase their library. Kenulfus, who was abbot
in the year 992, was a learned and eloquent student
in divine and secular learning. He much improved
his monastery, and greatly added to its literary
treasures.[222] But the benefactors of this place are
too numerous to be minutely specified here. Hugo
Candidus tells us, that Kinfernus, Archbishop of
York, in 1056, gave them many valuable ornaments;
and among them a fine copy of the Gospels,
beautifully adorned with gold. This puts us in
mind of Leofricus, a monk of the abbey, who was
made abbot in the year 1057. He is said to have
been related to the royal family, a circumstance
which may account for his great riches. He was a
sad pluralist, and held at one time no less than five
monasteries, viz. Burton, Coventy, Croyland,
Thorney, and Peterborough.[223] He gave to the
church of Peterborough many and valuable utensils
of gold, silver, and precious stones, and a copy
of the Gospels bound in gold.[224]

[142]

But in all lights, whether regarded as an author
or a bibliophile, great indeed was Benedict, formerly
prior of Canterbury, and secretary to Thomas à
Becket,[225] of whom it is supposed he wrote a life.
He was made abbot of Peterborough in the year
1177; he compiled a history of Henry II. and king
Richard I.;[226] he is spoken of in the highest terms
of praise by Robert Swapham for his profound
wisdom and great erudition in secular matters.[227]
There can be no doubt of his book-loving passion;
for during the time he was abbot he transcribed
himself, and ordered others to transcribe, a great
number of books. Swapham has preserved a catalogue
of them, which is so interesting that I have
transcribed it entire. The list is entitled:

de libris ejus.

• Plurimos quoque libros 3 scribere fecit, quorum nomina subnotantur.
• Vetus et Novum Testamentum in uno volumine.
• Vetus et Novum Testamentum in 4 volumina.
• Quinque libri Moysi glosati in uno volumine.
• Sexdecim Prophetæ glosati in uno volumine.
• Duodecim minores glosati Prophetæ in uno volumine.
• Liber Regum glosatus, paralipomenon glosatus. Job, Parabolæ Solomonis et Ecclesiastes, Cantica Canticorum glosati in uno volumine.
• Liber Ecclesiasticus et Liber Sapientiæ glosatus in uno volumine.
• Tobyas, Judith, Ester et Esdras, glosati in uno volumine.
• Liber Judicum glosatus.
• Scholastica hystoria.[143]
• Psalterium glosatum.
• Item non glosatum.
• Item Psalterium.
• Quatuor Evangelia glosata in uno volumine.
• Item Mathæus et Marcus in uno volumine.
• Johannes et Lucas in uno volumine.
• Epistolæ Pauli glosatæ Apocalypsis et Epistolæ Canonicæ glosata in uno volumine.
• Sententiæ Petri Lombardi.
• Item Sententiæ ejusdem.
• Sermones Bernardi Abbatis Clarevallensis.
• Decreta Gratiani.
• Item Decreta Gratiani.
• Summa Ruffini de Decretis.
• Summa Johannes Fuguntini de Decretis.
• Decretales Epistolæ.
• Item Decretales Epistolæ.
• Item Decretales Epistolæ cum summa sic incipiente; Olim. Institutiones Justiniani cum autenticis et Infortiatio Digestum vetus.
• Tres partes cum digesto novo.
• Summa Placentini.
• Totum Corpus Juris in duobus voluminibus.
• Arismetica.
• Epistolæ Senecæ cum aliis Senecis in uno volumine.
• Martialis totus et Terentius in uno volumine.
• Morale dogma philosophorum.
• Gesta Alexandri et Liber Claudii et Claudiani.
• Summa Petri Heylæ de Grammatica, cum multis allis rebus in uno volumine.
• Gesta Regis Henrica secunda et Genealogiæ ejus.
• Interpretatione Hebraicorum nominum.
• Libellus de incarnatione verbi. Liber Bernardi Abbatis ad Eugenium papam.
• Missale.
• Vitæ Sancti Thomæ Martyris.[228]
• Miracula ejusdem in quinque voluminibus.
• Liber Richardi Plutonis, qui dicitur, unde Malum Meditationes Anselmi.[144]
• Practica Bartholomæi cum multis allis rebus in uno volumine.
• Ars Physicæ Pantegni, et practica ipsius in uno volumine.
• Almazor et Diascoridis de virtutibus herbarum.
• Liber Dinamidiorum et aliorum multorum in uno volumine.
• Libellus de Compoto.

Sixty volumes! perhaps containing near 100
separate works, and all added to the library in the
time of one abbot; surely this is enough to controvert
the opinion that the monks cared nothing for
books or learning, and let not the Justin, Seneca,
Martial, Terence, and Claudian escape the eye of
the reader, those monkish bookworms did care a
little, it would appear, for classical literature. But
what will he say to the fine Bibles that crown and
adorn the list? The two complete copies of the
Vetus et Novum Testamentum, and the many
glossed portions of the sacred writ, reflect honor
upon the Christian monk, and placed him conspicuously
among the bible students of the middle
ages; proving too, that while he could esteem the
wisdom of Seneca, and the vivacity of Terence, and
feel a deep interest in the secular history of his own
times, he did not lose sight of the fountain of all
knowledge, but gave to the Bible his first care, and
the most prominent place on his library shelf. Besides
the books which the abbots collected for the
monastery, they often possessed a private selection
for their own use; there are instances in which
these collections were of great extent; some of
which we shall notice, but generally speaking they
seldom numbered many volumes. Thus Robert of
Lyndeshye, who was abbot of Peterborough in
1214, only possessed six volumes, which were such[145]
as he constantly required for reference or devotion;
they consisted of a Numerale Majestri W. de Montibus
cum alliis rebus; Tropi Majestri Petri cum
diversis summis; Sententiæ Petri Pretanensis;
Psalterium Glossatum; Aurora; Psalterium;[229] Historiale.
These were books continually in requisition,
and which he possessed to save the trouble of
constantly referring to the library. His successor,
abbot Holdernesse, possessed also twelve volumes,[230]
and Walter of St. Edmundsbury Abbot, in
1233, had eighteen books, and among them a fine
copy of the Bible for his private study. Robert of
Sutton in 1262, also abbot of Peterborough, possessed
a similar number, containing a copy of the
Liber Naturalium Anstotelis; and his successor,
Richard of London, among ten books which formed
his private library, had the Consolation of Philosophy,
a great favorite in the monasteries. In the
year 1295 William of Wodeforde, collected twenty
volumes, but less than that number constituted the
library of Adam de Botheby, who was abbot of
Peterborough many years afterwards, but among
them I notice a Seneca, with thirty-six others contained
in the same volume.[231]

Abbot Godfrey, elected in the year 1299, was a
great benefactor to the church, as we learn from
Walter de Whytlesse, who gives a long list of donations
made by him; among a vast quantity of
valuables, “he gave to the church two Bibles, one
of which was written in France,” with about twenty[146]
other volumes. In the war which occurred during
his abbacy, between John Baliol of Scotland and
Edward I. of England, the Scots applied to the
pope for his aid and council; his holiness deemed
it his province to interfere, and directed letters to
the king of England, asserting that the kingdom of
Scotland appertained to the Church of Rome; in
these letters he attempt to prove that it was
opposed to justice, and, what he deemed of still
greater importance, to the interests of the holy see,
that the king of England should not have dominion
over the kingdom of Scotland. The pope’s messengers
on this occasion were received by abbot
Godfrey; Walter says that “He honorably received
two cardinals at Peterborough with their retinues,
who were sent by the pope to make peace
between the English and the Scotch, and besides
cheerfully entertaining them with food and drink,
gave them divers presents; to one of the cardinals,
named Gaucelin, he gave a certain psalter, beautifully
written in letters of gold and purple, and
marvellously illuminated, literis aureis et assuris
scriptum et mirabiliter luminatum.[232] I give this
anecdote to show how splendidly the monks inscribed
those volumes designed for the service of the holy
church. I ought to have mentioned before that
Wulstan, archbishop of York, gave many rare and
precious ornaments to Peterborough, nor should I
omit a curious little book anecdote related of him.
He was born at Jceritune in Warwickshire, and was
sent by his parents to Evesham, and afterwards to
Peterborough, where he gave great indications of[147]
learning. His schoolmaster, who was an Anglo-Saxon
named Erventus, was a clever calligraphist,
and is said to have been highly proficient in the art
of illuminating; he instructed Wulstan in these
accomplishments, who wrote under his direction a
sacramentary and a psalter, and illuminated the
capitals with many pictures painted in gold and
colors; they were executed with so much taste
that his master presented the sacramentary to
Canute, and the psalter to his queen.“[233]

From these few facts relative to Peterborough
Monastery, the reader will readily perceive how
earnestly books were collected by the monks there,
and will be somewhat prepared to learn that a
catalogue of 1,680 volumes is preserved, which
formerly constituted the library of that fraternity
of bibliophiles. This fine old catalogue, printed
by Gunton in his history of the abbey, covers
fifty folio pages; it presents a faithful mirror of
the literature of its day, and speaks well for the
bibliomanical spirit of the monks of Peterborough.
Volumes of patristic eloquence and pious erudition
crowd the list; chronicles, poetry, and philosophical
treatises are mingled with the titles of an abundant
collection of classic works, full of the lore of the
ancient world. Although the names may be similar
to those which I have extracted from other catalogues,
I must not omit to give a few of them;
I find works of—

• Augustine.
• Ambrose.
• Albinus.
• Cassiodorus.
• Gregory.
• Cyprian.
• Seneca.
• Prosper.
• Tully.[148]
• Bede.
• Basil.
• Lanfranc.
• Chrysostom.
• Jerome.
• Eusebius.
• Bœthius.
• Isidore.
• Origin.
• Dionysius.
• Cassian.
• Bernard.
• Anselm.
• Alcuinus.
• Honorius.
• Donatus.
• Macer.
• Persius.
• Virgil.
• Isagoge of Porphry.
• Aristotle.
• Entyci Grammatica.
• Socrates.
• Ovid.
• Priscian.
• Hippocrates.
• Horace.
• Sedulus.
• Theodulus.
• Sallust.
• Macrobius.
• Cato.
• Prudentius.

But although they possessed these fine authors
and many others equally choice, I am not able
to say much for the biblical department of their
library, I should have anticipated a goodly store of
the Holy Scriptures, but in these necessary volumes
they were unusually poor. But I suspect the catalogue
to have been compiled during the fifteenth
century, and I fear too, that in that age the monks
were growing careless of Scripture reading, or at
least relaxing somewhat in the diligence of their
studies; perhaps they devoured the attractive pages
of Ovid, and loved to read his amorous tales more
than became the holiness of their priestly calling.[234]
At any rate we may observe a marked change as
regards the prevalence of the Bible in monastic
libraries between the twelfth and the fifteenth
century. It is true we often find them in those of
the later age; but sometimes they are entirely
without, and frequently only in detached portions.[235][149]
I may illustrate this by a reference to the library of
the Abbey of St. Mary de la Pré at Leicester, which
gloried in a collection of 600 volumes, of the choicest
and almost venerable writers. It was written in the
year 1477, by William Chartye,[236] prior of the abbey,
and an old defective and worn out Bible, Biblie
defect et usit, with some detached portions, was all
that fine library contained of the Sacred Writ.
The bible defect et usit speaks volumes to the praise
of the ancient monks of that house, for it was by
their constant reading and study, that it had become
so thumbed and worn; but it stamps with disgrace
the affluent monks of the fifteenth century, who,
while they could afford to buy, in the year 1470,[237]
some thirty volumes with a Seneca, Ovid, Claudian,
Macrobius, Æsop, etc., among them, and who found
time to transcribe twice as many more, thought not
of restoring their bible tomes, or adding one book
of the Holy Scripture to their crowded shelves.
But alas! monachal piety was waxing cool and
indifferent then, and it is rare to find the honorable
title of an Amator Scripturarum affixed to a
monkish name in the latter part of the fifteenth
century.

[150]

[151]

CHAPTER VII

he latter part of the tenth century
was a most memorable period in
the annals of monkish bibliomania,
and gave birth to one of
the brightest scholars that ever
shone in the dark days of our
Saxon forefathers. King Alfred,
in honor of whose talents posterity have gratefully
designated the Great, spread a fostering care over
the feeble remnant of native literature which the
Danes in their cruel depredations had left unmolested.
The noble aspirations of this royal student
and patron of learning had been instilled into his
mind by the tender care of a fond parent. It was
from the pages of a richly illuminated little volume
of Saxon poetry, given to him by the queen as a
reward for the facility with which he had mastered
its contents, that he first derived that intense love
of books which never forsook him, though the[152]
sterner duties of his after position frequently
required his thoughts and energies in another
channel. Having made himself acquainted with
this little volume, Alfred found a thirst for knowledge
grow upon him, and applied his youthful
mind to study with the most zealous ardor; but
his progress was considerably retarded, because he
could not, at that time, find a Grammaticus capable
of instructing him,[238] although he searched the kingdom
of the West Saxons. Yet he soon acquired
the full knowledge of his own language, and the
Latin it is said he knew as well, and was able to
use with a fluency equal to his native tongue; he
could comprehend the meaning of the Greek,
although perhaps he was incapable of using it to
advantage. He was so passionately fond of books,
and so devoted to reading, that he constantly
carried about him some favorite volume which, as
a spare moment occurred, he perused with the
avidity of an helluo librorum. This pleasing anecdote
related by Asser[239] is characteristic of his
natural perseverance.

When he ascended the throne, he lavished
abundant favors upon all who were eminent for
their literary acquirements; and displayed in their
distribution the utmost liberality and discrimination.
Asser, who afterwards became his biographer,
was during his life the companion and
associate of his studies, and it is from his pen we[153]
learn that, when an interval occurred inoccupied by
his princely duties, Alfred stole into the quietude of
his study to seek comfort and instruction from the
pages of those choice volumes, which comprised
his library. But Alfred was not a mere bookworm,
a devourer of knowledge without purpose or without
meditation of his own, he thought with a student’s
soul well and deeply upon what he read, and drew
from his books those principles of philanthropy, and
those high resolves, which did such honor to the
Saxon monarch. He viewed with sorrow the
degradation of his country, and the intellectual
barrenness of his time; the warmest aspiration of
his soul was to diffuse among his people a love for
literature and science, to raise them above their
Saxon sloth, and lead them to think of loftier
matters than war and carnage. To effect this
noble aim, the highest to which the talents of a
monarch can be applied, he for a length of time
devoted his mind to the translation of Latin authors
into the vernacular tongue. In his preface to the
Pastoral of Gregory which he translated, he laments
the destruction of the old monastic libraries by the
Danes. “I saw,” he writes, “before alle were
spoiled and burnt, how the churches throughout
Britain were filled with treasures and books,”[240]
which must have presented a striking contrast to
the illiterate darkness which he tells us afterwards
spread over his dominions, for there were then
very few paucissimi who could translate a Latin
epistle into the Saxon language.

When Alfred had completed the translation of[154]
Gregory’s Pastoral, he sent a copy to each of his
bishops accompanied with a golden stylus or pen,[241]
thus conveying to them the hint that it was their
duty to use it in the service of piety and learning.
Encouraged by the favorable impression which
this work immediately caused, he spared no pains
to follow up the good design, but patiently applied
himself to the translation of other valuable books
which he rendered into as pleasing and expressive a
version as the language of those rude times permitted.
Besides these literary labors he also wrote
many original volumes, and became a powerful
orator, a learned grammarian, an acute philosopher,
a profound mathematician, and the prince of
Saxon poesy; with these exalted talents he united
those of an historian, an architect, and an accomplished
musician. A copious list of his productions,
the length of which proves the fertility of his pen,
will be found in the Biographica Britannica,[242] but
names of others not there enumerated may be[155]
found in monkish chronicles; of his Manual, which
was in existence in the time of William of Malmsbury,
not a fragment has been found. The last of
his labors was probably an attempt to render the
psalms into the common language, and so unfold
that portion of the Holy Scriptures to our Saxon
ancestors.

Alfred, with the assistance of the many learned
men whom he had called to his court, restored the
monasteries and schools of learning which the
Danes had desecrated, and it is said founded the
university of Oxford, where he built three halls, in
the name of the Holy Trinity; for the doctors of
divinity, philosophy, and grammar. The controversy
which this subject has given rise to among
the learned is too long to enter into here, although
the matter is one of great interest to the scholar
and to the antiquary.

In the year 901, this royal bibliophile, “the
victorious prince, the studious provider for widows,
orphanes, and poore people, most perfect in Saxon
poetrie, most liberall endowed with wisdome, fortitude,
justice, and temperance, departed this life;”[243]
and right well did he deserve this eulogy, for as an
old chronicle says, he was “a goode clerke and
rote many bokes, and a boke he made in Englysshe,
of adventures of kynges and bataylles that had
bene wne in the lande; and other bokes of gestes
he them wryte, that were of greate wisdome, and
of good learnynge, thrugh whych bokes many a
man may him amende, that well them rede, and[156]
upon them loke. And thys kynge Allured lyeth
at Wynchestre.”[244]

[157]

CHAPTER VIII

he venerable Bede enables us to
show that in the early Saxon days
the monasteries of Wearmouth
and Jarrow possessed considerable
collections of books. Benedict
Biscop, the most enthusiastic bibliomaniac
of the age, founded the
monastery of Wearmouth in the year 674, in honor
of the “Most Holy Prince of the Apostles.” His
whole soul was in the work, he spared neither pains
or expense to obtain artists of well known and
reputed talent to decorate the holy edifice; not finding
them at home, he journeyed to Gaul in search
of them, and returned accompanied by numerous
expert and ingenious workmen. Within a year the[158]
building was sufficiently advanced to enable the
monks to celebrate divine service there. He
introduced glass windows and other ornaments into
his church, and furnished it with numerous books
of all descriptions, innumerabilem librorum omnis
generis. Benedict was so passionately fond of
books that he took five journeys to Rome for the
purpose of collecting them. In his third voyage
he gathered together a large quantity on divine
erudition; some of these he bought, or received
them as presents from his friends, vel amicorum
dono largitos retulit. When he arrived at Vienne
on his way home, he collected others which he had
commissioned his friends to purchase for him.[245]
After the completion of his monastery he undertook
his fourth journey to Rome; he obtained from
the Pope many privileges for the abbey, and
returned in the year 680, bringing with him many
more valuable books; he was accompanied by John
the Chantor, who introduced into the English
churches the Roman method of singing. He was
also a great amator librorum, and left many choice
manuscripts to the monks, which Bede writes “were
still preserved in their library.” It was about this
time that Ecgfrid[246] gave Benedict a portion of land
on the other side of the river Wire, at a place
called Jarrow; and that enterprising and indus[159]trious
abbot, in the year 684, built a monastery
thereon. No sooner was it completed, than he
went a fifth time to Rome to search for volumes to
gratify his darling passion. This was the last, but
perhaps the most successful of his foreign tours,
for he brought back with him a vast quantity of
sacred volumes and curious pictures.[247] How deeply
is it to be regretted that the relation of the travels
which Ceolfrid his successor undertook, and which
it is said his own pen inscribed, has been lost to us
forever. He probably spoke much of Benedict in
the volume and recorded his book pilgrimages.
How dearly would the bibliomaniac revel over
those early annals of his science, could his eye
meet those venerable pages—perhaps describing
the choice tomes Benedict met with in his Italian
tours, and telling us how, and what, and where he
gleaned those fine collections; sweet indeed would
have been the perusal of that delectable little volume,
full of the book experience of a bibliophile
in Saxon days, near twelve hundred years ago!
But the ravages of time or the fury of the Danes
deprived us of this rare gem, and we are alone
dependent on Bede for the incidents connected with
the life of this great man; we learn from that
venerable author that Benedict was seized with the
palsy on his return, and that languishing a few
short years, he died in the year 690; but through
pain and suffering he often dwelt on the sweet
treasures of his library, and his solemn thoughts of[160]
death and immortality were intermixed with many
a fond bookish recollection. His most noble and
abundant library which he brought from Rome he
constantly referred to, and gave strict injunctions
that the monks should apply the utmost care to
the preservation of that rich and costly treasure, in
the collection of which so many perils and anxious
years were spent.[248]