ENGLAND.
A more austere kind of learning came in with the Norman Conquest.
Lanfranc and Anselm introduced at Canterbury a devotion to science, to
the doctrines of theology and jurisprudence, and to the new discoveries
which Norman travellers were bringing back from the schools at Salerno.
Lanfranc imported a large quantity of books from the Continent. He would
labour day and night at correcting the work of his scribes; and Anselm,
when he succeeded to the See, used often to deprive himself of rest to
finish the transcription of a manuscript. Lanfranc, we are told, was
especially generous in lending his books: among a set which he sent to
St. Alban's we find the names of twenty-eight famous treatises, besides a
large number of missals and other service-books, and two 'Books of the
Gospels,' bound in silver and gold, and ornamented with valuable jewels.
A historian of our own time has said that England in the twelfth century
was the paradise of scholars. Dr. Stubbs imagined a foreign student
making a tour through the country and endeavouring to ascertain its
proper place in the literary world. He would have seen a huge multitude
of books, and 'such a supply of readers and writers' as could not have
been found elsewhere, except perhaps in the University of Paris.
Canterbury was a great literary centre. At Winchester there was a whole
school of historians; at Lincoln he might listen to Walter Map or learn
at the feet of St. Hugh. 'Nothing is more curious than the literary
activity going on in the monasteries; manuscripts are copied; luxurious
editions are recopied and illuminated; there is no lack of generosity in
lending or of boldness in borrowing; there is brisk competition and open
rivalry.'
The Benedictines were ever the pioneers of learning: the regular clergy
were still the friends of their books, and 'delighted in their communion
with them,' as the Philobiblon phrased it. We gather from the same source
the lamentation of the books in the evil times that followed. The books
complain that they are cast from their shelves into dark corners, ragged
and shivering, and bereft of the cushions which propped up their sides.
'Our vesture is torn off by violent hands, so that our souls cleave to
the ground, and our glory is laid in the dust.' The old-fashioned clergy
had been accustomed to treat religious books with reverence, and would
copy them out most carefully in the intervals of the canonical hours. The
monks used to give even their time of rest to the decoration of the
volumes which added a splendour to their monasteries. But now, it is
complained, the Regulars even reject their own rule that books are to be
asked for every day. They carry bows and arrows, or sword and buckler,
and play at dice and draughts, and give no alms except to their dogs.
'Our places are taken by hawks and hounds, or by that strange creature,
woman, from whom we taught our pupils to flee as from an asp or basilisk.
This creature, ever jealous and implacable, spies us out in a corner
hiding behind some ancient cabinet, and she wrinkles her forehead and
laughs us to scorn, and points to us as the only rubbish in the house;
and she complains that we are totally useless, and recommends our being
bartered away at once for fine caps and cambrics or silks, for
double-dyed purple stuffs, for woollen and linen and fur.' 'Nay,' they
add, 'we are sold like slaves or left as unredeemed pledges in taverns:
we are given to cruel butchers to be slaughtered like sheep or cattle.
Every tailor, or base mechanic may keep us shut up in his prison.' Worst
of all was the abominable ingratitude that sold the illuminated vellums
to ignorant painters, or to goldsmiths who only wanted these 'sacred
vessels' as receptacles for their sheets of gold-leaf. 'Flocks and
fleeces, crops and herds, gardens and orchards, the wine and the
wine-cup, are the only books and studies of the monks.' They are
reprehended for their banquets and fine clothes and monasteries towering
on high like a castle in its bulwarks: 'For such things as these,' the
supplication continues, 'we, their books, are cast out of their hearts
and regarded as useless lumber, except some few worthless tracts, from
which they still pick out a mixture of rant and nonsense, more to tickle
the ears of their audience than to assuage any hunger of the soul.'
A great religious revival began with the coming of the Mendicant Friars,
who, according to the celebrated Grostête, 'illumined our whole country
with the light of their preaching and learning.' The Franciscans and
Dominicans reached England in 1224, and were established at Oxford within
two years afterwards, where the Grey Friars of St. Francis soon obtained
as great a predominance as the Dominicans or Black Friars had gained in
the University of Paris. St. Francis himself had set his face against
literature. Professor Brewer pointed out in the _Monumenta Franciscana_
that his followers were expected to be poor in heart and understanding:
'total absolute poverty secured this, but it was incompatible with the
possession of books or the necessary materials for study.' Even Roger
Bacon, when he joined the Friars, was forbidden to retain his books and
instruments, and was not allowed to touch ink or parchment without a
special licence from the Pope. We may quote one or two of the anecdotes
about the Saint. A brother was arguing with him on the text 'Take nothing
with you on the way,' and asked if it meant 'absolutely nothing';
'Nothing,' said the Saint, 'except the frock allowed by our rule, and, if
indispensable, a pair of shoes.' 'What am I to do?' said the brother: 'I
have books of my own,' naming a value of many pounds of silver. 'I will
not, I ought not, I cannot allow it,' was the reply. A novice applied to
St. Francis for leave to possess a psalter: but the Saint said, 'When
you have got a psalter, then you'll want a breviary, and when you have
got a breviary you will sit in a chair as great as a lord, and will say
to some brother, Friar! go and fetch me my breviary!' And he laid ashes
on his head, and repeated, 'I am your breviary! I am your breviary!' till
the novice was dumbfounded and amazed; and then again the Saint said that
he also had once been tempted to possess books, and he almost yielded to
the request, but decided in the end that such yielding would be sinful.
He hoped that the day would come when men would throw their books out of
the window as rubbish.
A curious change took place when the Mendicants got control of the
schools. It was absolutely necessary that they should be the devourers of
books if they were to become the monopolists of learning. In the century
following their arrival, Fitz-Ralph, the Archbishop of Armagh, complained
that his chaplains could not buy any books at Oxford, because they were
all snapped up by the men of the cord and cowl: 'Every brother who keeps
a school has a huge collection, and in each Convent of Freres is a great
and noble library.' The Grey Friars certainly had two houses full of
books in School Street, and their brothers in London had a good library,
which was in later times increased and richly endowed by Sir Richard
Whittington, the book-loving Lord Mayor of London.
There were some complaints that the Friars cared too much for the
contents and too little for the condition of their volumes. The
Carmelites, who arrived in England after the two greater Orders, had the
reputation of being careful librarians, 'anxiously protecting their books
against dust and worms,' and ranging the manuscripts in their large room
at Oxford at first in chests and afterwards in book-cases. The
Franciscans were too ready to give and sell, to lend and spend, the
volumes that they were so keen to acquire. A Dominican was always drawn
with a book in his hand; but he would care nothing for it, if it
contained no secrets of science. Richard de Bury had much to say about
the Friars in that treatise on the love of books, 'which he fondly named
Philobiblon,' being a commendation of Wisdom and of the books wherein she
dwells. The Friars, he said, had preserved the ancient stores of
learning, and were always ready to procure the last sermon from Rome or
the newest pamphlet from Oxford. When he visited their houses in the
country-towns, and turned out their chests and book-shelves, he found
such wealth as might have lain in kings' treasuries; 'in those cupboards
and baskets are not merely the crumbs that fall from the table, but the
shew-bread which is angel's food, and corn from Egypt and the choicest
gilts of Sheba.' He gives the highest praise to the Preachers or Friars
of the Dominican Order, as being most open and ungrudging, 'and
overflowing with a with a kind of divine liberality.' But both Preachers
and Minorites, or Grey Friars, had been his pupils, his friends and
guests in his family, and they had always applied themselves with
unwearied zeal to the task of editing, indexing, and cataloguing the
volumes in the library. 'These men,' he cries, 'are the successors of
Bezaleel and the embroiderers of the ephod and breast-plate: these are
the husbandmen that sow, and the oxen that tread out the corn: they are
the blowers of the trumpets: they are the shining Pleiades and the stars
in their courses.'
Brother Agnellus of Pisa was the first Franciscan missionary at Oxford,
and the first Minister of the Order in this county. He set up a school
for poor students, at which Bishop Grostête was the first reader or
master; but we are told that he afterwards felt great regret when he
found his Friars bestowing their time upon frivolous learning. 'One day,
when he wished to see what proficiency they were making, he entered the
school while a disputation was going on, and they were wrangling and
debating about the existence of the Deity. "Woe is me! Woe is me!" he
burst forth: "the simple brethren are entering heaven, and the learned
ones are debating if there be one"; and he sent at once a sum of £10
sterling to the Court to buy a copy of the Decretals, that the Friars
might study them and give over their frivolities.' The great difficulty
was to prevent the brethren from studying the doctrine of Aristotle, as
it was to be found in vile Latin translations, instead of attending to
Grostête, who was said to know 'a hundred thousand times more than
Aristotle' on all his subjects. Grostête himself spent very large sums
in importing Greek books. In this he was helped by John Basingstoke, who
had himself studied at Athens, and who taught the Greek language to
several of the monks at St. Alban's. Grostête upheld the eastern
doctrines against the teaching of the Papal Court, and indeed was
nicknamed 'the hammerer of the Romans.' He based many of his statements
upon books which he valued as his choicest possessions; but some of them,
such as the _Testament of the Patriarchs_ and the _Decretals of
Dionysius_ are now admitted to be forgeries. On Grostête's death in 1253
he bequeathed his library, rich in marginal commentaries and annotations,
to the Friars for whom he had worked before he became Bishop and
Chancellor. Some generations afterwards their successors sold many of the
books to Dr. Gascoigne, who used to work on them at the Minorites'
Library: and some of those which he bought found their way to the
libraries of Balliol, Oriel, and Lincoln; the main body of Grostête's
books was gradually dispersed by gifts and sales, and dwindled down to
little or nothing; so that, when Leland paid his official visit after the
suppression of the monasteries, he found very few books of any kind, but
plenty of dust and cobwebs, 'and moths and beetles swarming over the
empty shelves.'
It has been said that Richard de Bury had not much depth of learning; and
it has been a favourite theory for many years that his book might have
been written for him by his secretary, the Dominican Robert Holkot. The
matter is not very important, since it is certain, in spite of ancient
and modern detractors, that Richard de Bury or 'Aungerville' was a most
ardent bibliophile and a very devoted attendant in the 'Library of
Wisdom.' He was the son of Sir Richard Aungerville, a knight of Suffolk;
but in accordance with a fashion of the day he was usually called after
his birthplace. He was born at Bury St. Edmunds in the year 1287: he was
educated at Oxford, and afterwards took a prominent part in the civil
troubles, taking the side of Queen Isabel and Edward of Windsor against
the unfortunate Edward II. He was appointed tutor to the Prince, and soon
afterwards became the receiver of his revenues in Wales. When the Queen
fled to her own country, Richard followed with a large sum of money,
collected by virtue of his office; and he had a narrow escape for his
life, being chased by a troop of English lancers as far as Paris itself,
where he lay concealed for a week in the belfry of the Minorites' Church.
When his pupil came to the throne many lucrative offices were showered on
his faithful friend. Richard became Cofferer and Treasurer of the
Wardrobe, and for five years was Clerk of the Privy Seal; and during that
period he was twice sent as ambassador to the Pope at Avignon, where he
had the honour of becoming the friend of Petrarch.
The poet has himself described his meeting with the Englishman travelling
in such splendid fashion to lay before his Holiness his master's claims
upon France. 'It was at the time,' says Petrarch, 'when the seeds of war
were growing that produced such a blood-stained harvest, in which the
sickles are not laid aside nor as yet are the garners closed.' He found
in his visitor 'a man of ardent mind and by no means unacquainted with
literature.' He discovered indeed that Richard was on some points full of
curious learning, and it occurred to him that one born and bred in
Britain might know the situation of the long-lost island of Thule. 'But
whether he was ashamed of his ignorance,' says Petrarch, 'or whether, as
I will not suspect, he grudged information upon the subject, and whether
he spoke his real mind or not, he only answered that he would tell me,
but not till he had returned home to his books, of which no man had a
more abundant supply.' The poet complains that the answer never came, in
spite of many letters of reminder; 'and so my friendship with a Briton
never taught me anything more about the Isle of Thule.'
Richard was consecrated Bishop of Durham in 1333, after an amicable
struggle between the Pope and the King as to the hand that should bestow
the preferment. A few months afterwards he became High Treasurer, and in
the same year was appointed Lord Chancellor. Within the next three years
he was sent on several embassies to France to urge the English claims,
and he afterwards went on the same business to Flanders and Brabant. He
writes with a kind of rapture of his first expeditions to Paris; in
later years he complained that the study of antiquities was superseding
science, in which the doctors of the Sorbonne had excelled. 'I was sent
first to the Papal Chair, and afterwards to the Court of France, and
thence to other countries, on tedious embassies and in perilous times,
bearing with me all the time that love of books which many waters could
not extinguish.' 'Oh Lord of Lords in Zion!' he ejaculates, 'what a flood
of pleasure rejoiced my heart when I reached Paris, the earthly Paradise.
How I longed to remain there, and to my ardent soul how few and short
seemed the days! There are the libraries in their chambers of spice, the
lawns wherein every growth of learning blooms. There the meads of Academe
shake to the footfall of the philosophers as they pace along: there are
the peaks of Parnassus, and there is the Stoic Porch. Here you will find
Aristotle, the overseer of learning, to whom belongs in his own right all
the excellent knowledge that remains in this transitory world. Here
Ptolemy weaves his cycles and epicycles, and here Gensachar tracks the
planets' courses with his figures and charts. Here it was in very truth
that with open treasure-chest and purse untied I scattered my money with
a light heart, and ransomed the priceless volumes with my dust and
dross.'
He shows, as he himself confessed, an ecstatical love for his books.
'These are the masters that teach without rods and stripes, without angry
words, without demanding a fee in money or in kind: if you draw near,
they sleep not: if you ask, they answer in full: if you are mistaken,
they neither rail nor laugh at your ignorance.' 'You only, my books!' he
cries, 'are free and unfettered: you only can give to all who ask and
enfranchise all that serve you.' In his glowing periods they become
transfigured into the wells of living water, the fatness of the olive,
the sweetness of the vines of Engaddi; they seem to him like golden urns
in which the manna was stored, like the fruitful tree of life and the
four-fold river of Eden.
[Illustration: SEAL OF RICHARD DE BURY.]
Richard de Bury had more books than all the other bishops in England. He
set up several permanent libraries in his manor-houses and at his palace
in Auckland; the floor of his hall was always so strewed with manuscripts
that it was hard to approach his presence, and his bedroom so full of
books that one could not go in or out, or even stand still without
treading on them. He has told us many particulars about his methods of
collection. He had lived with scholars from his youth upwards; but it was
not until he became the King's friend, and almost a member of his family,
that he was able 'to hunt in the delightful coverts' of the clerical and
monastic libraries. As Chancellor he had great facilities for 'dragging
the books from their hiding-places'; 'a flying rumour had spread on all
sides that we longed for books, and especially for old ones, and that it
was easier to gain our favour by a manuscript than by gifts of coin.' As
he had the power of promoting and deposing whom he pleased, the 'crazy
quartos and tottering folios' came creeping in as gifts instead of the
ordinary fees and New Year's presents. The book-cases of the monasteries
were opened, and their caskets unclasped, and the volumes that had lain
for ages in the sepulchres were roused by the light of day. 'I might have
had,' he said, 'abundance of wealth in those days; but it was books, and
not bags of gold, that I wanted; I preferred folios to florins, and loved
a little thin pamphlet more than an overfed palfrey.' We know that he
bought many books on his embassies to France and Flanders, besides his
constant purchases at home. He tells us that the Friars were his best
agents; they would compass sea and land to meet his desire. 'With such
eager huntsmen, what leveret could lie hid? With such fishermen, what
single little fish could escape the net, the hook, and the trawl?' He
found another source of supply in the country schools, where the masters
were always ready to sell their books; and in these little gardens and
paddocks, as chances occurred, he culled a few flowers or gathered a few
neglected herbs. His money secured the services of the librarians and
bookstall-men on the Continent, who were afraid of no journey by land,
and were deterred by no fury of the sea. 'Moreover,' he added, 'we always
had about us a multitude of experts and copyists, with binders, and
correctors, and illuminators, and all who were in any way qualified for
the service of books.' He ends his chapter on book-collecting with a
reference to an eastern tale, comparing himself to the mountain of
loadstone that attracted the ships of knowledge by a secret force, while
the books in their cargoes, like the iron bars in the story, were
streaming towards the magnetic cliff 'in a multifarious flight.'