e 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,'