And what inspiration and cheer does every book-lover find in the letter which that grand old bibliomaniac, Alcuin, addressed to Charlemagne:  ``I, your Flaccus, according to your admonitions and good will, administer to some in the house of St. Martin the sweets of the Holy Scriptures; others I inebriate with the study of ancient wisdom; and others I fill with the fruits of grammatical lore.  Many I seek to instruct in the order of the stars which illuminate the glorious vault of heaven, so that they may be made ornaments to the holy church of God and the court of your imperial majesty; that the goodness of God and your kindness may not be altogether unproductive of good.  But in doing this I discover the want of much, especially those exquisite books of scholastic learning which I possessed in my own country, through the industry of my good and most devout master, Egbert.  I therefore entreat your Excellence to permit me to send into Britain some of our youths to procure those books which we so much desire, and thus transplant into France the flowers of Britain, that they may fructify and perfume, not only the garden at York, but also the Paradise of Tours, and that we may say in the words of the song:  `Let my beloved come into his garden and eat his pleasant fruit;’ and to the young:  `Eat, O friends; drink, yea, drink abundantly, O beloved;’ or exhort in the words of the prophet Isaiah:  `Every one that thirsteth to come to the waters, and ye that have no money, come ye, buy and eat:  yea, come buy wine and milk, without money and without price.’ ‘’

I was meaning to have somewhat to say about Alcuin, and had intended to pay my respects to Canute, Alfred, the Abbot of St. Albans, the Archbishop of Salzburg, the Prior of Dover, and other mediaeval worthies, when Judge Methuen came in and interrupted the thread of my meditation.  The Judge brings me some verses done recently by a poet-friend of his, and he asks me to give them a place in these memoirs as illustrating the vanity of human confidence.

  One day I got a missive
      Writ in a dainty hand,
  Which made my manly bosom
      With vanity expand. 
  ‘T was from a ``young admirer’’
      Who asked me would I mind
  Sending her ``favorite poem’’
      ``In autograph, and signed.’’

  She craved the boon so sweetly
      That I had been a churl
  Had I repulsed the homage
      Of this gentle, timid girl;
  With bright illuminations
      I decked the manuscript,
  And in my choicest paints and inks
      My brush and pen I dipt.

  Indeed it had been tedious
      But that a flattered smile
  Played on my rugged features
      And eased my toil the while. 
  I was assured my poem
      Would fill her with delight—­
  I fancied she was pretty—­
      I knew that she was bright!