The poetical works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in six volumes |
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THE SCRIPTORIUM.
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The poetical works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | ||
THE SCRIPTORIUM.
A most interesting volume might be written on the Calligraphers
and Chrysographers, the transcribers and illuminators
of manuscripts in the Middle Ages. These men
were for the most part monks, who labored, sometimes for
pleasure and sometimes for penance, in multiplying copies
of the classics and the Scriptures.
“Of all bodily labors which are proper for us,” says Cassiodorus,
the old Calabrian monk, “that of copying books
has always been more to my taste than any other. The more
so, as in this exercise the mind is instructed by the reading
of the Holy Scriptures, and it is a kind of homily to the
others, whom these books may reach. It is preaching with
the hand, by converting the fingers into tongues; it is publishing
to men in silence the words of salvation; in fine, it
is fighting against the demon with pen and ink. As many
words as a transcriber writes, so many wounds the demon
receives. In a word, a recluse, seated in his chair to copy
books, travels into different provinces without moving from
the spot, and the labor of his hands is felt even where he is
not.”
Nearly every monastery was provided with its Scriptorium.
Nicolas de Clairvaux, St. Bernard's secretary, in one
of his letters describes his cell, which he calls Scriptoriolum,
where he copied books. And Mabillon, in his Etudes
Monastiques, says that in his time were still to be seen at
Citeaux “many of those little cells, where the transcribers
and bookbinders worked.”
Silvestre's Paléographie Universelle contains a vast number
of fac-similes of the most beautiful illuminated manuscripts
of all ages and all countries; and Montfaucon,
in his Palægraphia Græca, gives the names of over three
hundred calligraphers. He also gives an account of the
books they copied, and the colophons with which, as with a
satisfactory flourish of the pen, they closed their long-continued
labors. Many of these are very curious; expressing
joy, humility, remorse; entreating the reader's prayers and
pardon for the writer's sins; and sometimes pronouncing a
malediction on any one who should steal the book. A few of
these I subjoin:—
“As pilgrims rejoice, beholding their native land, so are
transcribers made glad, beholding the end of a book.”
“Sweet is it to write the end of any book.”
“Ye who read, pray for me, who have written this book,
the humble and sinful Theodulus.”
“As many therefore as shall read this book, pardon me,
I beseech you, if aught I have erred in accent acute and
grave, in apostrophe, in breathing soft or aspirate; and may
God save you all! Amen.”
“If anything is well, praise the transcriber; if ill, pardon
his unskillfulness.”
“Ye who read, pray for me, the most sinful of all men,
for the Lord's sake.”
“The hand that has written this book shall decay, alas!
and become dust, and go down to the grave, the corrupter
of all bodies. But all ye who are of the portion of Christ,
pray that I may obtain the pardon of my sins. Again and
again I beseech you with tears, brothers and fathers, accept
my miserable supplication, O holy choir! I am called John,
woe is me! I am called Hiereus, or Sacerdos, in name only,
not in unction.”
“Whoever shall carry away this book, without permission
of the Pope, may he incur the malediction of the Holy Trinity,
of the Holy Mother of God, of Saint John the Baptist,
of the one hundred and eighteen holy Nicene Fathers, and
of all the Saints; the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah; and the
halter of Judas! Anathema, amen.”
“Keep safe, O Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, my three fingers, with which I have written this book.”
“Mathusalas Machir transcribed this divinest book in toil,
infirmity, and dangers many.”
“Bacchius Barbardorius and Michael Sophianus wrote
this book in sport and laughter, being the guests of their
noble and common friend Vincentius Pinellus, and Petrus
Nunnius, a most learned man.”
This last colophon Montfaucon does not suffer to pass
without reproof. “Other calligraphers,” he remarks, “demand
only the prayers of their readers, and the pardon of
their sins; but these glory in their wantonness.”
Friar Pacificus transcribing and illuminating.
A most interesting volume might be written on the Calligraphers and Chrysographers, the transcribers and illuminators of manuscripts in the Middle Ages. These men were for the most part monks, who labored, sometimes for pleasure and sometimes for penance, in multiplying copies of the classics and the Scriptures.
“Of all bodily labors which are proper for us,” says Cassiodorus, the old Calabrian monk, “that of copying books has always been more to my taste than any other. The more so, as in this exercise the mind is instructed by the reading of the Holy Scriptures, and it is a kind of homily to the others, whom these books may reach. It is preaching with the hand, by converting the fingers into tongues; it is publishing to men in silence the words of salvation; in fine, it is fighting against the demon with pen and ink. As many words as a transcriber writes, so many wounds the demon receives. In a word, a recluse, seated in his chair to copy books, travels into different provinces without moving from the spot, and the labor of his hands is felt even where he is not.”
Nearly every monastery was provided with its Scriptorium. Nicolas de Clairvaux, St. Bernard's secretary, in one of his letters describes his cell, which he calls Scriptoriolum, where he copied books. And Mabillon, in his Etudes Monastiques, says that in his time were still to be seen at Citeaux “many of those little cells, where the transcribers and bookbinders worked.”
Silvestre's Paléographie Universelle contains a vast number of fac-similes of the most beautiful illuminated manuscripts of all ages and all countries; and Montfaucon, in his Palægraphia Græca, gives the names of over three hundred calligraphers. He also gives an account of the books they copied, and the colophons with which, as with a satisfactory flourish of the pen, they closed their long-continued labors. Many of these are very curious; expressing joy, humility, remorse; entreating the reader's prayers and pardon for the writer's sins; and sometimes pronouncing a malediction on any one who should steal the book. A few of these I subjoin:—
“As pilgrims rejoice, beholding their native land, so are transcribers made glad, beholding the end of a book.”
“Sweet is it to write the end of any book.”
“Ye who read, pray for me, who have written this book, the humble and sinful Theodulus.”
“As many therefore as shall read this book, pardon me, I beseech you, if aught I have erred in accent acute and grave, in apostrophe, in breathing soft or aspirate; and may God save you all! Amen.”
“If anything is well, praise the transcriber; if ill, pardon his unskillfulness.”
“Ye who read, pray for me, the most sinful of all men, for the Lord's sake.”
“The hand that has written this book shall decay, alas! and become dust, and go down to the grave, the corrupter of all bodies. But all ye who are of the portion of Christ, pray that I may obtain the pardon of my sins. Again and again I beseech you with tears, brothers and fathers, accept my miserable supplication, O holy choir! I am called John, woe is me! I am called Hiereus, or Sacerdos, in name only, not in unction.”
“Whoever shall carry away this book, without permission of the Pope, may he incur the malediction of the Holy Trinity, of the Holy Mother of God, of Saint John the Baptist, of the one hundred and eighteen holy Nicene Fathers, and of all the Saints; the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah; and the halter of Judas! Anathema, amen.”
“Keep safe, O Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, my three fingers, with which I have written this book.”
“Mathusalas Machir transcribed this divinest book in toil, infirmity, and dangers many.”
“Bacchius Barbardorius and Michael Sophianus wrote this book in sport and laughter, being the guests of their noble and common friend Vincentius Pinellus, and Petrus Nunnius, a most learned man.”
This last colophon Montfaucon does not suffer to pass without reproof. “Other calligraphers,” he remarks, “demand only the prayers of their readers, and the pardon of their sins; but these glory in their wantonness.”
FRIAR PACIFICUS.
And then my work for to-day is o'er.
I come again to the name of the Lord!
Ere I that awful name record,
That is spoken so lightly among men,
Let me pause awhile, and wash my pen;
Pure from blemish and blot must it be
When it writes that word of mystery!
Nearly through the Gospel of John.
Can it be that from the lips
Of this same gentle Evangelist,
That Christ himself perhaps has kissed,
Came the dread Apocalypse!
It has a very awful look,
As it stands there at the end of the book,
Like the sun in an eclipse.
Ah me! when I think of that vision divine,
Think of writing it, line by line,
I stand in awe of the terrible curse,
Like the trump of doom, in the closing verse!
God forgive me! if ever I
Lest my part too should be taken away
From the Book of Life on the Judgment Day.
This is well written, though I say it!
I should not be afraid to display it
In open day, on the selfsame shelf
With the writings of St. Thecla herself,
Or of Theodosius, who of old
Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold!
That goodly folio standing yonder,
Without a single blot or blunder,
Would not bear away the palm from mine,
If we should compare them line for line.
Saint Ulric himself never made a better!
Finished down to the leaf and the snail,
Down to the eyes on the peacock's tail!
And now, as I turn the volume over,
And see what lies between cover and cover,
What treasures of art these pages hold,
All ablaze with crimson and gold,
God forgive me! I seem to feel
A certain satisfaction steal
Into my heart, and into my brain,
As if my talent had not lain
Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain.
Yes, I might almost say to the Lord,
Here is a copy of thy Word,
Written out with much toil and pain;
Take it, O Lord, and let it be
As something I have done for thee!
He looks from the window.
I wish I had as lovely a green
To paint my landscapes and my leaves!
How the swallows twitter under the eaves!
There, now, there is one in her nest;
I can just catch a glimpse of her head and breast,
And will sketch her thus, in her quiet nook,
For the margin of my Gospel book.
He makes a sketch.
I can see no more. Through the valley yonder
A shower is passing; I hear the thunder
Mutter its curses in the air,
The Devil's own and only prayer!
The dusty road is brown with rain,
And, speeding on with might and main,
Hitherward rides a gallant train.
They do not parley, they cannot wait,
But hurry in at the convent gate.
What a fair lady! and beside her
What a handsome, graceful, noble rider!
Now she gives him her hand to alight;
They will beg a shelter for the night.
I will go down to the corridor,
And try to see that face once more;
It will do for the face of some beautiful Saint,
Or for one of the Maries I shall paint.
Goes out.
The poetical works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | ||