and make full an abundance of
good works according to thy will."

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,