And now he was in the library, or scriptorium—the chamber he loved best in his Abbey. What books, forsooth, had he there in those dark ages!
First there were all the books of the Old Testament in several volumes and in the Latin tongue; then the New Testament in three volumes; there were all the works of St. Augustine, in nineteen large tomes, with most of the books of the other fathers of the Western Church; the lives of the great monastic Saints, and the martyrology or acts of the Martyrs. There were books of ecclesiastical history, and treatises on Church music, with various liturgical works. Of light reading there was none, but the lives of the Saints and Martyrs furnished the most exciting reading, wherein fact was unintentionally blended with fiction.
"What a wonderful mine of wealth we have here in this new martyrology! Truly, my brethren, here we have the patience and faith of the Saints to encourage us in our warfare," said the Abbot, opening a huge volume bound in boar's hide, and glancing round at the scribes, who, pen in hand and ink-horn at their girdles, with clear sheets of vellum before them, prepared to write at his dictation.
"This book was lent us by the Abbot of Abingdon, now six months ago, and before Advent it must be returned thither—not until every letter has been duly transcribed into our new folios. Where didst thou leave off yesterday?"
"At the 'Acts of St. Artemas.'"
And the Abbot read, while they wrote down his words: "Artemus was a Christian boy, who lived at Puteoli, and who was sent, at the instigation of heathen relations, to the school of one Cathageta, a heathen. But the little scholar could not hide his faith, although bidden to do so, lest he should suffer persecution. But what is deep in the heart comes out of the mouth, and he converted two or three schoolfellows, so that at the next festival, in honour of Diana, they omitted to place the customary garlands on her image. This aroused inquiry, and the young athlete of Christ was discovered. The master, bidding him renounce his faith in vain, severely scourged him, but the boy said: 'The more you scourge me the more you whip my religion into me.' Whereupon Cathageta, turning to the other scholars, said: 'Perhaps your endeavours will be more successful than mine in wiping out this disgrace from the school;' and he departed, leaving him to the mercies of the other boys, who, educated in the atrocities of the arena, stabbed him to death with their stili or pointed iron pens."[11]
"Poor boy," murmured the youngest copyist—himself but a boy—when the dictation was finished.
"Nay; glorious Martyr, you mean. He has his reward now. You have heard me speak of the martyrdom of St. Euthymius; that was a harder one. It follows here.
"St. Euthymius was a Bishop of the African Church, who, being taken by his persecutors, and refusing to offer sacrifice to the idols, was shut up in a close stone cell with a multitude of mice. A wire, attached to a bell outside, was placed near his hand, and he was told that if he were in distress he might ring it, and should obtain immediate assistance; but that his doing so would be taken as equivalent to a renunciation of Christ. No bell was heard, and when on the third day they opened the cell, they found nought but a whitened skeleton and a multitude of fattened mice."
Every one drew in his breath, some in admiration, some in horror.