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,' they
add, 'we are sold like slaves or left as unredeemed pledges in taverns:
we are given to cruel butchers to be slaughtered like sheep or cattle.
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