habitudes of his time, which were to do the gospels or the life of
a favourite saint into hexameters, he wrote a poem, 'Hortulus,'
descriptive of the garden of the monastery. The garden was all the world
to the monks; it furnished them at once with the pleasures and the
necessaries of their lives. Walahfrid felt this; he described his
feelings, and he produced a chef d'oeuvre." Going over to the bookcase,
John took down a volume. He read:--

"'Hoc nemus umbriferum pingit viridissima Rutae
Silvula coeruleae, foliis quae praedita parvis,
Umbellas jaculata brevis, spiramina venti
Et radios Phoebi caules transmittit ad imos,
Attactuque graves leni dispergit odores,
Haec cum multiplici vigeat virtute medelae,
Dicitur occultis apprime obstare venenis,
Toxicaque invasis incommoda pellere fibris.'

"Now, can anything be more charming? True it is that pingit in the first
line does not seem to construe satisfactorily, and I am not certain that
the poet may not have written _fingit_. Fingit would not be pure Latin,
but that is beside the question."

"Indeed it is. I must say I prefer the Georgics. I have known many
strange tastes, but your fancy for bad Latin is the strangest of all."

"Classical Latin, with the exception of Tacitus, is cold-blooded and
self-satisfied. There is no agitation, no fever; to me it is utterly
without interest."

To the books and manuscripts the pictures on the walls afforded an