Once, while examining an old choral book, I was particularly struck with the matchless personal element which exists in a book which is made, as this was, by the hand, from the first stroke to the last. The first page showed a bold lettering, the sweep of the pen being firm and free. Animal vigour was demonstrated in the steady hand and the clear eye. The illuminations were daintily painted, and the sure touch of the little white line used to accentuate the colours, was noticeable. After several pages, the letters became less true and firm. The lines had a tendency to slant to the right; a weakness could be detected in the formerly strong man. Finally the writing grew positively shaky. The skill was lost. Suddenly, on another page, came a change. A new hand had taken up the work--that of a novice. He had not the skill of the previous worker in his best days, but the indecision of his lines was that of inexperience, not of failing ability. Gradually he improved. His colours were clearer and ground more smoothly; his gold showed a more glassy surface. The book ended as it had begun, a virile work of art; but in the course of its making, one man had grown old, lost his skill, and died, and another had started in his immaturity, gained his education, and devoted his best years to this book. The printing press stands for all that is progressive and desirable; modern life and thought hang upon this discovery. But in this glorious new birth there was sacrificed a certain indescribable charm which can never be felt now except by a book lover as he turns the leaves of an ancient illuminated book. To him it is given to understand that pathetic appeal across the centuries. THE END. BIBLIOGRAPHY