[1]
[1] Mun. Acad., 226-228.
We can easily imagine what the library was like. The
chamber over the Congregation House is small, scarcely
larger than the average class-room of to-day; lighted by
seven windows on each side. Between some, if not all, of
the windows bookcases would stand at right angles to the
wall, forming little alcoves, fit for the quiet pursuit of
knowledge. Learning itself was shackled. Chains from a
bar running the length of each case secured the books,
which could only be read on the slope fixed a few feet
above the floor. In each alcove was a bench for readers
to sit upon. A large and conspicuous board, with titles
and names of benefactors written upon it in a fair hand,
hung up in the room.[1] Here then would come the flower
of Oxford scholarship to study, any time after eight in the
morning. Every student is welcome if he does not enter
in wet clothing, or bring in ink, or a knife, or dagger. We
like to picture this small room, fitted with solid, rude
furniture, monastic in its austerity of appearance; full of
students working eagerly in their quest for knowledge--
making extracts in pencil, or with styles on their tablets,
amid a silence broken only by the crackle of vellum leaves,
and the rattle of a chain.
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