He conducted me through a portal rich
with the crumbling sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a
gloomy passage leading to the chapter-house and the chamber in which
doomsday book is deposited. Just within the passage is a small door on
the left. To this the verger applied a key; it was double locked,
and opened with some difficulty, as if seldom used. We now ascended
a dark narrow staircase, and, passing through a second door, entered
the library.
I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported by
massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted by a row
of Gothic windows at a considerable height from the floor, and which
apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient
picture of some reverend dignitary of the church in his robes hung
over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small gallery were the
books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They consisted principally of
old polemical writers, and were much more worn by time than use. In
the centre of the library was a solitary table with two or three books
on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched by long disuse.
The place seemed fitted for quiet study and profound meditation. It
was buried deep among the massive walls of the abbey, and shut up from
the tumult of the world. I could only hear now and then the shouts
of the school-boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the
sound of a bell tolling for prayers, echoing soberly along the roofs
of the abbey.
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