“Ingenia hominum rem publicam fecerunt.”

§I

PROBABLY a few scribes plied their craft in Oxford in early days long before the students began to make a settlement, for the town had been a flourishing borough, one of the largest in England. But until the end of the twelfth century we hear nothing about books and their makers or users in Oxford. Then we find illuminators, bookbinders, parchmenters, and a scribe referred to in a document relating to the sale of land in Cat Street. This record is very significant, as it suggests the active employment of book-makers in the centre of Oxford’s student life. St. Mary’s Church was the hub. Cat Street, School Street running parallel with it from High Street to the north boundary, and Schydyard Street, the continuation of School Street on the southern side of High Street, alleys of the usual medieval narrowness and mean appearance, the buildings on either hand almost touching one another, and the way dark—were the haunts of masters and scholars and all those depending on them. Students, old and young, of high station and low, are crowded in lodging-houses, many of which are shabby, dirty, and disreputable. Hence they come forth to play their games or carry on their feuds. Some haunt taverns and worse places. Others eke out their means by begging at street corners. All get their teaching by gathering round masters whose rostrum is the church doorstep or the threshold of the lodging-house. Amid the manifold distractions of this queerly-ordered life the maker and seller of books earns what living he can; his chief patrons being indigent masters, who often must starve themselves to get books, and students so poor that pawning becomes a custom regulated by the University itself.

Not till the University became firmly established as a corporate body could a common library be formed. The beginning was simple. The first books reserved for common use had their home in St. Mary’s Church: some lay in chests, and were lent in exchange for a suitable pledge; others were chained to desks so that students could readily refer to them. These books were almost certainly theological in character, and all were no doubt given by benefactors, now unknown. Such a gift was received early in the thirteenth century from Roger de L’Isle, Dean of York, who gave a Bible, divided into four parts for the convenience of copyists, and the Book of Exodus, glossed, but old and of little value.[338] Possibly some books remained in the church even after an independent library was founded, for as late as 1414 a copy of Nicholas de Lyra was chained in the chancel for public use, where it was inspected by the Chancellor and proctors every year.[339]

To a “good clerk” who had gathered his learning at three Universities—the arts at Paris, canon law at Oxford, and theology at Cambridge—the University library appropriately owes its origin. Bishop Cobham left his books

and three hundred and fifty marks for this purpose in 1327. He had proposed to build a two-storied building, the lower chamber to be the Congregation House, and the upper a library; or perhaps the Congregation House was already standing, and he had the idea of adding another story, for use as an oratory and library. Therein his books would bide when he died.[340] Not till long after his death was the building completed. His books did not come to the University without much trouble. Bequests were elusive in the Middle Ages, for people sometimes dreamed of projects they could not realize while they lived, and sanguinely hoped their executors would win prayers for the dead by successfully stretching poor means to a good end. Cobham died in debt. His books were pawned to settle his estate and pay for his funeral. Adam de Brome redeemed the pledges, and handed them over, not to the University, but to his newly-founded college of Oriel.[341] In peace the books were enjoyed at Oriel until four years after de Brome’s death. The Fellows claimed them, it appears, not only because he redeemed them, but because, as impropriating rectors of the church, both building and library were theirs, they argued, by right. The University was equally persistent in its claim. At last, ten years after Cobham’s death, the Commissary, taking mean advantage of the small number of Fellows in residence in autumn, went to Oriel with “a multitude of others,” and brought the books away by force. Thereafter the University held them, but it took nearly seventy years to settle the dispute about them, and to decide the ownership of the Congregation House (1410).[342]

Long before 1410 the “good clerk’s” books had been made of real service to students. Fittings were put up in the library room (1365). Then regulations for managing the library were drawn up (1367). The books were to be put in the chamber over the Congregation House, marshalled in convenient order and chained. There, at certain times, scholars were to have access to them. Now first appeared upon the scene a University librarian. The University’s means were slender, and £40 worth of the books were sold to provide a stipend for a chaplain-librarian: in place of these books others of less value were bought; probably some of Cobham’s books were finely illuminated, and the intention was to purchase less costly copies in their stead. The chaplain was to pray for the souls of Cobham and of University benefactors; and to have the charge of the bishop’s books, of the books in the chests, and of any books coming to the University afterwards.[343]

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.[344] 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.

Such a picture would perhaps be overdrawn. Young Oxford was not always quiet, or whole-heartedly studious. The liberal regulations seem to have been liable to abuse. Students soiled and damaged the books. The little room was more than full: it was overcrowded with scholars, and with “throngs of visitors” who disturbed the readers. After 1412 only graduates and religious who had studied philosophy for eight years could enter the library, and while there they must be robed. Even such mature students had to make solemn oath, in the Chancellor’s presence, to use the books properly: make no erasures or blots, or otherwise spoil the precious writing.[345] Under these regulations the library was open from nine to eleven in the morning, and from one to four in the afternoon, Sundays and mass days excepted. Strangers of eminence and the Chancellor could pay a visit at any time by daylight. The chaplain, who was to be a man of parts, of proved morality and uprightness, now received 106s. 8d. a year. The Proctors were bound to pay this stipend half-yearly, with punctuality, or be fined the heavy sum of forty shillings: the chaplain, it is explained, must have no grievance to nurse—no ground for carrying out his duties in a slovenly or perfunctory manner. He, indeed, was an important officer. For health’s sake he must have a month’s holiday during the long vacation. As it was absurd for him to have fewer perquisites than those below him in station, every beneficed graduate, at graduation, was required to give him robes.[346] The finicking character of these regulations suggests that the University statute-maker had as great a dislike for “understandings” as Dr. Newman.

Thus was established firmly, in the early years of the fifteenth century, a University Library, an important resort of students; the proper place, as the common rendezvous of members of the University, for publishing the Lollard doctrines condemned at London in 1411. No town in England was better supplied with libraries than Oxford, for besides the collections of the University, the monastic colleges and the convents, libraries were already formed at Merton, University, Oriel and New Colleges. Such progress in providing scholars’ armouries is remarkable, the greater part of it being accomplished during a period of great social and religious unrest—not the unrest of a wind-fretted surface, but of a grim and far-sweeping underswell—a period when pestilence, violent tempests and earthquakes, seemed bodeful of Divine displeasure; not a time surely when the studious life would be attractive, or when much care would be taken to establish libraries, unless indeed controversy made recourse to books more necessary or the signs of the times gave birth to a greater number of benefactors.[347]

But the University library was to become the richest and most considerable in the town. Benefactors were well greeted. Besides praying for their souls—and some of them, like Bishop Reed, were pathetically anxious about the prayers—the University showed every reasonable sign of its gratitude: posted up donors’ names in the library itself; submitted each gift to congregation three days after receiving it, and within twelve days later had it chained

up.[348] Many gifts of books were received, some from the highest in the land: from King Henry the Fourth and his warlike and ambitious sons—Henry V, Clarence, Bedford, and Gloucester; from Edmund, Earl of March; from prelates—Archbishop Arundel, Repyngton of Lincoln, Courtney of Norwich, and Molyneux of Chichester; from great Abbot Whethamstede of St. Albans; from wealthy Archdeacon Browne or Cordone; from rich citizens of London—Thomas Knolles the grocer and T. Grauntt; and from Henry VI’s physician, John Somersett. John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, also promised books worth five hundred marks, but after his death they did not come to hand.[349]

By far the most generous of friends was the Duke of Gloucester, whose first gift was made before 1413,[350] and his last when he died in 1447. His record as the helper and protector of Oxford, his patronage of learning, and of such exponents of it as Titus Livius of Forli, Leonardo Bruni, Lydgate and Capgrave, the fact that, notwithstanding his “staat and dignyte,”

earned for him the name of the “good” duke—an appellation to which the shady labyrinth of his career as a politician, as a persecutor of the Lollards, and as a licentious man, did not entitle him. But then Oxford—and its library—was most in need of such a friend as this English Gismondo Malatesta; not only on account of his generosity, but because his royal connexions enabled him to exert influence on the University’s behalf, both at home and abroad.

Of the character of the Duke’s gifts in 1413 and in

1430 we know nothing: in 1435 he gave books and money, but how many books or how much money is not recorded. Three years later the University sought another gift from him, and he forthwith sent no fewer than 120 volumes (1439).[351] The University’s gratitude was unbounded. On certain festivals during the Duke’s lifetime prayers were to be said for him, within ten days after he died a funeral service was to be celebrated, and on every anniversary of his death he and his consort were to be commemorated.[352] Their letters were fulsome: as a founder of libraries he was compared with Julius CÆsar—a compliment also paid him about the same time by Pier Candid Decembrio; Parliament was besought to thank him “hertyly, and also prey Godd to thanke hym in tyme commyng, wher goode dedys ben rewarded”;[353] as a prince he was most serene and illustrious, lord of glorious renown, son of a king, brother of a king, uncle of a king, “the very beams of the sun himself”; as a donor, as greatly and munificently liberal as the recipients were lowly and humble.[354]

Congregation further marked its appreciation by decreeing a fresh set of library regulations. A new register, containing a list of the books already given, was to be made, and deposited in the chest “of five keys”; lists were also to be written in the statute books. No volume was to be sold, given away, exchanged, pledged, lent to be copied, or removed from the library—except when it needed repair, or when the Duke himself wanted to borrow it, as he could, though only under indenture.[355] All books for the study of the seven liberal arts—the trivium and the quadrivium—and the three philosophies were to be kept in a chest called the “chest of the three philosophies and the seven sciences”; a name suggesting a talisman, like the golden fleece or the Holy Grail, for which one would exchange the world and all its ways. The librarian had charge of this wonderful chest. From it, by indenture, he could lend books—apparently these books were excepted from the general rule—to masters of arts lecturing in these subjects, or, if there were no lecturers, to principals of halls and masters. And, following older custom, a stationer set upon each book a price greater than its real value, to lead borrowers to take more care of it.[356] From a manuscript preserved in the library of Earl Fitzwilliam at Wentworth Woodhouse are taken the following curious lines indicating the character and arrangement of his books:—

A year later Gloucester sent 7 more books; then after a while 9 more (1440-41);[358] and a little later still his largest gift, amounting to 135 volumes. These handsome accessions made the collection the finest academic library in England, not excepting the excellent library of 380 volumes then at Peterhouse. It had a character of its own. The usual overwhelming mass of Bibles, of church books, of the Fathers and the Schoolmen does not depress us with its disproportion. The collection was strong in astronomy and medicine: Ptolemy, Albumazar, Rhazes, Serapion, Avicenna, Haly Abenragel, ZaÆl, and others were all represented. Besides these, there was a fine selection of the classics—Plato, Aristotle, including the Politica and Ethica, Æschines’ orations, Terence, Varro’s De Originae linguae Latinae, Cicero’s letters, Verrine and other orations, and “opera viginti duo Tullii in magno volumine,” Livy, Ovid, Seneca’s tragedies, Quintilian, Aulus Gellius, Noctes Atticae, the Golden Ass of Apuleius, and Suetonius. But the most interesting items in the list of his books are the new translations of Plato, and of Aristotle, whose Ethica was rendered by Leonardo Bruni; the Greek and Latin dictionary; and the works of Dante, Petrarch (de Vita solitaria, de Rebus memorandis, de Remediis

utriusque fortunae), Boccaccio, and of Coluccio Salutati’s letters.[359]

The library’s character might still further have been freshened had Gloucester’s bequest of his Latin books—the books, we may suppose, he himself prized too highly to part with during his lifetime—been carried into effect.[360]

“Our right special Lord and mighty Prince the Duke of Gloucester, late passed out of this world,—whose soul God assoil for his high mercy,—not long before his decease, being in our said University among all the doctors and masters of the same assembled together, granted unto us all his Latin books, to the loving of God, increase of clergy and cunning men, to the good governance and prosperity of the realm of England without end ... the which gift oftentimes after, by our messengers, and also in his last testament, as we understand, he confirmed.” But alas! Gloucester’s bequest was even more elusive than Cobham’s. These books they could, “by no manner of labours, since he deceased, obtain.”[361] What followed is interesting. Letters asking for the books were sent to the king, to Mr. John Somersett, His Majesty’s physician, “lately come to influence,” to William of Waynflete, provost of the king’s pet project, Eton College, and much in favour; and to the king’s chamberlain (1447). As these appeals were unavailing, another letter was sent to the king in 1450, and several others to influential persons, some being to Gloucester’s executors; then, in the same year, the House of Lords was petitioned. All this wire-pulling failed to serve its end. The University became angry. An outspoken letter was sent to Master John Somersett, “lately come to influence”: “Our proctor, Mr. Luke, tells us of your efforts for us to obtain the books given by the late Duke of Gloucester, and of your intercession with the king in our cause: also that you propose to add, of your own gift, other books to his bequest.” All this is very good of you, the letter proceeds, in effect, “but how is it that, under these circumstances, the Duke’s books, which came into your custody, are not delivered to us, unless it be that some powerful influence is exerted to prevent it; for a steadfast and good man will not be made to swerve from the path of justice by interest or cupidity. Use your endeavours to get these books: so do us a good favour; and clear your character.” Three years later it was discovered the books were scattered and in private hands (1453),[362] or, as seems likely, at King’s College, Cambridge, and Eton.

Now the library over the Congregation House was all too small. A Divinity School seems to have been first projected in 1423; building began about seven years later;[363] but the work proceeded very slowly, owing to want of money, which the authorities tried to raise in various ways, even by granting degrees on easy terms. When Gloucester’s books came to overcrowd the old library—and the books were chained so closely together that a student when reading one prevented the use of three or four books near to it—the idea was apparently first mooted of erecting a bigger room over the new school, where scholars might study far from the hum of men (a strepitu saeculari). The University sent an appeal to the Duke for help to carry out this scheme (1445), but he had then lost power and was in trouble, and does not seem to have responded favourably, albeit they suggested adroitly the new library should bear his name.[364] The building was

finished forty years after his death. This ultimate success was due chiefly to the generosity of Cardinal Beaufort, the Duchess of Suffolk, and Cardinal Kempe—whose own library was magnificent.[365]

By 1488, then, the University was in full enjoyment of the chamber known ever since as Duke Humfrey’s Library, the noblest storehouse of books then existing in England.[366] In the same year an old scholar, not known by name, gave 31 books, and in 1490 Dr. Litchfield, Archdeacon of Middlesex, presented 132 volumes and a sum of £200. These gifts mark the culminating point in the history of the first University library—a collection over a century and a half old, accumulated slowly by the forethought and generosity of the University’s friends, only, alas! in a few years’ time to be almost completely dispersed and destroyed.

§ II

Before speaking of the dispersion of the University collection it will be well to observe what had been done in the colleges, where libraries must have formed an important part of the collegiate economy. Books, indeed, were eagerly sought, carefully guarded and preserved; and wealthy Fellows—even Fellows not to be described as wealthy—often proved their affection for their college by giving manuscripts.

The first house of the University, William of Durham’s Hall or University Hall (now University College), was founded between 1249 and 1292, when its statutes were drawn up. In these statutes are the earliest regulations of the University for dealing with books in its possession.[367] It seems clear that the college enjoyed a library—perhaps of some importance,—with excellent regulations for its use, at the end of the thirteenth century. What is true of University College is true also of nearly all the other colleges. Although most of them were not rich foundations, one of the first efforts of a society was to collect books for common use. A few years after Merton’s inception (1264) the teacher of grammar was supplied with books out of the common purse, and directions were given for the care of books.[368] To Balliol, Bishop Gravesend of London bequeathed books (1336) some fifty years after the statutes were given by the founder’s wife.[369] Four years later Sir William de Felton presented to the college the advowson of the Church of Abboldesley, so that the number of scholars could be raised, each could have sufficient clothing, receive twelvepence a week, and possess in common books relating to the various Faculties.[370] The earliest reference to the library of Exeter College, or Stapledon Hall, occurs also about half a century after its foundation: in 1366 payment was made for copying a book called Domyltone—possibly one of John of Dumbleton’s works. Oriel College either had a library from its foundation, or the regulations of 1329 were drawn up for Bishop Cobham’s books, which Adam de Brome had redeemed. In 1375 Oriel certainly had its own library of nearly one hundred volumes, more than half of them being on theology and philosophy, with some translations of Aristotle, but otherwise not a single classic work; a collection to be fairly considered as representative of the academic libraries of this period.[371] Queen’s College was one of those to which Simon de Bredon, the astronomer, bequeathed books in 1368, nearly thirty years after its foundation.[372] “Seint Marie College of Wynchestr,” or New College, made a better start than any house (1380). The founder, William of Wykeham, endowed it with no fewer than 240 or 243 volumes, of which 135 or 138 were theology, 28 philosophy, 41 canon law, 36 civil law; somebody unnamed, but possibly the founder, presented 37 volumes of medicine and 15 chained books in the library; and Bishop Reed—also the good friend of Merton—gave 58 volumes of theology, 2 of philosophy, and 3 of canon law.[373] Lincoln College had a collection of books at its foundation (1429); Dr. Gascoigne gave 6 manuscripts worth nearly three pounds apiece (1432); and Robert Flemming, a cousin of the founder, renowned for his travels and studies and collections in Italy, left a number of manuscripts, variously estimated at 25 and 38 in number, to his house. In 1474 this college had 135 manuscripts, stored in seven presses. Rules for the use of books were included in the first statutes of All Souls College, founded in 1438. At Magdalen the library had a magnificent start when William of Waynflete brought with him no fewer than 800 volumes on his visit in 1481; many of these were printed books.

To tell the story of each of these early college libraries with continuity is not to our purpose, and is perhaps not feasible. So many details are lacking. We do not know whether all the libraries, once started, were constantly maintained; but it is reasonable to assume they were, as records—a few only—of purchases and donations are preserved. Usually gifts were made only to the college in which the donor felt special interest, but sometimes generous men were more catholic. Four colleges—University, Balliol, Merton, and Oriel—benefited under Bishop Stephen Gravesend’s will (1336); six—University, Balliol, Merton, Exeter, Oriel, and Queen’s—under the will of Simon de Bredon, astronomer and sometime Proctor of the University (1368): in both cases the testators distributed their gifts among all the secular colleges in existence at the time.[374] Dr. Thomas Gascoigne gave many books to Balliol, Oriel, Durham, and Lincoln Colleges (1432).[375] William Reed, Bishop of Chichester, also was the friend of more than one society, for New College, as we have seen, got 63 volumes from him, Exeter some others, and Merton 99.[376] Roger Whelpdale (d. 1423) bequeathed books to Balliol and Queen’s Colleges. Henry VI gave 23 manuscripts to All Souls College (1440). Robert Twaytes gave books to Balliol in 1451: his example was followed by George Nevil, Bishop of Exeter and afterwards Archbishop of York (1455, 1475), Dr. Bole (1478), and John Waltham (1492). An old Fellow showed his gratitude to University College by bestowing 68 books, mostly Scriptural commentaries, on its library (1473). Some of the gifts were smaller.[377] A chancellor of the church of York bequeathed a single volume to Merton. Bishop Skirlaw—a good friend of the college in other ways—gave 6 books to University in 1404: they were to be chained in the library and never lent. Such gifts were received as gratefully as the larger donations; indeed, it was esteemed a feather in the cap of the Master that while he held office Skirlaw’s books were received. Never at any time were books more highly appreciated than in Oxford of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Sometimes gifts took the form of money for a curious purpose. For example, Robert Hesyl, a country rector, bequeathed the sum of 6s. 8d. “ad intitulandum nomina librorum in libraria collegii Lincoln: contentorum, supra dorsa eorum coÖperienda cornu et clavis.”[378] But the colleges did not depend wholly on gifts, for records are preserved of purchases for Queen’s College in 1366-67;[379] All Souls College between 1449 and 1460; for Magdalen College between 1481 and 1539; for Merton College between 1322 and 1379; and for New College between 1462 and 1481.

The growth of the libraries made the provision of special bookrooms a necessity. A library on the ground floor of University College is referred to in the Bursar’s Roll (1391). At Merton the books were originally kept in a chest under three locks. A room was set apart quite early: books were chained up in it in 1284. In 1354 a carpenter was paid for fittings and “deskis.” Bishop Reed of Chichester erected a library building in 1377-79; Wyllyot and John Wendover contributed towards the cost, which amounted to £462. With the exception of the room thrown into the south library at its eastern end, of two large dormers, and of the glass in the west room, the original structure has been altered very little, and it is therefore one of the best examples of a medieval library in this country. When the old library of Exeter College was first used we do not know: it was possibly one of the tenements originally given to the college by Peter de Skelton and partly repaired by the founder. Money was disbursed for thatching it in 1375.[380] Nearly ten years later a new library was put up. Bishop Brantingham and John More, rector of St. Petrock’s, Exeter, contributed handsomely towards the cost; another Bishop of Exeter, Edmund Stafford,—in whose time the name of the house was changed from Stapledon Hall to Exeter College,—enlarged the building in 1404; and Bishops Grandisson, Brantingham, Stafford, and Lacy gave books.[381] In the library room some of the books were chained to desks, and some were kept in chests.[382] All this points to a flourishing library at Exeter; although, on occasions when their yearly expenses were heavier than usual, the Fellows were obliged to pawn books to one of the loan chests of the University, or even to their barber.[383]

The monastic college of Durham enjoyed a “fayre library, well-desked and well flowred withe a timber Flowre over it,” built in 1417 and fitted in 1431.[384] Another college belonging to the monks of Christ Church, Canterbury, also had a library, which had been replenished with books from the mother-house.[385] In 1431 a library building was begun at Balliol College by Mr. Thomas Chace, after he had resigned the office of Master. Bishop William Grey, besides enriching his college with manuscripts, also completed the home for them (c. 1477), on a window of which are still to be read his name and the name of Robert Abdy, the Master.

In another window, on the north side, was inscribed—

The first library of Oriel College, on the east side of the quadrangle, was not erected until about 1444; before that the books seem to have been kept in chests, although the collection was large for the time.[387] As early as 1388-89 payments were made for making desks for the library of Queen’s College.[388] In the case of New, Lincoln, All Souls, and Magdalen Colleges, library rooms were included when the college buildings were first erected. Magdalen’s library was copied from All Souls: the windows in it were “to be as good as or better than” those in the earlier foundation.

§ III

Towards the end of the fifteenth century the beginning of the sad end of all this good work may be traced. Some part of the collections disappeared gradually. In 1458 books were chained at Exeter College, because some of them had been taken away. When volumes became damaged and worn out, they were not replaced by others. Some were pledged, and although every effort was made to redeem them, as at Exeter College in 1466, 1470, 1472 and 1473, yet it seems certain many were permanently alienated. Others were perhaps sold, or given away, as John Phylypp gave away two Exeter College manuscripts in 1468.[389] The University library was in similar case. When Erasmus saw the scanty remains of this collection he could have wept. “Before it had continued eighty years in its flourishing state,” writes Wood of the library, “[it] was rifled of its precious treasure by unreasonable persons. That several scholars would, upon small pledges given in, borrow books ... that were never restored. Polydore Virgil ... borrowed many after such a way; but at length being denied, did upon petition made to the king obtain his license for the taking out of any MS. for his use (in order, I suppose, for the collecting materials for his English History or Chronicle of England), which being imitated by others, the library thereby suffered very great loss.” Matters became still worse. Owing to the threatened suppression of the religious houses, the number of students at Oxford decreased enormously. In 1535, 108 men graduated, in the next year only 44 did so; until the end of Henry VIII’s reign the average number graduating was 57, and in Edward’s reign the average was 33.[390] Naturally, therefore, some laxity crept into the administration of the University and the colleges. Active enemies of our literary treasures were not behindhand. In 1535 Dr. Layton, visitor of monasteries, descended upon Oxford. “We have sett Dunce [Duns Scotus] in Bocardo, and have utterly banisshede hym Oxforde for ever, with all his blinde glosses, and is nowe made a comon servant to evere man, faste nailede up upon postes in all comon howses of easment: id quod oculis meis vidi. And the seconde tyme we came to New Colege, affter we hade declarede your injunctions, we fownde all the gret quadrant court full of the leiffes of Dunce, the wynde blowyng them into evere corner. And ther we fownde one Mr. Grenefelde, a gentilman of Bukynghamshire, getheryng up part of the saide bowke leiffes (as he saide) therwith to make hym sewelles or blawnsherres to kepe the

dere within the woode, therby to have the better cry with his howndes.”[391] A commission assembled at Oxford in 1550, and met many times at St. Mary’s Church. No documentary evidence of their treatment of libraries remains, but it was certainly most drastic. Any illuminated manuscript, or even a mathematical treatise illustrated with diagrams, was deemed unfit to survive, and was thrown out for sale or destruction. Some of the college libraries did not suffer severely. Most of Grey’s books survived in Balliol, although the miniatures were cut out. Queen’s, All Souls, and Merton came through the ordeal nearly unscathed. But Lincoln lost the books given by Gascoigne and the Italian importations of Flemming; Exeter College was purged. The University library itself was entirely dispersed. One of the commissioners, “by name Richard Coxe, Dean of Christ Church, shewed himself so zealous in purging this place of its rarities ... that ... savoured of superstition, that he left not one of those goodly MSS. given by the before mentioned benefactors. Of all which there were none restored in Q. Mary’s reign, when then an inquisition was made after them, but only one of the parts of Valerius Maximus, illustrated with the Commentaries of Dionysius de Burgo, an Augustine Fryer, and with the Tables of John Whethamsteed, Abbat of St. Alban’s. That some of the books so taken out by the Reformers were burnt, some sold away for Robin Hood’s pennyworths,[392] either to Booksellers, or to Glovers, to press their gloves, or Taylors to make measures, or to bookbinders to cover books bound by them, and some also kept by the Reformers for their own use. That the said library being thus deprived of its furniture was employed, as the schools were, for infamous uses. That in laying waste in that manner, and not in a possibility (as the academians thought) of restoring it to its former estate, they ordered certain persons in a Convocation (Reg. I. fol. 157ª) held Jan. 25, 1555-56 to sell the benches and desks therein; so that being stript stark naked (as I may say) continued so till Bodley restored it.”[393] The only cheerful reference to this period is that by Wood, who tells us some friendly people bought in a number of the manuscripts, and ultimately handed them over to the University after the library’s restoration.[394] But of all the books given by the Duke of Gloucester only three are now in the Bodleian, and only three others in Corpus Christi, Oriel, and Magdalen. The British Museum possesses nine; Cambridge one; private collectors two. Six are in France: two Latin—both Oxford books—and three French manuscripts in the BibliothÈque Nationale, and one manuscript at the BibliothÈque Ste. GeneviÈve. The Ste. GeneviÈve book[395] is a magnificent Livy, once belonging to the famous Louvre Library. It bears the inscription: “Cest livre est À moy Homfrey, duc de Gloucestre, du don mon trÈs chier cousin le conte de Warewic.”[396]