Though strictly speaking not a part of the cathedral, the ruins of St. Ewolda’s Priory, two miles away, are an integral part of Barchester Cathedral’s history. The monastery founded at Barchester in Saxon times moved to this new site after the Norman invasion. During the Reformation, St. Ewolda’s was suppressed, its few treasures plundered by Henry VIII. Some of the books and furnishings found their way back to Barchester, where they can still be seen in the cathedral, but St. Ewolda’s was soon stripped of its valuable lead roofs and the stonework became a quarry for local builders. Now only a few ruins mark the site where the monastery stood for nearly five hundred years.
1601, Barchester Cathedral Library
Bishop Atwater examined the mechanism that held the chains in place. Each chain was hooked at one end onto an iron bar. This bar passed through iron loops affixed to either end of the shelf. At one end the bar was shaped like a T to prevent its sliding through the loop. At the other end the bar was held in place with a lock—a lock to which only the bishop held the key.
“And all the manuscripts will fit in this case?” asked the bishop.
“They will fit perfectly,” said the blacksmith, “with just enough room left for the one additional volume you showed me.”
Bishop Atwater had seen a chained library a few months ago and had decided it could be part of his solution to a growing problem. Often canons knew the cathedral possessed certain books, but they were nearly as often uncertain about where those books might be. Bishop Atwater planned to bring together all the books belonging to the cathedral—some sitting on lecterns, some stored in wooden chests, some piled up in chapels, and some, no doubt, at the lodgings of canons or vergers. They would be gathered into a single room, a library that the bishop had had constructed on the east side of the cloister.
With the Reformation finally over, it was time to build a solid Protestant library—not just for theological reading by the cathedral clergy and those working toward ordination but for all types of study. The church had always been, as far as Bishop Atwater was concerned, an institution of teaching, and with this new renaissance of learning and publishing that was sweeping through England, the time was right to take a haphazard collection of old books strewn around the cathedral precincts and mold it into a true library. Once the volumes had been gathered together, the bishop would donate his own books to the library and begin to build the collection from his substantial private fortune. It was, he felt, the best possible mark he could leave on the cathedral.
To secure the most valuable items, those handwritten manuscripts from before the Reformation, he would use the method of chaining volumes to the shelves. The cathedral employed talented blacksmiths and carpenters, and the bishop was impressed with the case that now stood perpendicular to the west wall of the new library. It was over six feet high and had three shelves, each divided into three sections. From the lowest shelf protruded a slanted surface on which priests or scholars could study any book while the volume remained safely chained to the case.
“How will the chains attach to the books?” asked the bishop.
“The last link on each chain is a small circle,” said the blacksmith. “That will pass through a strap of iron that I will bend together and press through the binding where the front cover protrudes past the pages.”
“Then the books can be shelved standing up?” asked the bishop. The books at Barchester were traditionally stored lying on their sides.
“Yes, My Lord. It’s an ingenious plan. It means each book can be accessed without moving any other book.”
“Perfect,” said the bishop.
—
Bishop Atwater loved books. He had consulted manuscripts during his days at Oxford and had always felt a connection to the scribes and artists who had created them. Now, of course, a new type of book had swept the world—books printed on printing presses. Unlike the manuscripts he loved so much, each of which was unique, these printed books were made in hundreds or even thousands of identical copies. Already the collection at Barchester had hundreds of printed books—some purchased by previous deans and bishops, others donated by local benefactors. Reading a printed book never felt quite the same to Bishop Atwater. When he picked up a manuscript, he knew he was the only person in the world reading that particular book at that specific moment. When he read a printed book, as he seemed to do more and more often, anyone else might be reading the same book at the same time. He knew there was no point in fighting it—printed books were cheaper by far and some said the even type was easy on the eye, though the bishop had never found this so. And with the availability of inexpensive printed books, the bishop could take what had always been a rather meager collection, in comparison with many other cathedrals, and expand it into a substantial library. Still, he believed in the value of the old manuscripts; he believed that in their art and craftsmanship they told stories that could never be reproduced in a printed volume. He relished the idea that he would, in the coming days, watch as every manuscript owned by the cathedral was chained into place, so that future users of the Bishop Atwater Library would always be able to have that experience he loved so much of opening up a manuscript and falling into the past.
After a thorough search of the cathedral and its precincts, the bishop had gathered eighty-two such volumes. This did not include the book he now held—a volume whose secret he had been charged with keeping. If he placed this book in the chained library, it would be much safer from theft than it had been for the past twelve years of his guardianship, when it stayed in his bedroom in the bishop’s palace. On the other hand, the volume would be available to any member of the clergy with access to the library. But why build a chained library if not to protect the most valuable volumes in his care—and no volume was more valuable than this. Besides, the code within was unbreakable—only the Guardian knew the true content of the manuscript and only he could pass on that meaning to the next Guardian. Chained in the new cathedral library, the manuscript would be as safe as it had ever been. Safer.
May 24, 2016
COMMEMORATION OF JOHN AND CHARLES WESLEY