Above all thy rarities, old Oxenford, what do most arride and solace me,
are thy repositories of mouldering learning, thy shelves--
What a place to be in is an old library! It seems as though all the
souls of all the writers, that have bequeathed their labours to these
Bodleians, were reposing here, as in some dormitory, or middle state. I
do not want to handle, to profane the leaves, their winding-sheets. I
could as soon dislodge a shade. I seem to inhale learning, walking amid
their foliage; and the odour of their old moth-scented coverings is
fragrant as the first bloom of those sciential apples which grew amid
the happy orchard.--C. LAMB. _Oxford in the Vacation._