After a brief stopover in Lilleshall (Shropshire, see above), I’ve arrived at last in Oxford. And it does seem fair to write “at last” because between paperwork, research, and other assorted arrangements, this trip has been in the making for about a year now. It’s good to be here, and to get down to the serious business of being what Milton termed — and this somewhat disparagingly — a “Ferret and Mousehunt of an Index.” But of course the libraries must close sometime (even in Oxford). They did so today at a particularly early hour, and so left me to wander about the town for a bit.

I’ve only been here for about a week but it seems already that Oxford is very much as it ought to be: full of bright young people and wise old ones. And tourists, too. Sightseeing buses (double decked, of course) circle regularly, and guided tours filter through the academic buildings. Well, at least through certain areas of them — this is the balance observed here, between access and privilege. For each sign promoting an attraction or tour there’s another reading CLOSED TO VISITORS or STRICTLY PRIVATE.

Despite Oxford’s reputation as “the city of dreaming spires,” I’ve found its character well-expressed by what’s underfoot: flawless grounds in the college quads, creaking floors in the Bodleian Library, and walkways of centuries-worn stone.

Anyhow, there’s much to look forward to here, yet as always it’s impossible to tell just what will come. On that note, I’ll leave you with a bit of verse (ca. 1640) that seemed a propos somehow:

To the House of Commons

My Masters, you that undertake the game,
looke to the Countries safety, and her fame,
are now at stake, be carefull howe you cutt,
and deale as nowe occasions put you t’ot.
The cards are strangely shuffled, for your parts,
’tis odds you never gett the ace of harts…

[Bodl. MS Douce 357]

One Michael Woodhead was shot upon his tin-buttons, and his doublet burst near his heart, and the bruised bullet fell downe into his breeches and no more hurt…

real gem among the civil-war-era tracts I’ve looked over so far, the short pamphlet The Rider of the White Horse (1643) provides a lively account of “that wonderfull victory at Bradford” and “the taking of Leeds and Wakefield by the same men.” Both battles take place in the north, within a sort of game at chess that unfolded between the competing Lords Fairfax (a Parliamentarian) and Newcastle (a Royalist). The stories recorded here — although slightly propagandistic — are wonderful things, and I’ll cover a few of the finer details for you here.

First up: Bradford. In this battle, armed townsfolk sought to defend themselves against advancing Royalists. Bradford had proven itself to be a support for the Parliamentarian army, and thus its residents had cause to expect some measure of retribution from troops loyal to the King. Their advance came on Monday, December 18, and with such superiority of numbers that they “expected a surrender, rather than resistance.”

The pamphlet’s author laments Bradford’s lack of trained soldiers, due to the fact that the “poore Parish” could not “pay a Garrison any long time, and none would tarry one day without pay.” Beyond this, he writes, “we had never a Gentleman in the perish to command us, nor would any stranger be perswaded to undertake the charge.” They relied instead on sound tactics (stationing snipers in the church tower), the element of surprise, and some early-modern grit:

a hearty Round-head left by his comrades, environed with the Enemies Horse, discharged his Musket upon one, strooke downe anothers Horse with the thick end of it, broke a thirds Sword, beating it back into his throat, and put them all to flight; which (though as the rest wonderfull) I dare pawne my credit to be true…

With deeds such as these “the Popish army” was driven away. The victory provided Bradford with muskets, horses, and gunpowder — “and thus God supplied our wants out of their store.”

At Leeds the parliamentarians find themselves on the offence, under the direction of Thomas Fairfax (the eponymous Rider). Once again the author focuses on moments of real character. He notes the bravery of Searjeant Major Forbes when “leading on his companies in the plain fields before the great Trenches,” and — my favourite — the zeal of “M. Jonathan Scholefield (the Minister at Crofton chappell in Halifax Parish neare Tolmerdeu),” who, charging the works, “sung the I verse of the 68 Psalm, Let God arise, and then his enemies shall be scattered, and those that hate him flee before him…” The battle ended in victory for Fairfax, though not all were as lucky as the aforementioned Mr Woodhead (of “tin-button” luck); some 20 men were slain in the taking of the city.

Fairfax asserted himself as a capable military commander, and ultimately attained the rank of general. Indeed, some depictions of the regicide portray Fairfax as the king’s headman — never mind that he in fact opposed Charles’s execution, and would go on to play a role in restoring Charles II to the throne. But just as interesting (to this devotee) is Fairfax’s modest literary career; in his retirement the general turned poet, producing numerous poems, and even a verse translation of the book of Psalms. He renders those lines of the 68^th that served Scholefield so well at Leeds in his own way, and I’ll leave you with them for now:

Let all that hate thee Lord, ‘fore thee retire
Thou’art cloth’d w^th power; them farr from thee dysperse
As smoake in aire desolves, or wax with Fire;
Destroy those (from thy Presence) soe perverse…

Terrifying, isn’t it? This comes (as pictured above) from A description of a strange (and miraculous) Fish, cast upon the sands in the meads, in the Hundred of Worwell, in the County Palatine of Chester, (or Chesshiere. The certainty whereof is here related concerning the said most monstrous Fish (1635). A few stanzas of poetry accompany the great image above, some of which I’ll include here:

It is a fish, a monstrous fish,
    a fish that many dreads,
But now it is as we would wish,
    cast up o’th sands i’th meads,
In Chesshire; and tis certaine true,
Describ’d by those who did it view.
    O rare
    beyond compare,
in England nere the like.

The poet records the beast’s overall measurements (21 yards and 1 foot long, 5 yards high), and describes the jaw-bone in particular detail (“five yards long,” with “teeth in’t thirty foure, Whereof some of them are in weight two pounds, or rather more”). Similar attention is paid in both the poetry and the woodcut to the, well, Pistle (“in length foure yards, big as a man i’th wast”) and Cods (“like two hogsheads great”). Right. But such wonder aside, the great carcass provided more than “sixteene tuns of Oyle.” I’ll leave you with the closing stanza:

The Mariners of Chester say
    a Herring-hag tis nam’d:
What ere it be, for certaine they
    that are for knowledge fam’d,
Affirme, the like in ages past
Vpon our Coast was neuer cast.
    O rare
    beyond compare,
in England nere the like.

Some of the old print artifacts I come across in the EEBO (Early English Books Online) archive seem worth sharing. This one’s from An exact description of the manner how His Maiestie and his nobles went to Parliament, on Munday, the thirteenth day of Aprill, 1640, a broadside celebrating the assembly of England’s parliament after a long period of personal rule under Charles I. Some poetry accompanies the above representation of the royal procession, the opening stanzas of which seem to accurately capture the mood at Parliament’s assembly:

Come the merriest of the nine,
And now unto my aid incline,
I need a little helpe of thine
For now I have intent
Unto the world to say and sing
The praises of our royall King,
Who now this present hopefull spring
Hath call’d a Parliament.

This happy Aprill will, I trust,
Give all true subjects reason just
Of joy to feele a pleasant gust,
To yeeld them hearts content:
For we may be assur’d of this,
If any thing hath beene amisse,
Our King and State will all redresse
In this good Parliament.

I’ll go ahead and share the closing stanza as well:

Besides all this which hath been told
(To speake the same I dare be bold)
Though corporall eyes could not behold,
A Legion did present
Celestiall service to attend
King Charles, and him from harm defend,
The King of Kings did’s Angels send
T’assist our Parliament.

Despite assistance from such lofty quarters, and despite numerous MPs who sought to “restore Parliament… [as] the bed of reconciliation betweene a king & his people,” the assembly of April 13 collapsed after three short weeks — and so earned its latter-day name, “The Short Parliament.” As one particularly ardent Parliamentarian (Sir Benjamin Rudyerd) would lament, “all kings naturally love power as people liberty.”

Here is Bede’s account of an interesting sighting at Bercingum (modern-day Barking) outside the convent built for Ethelburga (ca. 675 AD). From Book IV, Chapter 9, of Ecclesiastical History of the English People (ca. 731):

For one night when they had finished singing the morning psalms of praise to God, these servants of Christ left the oratory to visit the graves of the brothers who had departed this life before them. And as they were singing their customary praises to our lord, a light from heaven like a great sheet suddenly appeared and shone over them all, so alarming them that they even broke off their singing in consternation. After a short while, this brilliant light, compared to which the noonday sun would appear dark, rose and traveled to the south side of the convent westward of the oratory and, having remained over that area for a time, withdrew heavenwards in the sight of them all.

(Penguin edition, p. 217).

Naturally the monks (Ethelburga’s convent had a section for men) attributed the phenomenon to divine causes, taking “this brilliant light” as a guide for souls recently departed to heaven. Sounds like a UFO to me, though.

This is just one of the many wonderful stories in the History. Other highlights include Bede’s account of the Chief Priest Coifi riding forth — armed with both sword and spear, and upon King Edwin’s own stallion — to smash the churches’ idols (II.13), and the sympathetic account of the same king (“a wise and prudent man, [who] often sat alone in silent converse with himself for long periods”) being eventually converted to Christianity (II.9-10).

The delivery guy (Andy) leaves the daily paper on top of the heater in the atrium downstairs. As a result it’s pleasantly warm by the time I get down to pick it up. This feels luxurious, somehow, this pre-warmed newspaper. Almost like that pre-warmed shaving cream they use at the old barbershop downtown (very nice). Looks like 2010 will be the year of simple pleasures.

And yet all is not well on the newspaper front: apparently a fellow resident has taken a liking to our nicely warmed copies of the Globe. It’s a classic case of “early bird gets the worm,” really. Never mind that this “worm” is hand delivered with my name on it; if I’m not down there to pick it up early, well, it probably wont be there when I go down to pick it up late. Setting the worm analogy aside (I’m not the one who’s robbin’ here), the predicament really rankles on Saturdays — which usually mark the best papers and the laziest mornings of the lot.

Anyhow, lately there’s been much debate in the news regarding the divine right of Kings and Prime Ministers to prorogue Parliament. Fortunately I’m not the only one who recalls earlier prorogations of dubious merit. The 17^th-century parliamentary historian John Rushworth (see Historical collections of private passages of state Weighty matters in law [1659]) records one such prorogation, courtesy of King James, which took place in 1621:

A Committee of both Houses afterwards attending the King, he told them how ill he took it, that the Commons should dispute his reasons of Adjournment; all power being in him alone to call, adjourn, prorogue, and dissolve Parliaments. And on Iune 4. he declared for an Adjournment till November following; And that he will in the mean time of his own authority redress Grievances.

In response, the adjourned MPs drew up a declaration voicing their frustration at having their legislative hands tied, first lamenting their plight then claiming that “upon signification of His Majesties pleasure in Parliament, they shall be ready to the utmost of their powers, both with their lives and fortunes to assist him so…” The declaration is quoted in Rushworth (in Gothic type no less):

As it happened, “His majesties pleasure” outweighed parliamentary process. Rushworth writes that the King took

notice that many great affairs debated in Parliament could not be brought to perfection in so short a time… and withall observing that divers of those Particulars required a speedy determination and settlement for his peoples good, and that they are of that condition and quality… that he needeth not the assistance of Parliament to reform the same…

Charles I would take a similar course during his own reign. Turning to A compleat history of the life and raigne of King Charles from his cradle to his grave collected and written by William Sanderson, Esq. (1658), we find another justification of prorogation — here Charles chooses to prorogue rather than face interference and criticism from Parliament. Sanderson includes the King’s 1628 proclamation, Addressed to “My Lords and Gentlemen,” which begins thus:

IT may seem strange that I come so suddenly to end this Session, therefore before I give my assent to the Bils, I will tell you the cause, though I must avow I ow an account of my actions to none but God alone. It is known to every one that a while ago the House of Commons gave me a Remonstrance, how acceptable every man may judge, and for the merit of it I will not call that in question, for I am sure no wise man can justifie it.

Now since I am certainly informed that a second Remonstrance is preparing for me, to take away my profit of Tunnage and Poundage (one of the chief maintenances of the Crown) by alleadging that I have given away my right thereof, by my Answer to your Petition.

This is so prejudicial to me, as I am forced to end this Session some few hours before I meant it, being willing not to receive any more Remonstrances, to which I must give an harsh answer.

And since I see that even the House of Commons begins already to make false constructions of what I granted in your Petition, lest it be worse interpreted in the Country, I will now make a Declaration concerning the true intent thereof.

Sound familiar, perhaps? It seems to me that recent criticism leveled at Prime Minister Harper could have served equally well in these Stuart-era parliamentary fiascos. Here’s a sampling of choice phrases from “Democracy Diminished, Accountability Avoided” (The Globe and Mail, December 31, 2009):

The Conservatives are hoping to bask in the glow of Olympic glory while dodging the mess and scrutiny of lawmaking, Question Period and an outstanding, unprecedented order from Parliament to provide transparency and truth on the detainee file…

If the debate over detainees can not be carried out in Parliament, then it should continue among Canadians at large. On this and other important issues, the government cannot delay accountability for ever…

Government members have already acted as truants when Afghanistan committee hearings are called. The government failed to provide documents to committee members, and implied it will disregard a parliamentary order to produce those documents. Prorogation is the logical extension of such thinking: shut down parliamentary debate entirely.

[See the whole thing here.]

I guess the political game hasn’t changed that much over the last 400 years!

Seems to me, while reading through some John LeCarre, that there’s a correlation between the characteristics of a spy and common notions regarding the qualities of an author:

• LeCarre’s spies tend to be unaware of the big picture as they are involved in one operation or another; they operate on a “need to know” basis. Similarly, the author does not necessarily know where his story will end, but tries to keep up with it as he writes along.
• Both authors and field agents are sensitive to language and its various subtleties. Language is the means of interrogation and other intelligence gathering, just as it is that of creating stories.
• LeCarre’s spies tend to be lonely folk, often isolated by their secret lives. Authorship too is a solitary line of work.
• Foremost in the mind of the field agent is maintaining his cover, and all his actions ought to convey a sense of believability and verisimilitude, which of course enables him to appear to be someone he isn’t. Such is the responsibility of the author as well — to maintain fictions.

Finally, the British secret service is — like most authors — chronically underfunded.