That’s what they ask you when you ask them if you may climb up the most excellent tower at Durham Cathedral. If you answer yes, then they ask you if you have five pounds. Surely you see where this is going.

Here’s the tower as contemplated from the cloister below:

And — cutting right to the chase — here’s the opposite view, from the top, looking down at the cloister:

Another view, this one of the cemetery:

Elsewhere in the cathedral are the remains of two well-known monks: the hermit Cuthbert and the historian Bede (mentioned here not that long ago). I did overhear a comment that the bones of these two men might not be resting where they’re advertised to be, but that one or the other may in fact be buried in the cemetery in an unmarked grave! I really don’t know just what to make of that sort of talk.

The tower also affords a fine view of the palace green and the castle beyond:

It was a certain academic function at the castle that brought me to Durham to begin with, one that signaled the winding down of my English sojourn, and that proved very much a “night” to the “day” of my usual and admittedly somewhat monkish activity in the archives. I was glad, though, to catch a glimpse of these scholars in full flight, and for their stories of manuscript heists and Parisian antiquities dealers. Also appreciated was their cautious optimism regarding future prospects for the determined and more-or-less young academic!

The phrase as offered here (on a nearby community building) seems adapted from one of historical significance, namely that given by Admiral Nelson at the battle of Trafalgar: “England expects that every man will do his duty.” There is, of course, a story behind the phrase. Originally, Nelson intended to signal ”England confides that every man will do his duty,” but his signal officer, Lieutenant John Pasco, suggested “expects” instead on account of it taking fewer signals to transmit. Nelson approved the change, and so issued “the most famous naval signal ever transmitted” (link).

(see http://www.aboutnelson.co.uk/england%20expcts.htm)

In the case of Trafalgar, it seems that the duty at hand was simple enough (although by no means easy): defeat the French and Spanish navies. How nice it is, then, when duty lies before us singular! But you and I both know that it is seldom so. Lately, at least, this notion of “duty” has certainly seemed a little more complicated. On one front, however, it proves clear enough, as the common cry among the folks at home is to “get out” and “take some pictures.”

That’s a view of the Old Bodleian Library, with the Radcliffe Camera (another library) behind me. And (believe it or not!) I did manage to depart from that comfortably well-worn bath between the two libraries. At the invitation of a friend (one with a student card — this permitting access), I spent today touring a few of Oxford’s many colleges.

The most wonderful place visited today is right here: the cloister at New College. The tree pictured above is said to be roughly 250 years old, and bears some signs of age — it’s shedding leaves at an alarming rate, and the gardener suspects “it might have something.” Still in the cloister, looking in another direction:

Look closely and you can see the gargoyles:

Open arcades surround the cloister. Sadly, there were no monks strolling through them today.

From New College we walked over to Magdalen College.

And no, I was not standing on the lawn while taking this picture. Now — and this is going back a few years — my very first job was as a grounds-keeper, and I wonder that if it had been in keeping these particular grounds, that job wouldn’t have been my very last one too!

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).