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]