Surprised by Oxford

by Carolyn Weber

Everyone knows Britain is full of magic; of fairies and elves; of Midsummer dreams; of witches’ moons, enchanted wardrobes, and nursery rhymes—all the things North Americans supposedly do not have. Or perhaps we do have them, but we are not aware of them.

At that moment I did indeed feel like Wordsworth, but not the triumphant, older Wordsworth upon returning to experience the magnificent Alpine Sublime. No, rather, the identification was more akin to the younger, dismayed Wordsworth when he first traveled to the famous range in search of that feeling of infinite longing mingled with wonder, fear, and awe that so captivated the Romantics, only to find out he had already passed through the mountains and missed their glory entirely. Poor Wordsworth and me.

He wore an old, woolen army coat that smelled somehow of home—the lake after a summer storm; fields of chamomile and buttercups, dive-bombed by larks; autumn leaves with a trace of musty pine from a fire on a cold winter’s night. A coat for all seasons it was.

What? What is there? Only the hush rising up from the evening haze settling on the unlistening grass. No crickets. No birdsong. The smell of a storm. In the distance thunder was tearing through still sky like the opening of an envelope.

“Prayers offered in the state of dryness are those which please Him best,” wrote C. S. Lewis.

Christ Church loomed behind me, its stone-walled majesty wearing a cloak of greenery. I now understood the origins of “ivory towers” and “ivy league”: postcard-perfect, a centuries-old castle of learning nestled amid a countryside that made the rest of the world envy such a small island.

only the good were clever, If only the clever were good, The world would be better than ever We thought that it possibly could. But, alas, it is seldom or never That either behave as they should: For the good are so harsh to the clever, The clever so rude to the good.5