Stuff we like about Oxford, Part Two: Old Cemeteries

Okay, so our promised series on what we like about Oxford hasn't really materialized, probably because the weather's become so nice that we need to convince ourselves less that we like it here. But maybe we'll chip away at it bit by bit. So as a second shot: we love the old cemeteries here.

Oxford is a haunted city (not just in this sense, though that was a fun tour). There is a persistent sense of history that reminds one of the many who have gone before. There is an inscription in the Bodleian Library, from the 18th or 19th century, that has a list of eminent Oxford scholars and a Latin heading that declares something like, 'They went out, and knowledge increased because of them.' There are monumental buildings erected centuries ago, and which will persist for further centuries. And then there are the old cemeteries, resting places of the dead who have preceded us.

Visiting cemeteries may seem like an odd habit, something for high school dares or morbid melancholics. But we've found it to be peaceful and centering, an act of homage and a space for self-reflection. It's not something we do lots of, but we've managed to make it to five or six over the past year or so.

Parts of these cemeteries have fallen into disrepair (an offense that Mark Twain would have something to say about).

And in a place like Oxford, there are bound to be notables buried. Here is the grave of Benjamin Jowett, the great 19th century translator of Plato and master of Balliol College:

Ever wondered what JRR stands for?

And another of the inklings is buried here: C. S. Lewis (I've been to his grave but confess that I've stolen this picture from wikimedia commons):

Lest this post be overly fixated on death, it's striking to notice that in these cemeteries, in accordance with ancient Christian and Jewish tradition, the graves face east: toward the sunrise, awaiting the coming of the Lord and the resurrection of all the dead. So it's fitting to quote the sonnet by John Donne (who lived in Oxford for a few years):

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.