#keble

[luv4kokafox]

[english-history-trip]

A story says that when a French visitor to Oxford first saw the unique brick construction of Keble College, he exclaimed "C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la gare?" (It's magnificent, but is is not the train station?) The remark was a play on another Frenchman's comment of the famous Charge of the Light Brigade: C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre ("It is magnificent, but it is not war.")

The story makes sense in context, as many municipal buildings were indeed built with a similar design of stripes of red, white, and blue bricks. Pool Meadow Bus Station in Coventry is a good example of what the French visitor was referring to.

The mix of Gothic architecture with humble brick at Keble was a deliberate choice, meant to symbolize the college's egalitarian policy of welcoming "lower-class" students, a sharp departure from centuries of Oxford being the domain of solely the utmost upper-crust.

Edit: I am informed in the comments that the Coventry building is the Old Fire Station, which merely adjoins the much more recent bus station.

[newlabours]

This handsome little robin was strutting around at High Table when I went for breakfast this morning.

I couldn’t guess which Tractarian scholar’s soul he carries, but he clearly felt very happy there.

[silent-nyaa-blog]

c:

[english-history-trip]

Went on a nostalgia trip after I made that post about CMRS, so here I am at Keble College holding a massive sword and grinning like an idiot about it.

[english-history-trip]

On the subject of Magnus, the antique weaponry expert who comes to the Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies twice a year for demonstrations, this cannon (hopefully) taught some random tourists that if you see a big open space surrounded by people taking video, they didn’t clear out of the way just so you can pass.

[katslgr]

In Oxford for CCN meeting 2023.

[mainline-remnant]

Good Friday

by John Keble (1792 - 1866)

He is despised and rejected of men. Isaiah liii. 3.

IS it not strange, the darkest hour  That ever dawn’d on sinful earth  Should touch the heart with softer power  For comfort, than an angel’s mirth?  That to the Cross the mourner’s eye should turn  Sooner than where the stars of Christmas burn?

Sooner than where the Easter sun  Shines glorious on you open grave,  And to and fro the tidings run,  "Who died to heal, is ris’n to save."  Sooner than where upon the Saviour’s friends  The very Comforter in light and love descends.

Yet so it is: for duly there  The bitter herbs of earth are set,  Till temper’d by the Saviour’s prayer,  And with the Saviour’s life-blood wet,  They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm,  Soft as imprison’d martyr’s deathbed calm.

All turn to sweet—but most of all  That bitterest to the lip of pride,  When hopes presumptuous fade and fall,  Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried,  Or Love, the flower that closes up for fear  When rude and selfish spirits breathe too near.

Then like a long-forgotten strain  Comes sweeping o’er the heart forlorn  What sunshine hours had taught in vain  Of JESUS suffering shame and scorn,  As in all lowly hearts he suffers still,  While we triumphant ride and have the world at will.

His pierced hands in vain would hide  His face from rude reproachful gaze,  His ears are open to abide  The wildest storm the tongue can raise,  He who with one rough word, some early day,  Their idol world and them shall sweep for aye away.

But we by Fancy may assuage  The festering sore by Fancy made,  Down in some lonely hermitage  Like wounded pilgrims safely laid.  Where gentlest breezes whisper souls distress’d,  That Love yet lives, and Patience shall find rest.

O shame beyond the bitterest thought  That evil spirit ever fram’d,  That sinners know what Jesus wrought,  Yet feel their haughty hearts untam’d—  That souls in refuge, holding by the Cross,  Should wince and fret at this world’s little loss.

Lord of my heart, by thy last cry,  Let not thy blood on earth be spent—  Lo, at thy feet I fainting lie,  Mine eyes upon thy wounds are bent,  Upon thy streaming wounds my weary eyes  Wait like the parched earth on April skies.

Wash me, and dry these bitter tears,  O let my heart no further roam,  ‘Tis thine by vows, and hopes, and fears,  Long since—O call thy wanderer home;  To that dear home, safe in thy wounded side,  Where only broken hearts their sin and shame may hide.