I first met John Morrill in February 1974. David Underdown had arranged lunch with Christopher Hill and we arrived on the Oxford train an hour before the appointed time. Underdown led me over Worcester bridge and on to Broad Street. But instead of turning into Balliol he took me through an almost unseen gate that led to the warren of buildings that comprised Trinity College. We entered one of them; he knocked at a door, and upon a muffled response opened it. Behind billows of pipe smoke sat John Morrill at work on a thick stack of papers. When he saw David his face lit up with a smile of almost preternatural warmth, his eyes revealing genuine pleasure at Underdown's unexpected arrival. I crossed the threshold hesitantly since I still had no idea as to the purpose of our detour. In his usual laconic way Underdown simply said, ‘you two should know each other’, and pronounced our names, Morrill's resonating immediately in my historiographical memory, mine as yet meaningless to him. John regretted, as he would habitually in future years, that he was pressed for time, but immediately made us welcome. After an exchange of pleasantries with Underdown he turned his attention to me and asked what I was working on. I delivered a hundred-word synopsis of my doctoral research (which, further pared, made its way into a footnote in The Revolt of the Provinces the next year). John asked a question or two, looked at his watch and put on his gown to go off to teach. But as he was ushering us out he said to me, ‘You must come back and visit again. We have much to talk about.’