TOUCHING OXFORD.A LETTER TO PROFESSOR NEBEL.

My dear Professor!—You see that I have not forgotten the note of admiration which your countrymen use at the beginning of letters when they address each other. It is an easy way of giving emphasis to the greeting, or of expressing the admiration of the writer for the character of the person written to. When I last saw you at Dummerjungenberg, I recollect I promised to write you down the impressions which an intended visit to my old University might make upon me, and I hasten to fulfil that promise now. It is superfluous for me to tell you that the two English universities are essentially different in their constitution from a German university, as you are well acquainted theoretically with the constitutions of both. I maintain that each kind is good, and answers its own end. The German university fully answers its purpose of making men learned, but the stamp of character which it affixes to the man is evanescent, and does not follow him through life. According to the language of the Bursch or German student, as soon as a man has ceased to be a student, he falls back again, as a matter of course, into the Philisterium, or limbo of the Philistines, which is the student’s term to designate the uncovenanted class, which comprises all mankind excepting the student. On the other hand, we speak of men for the whole of life as Oxford or Cambridge men much more than we do of them as Göttingen or Leipzig men, inferring by this mode of expression that they have been, as it were, fed on the milk of Alma Mater, which continues through the whole of life to affect their constitutions in a peculiar manner. So highly do some of our men think of this influence, that they dread too much infusion of the Germanic element, as dangerous to this peculiar quality of our universities of forming and stamping the whole man, instead of merely the logical part of him. I recollect well that at a meeting of Convocation at Oxford, when some material changes were brought under consideration, no sentiment was more highly applauded than one which concluded the Latin speech of a talented polemical churchman, when he said, “Hanc Universitatem Germanizari non volo”—“I protest against this university being Germanised;”—by which he plainly meant, not that he objected to the widening of its scope of teaching, but that he feared that mere instruction would usurp too much prominence in the scheme of education, and throw into the shade that general moral training which is now a most essential part of the system. One of the feelings, to speak individually, that I should be sorry to lose is that which this very name of Alma Mater implies. The word “Almus” is one of the most beautiful in the Latin language; it means that whose nature is to cherish, nourish, inspire with life. Thus, Venus is called “Alma” by the ancients, as representing the principle of life in nature; Ceres is also called “Alma,” as being the goddess that supplies the staff of life. If it be true, as Mr Carlyle says, that our word “lady” is derived from two old words, meaning a giver of loaves, it would be a good translation of the word “Alma.” And desirable it certainly is, that the word “lady” should bear this fulness of meaning; the function of woman, in her beautiful ideal, being to give life, to support life, and to make life worth living. And the poet saw the matter truly, as poets generally do the most truly, when he said—

“Woman, dear woman, in whose name,Wife, sister, mother meet,Thine is the heart by earliest claim,And thine its latest beat.”

“Woman, dear woman, in whose name,

Wife, sister, mother meet,

Thine is the heart by earliest claim,

And thine its latest beat.”

Now, to every Oxford man, his Lady Mother, or Alma Mater, in the transcendental sense, is his university, occupying nearly as high a place in his heart as Our Lady occupies in that of the devout Catholic. And this much I can say from experience. As Hercules could do nothing in wrestling against the giant Antæus, the son of the Earth, as long as he persisted in throwing him, seeing that whenever he fell in his mother’s lap he gained new strength, so is it with myself; the world never throws me,—I never am cast down by circumstances, but a thrill from the warm bosom of Alma Mater, as powerful but more enduring than galvanism, inspires me with a new life, and I rise with fresh courage and fresh heart to the wrestling-match of life.

I have lately visited my old University after a long absence, and found its outward aspect fair as ever—nay, rather fairer and fresher than ever. Changed it is undoubtedly, but changed for the better. Much that is new and tasteful, at the same time—a rare accident in our times—has been added, and the hand of Time has been arrested, and that which was decayed or destroyed has been restored with affectionate fidelity. One of the greatest improvements, to my mind, has been effected by the railroad, which was at first greatly feared as a revolutionary agent. It has diverted from the main thoroughfares that brawling stream of traffic which formerly flowed through them in the shape of stage-coaches, stage-waggons, and other properties and accessories of the stage, and left the town to its genuine academical character of a dignified repose. Although this change gives to the town, in the eyes of commercial travellers, a somewhat dead-alive appearance, and although a similar change in other places seems to take away truly the only life they possessed, it seems, on the contrary, to have withdrawn an unpleasant intrusion from Oxford, and left her to the dignified retirement from the world of bustle and action, in which she most delights.

Oxford is a town which, for its medieval beauty, deserves to be kept under a glass-case; and nothing can be more advantageous to its academical character, than diverting from its walls the turbid current of commerce which belongs to this much-bepraised nineteenth century. This the railroad has achieved most effectually. There is still abundance of life in the streets, but life in unison with the history of the place; and suddenly whirled as one is by the express train from the turmoil of London to the repose of Oxford, with its lines of venerable colleges, and troops of sombre but graceful gowned figures, one experiences a feeling as of having been transported in a trance on the carpet of the Arabian Nights from one place to another. Never did the High Street appear so broad or so beautiful as now that its area is uninvaded by the rattle of vulgar vehicles. The time to see it to perfection is when the sun happens to set behind the opening at Carfax Church, dazzling the eye at its focus, and forcing shafts of amber light out along the fronts of St Mary’s and All Saint’s churches, and the fantastic façade of Queen’s College. This is a condition which presents one of the finest town-views in the world that can be seen where there are no mountains in the case. There is much similarity between Oxford and the grand old Flemish towns; and the railway has been a boon to them, as it has been to her, in preserving their quiet character. Unlike other English towns, the inhabitants of which point with an ignorant pride to the substitution of stucco-fronted houses, and cockney plate-glass, for the cross-beamed gables and lattices, all the architectural changes which have taken place of late years in Oxford appear to have been for the better. One is certainly sorry to see the time-corroded and weather-beaten stone disappearing from the faces of the colleges, and new freestone appearing in its place; but this change, though one that we may sigh over as even over the seasonal changes of nature, is, in reality, of a conservative character, and its absolute necessity is an unanswerable plea. The nature of the stone of which most of the colleges are built being such as to peculiarly expose it to wear and tear of weather, we are not sorry to see it replaced by a material which looks durable in its novelty, and to many generations yet to come will become more beautiful with age. No expense has been spared in these reparations; and the stranger will be peculiarly struck with the manner in which they have been carried out in many of the principal buildings. In Oxford alone, of all the towns in England, domestic architecture appears properly subordinate to that devoted to public purposes; and as she grows in beauty with each addition, her inhabitants may be one day allowed to boast as the Romans of the olden time,

“Privatus illis census erat brevis,Commune magnum,”

“Privatus illis census erat brevis,

Commune magnum,”

for the splendour of her public buildings will quickly dwarf the most ambitious attempts of private proprietors; and one good result of the communal, or, as a Cantab would rather say, combinational life of Oxford, is the prospect that things will be achieved there by bodies of men imbued with the “genius loci,” which would surpass the aspiration, taste, or indeed ability of most individuals to accomplish elsewhere. So should it ever be. What can the use be of any individual, whose establishment does not assume palatial proportions, pluming himself on the possession of architectural decorations, or masterpieces of painting or sculpture, which, added to a public gallery, would give delight and instruction to thousands, instead of administering to the pleasures of a few? I do not know whether you have ever visited Oxford. If you have, I may remind you, though unnecessarily, that, besides the world-renowned High Street, there are two other streets in it not less characteristic—one the Broad Street, parallel with it for a part of its length; and the other St Giles’s, a continuation of the Corn Market, running at right angles to the High Street from Oxford Cross. The Broad Street is one of those areas reminding us of Continental cities, where the population might be mustered in arms if necessary. It was in the middle of this that Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer were martyred; and at its junction with St Giles’s is now set up an elegant Gothic monument, something in the manner of Sir Walter Scott’s at Edinburgh, to perpetuate the memory of that event. St Giles’s is a most remarkable street. It has a church at its commencement and near its end, where it branches into two roads. It is so spacious that the houses on each side, irregularly built as they are, and ought to be, appear diminutive; and between the houses and the central road, on each side, is a row of trees, which gives it the appearance of a boulevard. On entering it, you have on the right the new buildings of Baliol, and farther on, the more ancient face of St John’s College; facing which are the new Taylor Buildings—a structure with which much fault has been found, as a weak centre on the side towards Beaumont Street appears to carry two heavy wings, but which must be allowed on all hands to conduce greatly to the adorning of its site, and indeed of the town generally. It is in this street that fountains, judiciously placed, would add much to the general effect; but many may doubt whether fountains would ever have other than an unnatural and artificial aspect in England, where the wetness of the atmosphere renders drier objects pleasanter to look upon. There are two seasons of the year when fountains are especially agreeable—in the summer heats, when it is delightful to be within reach of their spray; and in frost, when they are draped with pendulous icicles of the most fantastic beauty—a phenomenon I have indeed seen on the little fountain in the Botanic Garden at Oxford. Both these seasons are generally with us of short duration, and during all the rest, fountains to many would be somewhat of an eyesore, and create a shivering sensation. Those in Trafalgar Square count as nothing. As for the Crystal Palace and Versailles fountains, and all of the same description, people delight in them more for their mechanical cleverness than their artistic effect, and they are things got up for holiday occasions, not meant to form parts of the scenes of everyday life, like the fountains of Italy, or the gossip-haunted Brunnen of Germany. I fear then that, for the present, Oxford must be contented with her rivers, and not babble of fountains. She is one of the few large towns singularly blest with the presence of ever-flowing and ever-living water. The Isis runs beside her, covered with a fleet of pleasure-boats, probably as large as that of Athens during the Peloponnesian war, to which it has been wittily compared, and in the summer days, swarming in and out amongst each other like the gondolas of Venice. The Cherwell, which is a river as large as the famed Cam, or nearly so, encircles the meadows of Christchurch and Magdalen, and, with its sinuous course, and banks overshadowed with trees, presents numberless nooks of beauty, and spots of refuge from the heats of summer. The avenue in Christchurch meadow is second to none in the world, perhaps superior to all, though there are many like it; for instance, the avenue at Cambridge, which was compared by Porson to a college fellowship, as a long dreary vista with a church at the end of it; the avenue by the Severn, in the Quarries at Shrewsbury: that of the University of Bonn, and others at royal residences, and near places of academic retirement. In connection with this avenue, it is well to mention that there is a time-honoured custom prevalent in the University, of making it a general promenade on the Sunday in Commemoration-week, which generally occurs towards the end of the leafy month of June. On that day, most of the members of the University are to be seen in their distinctive dresses; and those are considered happy who are accompanied with friends, called, from their object in visiting the University, “lions and lionesses;” nor is the wealth and beauty of the city unrepresented. From this custom arises the name of “Show Sunday.”

The rivers afford an inexhaustible source of amusement, at a cheap and easy rate, to the gownsmen, who luxuriate in all sorts of boats, according to their activity or laziness—the energetic eight-oar, the social four-oar, the friendly pair-oar, the fantastic canoe, the adventurous outrigger-skiff, the dreamy sailing-boat, and the sleepy punt, the latter having come into fashion chiefly of late years, and in the hot season, and being a method of amusement which, at the price of the violent exertion of one of the party, purchases the perfect repose of the rest, who lie on their backs in boating-dresses, cigar in mouth, and the last work of Dickens or Thackeray, chosen for its lightness, in hand, and watch over the sides the swimmings of their Skye terriers. This peculiar dog, distinguished from all others by its sagacity, fidelity, and an ugliness which has worn into beauty, is now quite a part of the University system; yet I remember when the first was introduced into Oxford, and considered so remarkable that he gave his master the name among the townsmen of the “gentleman what belongs to the dog.” The poor little fellow had to suffer much for his resemblance to a door-mat, before his position was fully recognised.

Next in importance to the colleges and rivers of Oxford are the gardens. With the latter we must include the college-meadows, which are composed of a real meadow in the centre, surrounded by a planted gravel-walk, bounded generally, on the outer side, by one of the rivers. These gardens, though private, are liberally opened by the college authorities to the public, and, occupying a large part of the area of the town, they invite the residents to a number of short walks and lounges, the temptation to which in other towns is generally wanting, but which must be most conducive to health. In some of them—as in St John’s—the members of the college amuse themselves with archery, in others with bowls—a truly after-dinner recreation; while in the park that is attached to the grounds of Magdalen College the eye is gladdened by the sight of a number of browsing deer, who become singularly tame in consequence of the attentions of the Fellows. Well might Macaulay call it “their pleasant abode” of Magdalen! Magdalen is now rendered even more pleasant to some minds by the choral service of the Church of England having been brought to perfection in its chapel, so that its members can never attend Divine service without their ears being charmed by the most exquisite music. Others may be of opinion that the service solemnly read produces an effect which is appreciable by all rather than by a few of peculiar temperament. I do not take upon myself to strike the balance. In two other colleges is the service sung instead of being said—namely, in St John’s and New Colleges, and these three colleges are naturally a source of great attraction to strangers—so much so, that the chapels being of limited dimensions, admission to them has of necessity been made a favour. In the chapels at Oxford, customs have been perpetuated from time immemorial, which would shock rigid Protestantism, unless inured to them by habitual contact—such as the lighting of candles on the altar, and painted altar-pieces, instead of the Commandments-table which is usual in Anglican churches. Be this as it may, the attendance at morning chapel, which is enforced on the junior members, and sometimes considered by them a grievance, becomes in time so much a habit that they feel the want of it when they become parochial clergymen, and in many cases endeavour to perpetuate it by daily services (having certainly the letter of the law of their Church on their side), with considerable success indeed in some town parishes, and among the richer classes; but with doubtful result in the rural districts, where the peculiar habits of the labouring poor scarcely seem to allow them to fall in with it to any great extent.

While on the subject of Oxford, you naturally wish me to say what I think generally of the system of education of the place. I will tell you, then, in short, that I consider it the best possible system of education to form the character of a man and a gentleman. Do you ask me why? I answer that it is so for this simple reason—that it tends to develop in the fairest manner all the various energies of that many-sided creature, Man. There are two sorts of education at Oxford, as at our public schools—one enforced by law, the other dependent on social customs: both have their full sway at Oxford. Thus we have a practical illustration of the strongest kind of the Platonic theory of education. Plato very properly thought that the development of the bodily powers was almost of as much consequence as that of the mental, and accordingly enjoined that education in his Utopia should consist of music and gymnastics. By music he understood all that falls into the province of either of the nine Muses. By gymnastics he understood not a dreary tugging at ropes, and hugging of bars, and climbing ladders with hands, but a simultaneous exercise of mind and body in pastimes where the body is deceived by the mind into activity, and cheated into wholesome weariness—such as contests of strength and passages of arms, hunting, fowling, and the like. Even so at Oxford physical education is complete; and although it does not form a subject of examination in the schools under the new system, it is carried perhaps to greater perfection than any other kind, and therefore we may conclude that the Royal Commission does well to leave it where it stands. These Oxford gymnastics (using the word always in its special and Platonic sense) are for the greater part perfectly consistent with the “musical” part of the system which emanates from authority. Occasionally, however, those sports, which, as a Catholic founder of one of the colleges said, “miram atque incredibilem delectationem afferunt” (showing that the old boy himself, though he wished to see his seminary like a bee-hive, thoroughly appreciated them), interfere with the hours devoted to study; and therefore fox-hunting, which I especially allude to, is generally discouraged by the Dons even in the case of those students who are able to afford it. The delicious languor, so unlike the rude and partial fatigue resulting from any other exercise, which pervades the whole system after a good day’s riding, and gives a Parisian savour to the plainest dinner, is of course fatal for the rest of the day to any other intellectual work; for who shall deny that hunting is intellectual work?—intellectual for the hounds, who have the sagest of beasts to outwit—intellectual for the horses, who have the safest footing to choose in a moment of time, and the exactest distances to measure; intellectual for the rider, who requires the eye of an eagle and the judgment of a Solon to know where he ought to be, not to mention the huntsman and M. H., whose whole lives, if they take deep interest in the matter, as they generally do, must be spent in intense thought? An excellent exercise it is of mind, undoubtedly, but fatal to other exercises of a less absorbing character, and therefore consistently discouraged by the Dons. The same may be said of driving. Driving is at best but a lazy exercise; and though it requires skill, it is not sufficiently gymnastic; besides, it is expensive, and presents no advantage corresponding to the expense. But we cannot help thinking that if the thunders of each university Zeus had been less lavishly launched against tandem-driving in particular, this antiquated practice, very good in peculiar countries, but generally merely a puppyish display, would have died out of itself. There is always a peculiar sweetness to young minds in forbidden pleasures.

But boating and cricket and football, tennis, rackets, fives, and billiards, still please, although there is nothing illegitimate about them, and are perfectly consistent with the earnest pursuits of the place. With regard to billiards, I must just observe that this fascinating game has in a great measure lost its reputation, from the fact that the billiard-room is in most English towns the rendezvous of all the blackguardism of the place; but in Oxford the billiard-rooms are private, and engaged by each party of players; they are an especial refuge on wet days, nor can I see any exception that can be taken to the pastime, save when it degenerates into the public pool, becomes a species of gambling, and loses its real character, which is that of a game of skill, quite as much as that of chess, combined with gentle exercise. As there is not the slightest danger of the studies I have mentioned falling into desuetude, so have they been with good judgment overlooked by the University authorities, and as they present in every phase an examination of themselves, it has not been found necessary to create any special honours as a reward for proficiency in them. The universal existence of this gymnastic education in Oxford, superadded to a peculiar keenness and dampness in the air, induces an appetite which can only be satisfied by what appears to strangers an unusual amount of eating and drinking. In the latter particular there is indeed a great improvement. Excess in quantity is extremely rare even among extravagant students; but the fiery wines of Portugal and Spain still hold their ground against all comers, and public opinion is decidedly in their favour—so much so, that others are treated with a sort of contempt. It is said that on the occasion of the visit of a great personage to the sister University, whose habits bear a strong resemblance to those of Oxford, when the servants of that personage sent a complaint to the entertainer,—a Head of a House,—that they were only supplied with port when they were used to claret, he sent back a message to them that the college port, with a due admixture of pump-water, would make the best claret in the world. The substantial nature of an Oxford breakfast, enough of itself to convert Bishop Berkeley to a belief in the existence of Matter, is in itself an evidence that the potations of the preceding night have seldom been immoderate. With regard to that part of the education of the place, to the furtherance of which its gymnastics and good fare are supposed only to administer, it is truly “musical” in the Greek sense of the word. Of music, as we understand it, there is certainly little as yet enjoined; but every encouragement is given to its culture by chanted services in certain chapels, by a liberal allowance of concerts sanctioned by authority, by doctor’s degrees conferred in it, with a most splendid gown worthy of Apollo himself if he ever wore one; by especially the Grand Commemoration festival, at which the first public singers are often engaged. On the whole, there is a great taste in Oxford for this beautiful art, which requires little forcing, for it grows of itself in the climate of the place. This taste is especially shown by the liberality with which brass-bands playing your national airs are remunerated; but important as it is, it is sometimes found to interfere with the soundless but sounder elements of education, and therefore it becomes necessary in certain cases to check it. The rooms of the men have in general such thin partitions, that the noise of one seriously interferes with the silence of another. I once knew a reading man in —— College, who was placed between two pianofortes, one overhead, and the other underfoot: he especially complained of the interruption on Sundays, as on that day his more celestial neighbour played sacred tunes, while his neighbour of the nether world played profane, producing a discord in mid-air as ludicrous as painful to an ear of taste. But I take it that the sense in which music is used in old scholastic Latin, is in general the Platonic sense, and thus the Music school at Oxford means one not especially devoted to exercises in what we call music, but to exercises on examination in belles lettres. That this term has acquired a broader significance by the recent changes in the Oxford University system, I cannot but think a subject for congratulation. When the University departed as a general principle from the practice of making verse-writing in the dead languages the mainspring of erudition in them—a practice still far from obsolete in the public schools of England—it became necessary, if only to take up the time of the students, and prevent them from lapsing into intellectual inanition, to supply them with other food congenial to the spirit of the place. The germ of these new studies had existed before, and only required development. There could be no better foundation for culture in modern history and jurisprudence than the exact study of the ancient historians of Greece and Rome pursued under the old system. Even so with mathematics. The modern examinations are, for the most part, mere distributions of the former work, and by getting part of it over sooner, the student is less puzzled as to the disposal of his time. But the paucity of candidates for mathematical honours, in comparison with those who cling to belles lettres, is a sign that the exact sciences are still exotics in the atmosphere of Oxford; and as long as the spirit of the place remains what it is, they are scarcely likely to become otherwise. Nor are the physical sciences apparently likely to acquire soon a hold on the popular feeling of the University. Still, as before, the pivot around which Oxford studies revolve is formed by the solid metal of the ancient classical authors, whose words are picturesque and statuesque, and fraught with the same eternal beauty, the same adaptability as models for all time, as the things that the hands of their contemporaries produced. Although as yet no school of modern languages has been formed in which examination in them forms a part of the University system, yet every encouragement has been given to the study of them by the foundation of a professorship supported by public teacherships; and even if nothing more is done, there is every reason to think that, supported as it is by the cosmopolitan position which our country has taken of late years, this important branch of literature will sufficiently nourish in Oxford.

So far it appears that the changes which have been made in the constitution of Oxford have been of a conservative character—the reforms have destroyed nothing, but developed a great deal that formerly lay dormant in the University system. They will continue to be of this character if the University is allowed abundance of light and air and space to put forth its own energies, and not damaged by injudicious meddling from without. There have been rumours of further changes, some of which are apparently called for by the necessities of the time, while others have merely been engendered by the inventiveness of the spirit of innovation. One peculiarly delicate subject has been brought on the tapis, which, although I hold an opinion of my own respecting it, I should prefer stating in the position of one balancing two conflicting views, as far as my prejudice admits. I mean the celibacy of the Fellows. In the first place, if it is true that women are like a church, because there is nolivingwithout them, a proposition I heard the other day in the form of a riddle, the business is settled at once, because it is cruelty to condemn any body of men to a living grave; but, on the other hand, if the men themselves acquiesce in this social burial, and refuse to be delivered from it, they have undeniably a voice in the matter, even though it be from the catacombs, and ought to be heard in a manner so nearly and dearly affecting their own interests. The defenders of the present system have a great advantage in being able to raise a laugh against those who from within advocate a change, alleging that they have some gentle reasons for doing so. We are a nation peculiarly sensitive to being placed in a ridiculous position, and it requires no small amount of moral courage for any man who is a member of a body to start opinions which the rest, though they may in their hearts sympathise with, are not immediately prepared to fall in with. It must be allowed that the outcry against collegiate celibacy has been louder outside than inside the walls of common rooms. It may be said, on the other side, that the voices of those without are not stifled by the fear of snubbing and ridicule as those within are, and that those who see the effect of a system on others are better qualified to judge than those whose own minds are biassed by its pressure. Those who work in mines and live in unwholesome air only feel by diminished energy the evil effects of the miasma they have to breathe, while those who live apart from them see it in their pale and haggard looks. It is not the bondsman in general who calls for emancipation so loudly as the spectator who has tasted the sweets of freedom. To come to a practical aspect of the question; it is urged by the advocates of emancipation that celibacy was part of the religious system under which the colleges were founded, and that as that religious system has ceased to exist in reference to them, there is no object in keeping up a restriction which can have no such motive; and to those who would urge that the intentions of the founders ought to be consulted as that of any testator ought to be, it is answered that it is hypocrisy to pretend to consult the wills of founders in a matter which is merely a corollary to a rule which has been essentially broken through, and that the wills of founders are even in this instance nullified by the marriage of heads of colleges, who being of necessity priests by the statutes under the papal regime, would render such a prohibition in their cases superfluous. Again, those who are for continuing the celibacy system urge that a fellowship is intended only as a stepping-stone to a permanent provision in the view of the world, and that to allow the marriage of Fellows would render the succession so slow as to destroy the practical value of the foundations. To this is opposed the statement that in fact men are well content to settle down on a fellowship, which is indeed a premium on indolence, and that they acquire, even if industrious, habits of expense, which make them loth to part with a large proportion of their incomes without grave cause, so that in fact many men do continue Fellows until late in life, when they care naturally less about marriage; and moreover, that the slowness of succession might equally be urged in the case of livings which only become vacant by death, and that for the same reason it would be equally reasonable to enforce the celibacy of bishops were they not expressly commanded to be husbands, as some interpret Scripture; yet more, the fellowship might be made tenable for a certain number of years only, and superannuation might not entail, as it does now, the loss of the chance of college patronage to livings. Some satirical writers have drawn a humorous picture of the condition of colleges with sets of rooms inhabited by family Fellows, the quadrangles turned into play-grounds, and the sacred grass-plots invaded by nursemaids with their charges, still further presuming to imagine intestine feuds between jealousfellowinnen(as you Germans would call them), which they think would be incompatible with the feeling of collegiate brotherhood or sisterhood. To this it may be answered, that, as it is, the majority of Fellows reside in the country, and are otherwise occupied than with collegiate duties, and there would be less inducement than formerly for the plural Fellow to content himself with the limited accommodation of a college; and it would be easy to make a rule that a certain number of the Fellows,—that is to say, of the younger, should reside to undertake the offices; and even if they were married, those offices should only continue so long as to incur no danger of their inundating the quadrangles with urchins. The worst of it is, that the Oxford education has a peculiar tendency to develop the poetical and artistic temperament; and to men of this temperament, who are, in all countries, in a much larger proportion to others than is generally thought, the long vista of celibacy is little else than a long perspective of purgatory. To all who love the beautiful, whether saints or sinners, there is one central point round which all their thoughts revolve—one standard by which all their comparisons are made,—and that is none other than woman. The musical mind is drawn to her through the symphonies of Mozart or Handel—through the complicated opera strain, and the simple national air—

“The soul of love and bravery;”

for even the hero-songs of war, by arousing the manliness of man, suggest the loveliness of woman. The artistic mind is drawn to her through all the schools of painting—through even the sumptuous Madonnas which the sacred painters have imagined, as through the sun-warm but less heavenly creations of Titian or Correggio. It is impossible for the artistic eye to look at the symmetry of a tree or the graceful lines of a mountain, or even the crystal curves in a fountain, without dwelling on that form which, of all created, is undeniably the most beautiful without any of its associations, and dwelling on it, too, with somewhat other feelings than those expressed by the Italian priest when he remarked, in a tone of reproof, to a friend who wished to call his attention to a fair lady at an assembly—

“Una bella creatura di Dio!”

Thus I do think that if this celibacy is to be continued, it would be a great improvement to enjoin the study of pure mathematics on college Fellows, with examinations at intervals to prove that their time is only taken up in contemplating the affinities of triangles, and the love of the angles (not of the angels). The whole series of classical literature ought to be forbidden them for the time; ditto all galleries, pictures, and statues, all music and poetry; and they ought, as a final measure, to be relegated to that monastery mentioned by Mr Curzon, somewhere in the Acroceraunian mountains, where there were some Greek monks who had never seen a female face, and had even forgotten their mothers. One of them asked him whether women were like the Madonna. The poor fellow had better not have seen that Madonna. Even now, some men in their undergraduate life grow tired of the exclusively masculine aspect of the University, and some very good lines on that subject, of which I only recollect the end, were written by a now eminent poet, when he was an undergraduate—

“As I am one who feels the full divinityOf a fair face in woman, I protestI’m sick of this unvaried regularityOf whiskered cheeks and chins of black barbarity.”

“As I am one who feels the full divinity

Of a fair face in woman, I protest

I’m sick of this unvaried regularity

Of whiskered cheeks and chins of black barbarity.”

And one painful consequence of the present system is, the violation of the good old adage, “Happy’s the wooing that’s not long a-doing:” the notorious evil of long engagements becomes, in this case, exaggerated to a painful degree. There being no absolute, but only a conditional prohibition, and the prospect of a living, certain though distant, appearing to justify the formation of such ties, engagements are formed in early life, the ratification of which seems ever near, but never actually comes, till both parties have passed their meridian, and the fulfilment takes place, if it is thought worth while that it should take place at all, rather as a matter of course, than because the parties really now desire it. The hope deferred which “maketh the heart sick,” embitters the masculine temper, and withers the feminine frame, even before their natural bloom would have disappeared. The courage which, in earlier life, would have taken a bold step, and dared the world to do its worst, becomes irresolution and timidity; and as it often happens that those who have been kept without food too long, only know the sensation of hunger through a general faintness of the system, so the vacuum of the affections too long kept up by circumstances, becomes at last a chronic disease, which, to the end of life, remains irremediable. At the same time, the life of the common-room, and the extreme ease with which material wants are provided for, acts on the mind as opium acts on the system, till at last it ceases to care for anything but the drug which has become a habit. It may be with some of those who have felt the enduring influence of this soporific regime, as with the lotos-eaters of Tennyson; they even come to dread a change, and cling to the indolence from which at first they would have fled:

“Our island homeIs far beyond the sea, we will no longer roam.”

“Our island home

Is far beyond the sea, we will no longer roam.”

But, on the other hand, it may be urged that the immediate happiness of those concerned is not so much contemplated in the foundations as their usefulness, and that they must be content to cull the flowers which grow beside the path of duty. This may be answered by urging that, in certain cases, a man’s usefulness is diminished instead of being increased by his being denied certain sources of happiness. The best workman is ever the man who is best fed and clothed, and made most generally comfortable; even so in the great work of human life is that individual most efficient whose legitimate wants, both of body and soul, are satisfied. The motives which actuated the founders of the Roman Catholic colleges were no doubt, as most human motives are, of a mixed nature. On the one hand, they wished their money to fructify and do as much good as possible; on the other hand, they wished it to fructify in such a way as to redeem their own souls from purgatory, by providing a succession of those who should sing masses for them for all time; at the same time, it was the prevailing notion in these times, and is now, among Romanists, that celibacy, if not the happiest, is the holiest state of man.[4]If there be any truth in this, even to the most limited extent, there is something to be said for the system; but if the poor founders have been cheated out of their masses, and may remain, for all the present generation care, boiling and broiling in purgatory to the end of time, it seems purely hypocritical to lean on a notion which has no better foundation than the ruling opinions of founders. All the great and imposing faith is gone which would support a heavy burden with the supernatural sinews of religion, and the burden remains still to be borne as it best may by human muscle alone. But it may be also said, the fellowships of colleges are in themselves eleemosynary institutions, and poverty was in most cases made a condition of the enjoyment of them; and just as, under the new poor-law system, we imagine that a man, though he has a right to existence, has no right to encumbrances which others must support, so some would argue that the charity of the founders ought to be thankfully accepted under all its conditions. But in the first place, the question may be asked, whether apparent necessity, rather than humanity, did not suggest the new poor-law system? In the next place, whether that can strictly be called eleemosynary of which merit is made a condition? We give to a beggar sometimes, although we know him to be utterly worthless, merely because he is destitute; and even the utterly worthless have a certain claim, in right of their Maker’s image; but we give to a good man as a tribute to his virtue, and the application of these foundations to proficiency in knowledge is to those who accept them usually accounted peculiarly honourable, just as a national pension is to the wounded soldier. Besides, it might be said that all bequests are in a manner eleemosynary, because the legacy is not a payment for labour in most cases, but a free gift from the testator to the legatee; nor is its character materially altered by the fact of its having been given under conditions. It appears to some that the college property is as much real property to those who have the use of it, as any property bequeathed subject to conditions; such as, for instance, the law of entail in England. Indeed, a case has been mentioned, in which, for some peculiar reason, a very rich man inherited his estates subject to this very condition of celibacy. And eleemosynary institutions, strictly so called, are commonly administered by trustees, not by those who reap the benefits of them, as is the case with college fellowships. I think I have now, as well as I can, stated the arguments, bothproandcon, though perhaps it is easy for you to see to which side I lean. I confess that I should regard the repeal of celibacy as a conservative change, because it would give individuals a more enduring interest in their University. I dread innovation, and especially from profane hands; at the same time, I feel the necessity of such wholesome repairs in the constitution of Alma Mater as shall secure for her, as far as possible, a perpetuity of youth, or at least a green old age. How other changes, such as the admission of Dissenters, can be brought about without ignoring the entire history, associations, and character of the University, I do not well see. If Dissenters are admitted at all, Roman Catholics must be admitted with the rest; and they may perhaps lay claim to a participation in the good things of the University, seeing that the ancient foundations were undoubtedly made in their favour; and if this participation be allowed, the rights of the foundation will be again disturbed; and they may push their claim to the entire exclusion of all other communities, for, unless there be a reason for disfranchising them, they will ask why others should share advantages originally intended for them alone. They are not like the Jews, a sect who keep to themselves, and seek not to domineer over others; but universal dominion is as much the policy of pontifical as of imperial Rome. Thus they will be sure to take every advantage. Thus there is aprimâ faciedanger in mooting any integral question concerning the constitution of the University, lest an opening should be unwarily made which would destroy everything on which its existence depends; and this is, in my opinion, the most plausible argument in favour of continuing the celibacy of Fellows. But averse as all well-wishers to Oxford would be to any change in the way of subtraction or diminution of her privileges, no such one could look with coldness on any proposed additions to her area of efficiency, and especially on extensions which seem suggested by her natural aptitudes. As Cambridge seems to possess the soil in which everything connected, however remotely, with science, is destined especially to thrive, such as natural history in its various branches, so does Oxford appear to be that University which should assume a prominently artistic character. The foundations of a new museum have been laid, which is to be built on a grand and imposing scale. Is its chief attraction, when completed, to consist in a collection of dried beetles and stuffed humming-birds, or even a complete skeleton of the megatherium, if such a thing is to be had; or is an attempt to be made to bring together, by every possible means, a collection of works of art which would really do credit to the University? It must be remembered that we have in England no national gallery worthy of the name; not that the pictures composing the collection in Trafalgar Square are to be despised—far from it; but the building which contains them shows them to so little advantage, and is altogether so inadequate, that it presents few temptations to large additions, either by purchase, gift, or bequest. The very atmosphere of London is an argument against building a new national gallery in the neighbourhood of any of the centres of metropolitan life. Trees may be blackened, but flourish under the soot; but the purity of the marble, and the freshness of the canvass, are liable to be permanently discoloured by the constant action of an air impregnated with smoke, in a manner far other than that in which they receive the mere mellowness of age. This would be conclusive against a central situation, and if such a building is to be placed in the suburb, to arrive at it would cost a sacrifice of time and effort little short of that necessary to arrive at a site at a moderate railroad distance from the metropolis. As it is, Oxford is a great point of attraction to all strangers, and no Englishman who had not seen it, could pretend to an average knowledge of his own country. It is even placed within reach of the working-classes of London by excursion-trains, who are thus led in the pursuit of pure air to a place full of associations, which are in every way likely to do them good. It seems to me that it is worth considering whether the national gallery of England might not with advantage be placed at Oxford, and combined in some way with the scheme of the new museum. A school of art would probably spring up around it, to which the University would naturally present many advantages, and to which it might well extend peculiar privileges. The present is not the worst time to consider this matter, when the existence of a great war postpones the execution of all plans of subordinate importance. It is quite certain that everything cannot be concentrated in London; and this being the case, it is well to consider what other places are calculated, in their own way, to become capital cities. Oxford has already received some of the Muses as its inmates, and it is abundantly spacious to receive them all. With respect to the natural scenery of its environs, very much might be said in favour of its being suited as a residence for an artist. The banks of its rivers are especially fertile in subjects for the brush, and though its upland scenery is generally stamped with that mediocrity which seems peculiar to the central counties of England, there are spots here and there which, from their wildness or woodiness, are well adapted for the sketcher. I am sorry to see many of the wild places round Oxford either already enclosed, or in course of enclosure; but what I saw with most regret was, that Bagley Wood had been surrounded with a fence, and placed under a most rigoroustabooto the public in general. Now, there is some excuse for bringing land into cultivation which may be made available for the wants of the community, and can only become so if enclosed; but when the better preservation of game is the only object, to exclude the public from a place where they have been accustomed for years to expatiate and “recreate themselves,” and an intelligent public, such as that of the University;—to exclude them from one of the spots which Arnold mentioned as giving him especial delight on his return to Oxford, and as being one of its chief glories,—this, though perfectly justifiable according to law, is scarcely consistent with that Aristotelian equity which ought to be above law, especially in the neighbourhood of those brought up in his precepts, and whose philanthropy might naturally be expected to be more expansive than that of other men. It appears, however, that this mischief has been done for some time; and the only compensation the public gain is that a fine wide road has been made, which certainly makes the walk round the wood complete—a poor consolation, indeed, to those who, like myself, look upon walking along a road as one of the dreariest duties imaginable, and have an irreclaimable vein of the savage in their composition. Why, to me the sight of the stiff hedges and mathematical drains of Bagley Wood would spoil half the pleasure of shooting there; but, of course, those who have that privilege may say that the grapes are sour. I may mention that on the walk which crosses the railway, and cuts across into the Abingdon road, which leads through Bagley Wood, a large reservoir has lately been made, which in one place is crossed by a bridge, that seems as if it had been put there on purpose to give the best near view of the city. The best distant views I consider to be those about the Hinksey fields, near the spot where Turner, with singular ignorance of the customs of the University, painted gownsmen in their academicals among the haycocks; and at a place near Elstree, called Stow Wood, well known as a fox-cover. But perhaps the most characteristic view of all is that of the towers of Oxford, seen reflected in the flooded surface of Christchurch meadow under a red sky. This view is suggestive of Venice, especially if the boats are magnified by a slight effort of the imagination into sea-going ships, or softened into gondolas. I have mentioned the advantages which an artist might derive from residence in Oxford, alike from the models that might be placed there, the architectural beauties of the place, and the natural scenery. To the second of these advantages would belong the excellent studies of interiors that some of the rooms present. The rooms of one of my friends, which were those at first intended for the Head of the College, are quite a gem in the profuseness of decoration, especially as applied to the ceiling. The halls of many of the colleges are also remarkably fine, as presenting studies of interiors of peculiar magnificence. Occasionally the internal decoration of the rooms themselves, in which individual taste has perhaps taken a wider range than in any other place I know, would assist a painter in his composition. Pictures and engravings, profuse in quantity, if not always good in quality, decorate the rooms of most of the junior members, and a marked improvement has of late years taken place in this matter, engravings from good masters, and really good original pictures by modern artists, having taken the place of trumpery hunting-prints and portraits of the nymphs of the ballet. Other rooms are hung round “with pikes, and guns, and bows,” now obsolete, and seemingly made, at the time of their construction, for this ulterior object of ornamenting a room, which they fulfil so much better than any modern invention. But perhaps the most extraordinary rooms of all are those of a friend of mine, in one of the most picturesque colleges. The whole centre of his room is taken up by a kind of immense Christmas tree, formed by his own labour and ingenuity, on which is hung every imaginable article that would be chosen in an old curiosity-shop from mere oddness in form or nature. It is a rare collection of what the French call specimens of “bêtises,” ironically, as I suppose, considering the extreme cleverness which imagined them all. There are, if I rightly remember, gods from the Sandwich Islands and fetishes from Africa, clubs from New Zealand and bows from Tartary, stuffed birds, pipes of all kinds and sizes, skins of snakes and crocodiles, skulls of men and animals, and everything, in fact, that ever entered into a skull to devise. The walls are papered with engravings, and engravings are hung from the ceiling because there is no room for them on the walls. There is a collection of divers plants, native or exotic, flourishing in stands or trailing over the windows, in each of which is a kind of caravanserai for wild birds (not aviary), for the amiable proprietor does not detain them there longer than they wish to stay, but invites them in by abundant proffers of their peculiar kinds of food; and as he sits or reclines by his fire (for he has abundant facilities for assuming either position) by the motionless silence which he purposely observes—has constant opportunities of watching their flittings and hearing their twitterings, and studying their little habits with the gusto of a naturalist. That such an inventory, which entirely passes my memory to describe, should have been amassed in a single room by any amount of time and trouble, is a marvel to me, only to be explained by the perfect and lotos-eating repose of a college life. Long may our friend enjoy his quaint and instructive rooms! Travellers see strange things, but few can say that they have seen stranger than those that are enshrined in the colleges of Oxford.

You see that I have carefully abstained in what I have said from making invidious comparisons between Oxford and the sister university; nor have I spoken of the universities of the north, with which I am but little acquainted, but which I should imagine to hold an intermediate place between the English and the German system. On the whole, it appears to me that the function of education, comprising theology, philosophy, science, and belles lettres, is to impress upon the mind images of Beauty and Truth, and to enable the mind which has received these impressions to act in like manner through life. If education cannot make a man’s actions truthful and beautiful, he remains to the end a savage, or rather, I should say, the scion of a vulgar civilisation, even if he knows all the poets by heart, or can discourse with the acumen of an Erasmus or a Crichton. That Beauty and Truth are one and the same in that perfect sunlight which our eyes cannot see, and from which all lesser lights proceed, few will deny. But here on earth they may be considered as in a measure apart, and as exciting, each for good in its way, separate influences on the moral life of man. Men incline to one or the other light according to their natural bent or the bias of their education. It seems to me that if a distinction is to be made between our universities, the tendency of Oxford studies is to look at Truth through Beauty, while that of Cambridge studies is to look at Beauty through Truth. It is therefore that I have laid so much stress on the capabilities of Oxford as a school of Art. I confess that I am anxious to gain a closer insight into the nature and life of your German universities. Probably they are with us but imperfectly and unfairly understood. If it be true that the Bursch preserves, under his outwardly rough exterior, any remains of that antique chivalry of thought which is so fast dying out in this country, he preserves a treasure which is of inestimable value, and which ought to be secured to him at any price. At the same time, I think you will allow that our system has certain superiorities of its own, which deserve at least careful study, if not active imitation. We, at least, are successful in affixing an ineffaceable stamp to the character of the great majority, while you seem only to succeed in permanently impressing the nature of a few, and impressing only a limited part of that nature. May you live and lecture many years, Herr Professor; and may your brimming Rhine flow on for ever, free and German as of yore; and may the vine-blight spare the clusters that yield that molten gold which, unlike the morbid production of Australia and California, brings nothing but innocent joy to the soul of your Fatherland.Vale!and believe me,

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