[Illustration: MAGDALEN BRIDGE AND TOWER]

OXFORD

DESCRIBED BY F. D. HOW PICTURED BY E. W. HASLEHUST

[Illustration]

DANA ESTES & CO. BOSTON

_Printed in Great Britain_

Beautiful England

 _Volumes Ready:_

OXFORDTHE ENGLISH LAKESCANTERBURYSHAKESPEARE-LANDTHE THAMESWINDSOR CASTLE

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

 Page

Magdalen Bridge and Tower _Frontispiece_

Magdalen College from the Cherwell 8

Oxford from Headington Hill 12

Martyrs' Memorial and St. Giles 16

The College Barges and Folly Bridge 20

Fisher Row and Remains of Oxford Castle 24

The Cottages, Worcester College Gardens 28

Old Clarendon Building, Broad Street 32

Christ Church 36

Brasenose College and Radcliffe Library Rotunda 42

Botanic Gardens and Magdalen Tower 48

Iffley Mill 52

[Illustration: OXFORD]

For beauty and for romance the first place among all the cities of theUnited Kingdom must be given to Oxford. There is but oneother--Edinburgh--which can lay any serious claim to rival her. Gazingupon Scotland's capital from Arthur's Seat, and dreaming visions ofScotland's wondrous past, it might seem as though the beauty and romanceof the scene could not well be surpassed. But there is a certainsolemnity, almost amounting to sadness, in both these aspects of theNorthern capital which is altogether absent from the sparkling beauty ofthe city on the Isis, and from the genius of the place. 

The impression that Oxford makes upon those who, familiar with her fromearly years, have learnt to know and love her in later life isremarkable. Teeming with much that is ancient, she appears theembodiment of youth and beauty. Exquisite in line, sparkling with lightand colour, she seems ever bright and young, while her sons fall intodecay and perish. "Alma Mater!" they cry, and love her for herloveliness, till their dim eyes can look on her no more. 

And this is for the reason that the true lovableness of Oxford cannot belearnt at once. As her charms have grown from age to age, so their realappreciation is gradual. Not that she cannot catch the eye of one whosees her for the first time, and, smiling, hold him captive. This shecan do now and then; but even so her new lover has yet to learn herpreciousness. 

It is worth while to try to understand what are the charms that havegrown with her growth. There was a day when in herself Oxford wasunlovely to behold, and when romance had not begun to cling to her likesome beautiful diaphanous robe. It is possible to imagine a low-lyingcluster of wooden houses forming narrow streets, and occupying the landbetween the Cherwell and the Isis, nearly a thousand years ago. In thosedays no doubt it was reckoned a town of some importance, but, with thepossible exception of the minster of St. Frideswide, there was nothingto relieve its squalid appearance. 

After the Norman Conquest, when most of the houses in the town had beendestroyed, there began to be a certain severe dignity rising up with thebuilding of the forts and the castle by Robert D'Oily, who came overwith King William. The fine and massive tower, with a swiftly flowingbranch of the Isis at its very feet, forming a natural moat, stillstands as the single relic of D'Oily's castle, and the first in point ofage of the existing charms of Oxford. Standing, as it does, inextricablymixed up with breweries and the county jail, it must feel itself in aforlorn position, and slighted by those who give it a mere glance ontheir way from the station to view colleges, old indeed, but, in theopinion of the ancient tower, things of mushroom growth! And yet, closeby stands something older even than the tower. Inside the castle wallswas an immense mound, and there it stands to this day. No one rightlyknows its age, and, except for the romance which hangs about anything, the origin of which is lost in the mists of ages, it adds but little tothe charm of Oxford. 

Another grand old tower is said to have been the work of Robert D'Oily, viz. That of St. Michael's Church in Cornmarket Street. Besides beingpart of a church, this was also one of the watch towers on the citywalls. It is well worth looking at, for it has the further interest ofhaving adjoined the north gate into the city, over which were certainchambers forming the Bocardo Prison, which remained in use untilcomparatively modern times. 

The severity which marked the outward appearance of the city during thefirst few centuries after the Norman Conquest gradually disappeared, tomake way for the brighter and more exquisite beauty of later days. Thus, in the fifteenth century, the massive walls and watch towers stilldominated the place. From close to Magdalen College they ran by the edgeof New College gardens (where the most perfect remains are still to beseen), and then turned to go along the city ditch (now Broad Street), and so to St. Michael's in "the Corn", and away down to the castle towernear St. Thomas's. Nowadays these severe lines have practicallydisappeared. Oxford has laid aside the armour which once she had inself-defence to wear, and has clothed herself in lovelier garb. 

One by one the objects upon which we feast our eyes to-day sprang up, and more and more beautiful became the view of Oxford. Mr. Andrew Langin his charming book tells us that at the end of the thirteenth century"the beautiful tower of Merton was still almost fresh, and the spires ofSt. Mary's, of old All Saints, of St. Frideswide, and the strong towerof New College on the city wall, were the most prominent features in abird's-eye view of the town. " To these must be added (as has beenmentioned) the walls and watch towers, which must have lent a certaingrimness to the whole. 

[Illustration: MAGDALEN COLLEGE FROM THE CHERWELL]

Two hundred years later Oxford's most beautiful tower came into being, on the site of what had been the ancient Hospital of St. John, and hadbeen given about the year 1560 by King Henry VI to William Patten, inorder that he might there establish the college of St. Mary Magdalen. 

Magdalen Tower, rising 150 feet in exquisite proportion, and standingjust where the Cherwell is spanned by the well-known bridge, is in theopinion of many the fairest sight in Oxford. The way in which it springsfrom a pile of embattlements, and the grace of its pose and form, claimfor it more than a word of admiration for its share in the adornment ofOxford. 

So far the view of the town was dependent for beauty upon its spires andtowers. To-day it would be allowed by all that a great deal has beenadded to this beauty by the domes, which have brought their dignity androunded lines to the general scenic effect. 

It was not till two centuries had passed from the creation of MagdalenTower that the central gateway into Christ Church was surmounted by thewell-known Tom Tower, erected by Sir Christopher Wren to hold "GreatTom", a mighty bell which once belonged to Osney Abbey. This was thefirst of the domes to rear its head. But it was not long left solitary. Seventy years afterwards the great dome of the Radcliffe Camera rose upin the space between All Souls and Brasenose colleges, and wasthenceforth the first object to take the eye of one who looks on Oxfordlying glorious in her meadows. 

And so we come to one aspect of the place. For him who wants to lookupon her as a whole, to realize at once that he is drawing near to onewho is all beautiful, everything depends upon the manner of hisapproach. 

It is probably true that the people of a hundred years ago had the bestof it. In very early days, when men rode on pack horses or were drawnthither in wains, or tramped through marshy tracts and by evil roads, their eyes were apt to be fixed upon the ground lest they or the horsethey rode should put foot in a hole. Then, too, the view they obtainedwas not at first so beautiful as it has since become. 

To-day the disadvantages are greater still. Far the larger number ofpeople approach Oxford by train, and although on drawing near the cityfrom the south a sight is obtained of towers and spires, it is by nomeans a happy point of view; and the visitor is probably engaged ingetting his bag out of the rack and collecting his papers and umbrella, when he might be obtaining a first impression, though a poor one, ofOxford. Should he be more fortunate, and approach by motor car, againhe loses much. A vision, perhaps, for a moment, as he tops some risingground, and then, before he has had time to gasp his admiration, hefinds himself bounded on either side by the unlovely villas of a suburb. 

No, the coaching days were the best for those who wanted to see whatOxford looked like as a whole. From the top of the London coach, asHeadington Hill was reached, there must have been on a summer morning aminute or two of ecstasy for those who first caught sight of theglittering city at their feet. Not quite so fair a view, but beautifulenough, was theirs who came by way of Cumnor from the Berkshire Downs;but the coach top was the place, from whichever side the traveller came. 

And yet there is something better still. I would have, could I arrangeit for my friend, a more gradual approach yet. I would take him off theconverging roads while yet Oxford was unseen. I would lead him in theearly morning of a summer day--it must ever be summer--away where theriver washes the feet of the old town of Abingdon, and thence bypleasant paths through Sunningwell we would ascend Boar's Hill. There ona grassy spot, a hanging wood partly revealed below us, we would lieface downwards on the turf and gaze on Oxford lying far below--theOxford Turner saw--Oxford in fairy wreaths of light-blue haze, which asthey part, now here now there, reveal her sparkling beauty. There is noother place so fit to see her first; no day too long to gaze on her fromhere, and mark fresh beauties as the shadows change. Here we would lieand marvel at the scene, then let the dreams of days gone by--the daysthat wove the long romance of Oxford--enthral us till we hardly knowwhether time is or was. 

Away there to the east and south the river shines. Now in the heat ofsummer well within its reedy banks, but often spreading itself inflood-time far and wide. So those two Franciscans find it. They drawnear to Oxford, but when a mile or two from Abingdon are checked by manywaters, and take refuge in a house in a wood belonging to the monasteryof that place. Nearly seven hundred years ago! And yet they come intothe dream as if it all had happened yesterday, and they were still toset on foot the labours of their order in the low wooden slums of St. Ebbe's, and still to train such men as Duns Scotus and Roger Bacon. 

And the scene changes as the eye follows the river to the city walls. There is a mellower sunshine on the plain, and autumn mists hang lightlyover tower and spire. What is that slender blue column which rises abovethe centre of the town and melts into the hazy air? Surely it is thesmoke of the pyre on which the martyrs have but now perished! Ridley andLatimer--for months they have been face to face with death. Theirfigures move through the streets. From Bocardo, the town prison, theyare led to separate confinement in other parts of the city. Now to St. Mary's Church, now to the Divinity School are they taken to beexamined--a miserable farce--by those who seek to curry favour with abloody queen. At last the end. Was it this morning that the sheriff'sofficers came to lead Ridley from the mayor's house, where he had passeda peaceful night, and risen to write a letter on behalf of certaintenants of his in London, that justice might be done them when he died?There he goes in close custody, dressed in his bishop's gown and tippet, with a velvet scull cap on his head. Behind him comes Latimer, an old, old man in threadbare gown and leathern girdle, keeping up as well as hecan with the rest. They pass along what is now called Cornmarket Street, and under the Bocardo gateway, where is St. Michael's Church, and asthey get close beneath the prison each casts a look upwards if he shouldsee Archbishop Cranmer at the window. 

[Illustration: OXFORD FROM HEADINGTON HILL]

So they go on a few yards more till the city ditch is reached, which nowis Broad Street. There are the crowd, the faggots, and the stake. Notime is lost. Cheerfully they two embrace and strip themselves fordeath. The chains secure them to the posts. The bags of gunpowder arehung around their necks. They loudly commend their souls to God. Sooncomes release to the aged Latimer. The flames have leapt up to thepowder, and in a moment his sufferings are done. Not so merciful is theend of his brother martyr. Slowly, with shocking agony, his lower limbsare burnt away, and not till he has suffered the extremity of pain doeshe at last join Latimer in Paradise. That little slender column of bluesmoke! So was the dream provoked, and the pathetic tragedy of 1555 haspassed before our eyes to-day. 

The summer sun shines out, a gentle air blows off the mists, and fromafar the road to Woodstock is all lively with a gallant company. Mary isdead. The University have sent a deputation to meet Elizabeth the Queenat Godstow. No longer a prisoner at Woodstock, she rides gaily intoOxford. At the northern gate she is welcomed by the mayor, and the citybestows its gifts of plate and money. For days her scholarly mind isentertained with public disputations, relieved at intervals bytheatrical shows. It is all brilliant and light-hearted; a weight hasbeen taken from the country. 

Then comes a vision of such times as Oxford has never seen before orsince. The city is in turmoil. The whole countryside is alive withtroops. There is civil war. The University is for the King, the townsmen(had they their way) are Roundheads to a man. Citizens in scant numbers, scholars in profusion, are working at the trenches to fortify the place. What with these trenches across from the Cherwell past Wadham and StJohn's and so by St Giles' Church, to the Isis on the north, and fromFolly Bridge, through Christ Church meadows and Merton gardens (wherethe remains can still be seen) to Magdalen on the south, and with thenumerous rivers and conduits which form so many natural moats on westand east, the city soon becomes impregnable. To-day such puny effortswould be ludicrous, but in those times of cannon balls which couldscarcely pierce a two-inch board, they more than suffice, did he forwhom the work was done but have a better heart. 

In Christ Church and in New College quads there is a sound of drums andtramping feet as the bands of pikemen and halberdiers furnished by thestudents are busily at drill. Magdalen Bridge is fortified. On the greattower hard by stones have been heaped to hurl upon a passing enemy, butare destined to be never used. 

Now there is a fresh stir. The bands of armed students march through allthe streets, finally parade the High, and disband at the DivinitySchool--a demonstration to impress the townsmen and encourage the royalguests. 

Side by side with all this warlike preparation, and mingled with themartial ring of steel and discipline of troops, Oxford presents anaspect of frivolity unequalled except by an Eights' Week of to-day. TheQueen has her Court at Merton, and the city is full of ladies of highdegree. Their flounces and their furbelows are everywhere, and dailythey congregate in Christ Church meadows and Trinity Grove, to holdrevels displeasing to the Heads of Houses, who fear for the youth intheir charge, and a mockery to their own hearts, which are anxiousenough. Their dresses may be fine, but they themselves are lodged ingarrets, and they miss the dainty fare to which they are accustomed. Andall the while the wit and learning of the University knows littlediminution. It takes, perhaps, a lighter and more courtly tone, as itstrives to amuse and gratify the unwonted throng it entertains. War, women, wit--all stirred together in one seat of learning! Surely neverwas such a medley known!

Then from each point of vantage within our view on that hillside--nay, from the very spot on which we lie and dream--there are continualmovements of the troops. The King brings his cavalry right here, withina mile or two of Abingdon, waiting to do battle with Essex should headvance from Reading. Brown leads the Roundheads now to Wolvercote, nowto Shotover, and anon to Abingdon. Down there by Sandford Ferry Essextakes his troops across the river, skirts the city to the eastwards andmakes his camp at Islip for a while, then on across Cherwell and so toBletchington and Woodstock, blockading all approaches on the north. Nowone sees glitter of steel and gleam of pennon to the west, as Waller isbeat back at Newbridge on the Isis, above Eynsham. Scarcely has thisscene flitted through the brain, than from far away eastwards, hard byChinnor, there seems to come a shouting and a noise of horses at thegallop, as Rupert bursts upon the enemy's convoy, and drives them intothe Chiltern Hills, himself returning with his prisoners and spoils byway of Chalgrove, when again comes sound of battle, and he in his turnis for a moment held at bay by Roundheads' "insolence". No matter whichway we turn our eyes, each bit of rising ground, each bridge across astream gives birth to some imagining of skirmish or of ambuscade in thatlong civil war that waged round Oxford. 

[Illustration: MARTYRS' MEMORIAL AND ST. GILES]

One dream more. Naseby has been fought and lost. Fairfax is at the gatesof Oxford, where Charles has once again sought shelter. The city mighthave resisted long, but his heart has failed him. It is three o'clock onan April morning, and dark. A little company of three--a gentleman, ascholar, and a servant--ride out of the city over Magdalen Bridge. Theservant is the King. So comes the beginning of the end, and Oxford hasno more visions of the ill-fated Charles. 

Thus dreaming an hour or two has passed away, and she still lies therebefore us unexplored--beckoning us to her with every charm that delightsthe eye and kindles boundless expectation. Let us, then, draw closer andget a nearer view. Old as she is, she invites an inspection as close aswe will. The ravages of time do not in her case mar the loveliness whicheach year seems to renew and to increase. Most people are conscious ofthe fact that in looking back upon their past lives, especially upon thedays of their childhood, it is the sunshine that abides with them andnot the shadow. In all the memories, let us say, of a garden in which weplayed as children, the days are hot and bright, the flowers alwaysblooming. 

So it is with Oxford. Heaven knows the place is often enough shrouded incold, wet mist: for weeks together the streets are muddy beyond allother streets: at the beginning of each term (save that one by courtesycalled "summer") the chemists' shops are (or used to be) filled withrows of bottles of quinine, to enable the poor undergraduate to struggleagainst a depressing climate. But who remembers all these things inafter years? The man of fifty hears Oxford mentioned, and there comesback to him at once a place where old grey buildings throw shadowsacross shaven lawns; where the young green of the chestnut makes abrilliant splash of colour above the college garden wall; where coolbright waters wind beneath ancient willows, and it is good to bask inflannels in a punt. In fact it is the few days of real summer--the twoor three in each "summer" term--that he remembers in accordance withmemory's happy scheme, in which it is the fittest that survive. 

It is in summer, then, that we draw near to feast our eyes moreintimately on Oxford's charms. Not first of all upon those which shehides away within her outer cloak of beauty, but upon the garment whichshe borrows from Dame Nature, and wears with such inimitable grace. Meadows, gardens, rivers, trees: these are the materials of which therobe is woven, and to each belong at least some names that have becomefamous beyond the boundaries of Oxford. 

Who has not heard of Port Meadow--the town's meadow, as the name infers?Low it lies on the river bank to the north-west of the town. Forhundreds of years--since the time, indeed, of the _Domesday Book_--ithas belonged to the freemen of Oxford, and to-day may still be seentheir flocks of geese, white patterned on a ground of green, with hereand there a horse with tired feet ending his days where grass is softand plentiful. The Isis, the Upper River as here it is commonly called, has a special beauty as it flows along the edge of Port Meadow, forabove it hang the Witham woods, and on its edge is the little hamlet ofBinsey, giving a touch of human interest and rural picturesqueness tothe scene. It is worth while to row or sail against the stream until thewhole of the meadow is passed by, for then comes Godstow, where FairRosamond found refuge, and where she was at last laid to rest. It mustin all honesty be confessed that to the average undergraduate the placewas reckoned desirable, not so much on account of the historicalinterest just mentioned, as because, after a long pull up the river on asummer afternoon, it was possible to obtain at the little inn upon theriver bank what was euphemistically called "eel tea", a meal which, as amatter of fact, consisted of stewed eels washed down by unlimitedlibations of cider-cup!

Far smaller in extent, but even more famous, is the tree-girt spacecalled Christ Church Meadow, lying between that college and the river. Port Meadow may be said to be a wide bright outskirt of the natural robeof Oxford: Christ Church Meadow, with its Broad Walk and its mightytrees, is like a fold about her feet deep-trimmed and bordered with asilver braid. It is here that on Show Sunday, in Commemoration Week, in June, those who hold high places in the University, with favouredguests, and some few undergraduates, pace up and down, or used to pacein days gone by; for it belongs to a more modern pen to say whether theold custom still obtains, or whether it has passed away with otherthings of ceremony, such as (to compare small things with great) thecustom of forty years ago, in pursuance of which an undergraduate wouldnow and then array himself in his most brilliant attire and saunter upand down the High. Does the old street feel slighted, one wonders, atthe fact that it is "done" no more?

[Illustration: THE COLLEGE BARGES AND FOLLY BRIDGE]

Close by the meadow the college barges line the banks of the Isis, andthen come other meadows on either side--meadows nameless and undignifiedby pageantry, but sacred to Oxford's special flower, the fritillary, andstretching away to where Iffley stands, with its memories of J. H. Newman, and where the old mill, beloved of painters, was burnt down afew years ago. 

One other meadow there is, smaller than either of those alreadymentioned, and less beautiful in itself, though highly favoured in itsimmediate surroundings. It stands within the grounds of MagdalenCollege, and is bordered on either side by the divided waters of theCherwell, before they pass beneath Magdalen Bridge. Around this meadowis a shady path beneath an avenue of trees, and it is this path thatattracts attention to the meadow; for it is said that it was here thatAddison loved to pace up and down, as in the early years of theeighteenth century he thought out his essays for the _Tatler_ or_Spectator_. 

The rivers of Oxford--the Isis and the Cherwell--are so much part of hermeadow loveliness, that the one seems almost to include the others. Where the meadows are the fairest, there the rivers gleam and sparkle inthe summer sun of memory. The Isis, stately stream, proud of the greatoarsmen she has taught, and of historic boats that she has borne; theCherwell, winding, secretive, alluring, willow-girt, whispering of menand maidens, and of the dream days of ambitious youth. Each river hasits bridge. The mightier stream, as is most fitting, spanned where forcenturies the road has passed from Oxford into Berkshire; the littleCherwell, to make up for any loss in navigable importance, crossed nearMagdalen Tower by the lovely bridge which was built over the twobranches of the stream more than two hundred years ago. 

The meadows and the rivers bring to mind the trees. What and where wouldbe the loveliness of Oxford without her trees? Some have already beenmentioned--the stately elms of the Broad Walk, and the old gnarledwillows along the Cherwell's banks. But there are others, needingperhaps a little looking for, but none the less an integral part ofOxford's beauty when once found. One of these, the great cedar in theFellows' garden at Wadham, was wrecked in a gale not so very long ago, and many who had been familiar with its dark-green foliage contrastingwith the soft grey of the chapel walls, feel almost as though they hadlost a friend. 

Then just across the road there are the limes of Trinity, pollardedevery seven years to form the roof of an avenue, a most retired spot, but counting for much with those who love green leaves and dappledshade. 

Of the trees of Oxford pages might be written. They are everywhere, though not everywhere in prominence. Often enough it is just the peep, the suggestion of hidden beauty, that is seen as we pass from onecollege to another and a green bough overtops the wall. Lovers of Veniceknow how delightful is the same thing here and there along a side canal, where a treetop is reflected with a crumbling wall in the still waterbelow. In Oxford these overhanging boughs have no reflections, but thepatch of purple shadow on the pavement is often as valuable to thepicture. Talking of Venice brings to mind a bit of Oxford that mustoften remind the wayfarer to and from the railway of the Italian city. Not far from the old castle tower that has been already mentioned, abranch of the river flows in a lovely curve, and has upon one sideweather-stained old brick walls, and on the other a causeway upon whichstand ancient gabled houses. These buildings and the causeway reflect inthe grey-green water of the river, and when the posts that edge thelatter are taken into account, and a figure or two lounging by the railsare repeated in the reflections, the whole scene is not a littlereminiscent of Venice in a quiet scheme of colour. 

But this has nothing to do with Oxford's trees. Before turning ourthoughts to any of her other beauties, that noble chestnut tree must beremembered which stands in Exeter garden, and, surmounting the wall, shades some of the Brasenose College rooms. In one of these lived BishopHeber, and the tree on which he looked from his window has ever sincebeen called by his name. 

It is but natural that such thoughts as these should bring to mind theOxford gardens, which some have thought the very choicest jewels thatshe wears. And indeed there is an indescribable charm in these oldcollege gardens, with their trees and their herbaceous borders, theirlawns and their high old walls--a charm which must, one fancies, havegrown gradually, so that it depends for its existence not so much uponthe actual beauty of each spot, as upon the spirit and associationsthat differentiate them from all other gardens. Not that they have notbeauty of a most enchanting kind. St. John's, New College, Worcester--toname the three that occur most readily--possess gardens of specialloveliness, and the two former of great size, that of St. John's beingfive acres in extent. It is to this that one should find one's way tosee the most fascinating garden of all. The front of the buildings, withthe beautiful library windows, suggests some lovely old manor house, andas one looks back across the lawns and through the trees the effect isnot only dignified, as is that of so many college gardens, but is fullof the peace and quiet beauty of one of England's stately homes. 

[Illustration: FISHER ROW AND REMAINS OF OXFORD CASTLE]

Not a little has the modern revival of gardening, which has brought backthe old herbaceous border, added to the charm of college gardens. It hasbeen said with truth that the secret of a garden's beauty lies mainly inits background. How true this is! Flowers may blaze with colour in anopen field--and who has not marvelled as he passes in the train theseed-ground of some great horticulturist?--but seen thus they have butlittle charm. In a college garden a border filled with delphiniums andmadonna lilies is backed by sombre yews, while the thick foliage of elmor chestnut quiets harmoniously the farther distance. See how thespires of blue--now declaring themselves for Oxford, now forCambridge--are twice as vivid for the contrast, and how the lilies shineagainst the deep dark green, like fairest maidens round some blackpanelled hall! Or see again the monthly roses, blushing at intervalsalong an old grey wall: how tenderly are their hues enhanced by contrastwith the time-stained stones! Such are a part of the fascination ofOxford gardens. 

Quite unlike these, yet having an attraction of their own which manymiss, are the Botanical Gardens hard by Magdalen Bridge. Their situationon the brink of the River Cherwell, and almost under the shadow ofMagdalen Tower, is what probably appeals most strongly to the ordinaryobserver, while those who merely pass the gardens by will delight in thegateway, the work of Inigo Jones, with its statues of Charles I and II. Formal these gardens are of necessity, but there hangs about them acertain feeling of antiquity. They somehow seem to take their placeamong their old-world surroundings; and fitly so, for they are theoldest gardens of their kind in the country, having been originated bythe Earl of Danby as an assistance to the study of medicine, nearlythree hundred years ago. 

Across the way, at Magdalen College, exists a pleasure ground whichcannot rightly be included among Oxford's gardens, though it iscertainly one of her best-known natural adornments. This is the deerpark adjoining the New Buildings. It is almost worth while in the summervacation to loiter near the narrow passage leading from the cloisters, to witness the start of surprise and to hear the sight-seers' remarks, as they suddenly come out from the dusk and impressive gloom into ablaze of sunlight, with gay new buildings bright with window-boxesstraight before them, and a little herd of dappled deer feeding in thesunshine and the shadow of the park. Hundreds of years seem to rollaway: the very locality appears to change: the visitor could scarcelylook more astonished if he were suddenly transported from the Coliseumto the gardens of the Tuileries! No wonder a tourist once remarked, ashe issued from the cloisters: "I guess, sir, I've riz from the dead!"

It is tempting on this summer day to linger where grass is green andtrees throw grateful shade; and indeed it would seem that few of all themany pens that have set down Oxford's charms have given their due tothese her natural delights. But there is much that crowds into the mindand urgently complains lest there be not space enough to do them honour. What of her streets? Perhaps no other city in England--some say in theworld--can boast of streets of equal beauty. 

From Magdalen gate the High Street begins its curve--a true line ofbeauty. Its variety of architecture and mixture of old with new mightsuggest (to those who have only read and never seen) an inharmoniouswhole. But somehow this is not so. The severe front of Universityneither kills nor is killed by the seventeenth-century work, witheighteenth-century cupola and statue of George II's consort, just acrossthe way. The old-world shops and gabled houses contrast with the modernbuildings, which contain the new Examination Schools, or show where somecollege or other has forced its way into the High. They contrast, and donot spoil the picture. Indeed it will be a cause of much lamentation, ifmore of these old houses of the citizens of Oxford should be thrustaway, and the character of the street be changed to one long series ofcollege buildings, losing in colour, in variety, and in antiquity, andespecially in the story that it still tells of University and cityinterdependent, and seeking each the other's good. It is the gloriousChurch of St. Mary the Virgin that seems to bind all the varying charmsof the street together. Standing near the centre of the High, itdominates the whole. The stately thirteenth-century tower with itsmassive buttresses is surmounted by "a splendid pyramidal group ofturrets, pinnacles, and windows", from which the spire shoots upwards. To a trained eye this spire is a continual marvel, when seen from ashort distance away, on account of the transparency of colour which forsome unexplained reason it presents. A silver grey hardly describes it;but _light_ clothes it with a diaphanous glory, now warm now cool incolour, and always lovely. Facing the street is an ornate Italian porchwith twisted pillars, erected in 1637. Above the entrance is the famousstatue of the Virgin and Child which gave such offence to the Puritans. 

[Illustration: THE COTTAGES, WORCESTER COLLEGE GARDENS]

What stories the place could tell! It was here that John Wycliffethundered against the Romanism of his day. It was here that Cranmerrecanted his recantation, and promised that the hand that wrote itshould be the first to suffer at the stake. Hither, too, were laid torest the remains of Amy Robsart, brought after death from Cumnor. Spacewill not allow of any recital of the famous names of those who haveoccupied the University pulpit herein. But memories crowd into the mindas the rather dreary interior of the Church is pictured. Here somethirty-six or seven years ago an undergraduate went, full ofexpectation, to hear Dr. Pusey preach. The crowd was great, and he hadto stand, while for an hour and a half or so the great man poured out alearned disquisition against the Jews! Here too, about the same time, the youthful members of the University flocked to hear Burgon's eveningsermons--quaint and original as the man himself--in one of which, afterdescribing the episode of Balaam and the ass, he threw up his hands andcried, "To think that that type of brutality should speak with the voiceof a man--it delighteth me hugely!"

One of the beauties of the streets of Oxford is that they mostly havesomething admirable at either end. Thus the picture of the High Streetis finished at one end with Magdalen Tower and Bridge, and at the otherwith Carfax Church, or rather, nowadays, with all that is left--a veryancient tower--of the City Church which stood upon the site of abuilding so old that coins of the date of Athelstan were found beneathits pavement. 

Then see how Broad Street, as it narrows again towards the east, gives afine view of the Sheldonian Theatre, where many who have helped to maketheir country's history, have been honoured by the granting of degrees, and of the Clarendon Building with its lofty pillared porch, where oncethe University Press was housed. Or look at that superb approach toOxford from the north, a boulevard of great breadth and dignity. FromSt. Giles' Church, at which the road from Woodstock and from Banburyconverge, how fine is the prospect ending as it does in the tall trees, before the dignified front of St. John's College, and the tower of St. Mary Magdalen's Church. 

The streets of Oxford! What scenes have been enacted there! Kings andqueens have paced them between cheering crowds; town and gown havesurged and struggled up and down their length, till from the highestpoint at Carfax the water was turned on from Nicholson's old conduitjust to cool their ardour. Now and again a hush has fallen on all thecity, and from St. Mary's booms a minute-bell. Shops are half-closed andflags half-masted. Then through the silent streets winds a black-robedprocession, half a mile in length, and one of Oxford's best-known sonsis carried to his rest. Or, maybe, all is bright with pleasure-seekingcrowds and ladies decked in all their bravery, and just a glimpse iscaught of scarlet and of black, with gleam of silver mace, as theVice-Chancellor's procession goes to give degrees. Or, just once more, aline of Oxford cabs--who does not know the Oxford cab?--each withunlicensed number of undergraduate fares, goes to the sound of rattleand of song to speed the departure from his Alma Mater's arms of one whohas outstepped the limits of her patience. 

So it goes on: a varying scene of dignity and ribaldry, taking eachother's place from time to time. But most often through all the yearsthe streets are filled with those who, day by day, come in from all thecountry round, bringing their produce, seeking what they lack, and alloblivious of the learned life of Oxford. 

But there are so many people, to whom the human interest in the fairestcity counts for more than all the rest, that it is time to wander amongthe quadrangles, the halls, the chapels, and the other ancient fabricsthat speak of the university life of Oxford. As we pass in through manya massive gateway, tread many a stone-paved path, climb many an old oakstair worn by the feet of many generations, it is strange if no strandof sentiment puts us in touch with some of those who have passed thatway before. 

And first to Merton, oldest of university colleges. It is almost sad towrite the words, for it is hard not to feel a pang of regret that thecharming old tale, once indeed confirmed by the Court of King's Benchitself, that King Alfred founded University College in the High Streetyears before any other was suggested, is a myth. The men of "Univ" haveat least the consolation that the tradition has existed, and if, inspite of hard facts, they cling to the romance, there will be few toblame them. It was Walter de Merton, Chancellor of England and Bishop ofRochester, who invented colleges as we know them, and, by founding thatone which is known by his name, did, in 1265, set the model for allfuture collegiate establishments. Mr. Eric Parker in "Oxford andCambridge" truly says, "Walter de Merton founded more than MertonCollege. His idea of a community of students working together in acommon building towards a common end, inspired by the same influence andguided by the same traditions, was the first and the true idea of allcolleges founded since. "

[Illustration: OLD CLARENDON BUILDING, BROAD STREET]

The momentous step taken by this great Bishop in thus founding aninstitution on these lines for the study of Theology, is remarkable asillustrating the spirit of revolt from the absorption by monks andfriars of all existing educational affairs. The College was strictlylimited to secular clerks, who were "sent down" if they chose to joinany of the regular Orders. The subsequent religious history of theCollege has had curious vicissitudes. Wycliff was a Fellow, and Mertonstood by him in the face of the rest of Oxford. Then came a wave ofRomanism; and in the reign of Mary she could count on Merton to providefanatics in her cause. A Fellow of Merton presided over the burning ofRidley and Latimer, and the Vice-Chancellor who preached on the occasionwas also a Merton man. In the middle of the seventeenth century all thiswas changed, and no grimmer Puritans were found in Oxford than the menof Merton. It seems as though the founder's spirit of religious freedomhas from time to time cropped up, with an independence and hardihoodworthy of his name. 

But it was not all at once in 1265 that the College sprang intoexistence. At first Walter de Merton housed the students in lodgings inwhat is now called Merton Street, building a hall and kitchen to providefor their sustenance. Then followed the chapel with its grand tower, andlastly the buildings for the students. As one stands in the quaintlittle Mob Quad (the origin of which name has apparently been lost) itis good to realize that this is the first collegiate quadrangle known. How far the thought takes us back! How near to the fountainhead of muchthat has grown familiar--so familiar that few people, and noundergraduates, trouble their heads about it! It is just _there_: likethe river, and the trees, and the sky it exists, but why or how it cameinto existence matters nothing to them. Take for example the office ofDean. In every college there is a Dean, to whom is committed the orderand discipline of the place. Should there be a bonfire in the quad, itis he who comes out and frantically attempts to put it out. Should anunlucky undergraduate oversleep himself more often in the week thancollege rules allow, it is the Dean who sends for him and gates him, that is to say, confines him within the college gates after sunset orthereabouts. The Dean is looked upon as an "institution", not whollydelightful but still a necessary bit of Oxford life; but very fewundergraduates are aware that one must go back to the times of Walter deMerton to find out how he came into being. The life of a student in thefirst college was planned to be lived in great simplicity. His fare wasto be of the plainest, and he was not to talk at dinner. He was never tobe noisy. The rules, indeed, went so far as to say that, if he wanted totalk at any time, he must talk in Latin. It may be supposed that humannature was much the same in the thirteenth century as in the twentieth, and such a life must have proved difficult to some. In order to enforcethe rules one student in every ten was made a kind of "præfect", withdisciplinary power over the others. Hence the "decanus", and lo! thefirst of all the Deans!

Merton had not existed for much more than a century when it becamepossessed through the magnificence of Rede, Bishop of Chichester, of itswonderful library, so that not only has it the oldest quadrangle, butalso the oldest mediæval library in the kingdom. There is not a room inOxford so impressive with a sense of antiquity. Its lancet windows, itsrough desks sticking out from the bookcases, the chains which thwart theproject of the book-thief, all help to obliterate the ages; though thedecorations of the ceiling, and the stained-glass windows, tell of thedesire of later centuries to soften the original sternness of the room. It is here that one must wait quietly as dusk begins to fall, if onewould see faint forms of those of whom Merton boasts as her noblestsons. To all of them is this old room familiar, and to none more so thanto Henry Savile, lover of books and warden of the College just threehundred years ago. He it was who induced Merton to give prompt andgenerous aid to that other Fellow of the College, Sir Thomas Bodley, when founding the great library that bears his name. Surely the spiritsof these two men at least must haunt the place!

And he who wrote of Oxford's sons--Anthony Wood--is he too never here?And Patteson and Creighton of these later days, bishops who gave theirlives, the one upon a savage shore, the other to the endless toil of thegreat diocese of London. Do they not pass along, and people with theirmemory the shadowy recesses of this ancient place?

[Illustration: CHRIST CHURCH]

Now let us stroll on--'tis but a step--to Christ Church. Sometimes itseems as though this should take precedence of all other colleges. Itschapel is Oxford's Cathedral, its quadrangles are the finest, itsfounder was in some ways the most famous; and lastly (and of leastaccount), if one who has tried the task of "seeing Oxford" in anafternoon is asked what he remembers best, it is ten to one that hewill say "the staircase and its ceiling leading up to Christ ChurchHall". And it _is_ of extraordinarily impressive beauty. The fangroining of the roof, supported by just one slender column, whichsprings from the foot of the staircase, is of exquisite form andlightness. Then the wide, flat steps that turn at an acute angle, andthen lead on straight to the entrance of the Hall, form a worthyapproach to what has been described as the grandest of all mediævalhalls in the kingdom, except only that at Westminster. Let us standaside here for a moment and picture some of those who have ascendedthese stairs in days gone by. A fanfare of trumpets sounds, and HenryVIII goes up with ponderous step. Here too comes Queen Elizabeth, jesting in caustic fashion with her courtiers, as she sweeps along towitness a dramatic entertainment in the Hall. Of lesser folk there passby Dr. Fell ("I do not like thee, Dr. Fell"), who finished the buildingof Tom Quad in 1665; and then a quiet studious-looking man, a fellow orsenior student of the College, who has nothing in his appearance to callattention. But this is Burton, by some accounted a morose person, but bythose who knew him intimately a cheery and witty companion. Here, too, with slow and faltering step comes Pusey in extreme old age, and Liddonof ascetic mien. Hark to the laughter! It is Stubbs--historianBishop--with witty saying falling from his lips. And there is Liddell, feared of the undergraduate, but splendid both in figure and in face. And many another shade would fancy depict taking the old familiar way:men of renown, but none, however royal his demeanour, however high hisliterary rank, none to compare with him, Wolsey the great Cardinal, thefounder of the place. 

It is worth while before we explore further to think for a few momentsabout this wonderful personality, one of the most remarkable of allOxford's sons. At the very end of the fifteenth century he is discoveredas a Junior Fellow of Magdalen, then as Dean of Divinity, and in thefirst years of the next century as Rector of Lymington. Rapidly climbingthe ecclesiastical tree, he reappears as Cardinal Archbishop of York, and resumes his close connection with Oxford, in the guise of a greatpromoter of learning, paying the salaries of lecturers out of his ownpocket and so on. But the position of a mere patron of education did notsatisfy his ambition. He determined on founding a college which shouldeclipse even that of Wykeham--the already famous New College. He was arich man, but the vast undertaking upon which he had set his heart couldnot be paid for out of the private purse of any living man. He was inhigh favour with the King, and persuaded him to allow him to plunderthe monasteries, and devote the proceeds to the expenses of the greatfoundation which he called Cardinal's College. Besides several smallreligious houses, he, in 1522, obtained the surrender of the Priory ofSt. Frideswide in Oxford itself. 

Wolsey was possessed of sufficient funds to make a beginning. Clearingaway some portion of the old Church of St. Frideswide, he laid thefoundation of what afterwards became Christ Church in the summer of1525. The work went on apace, but in a very few years there came aserious check. Henry VIII had made up his mind to marry Ann Boleyn, andthis particular matrimonial venture had a curious influence on thefortunes of the College. It came about in this way. To marry Ann, it wasnecessary for the King to get his marriage with Catherine dissolved. ThePapacy declined to grant the decree. The ultimate result of this wasHenry's determination to free himself and his country from the power ofRome. This in its turn resulted in Wolsey's downfall. The work ofbuilding Cardinal's College ceased, and there was a great probabilitythat the beginning already made would be demolished. The King, however, changed his mind, and in 1532 refounded and endowed it. It now receivedthe name of King Henry VIII's College. This title it bore for somefourteen years, at the end of which the See of Oxford was removed fromOlney Abbey to St Frideswide's, which had already become a part of theCollege. From that date the whole foundation, partly educational andpartly ecclesiastical in character, became one institution, and was thenand for ever after called Christ Church. It is an extraordinary story, and, mixed up as it is with the rise and fall of Cardinal Wolsey, lendsa great amount of human interest to the inspection of the College. 

There is nothing else at all like it in existence. Collegiate andecclesiastical life are inextricably mixed up. There is a Dean: butinstead of being an official appointed to keep order among theundergraduates, he is both Head of the College and Dean of theCathedral. The great quadrangle is partly like the quad of anothercollege, in containing certain sets of rooms in the occupation ofundergraduates, and partly like a cathedral close, inasmuch as thereinis the Deanery and the residences of an archdeacon and canons. TheCathedral itself is, though small, a dignified and beautiful building oftrue cathedral character. At the same time it is the College Chapel, andthe undergraduates who daily attend its services are privileged toworship in a magnificent fane, but at the same time must lose that senseof what, for want of a better word, must be called the home-like charmwhich endears to so many their College Chapel. The scenes, too, thatthe quadrangles witness are curiously varied. Now there is a processionof divines wending their way to some diocesan function, with bishops andchaplains bringing up the rear, and anon a crowd of undergraduates, smarting beneath some fancied grievance, or merely celebrating somesuccess upon the river, noisily express their wish to paint the collegered. 

But Christ Church is not the only unique college in Oxford. As there isno other to be found in any university so curiously combined with thecathedral and ecclesiastical dignitaries of a see, so is there no other, in this country at all events, that has preserved its originalintention, as a college for Fellows only, as has All Souls. Here nonoisy undergraduate is allowed to disturb the calm. There are, indeed, four Bible Clerks who are undergraduate members and reside within itswalls, but their very name is enough to guarantee their unobtrusiverespectability--if indeed they exist in the flesh at all, for it is saidthat none except the Fellows of the College have ever seen one! Thefoundation is rich both in money and in fine buildings. Taking no sharein education within its own walls--having, that is to say, none of theusual routine of college lectures and so on--it has had to justify theretention of its wealth. This it has done to the full, for it provides alarge part of the funds for the teaching of Law in the University, andgreatly aids the study of Modern History. It also has shown itself mostliberal in supplying the wherewithal for the ever-increasing needs ofthe Bodleian Library. 

To most people All Souls is chiefly familiar for its entrance facing theHigh Street, with porch and tower of the founder's date (1437), and forits chapel and library. The chapel possesses in its reredos a work ofart which is one of the chief goals of the sightseer in Oxford. Itcovers the entire east wall, and consists of an immense series ofniches, in which are numberless statues, surrounding a crucifixion scenein the centre. Of its kind it is certainly the most beautiful thing inthe whole University. It was robbed of its statues and walled up in theseventeenth century, but has been restored with wonderful success aquarter of a century ago. The Library, called after its donor, SirChristopher Codrington, is singularly beautiful in decoration. It is 200feet long, and contains every imaginable book necessary for the Studentof Law. By permitting a very wide use of this room All Souls Collegegives one more evidence of its desire to further the general educationalwork of Oxford. 

Within the walls of a place so redolent of Law it is not strange to findthat Blackstone (he of the "Commentaries") had his rooms, but it isremarkable to find how diverse are the professions which have beenadorned by Fellows of All Souls. Statesmen one might expect, and itis not difficult to conjure up the form of the late Marquis ofSalisbury, stooping over a volume of Constitutional Law in theCodrington Library. Easier, perhaps, to imagine him thus than in thegarb of a Christian warrior, as he stands in one of the niches of theChapel reredos. The Fellows of All Souls are supposed under theirstatutes to be _splendide vestiti_, and in this respect Lord Salisbury, who was probably never aware of what he wore, must have singularlyfallen short of the standard. But even so he would seem a more naturalpersonage to haunt the still quadrangles of the College than hisantagonist, Mr. Gladstone, who was an honorary Fellow of the College, but whose impulsive, eager vivacity would harmonize ill with the spiritof the place. 

[Illustration: BRASENOSE COLLEGE AND RADCLIFFE LIBRARY ROTUNDA]

To-day it seems almost strange to find that All Souls has recruited theranks of great ecclesiastics, but so it is. From there came ArchbishopSheldon, Bishops Heber and Jeremy Taylor, and many other great divines. Even Architecture can claim a Fellowship of All Souls for one of itsgreatest masters, Sir Christopher Wren. 

But time presses. Oxford, all beautiful in her surroundings, great inher history, splendid in her buildings, unique in such foundations ashave just been described, means so much more to most who have claimedher as their Alma Mater. They have had some inkling of all thesethings: especially perhaps they have imbibed, and made their lifelongpossession, a sense of her natural charms: but no matter what theircollege may have been, no matter how little illustrious, historically orarchitecturally, it is round the college life, the rooms, thefriendships, the homely details, that their loving memory hangs. It isthere that first they knew what independence meant: there that thechairs and table were their very own: there that they could come and goalmost as they liked: there that they first knew the delight of_voluntary_ work. 

How it all comes back! A freshman passes the Entrance Examination justwell enough to get rooms in College--the last set vacant. They look outupon a wall at the back of the buildings; in themselves they are smalland dark, the bedroom a mere cupboard. But they are his own. He entersand finds a pot of marmalade and a tin of Bath Olivers on the table, putthere by the forethought of his scout. He gets his boxes open: hangs upthe school groups and the picture of his home: puts his books into theshelves--and has made his abode complete. He waits impatiently for thecap and gown he has ordered. The door flies open, and in rushes hisspecial friend, who has preceded him from Marlborough. The old threadsare picked up and knit together in a moment--and so the life begins. There is not much variety from day to day: chapel first thing, at whichfive attendances are required weekly, Sunday morning service (owing toits length) counting as two--then breakfast, seldom altogether alone. Itis the most sociable meal of the day, which says much for the youth andhealth of the breakfasters! Should it be Sunday the undergraduate mayhope (often in vain) to be asked to breakfast by some man in lodgings. Otherwise he will be condemned to feed either upon coldchicken--tasteless and a little dry--or upon gherkin pie, known only (bythe mercy of Providence) to certain colleges in Oxford, and consistingof a dish of cold fat, interspersed with gherkins, and covered with lidof heavy pastry. 

Afterwards, on week days, there are lectures, then a quick change toflannels and a hurried luncheon, and then in summertime the river or thecricket fields. Back again he comes to cold supper and long draughts ofshandygaff in hall; then a pipe or two and a chat, and then (sometimes)a spell of reading before bed and sleep. But all this is nearly fortyyears ago:--a mere memory:--but yet it is things like these that firstcome to mind when Oxford's name is heard. 

And then the scout! How many memories he brings! The college servantswere a race apart with curious standards of their own. It is true theyfattened on the undergraduate. Did not the cook of a certain collegedisdain to enter his son at the college for which he cooked, and sendhim to Christ Church? Did not each scout bear away all that was leftupon his masters' tables in a vast basket, beneath the weight of whichhe could scarcely stagger home? Quite true, but all the same how wouldthe freshman have fared had not his scout looked after him, seen that hedid what it behoved him to do, and kept him not seldom from some fauxpas? A senior scout had often an almost fatherly regard for the men uponhis staircase. One, who comes at once to mind, would stand and urge andargue long enough by the bedside of some lazy youth, for whom aninterview with the Dean was imminent, persuading him to get up forChapel, and the same man would take it seriously to heart if any of hisparticular gentlemen behaved in a manner which he considered unseemly. Agood scout attached himself to his many masters and never forgot them. If any member of a college revisits his old haunts after years ofabsence, the one man who may be depended upon to give him a warm welcomeis his old scout. 

Of the tutors and fellows of the colleges, and their frequent kindnessto the junior members of their college, this is not the place toexpatiate. They are of course an intimate part of every man's collegelife, and around them many happy memories will generally dwell. Thepoint that it is desired to emphasize is that, in looking back uponOxford, it is these matters that have been briefly described--thedetails of the college and the college life--that are remembered withthe greatest affection. 

A Trinity man will tell you of the Grinling Gibbons carvings in theChapel, but he thinks with greater tenderness of an old armchair in hisrooms in the garden quad. A Corpus man will take a pride in belonging toa college that has always set before itself a high standard of learning, and is suitably possessed of a magnificent old library, but it is of hisquaint old rooms in the little quiet quad that he dreams, when histhoughts go back again to Oxford. 

The mention of Corpus brings to mind the fact, that this is almost theonly college of those in the front rank to retain the charm of beingsmall both in size and in numbers. All who have in their day belonged toa college of this kind will remember with pleasure the absence of"sets", and the possibility of knowing every other member of thecollege. Were Corpus to be revisited to-day by any of its distinguishedmembers of the past, such as Lord Tenterden, John Taylor Coleridge, Dr. Arnold of Rugby, or John Keble, he would find far less change than inalmost any other college in Oxford. Till lately much the same mighthave been said of Oriel, where one is brought to a pause the moment thegate is passed by the sight of one of the most beautiful of allquadrangles, of which the chief adornment is the charming porch of thehall, with its canopy and wide flight of steps. But Oriel is no longerto rank as one of the moderate-sized colleges. Enriched by Mr. Rhodes ithas pushed its way into the High Street, and a new quadrangle isbeginning already to arise. The fame of the College has been great. Ithas sent out an extraordinarily large number of prominent Churchmen, andthe place is also full of memories of such men as Sir Walter Raleigh, Gilbert White, Tom Hughes, and that great provost and scholar Dr. Monro. It must be hoped that its increase in size, and the publicity of itsbuildings, will not detract from the excellence of the College, thoughit must be allowed that, by joining the ranks of the larger colleges, itloses something of its individuality and charm. 

Among those larger foundations Balliol is perhaps the best known, and insome ways the most remarkable. It has had a curious history. Foundedalmost at the same time as Merton, it is by its own members held to bethe oldest of all the colleges. But alas! the front that it presents, though respectable enough, is quite modern, and cannot be includedamong the things that help to make Oxford lovely. Then, again, forhundreds of years it remained an obscure place with no pretensions ofany kind. Since the Mastership of Dr. Jenkyn in comparatively recenttimes it has managed, by throwing open its scholarships, to attract thefinest scholars from all over the country. It can now boast a world-widereputation; for the Balliol scholarship is known by all to be the chiefprize offered in the University. 

[Illustration: BOTANIC GARDENS AND MAGDALEN TOWER]

Balliol has had many remarkable masters, but none more so than Dr. Benjamin Jowett, a man of such wide sympathies that he attracted to theCollege an extraordinary assortment of men. Not only were distinguishedmen of learning to be found there, but a good sprinkling of the scionsof the noble houses of the country, while rooms were always found formen of every colour and nationality--Jews, Turks, infidels and heretics. As the men so the buildings present an extraordinary mixture. TheLibrary and the old Dining Hall are of fifteenth-century work. The newHall and the principal front (already mentioned) are byWaterhouse--mid-Victorian; while, to crown all, the Chapel was erectedby Butterfield, whose confidence in his own creations prevented him frombeing influenced by the great architectural beauties of Oxford, andcaused him to have no hesitation in setting up buildings, soincongruous with the spirit of Oxford, as Balliol Chapel and KebleCollege. It is, then, for its mental, rather than its physical beauty, that Balliol claims attention. The inevitable mention of the College hastaken up space, which might well have been bestowed upon the many lovelybits of ancient stonework that feast the eye in quiet corners andretired quadrangles, each going to form that inner beauty which Oxfordwears within her robe of natural adornment. 

But there are more secret treasures still. It is wonderful as onecontemplates the walls, the towers, the domes, the battlements, thespires, that mark the position of this or that famous portion of theUniversity city, to try to realize the wealth of treasure that is hiddenthere. The foreigner who comes in August and sits upon the steps of theClarendon Building while he studies Baedeker from beneath the shadow ofa tilted Panama, knows most about them. Most, that is to say, exceptingalways the knowledge of those to whose care they are entrusted. Theordinary English man or woman, unconnected with Oxford, has never heardof them. The undergraduate and the ordinary don has seen some part justnow and then, when some enthusiastic guests have had to be taken roundthe sights. 

And yet a book of many volumes might be written to tell of the thingsboth rare and exquisite that Oxford hugs most close to her breast. Hewho cares to look may find them everywhere. There is not a college inall the University that does not possess something precious, either forits intrinsic beauty or for its historical interest. And it is not hardto find these treasures: they are gladly shown to all who care to see;though it might be thought, from the small general knowledge of theirexistence, that they are so jealously guarded as to make it next toimpossible to gain access to them. In the Bodleian Library alone arecountless objects of the greatest beauty and interest spread out beneathglass cases for all who will to see. Scores of illuminated manuscriptsof all nations, and of such age that it is a marvel to see the coloursstill so bright and pure: historical books and documents of the mostfascinating description, such as the exercise books used by Edward VIand Elizabeth when children: the collection of relics of Oxford'sgreatest poet, Shelley, --his watch, some few autograph poems, and morethan one portrayal of his refined and rather boyish face. 

Speaking of portraits brings to mind the wealth of these that in thepicture galleries, and in college halls and libraries, Oxford possesses. Not only does she prize them for their beauty--and how great that is canbest be seen in Christ Church Hall, upon the walls of which the worksof Gainsborough, Hogarth, Lely, Reynolds and other great paintershang--but from the story that they tell of the fame her sons have won, and of the love they bore her, in token of which they joyfully pouredout their wealth that she might be more worthily adorned. 

Of other pictures too Oxford has goodly store. Over two hundred thousandengraved portraits are in the Hope Collection, while water-colours byTurner, David Cox, and other masters are the gems of the Ashmoleancollection. Keble College cherishes one famous picture. In the LiddonMemorial Chapel is hung Holman Hunt's "Light of the World". 

How much the beauty of the interior of Oxford's ancient buildings isincreased by the glowing colours of the light, that finds its waythrough stained-glass windows, it is hard to say. These windows are sonumerous and so beautiful that it is difficult to imagine what many achapel, hall, and library would be without them. They are of every date, from ancient fragments, such as may be seen in the windows of theLibrary at Trinity, to the great Sir Joshua Reynolds' window in NewCollege Chapel, and the still later examples of Burne-Jones' art, whichare among the chief beauties of the Cathedral; and they include suchsplendid instances of old Flemish art as may be found in Lincoln CollegeChapel. 

[Illustration: IFFLEY MILL]

Of carved work in wood and stone there is much that is precious, thoughmany of the larger statues are not examples of the highest form of art. Still there are traceries and capitals of exquisite design to be foundeverywhere, and of statuary there is at least Onslow Ford's patheticfigure of the poet Shelley to be seen at University College, beneath adome which does its best to mar the whole effect. 

Of wood carvings the most beautiful are Grinling Gibbons' work atTrinity and Queen's, and the most interesting the old oak altar atWadham, brought there from Ilminster, the home of Nicholas and DorothyWadham, the founders of the College. 

New College and Corpus each can boast the possession of their founder'spastoral staff, silver gilt, and in the former case both jewelled andenamelled; while Exeter and Magdalen prize among their chief treasurestapestry hangings of great beauty, the former designed by Burne-Jones, and executed by William Morris (both Hon. Fellows of the College), thelatter of considerable antiquity, having been presented to the Collegeby Prince Arthur, son of Henry VII. But so innumerable are the artisticdelights hidden in every corner of Oxford that it is impossible to domore than thus suggest their existence. 

And now, before it is quite time to turn away, we will out into thesunshine once again. There is one memory of Oxford to which expressionhas not yet been given. It is connected with the sparkle, the gladness, the sunshine of the place: it is the music of the sound of Oxford--thesong, if you will, it always used to sing. To-day there is a difference. The rumble of the tramcar, the hoot of the motor, are heard in herstreets, and since the era of much married fellows, the wail of theinfant rises from the solid phalanx of perambulators on the pavement. But once upon a time--how long ago!--all through the summer day andsummer night there was a kind of music in the air. The whisper of thewind that stirred the willows made soft accompaniment of the splash ofpaddle in the stream: the birds sang lustily amid the gentle rustle ofthe garden trees, and when the thrush retired to roost the nightingaletook up the tale. The very footfall of the men hurrying to lecture was apleasant sound, for then they needed not to punctuate their progresswith the sharp tang of the bicycle bell. And best of all the bells mademusic morning and evening at the chapel hours. Not the despairing musicof a peal, that falls and rises only to fall again, till nervous men areracked, but a cheerful note--just one--but different from each side;and, amongst all, that one that each man knew to be his own and loved, and knows it still to-day and loves it still. It is true enough thatother sounds, less musical, are heard by memory's ears. Sometimes thenightingale would take to flight, affronted that her note was drowned by"the shout of them that triumph, the song of them that feast", as theCollege kept high revel in honour of the Eight. Even now it is possibleto hear the raucous yell of "Dra-ag", to summon those who lingered overluncheon and kept the char-à-banc from starting for the Cowley cricketgrounds, and none who have once heard it can forget the roar mingledwith the rattles, pistol shots and bells, that draws closer and evencloser, as the Eights come racing to the Barges. Scarcely music, perhaps, but for all that a part of the song of Oxford life. 

But in all the sweetest sounds that have till now gone up from earth toheaven Oxford has had its part. Not only have birds and meadows, treesand rippling streams made constant music to the God who made them, butthe heart and voice of man have not unworthily joined in. What of Kebleand Clough from Oriel, singing indeed a different strain, but singingfor all that? What of Bishops Heber and Ken, from All Souls and fromNew? Of Robert Browning of Balliol, and Landor Trinity's chief poet? Andlastly what of Shelley, recognized at last as singer of immortal verse?These and a host of lesser songsters, each with his several songs, joining with the glorious harmonies that have for so long been sent upfrom Magdalen, New College, and from that ancient fane where once St. Frideswide rested, make good the claim of Oxford as a city of sweetsong. 

There is no more to say--or rather there is no space in which to sayit--and thoughts which have been revelling in Oxford's loveliness mustbe turned once more to the homelier duties from which they have for awhile escaped, and he who writes must lay aside his pen all sorrowfulthat on such a theme he could no better write. 

And he who reads? Surely someone will say "So this is Oxford! This isthe chief of all our seats of learning, and no word of wise professorsor of lecture halls!" Just so. It is not at the lectures men learn most. It is the spirit of the place, the friends they make, the living in anatmosphere so fair and sweet, that counts for almost all. It must bethat, wherever they may walk in after years, their share in what hasbeen wrought so beautiful and hallowed by the life and work of noblemen, will tend to guide their footsteps in the higher path.