_Oxford—New College—Magdalen._
Now came my first day in Oxford—a day depended upon from boyhood, and
from which I had expected more quiet and meditative delight than from
any other enjoyment whatever. To every one who has made English
literature and English history a study, I need not explain why. But
Oxford has not only a literary _prestige_: it is so intimately connected
with the history of our holy religion, that all other associations
receive, as it were, an unction from this. Every college has its
history; every stone, and every tree, and every turf, suggest ennobling
reflections, as memorials of departed worth, but the hallowed memory of
Martyrs sheds over all a deep and sober glory, that awes while it
inspires. I know that our age has seen men, aye, and Oxford men, who
could sneer at the reverend names of Cranmer, and Latimer, and Ridley:
but who that has a heart not absolutely dead to generous emotion, but
must feel a warm re-action in view of such impotent malignity? Who, in
the days of the apostate and the dupe, can go to Oxford without blessing
God that other days have left us the blessed example of men faithful
unto death, and triumphing in the fire?
I stopped at “The Angel,” but it was not long before I found myself
hospitably taken up, and transported to the house of a friend in the
Turl, next door to Exeter College. My kind entertainer was one widely
known throughout Anglo-Saxondom, not only by the books which he
publishes, but by those also which he writes: and to whose elementary
works on architecture we, in America, are indebted for about all that is
popularly known of that beautiful art and science. As it was now
vacation, I had an opportunity of seeing Oxford first, as it were, in
scene, without the _dramatis personæ_; and no one is more capable than
my kind host, of explaining the antiquarian and architectural glories of
Oxford to a stranger. As he courteously gave me his valuable time, I
made my primary rounds under his guidance.
As I came into Oxford, from Cuddesdon, I heard the bells of St. Mary’s
in full peal, and experienced an exhilarating emotion that greatly
heightened my impressions. After my arrival in the Turl—a name which
indicates that the street was once a country-lane, guarded by a
_turn-stile_—I took my second walk through the city, my first having
been on the previous Sunday, passing from St. Ebbe’s to Wadham College,
with the Bishop. Now, beginning with New College and the glories of
William of Wykeham, I felt a new impulse of wonder and admiration, as if
the half had not been told me. In vain does the pedant complain of the
architecture here displaying the genius of that munificent founder, and
tell us that it marks a decline from the elevation of the decorated
period; for who can but see, in what is called decline, something much
more like an elaborate adaptation of sacred art to academic purposes,
exhibiting high invention, and a sense of the fitting and appropriate,
which proves a taste truly refined, and a fancy rich and creative? So,
at least, it strikes me; and the moral element is not less observable,
the very stones seeming vital and instinct with the designer’s great
soul and spirit. Thus the gateways, as has been well remarked, exhibit
strength and utility, with little to advertise what is within; the
domestic part is simple, and chaste and homelike; the hall bespeaks a
generous hospitality, and suggests the social and civilizing character
with which religion invests the table and the meal, and elevates it to a
feast of reason; while, at last, the chapel is full of divine majesty,
and commands abasement of self in the house of God, and at the gate of
heaven. Wykeham was, for his day, a reformer, as really as Wyckliffe,
and nothing is more certain than that the true Anglican alone has a
right to glory in his achievements. They mark a period of contest with
the papacy, every step of which contributed to the ultimate liberation
of the Church of England from its Italian yoke, and they were perfected
in that English spirit, against which the Pope was always at war, and
which late apostates from our Nicene faith detest and anathematize as
schism. True it is that we differ with Wykeham and Waynefleet in many
items of opinion and practice, in which they were no wiser than their
times; but they are one with us, historically, in the communion of the
Church of England, in the maintenance of her individuality and
independence, and in the confession of the Nicene Creed, as the
authorized symbol of Christendom. These impressions, forced upon me
within these walls, and growing on me every day that I spent in England,
returned with ten-fold power after I had seen the Continent, and again
beheld English Churches and colleges, and felt their essential
antagonism to what is Italian and Tridentine, and their almost physical
tendency towards the production of such a Church, in their ultimate
result, as the Anglican Communion is at this day, and is likely to be in
future. Let us depend upon it, and act upon it, as a fact in the
providence and design of God, that the Church of England, from the first
day she was planted until now, has been, as it were, “the Church in the
wilderness;” retaining always a primitive and individual element, and
preparing for eventual manifestation in the pure glory of the Bride, the
great adversary of the harlot, with whose painted front and virago fury
she now patiently contends.
Although the modern parts of the College are conspicuous from the
gardens, I found in them a fascination which I can hardly account for or
describe. The ancient city walls, with their bastions and defences, are
still preserved as the boundaries of the premises, and possibly it is to
them, with their embowering verdure and isolating effect, that one owes
a feeling of enchanting seclusion and quietude. Here my trans-Atlantic
eyes first beheld the loop-holes and embrasures of mediæval
fortification; first grasped the idea of intramural siege, and
bow-and-arrow fight! It struck me overwhelmingly with a sense of loss
and mental injury, that I should have known only faintly, and from
books, what thus the Oxford student receives in passive impressions of
reality—the ennobling idea of our connections with the past, and its
paternal relations to us. To see every day the walls on which one’s
forefathers, ages ago, patrolled in armor, or from which they aimed the
cross-bow; to walk and study and repose habitually under their shadow;
to have always, in sport and in toil, in sorrow and in joy, such
monuments of time and history about one: how ought it not to refine and
mature the character; and make a man feel his place between two
eternities; and inspire him to live well the short and evil day in
which, if ever, what he does for futurity must be done quickly, and with
might!
But now, somehow or other, we emerged into “The Slipe,” where one gets a
fine external view of old wall, chapel and tower. But I was impatient to
see Magdalen College, and Addison’s Walk, and thither we bent our way.
Passing under its new and beautiful gateway, I stood before that
effective grouping of architectural detail which makes up the western
front. Here are tower, turret and portal, chapel, lodge, and
non-descript doorway; here are great window, and oriel, and all sorts of
windows besides; and trees and vines lending grace to all; and here is
that queer little hanging pulpit, for out-door preaching, which, with
all the rest, always made Magdalen, to my boyish taste, the very Oxford
of Oxford. And I am not sure that this notion was a wrong one; for now
that my ideal has received the corrections of experiment, what college
shall I prefer to Magdalen? Perfect and entire is Wadham, where, in the
warden’s lodge, I first broke academic bread; lordly is Christ Church,
with its walks and its quadrangles; lovely is Merton, as it were the
sister of Christ Church, and gracefully dependent; New College is
majestic; All Souls worthy of princes: but Magdalen alone is all that is
the charm of others, compendious in itself; yielding only a little to
each rival in particulars, but in the whole excelling them all.
In Addison’s walk I gave myself up to delightful recollections of the
Spectator, and marvelled not that the thorough-bred Englishman of that
bewitching collection, was the product, in part, of such a spot as this!
Here that great refiner of our language breathed the sentiment of his
country, and nourished the spirit that knew how to appreciate her, and
how to transfuse the love of her into others. I defy the most stupid
visitor to feel nothing of enthusiasm here! I made the circuit of the
meadow, surveyed the bridge over the Cherwell, took a view of
Merton-fields and Christ Church meadows; and, after meeting with the
late Vice-President, Dr. Bloxam, and encountering in him a cordiality of
reception which I can never forget, concluded by attending prayers in
the chapel. I was placed in a stall, and had as favorable a position,
for sight and sound, as I could have desired. The service was sung
throughout—although, as it was now vacation, comparatively few were in
attendance besides the singers themselves. I observed that here, as in
other college-chapels, the chapel itself is the choir of a cruciform
Church, the ante-chapel is the transept, and the nave is wanting. Add
the nave, that is, and you have a cathedral, or minster, complete. In
the ante-chapel of Magdalen, there are always persons devoutly following
the service; and although they can see nothing, they hear it with very
sweet effect, the chaunt being softened by their separation from the
singers, while it is articulate and altogether devotional.
Magdalen became my home in Oxford, for there I more frequently walked,
and worshipped, and visited than elsewhere—and there, for a time, I was
lodged; while in its grounds I became a frequent and familiar guest;
taking, in grateful confidence, the repeated invitations which I
received from Dr. Bloxam and other members of the College, although
obliged to decline far more of their kindness than I could possibly
accept. During this first visit I dined in the Hall, meeting a number of
eminent members of the University, and greatly enjoying their
conversation. This superb Hall is lined with portraits of the
distinguished sons of Magdalen. As I sat at meat, Addison’s portrait was
just before me, and at the end of the Hall was the portrait of one whom
I am accustomed to reverence even more, as the pattern of the true
Anglican pastor, the pure and holy Hammond. All around hung the
venerable pictures of great and historical personages, who have
illustrated their college in becoming illustrious themselves. Among such
worthies, none can forget Bishop Horne, who, although he died in 1792,
was the immediate predecessor in the presidency of Dr. Routh, the
present incumbent, now very nearly a hundred years of age. This
venerable and extraordinary man is, indeed, as was often said to
me—“the greatest wonder of Oxford.”
But how many are the sources of delight in this august University! Even
the meanest are not unworthy of note. At dinner, in the Hall, for
example, I remarked, that the queer old mug from which I was drinking,
was the gift to the College of “Robert Greville, second son of Lord
Brooke;” and when we adjourned to the common-room, for fruit and
conversation, the traditions of the spot, which were recounted, were all
of historical interest. In this very room, that sturdy champion of his
College, Bishop Hough, by boldly resisting the Commissioners of the
Popish James, with their three troops of horse at the door, paved the
way for the Revolution of 1688; and yet no College in Oxford was so much
distinguished for its subsequent loyalty to the house of Stuart as
Magdalen—following, in this, the example of Bishop Ken and the
non-jurors, who liked the usurpation of William quite as little as the
oppression of James. A Jacobite goblet was put into my hand, bearing the
inscription _Jus suum cuique_, which admirably apologizes for the
position of the College, in both these historical issues; while, on the
other side, is the legend, to which I gave emphatic utterance, as I
drank—_Vivat Magdalena!_ After an hour in the common-room, we returned
to the Hall, where the choristers were rehearsing the anthem for the
next service, and where I heard not a little sweet singing during the
evening. The fire was brightly blazing in its chimneys; and the light
and shade of the vast apartment, with its pictures reflecting the
playful glare from painted armor, or robes of lawn, and academic
scarlet, to say nothing of the visages of ancient worthies clad in such
array, very much heightened the effect of the scene.
Before returning to London, besides making a general survey of the city,
I became somewhat more particularly acquainted with Christ Church, its
hall, and common-room: and with its chapel, which is the cathedral. In
Oriel College, also, I passed some pleasant moments, and drank of the
College beer, from an old traditional cup of the time of Edward Second.
I also worshipped at St. Mary’s, and did the same at St. Thomas’s, a
picturesque and venerable fabric in the outskirts of the city, near the
site of Oseney Abbey. Here the late restorations were very fine; and,
although it is a parochial Church only, the service was sung. I observed
a somewhat excessive external devotion on the part of a few of the
worshippers, which struck me unfavorably; but, perhaps, in times of less
dubious allegiance to the Church, I should not have noticed it as
peculiarly pharisaical. I paid a visit to the Bodleian and the Picture
Gallery, and inspected the architecture of “the Schools;” and, finally,
saw some ceremonies in the Convocation House, which were very well worth
seeing, as illustrating the academic system of Oxford. Several
masters-of-arts were made, the Vice-Chancellor, Dr. Plumptre, presiding,
in his scarlet robes; but all was done with an entire absence of pomp,
and in presence of very few spectators. I was the more surprised, as
this was the first day of Easter-term; and, from the general peal from
towers and steeples, one might have supposed it a great day. Even the
ceremony of admitting the new proctors, and the Latin speech of one of
them going out, seemed hardly to have any interest for the academics, or
others. The Heads of Houses were assisting, and looked well; and, when
all was over, there was a procession, the Vice-Chancellor going in
state, solemnly preceded by the bedels, with their maces—profanely
called _pokers_ by the undergraduates. There was, however, no strut, but
rather the contrary. You saw, at a glance, that all this was the
mechanical routine of the University, done as business; and so regarded
by every body concerned. It is only when men are _acting_ that they
become sublimely ridiculous.
This remark applies to the May-morning celebration, on top of the Tower
of Magdalen. To read of it, one would think it must be a romantic, or
enthusiastic, piece of absurdity: but done, as a matter of course, and
in continuity, year after year, from ancient times, it has, on the spot,
a very different effect. The custom dates from 1501, the first year of
the 16th century, when, in gratitude for a royal benefaction from Henry
VII., a Hymn to the Holy Trinity, with the Collect of Trinity Sunday,
and other solemnities, were instituted as a commemoration, to be
celebrated on the first day of May. The produce of two acres of land,
part of the royal gift, was at the same time to be distributed between
the President and fellows. It now goes to pay for an entertainment
supplied to the choristers, in the College-hall, at which a silver
grace-cup is passed around with great formality. The boys have a
complete holiday, moreover, and from sunrise to sunset are set free from
College-bounds; but it must be understood that the boys here spoken of
are those of the school and choir—not the undergraduates, of whom there
are precious few at Magdalen—which is not an educational establishment,
but a society of educated men, devoted to academic pursuits. But I
suppose I need not explain the difference between such Colleges and our
own, now so generally understood. To remedy what is considered by the
progress-men a crying evil, and to turn the splendid revenues of
Magdalen to the largest benefit of the largest number, is one of the
professed purposes of the late Royal Commission: but, unfortunately, no
confidence can be placed in its professions. Were the thing in the hands
of true Churchmen, and relieved from the tinkering of Lord John Russell,
there can be no doubt that a competent and moderate University reform
might vastly augment the resources of the Anglican Communion, and
furnish a noble and safe expansion to her missionary and colonization
enterprises. The Lord hasten such a genuine improvement, and deliver the
University from the rash and presumptuous hands of political capitalists
and adventurers!
I was premonished by one of _the Dons_, that there would be very little
danger of over-sleeping on a May-morning in Oxford, for that an old
remnant of Druidical times still flourishes unrestrained among the lads
of the town. This is nothing less than the blowing of all sorts of
dissonant horns, about the streets, in honor of the British Flora, from
the earliest peep of May-day; as if to remind every body of the shame of
sleeping when nature is displaying her fairest and most fragrant charms.
Awakened, then, by the promised croaking, up I rose, and repaired to the
College, towards which the whole tide of early-risers was setting. Here,
those who are not admitted to the Tower, station themselves in the
street below, or line the bridge of the Cherwell, awaiting the aerial
music. As I slowly wound my way to the top of the tower, I caught
beautiful views through its loop-holes, and breathed occasional puffs of
delicious air. On the summit were gathered almost as many gownsmen, and
others, as half the place would hold: the other half was railed off for
the singers—men and boys, in their surplices and caps, with sheets of
music in their hands. The view of the surrounding country, towards
Forest-hill and Cuddesdon, or round by Nuneham and Stanton Harcourt, to
Woodstock, was exceedingly lovely—and, of course, the more so, for the
inspiration of the hour. As the clocks of Oxford chimed the hour of
five, every head was reverently uncovered—and, while the morning sun
made all the landscape glitter, forth broke the sweet music of the old
Latin hymn:—
“Te Deum patrem colimus,
Te laudibus prosequimur:
Qui corpus cibo reficis,
Cœlesti mentem gratia.”
Alas! it was too soon over; for while it lasted, looking up into the
blue heavens, one could almost imagine himself amid the clouds, and
surrounded by the melodies of the heavenly host. As soon as it was done,
the bells beneath us began their chorus, and the tower fairly rocked and
reeled. After lingering for a time, to survey the effects of a bright
morning on the domes and spires of the University, and on the aged trees
of Christ-Church meadows and the windings of the river, I descended to
the walks, and there passed an hour, sauntering about, as it were, in
the very foot-prints of Addison and Bishop Horne. The bells discoursed
their music for a full hour; the rooks chattered, and made holiday in
the tree-tops; the sweet-briar and rose perfumed the cloisters; the deer
bounded across the College park; and wherever I went, or wherever my eye
rested, I saw nothing to remind me that this world is a wretched and
work-day world, and that England is full of misery and sin. For a time,
rhyme seemed reason, and fancy fact. In the enchantment of that
delightful May-morning, one might be forgiven for loving life and being
fain to see many such good days.