the greater part of our available educational capacity is devoted to the
conversion of passmen into honourmen, there are signs that examinations
are no longer quite regarded as the highest good and the chief object of
existence. It is an age of specialism, and yet it is hard to mould the
whole University system to suit the particular studies of every
specialist. Multiply Final Schools as you will, 'the genuine student'
with one engrossing interest will multiply far more quickly; and just as
the athlete and non-reading man complains that the schools interrupt his
amusements, the man who specialises on the pips of an orange, or who
regards nothing in history worth reading except a period of two years
and six months in the later Byzantine empire, will pathetically lament
that examinations are interrupting his real work. Are men made for the
Schools, or the Schools for men? It is a continual problem; perhaps
examinations are only a _pis aller_, and we must be content to wait till
science instructs us how to gauge mental faculty by experiment without
subjecting the philosopher to the ordeal of Latin Prose, and the 'pure
scholar' to the test of a possibly useless acquaintance with the true
inwardness of Hegelianism. After all it is the greatest happiness of
the greatest number that has to be considered, and the majority as yet
are not special students. Moreover, there are various kinds of
specialists. If 'general knowledge' (as has been said) is too often
synonymous with 'particular ignorance,' it is equally true that
specialism in one branch is sometimes not wholly unconnected with
failure in another.
[Illustration: _A DANCE AT ST. JOHN'S. Drawn by T. Hamilton Crawford,
R.W.S._]
It was the severance of another link with the past when the scene of
examinations was transferred from the 'Old Schools'--the purlieus of the
Sheldonian and the Bodleian--to a new and perhaps unnecessarily palatial
building in the High Street, which is as little in keeping with the
dark, crumbling walls of its neighbour, University College, as the
motley throng of examinees (_pueri innuptaeque puellae_) is out of
harmony with the traditions of an age which did not recognise the
necessity of female education. We have changed all that, and possibly
the change is for the better, for while the atmosphere which pervaded
the ancient dens now appropriated to the use of the great library was
certainly academic, and was sometimes cool and pleasant in summer, the
conditions of the game became almost intolerable in winter. Unless he
would die under the process of examinations like the Chinese of story,
the candidate must provide himself with greatcoats and rugs enough (it
was said) to hide a 'crib,' or even a Liddell and Scott, for the
proximity of the Bodleian forbade any lighting or warming apparatus.
But in the new examination schools comfort and luxury reign; rare
marbles adorn even the least conspicuous corners, and the only survivals
of antiquity are the ancient tables, which are popularly supposed to be
contemporaneous with the examination system, and are bescrawled and
bescratched with every possible variety of inscription and
hieroglyphic--from adaptations of verses in the Psalms to a list of
possible Derby winners--from a caricature of the 'invigilating' examiner
to a sentimental but unflattering reminiscence of one's partner at last
night's dance. Here they sit, a remarkable medley, all sorts,
conditions, and even ages of men, herded together as they probably never
will be again in after-life: undeserving talent cheek by jowl with
meritorious dulness; callow youth fresh from the rod of the
schoolmaster, and mature age with a family waiting anxiously outside;
and a minority of the fairer sex, whose presence is rather embarrassing
to examiners who do not see their way to dealing with possible hysteria.
And in the evening they will return--if it is Commemoration week; the
venerable tables will be cleared away, and the 'Scholae Magnae Borealis
et Australis' will be used for the more desirable purpose of dancing.
Is it merely soft nothings that the Christ Church undergraduate is
whispering to that young lady from Somerville Hall, as they 'sit out'
the lancers in the romantic light of several hundred Chinese lanterns?
Not at all; they are comparing notes about their _viva voce_ in history.
V--UNIVERSITY JOURNALISM
'I only wish my critics had to write
A High-class Paper!'
_Anon._
The business of those who teach in the Universities is to criticise
mistakes, and criticism of style has two results for the master and the
scholar. It may produce that straining after correctness in small
matters which the cold world calls pedantry; and in the case of those
who are not content only to observe, but are afflicted with a desire to
produce, criticism of style takes the form of parody or imitation; for a
good parody or a good imitation of an author's manner is an
object-lesson in criticism. Hence it is that that same intolerance of
error which makes members of a University slow in the production of
really great works stimulates the genesis of ephemeral and mostly
imitative literature. The more Oxford concerns herself with literary
style, the more she is likely in her less serious moods to ape the
manner of contemporary literature. It all comes, in the first instance,
of being taught to copy Sophocles and travesty Virgil. Ephemeral
literature, then, at the Universities has always been essentially
imitative. In the last century, when it was the fashion to be
classical--and when as in the earlier poems of Mr. Barry Lyndon, 'Sol
bedecked the verdant mead, or pallid Luna shed her ray'--Oxonian minor
poets imitated the London wits and sang the charms of the local belles
under the sobriquets of Chloe and Delia, and academic essayists copied
the manner of the 'Spectator,' and hit off the weaknesses of their
friends, Androtion and Clearchus; and now that the world has come to be
ruled by newspapers, it is only natural that the style and the methods
of the daily and weekly press should in some degree affect the lighter
literature of Universities, and that not only undergraduates, who are
naturally imitative, but even dons, who might be supposed to know
better, should find themselves contributing to and redacting
publications which are conducted more or less on the lines of the 'new
journalism.'
[Illustration: _THE RADCLIFFE. Drawn by Ernest Stamp._]
Oxford has been slow to develop in this particular direction, and the
reasons are not far to seek. The conditions just now are exceptionally
favourable--that is, a _cacoethes scribendi_ has coincided with
abundance of matter to write about, but the organs of the great external
world naturally provide a model for the writer. But it is only recently
that these causes have been all together present and operative, and the
absence of one or more of them has at different times been as effectual
as the absence of all. In the early part of the present century there
can have been no lack of matter: University reform was at least in the
air, athletics were developing, the examination system was already in
full swing. But for some reason the tendency of the University was not
in the direction of the production of ephemeral or at least frivolous
literature. The pompous Toryism of University authorities seventy years
ago did not encourage any intellectual activity unconnected with the
regular curriculum of the student, and when intellectual activity began
to develop, it was rather on the lines of theological discussion--the
subjects were hardly fitted for the columns of a newspaper. At an
earlier date the Vice-Chancellor was interviewed by the delegate of an
aspiring clique of undergraduates, who wished to form a literary club
and to obtain the sanction of authority for its formation. He refused
to grant the society any formal recognition, on the ground that while it
was true that the statutes did not absolutely forbid such things, they
certainly did not specifically mention them; and the members of the
club--when it was eventually founded independent of the
Vice-Chancellarial auspices--were known among their friends as the
'Lunatics.' Such was the somewhat obscurantist temper of the University
about the year 1820; and we can imagine that the Vice-Chancellor, who
could find nothing in the statutes encouraging a debating society, would
not have looked with enthusiastic approbation on a newspaper designed to
discuss University matters without respect for authority. Even if he
had, it would have been hard to appeal to all sections of the community;
though there was certainly more general activity in the University than
formerly, the _gaudia_ and _discursus_ of undergraduates were matters of
comparatively small importance to their friends, and of none at all to
their pastors and masters.
In the earlier part of the eighteenth century the conditions were
exactly reversed. To judge from the specimens that have survived to the
present day (and how much of our own lighter literature will be in
evidence 170 years hence?) there must have been plenty of 'available
talent.' It was an age of essayists. Addison and Steele set the
fashion for the metropolis: and as has been said before, Oxford
satirists followed at some distance in the wake of these giants. The
form of 'Terrae Filius' is that of the 'Tatler' and 'Spectator,' and the
'Oxford Magazine' of that day is largely composed of essays on men,
women, and manners; many are still quite readable, and most have been
recognised as remarkably smart in their day. Nor is it only in professed
and formal satire that the talent of the time displays itself. Thomas
Hearne of the Bodleian was careful to keep a voluminous note-book,
chronicling not only the 'plums' extracted by his daily researches from
the dark recesses of the library, but also various anecdotes, scandalous
or respectable, of his contemporaries; and one is tempted to regret that
so admirable a talent for bepraising his friends and libelling his
enemies should be comparatively _perdu_ among extracts from 'Schoppius
de Arte Critica,' copies of church brasses, and such-like antiquarian
lumber--the whole forming a 'Collection' only recently published for the
world's edification by the Oxford Historical Society. His
'appreciations' would have made the fortune of any paper relying for its
main interest on personalities, after the fashion which we are learning
from the Americans. 'Descriptions of his friends and enemies, such as
'An extravagant, haughty, loose man,' 'a Dull, Stupid, whiggish
Companion,' are frequent and free; and anecdotes of obscure college
scandal abound. We read how the 'Snivelling, conceited, and ignorant,
as well as Fanatical Vice-Principal of St. Edmund Hall .... _sconc'd_
two gentlemen, which is a Plain Indication of his Furious Temper;' and
how 'Mr. ---- of _Christ Church_ last _Easter-day_, under pretence of
being ill, desired one of the other chaplains to read Prayers for him:
which accordingly was done. Yet such was the impudence of the man that
he appeared in the Hall at dinner!'
[Illustration: _IN THE BODLEIAN. Drawn by Ernest Stamp._]
As it was, however, those very collections which exhibit Hearne's
peculiar genius show us at the same time how impossible, even granting
the supposition to be not altogether anachronistic, a regular University
'News-letter' would have been. We talk now in a vague and, perhaps,
rather unintelligible fashion of 'University politics,' and in some way
contrive to identify Gladstonianism with a susceptibility to the claims
of a school of English literature, or whatever is the latest phrase of
progress--mixing up internal legislation with the external politics of
the great world. But in Hearne's time there were no University politics
to discuss. 'Their toasts,' says Gibbon of the Fellows of Magdalen
College, 'were not expressive of the most lively loyalty to the House of
Hanover,' and Hearne's interest in politics has nothing to do with the
Hebdomadal Council. When he speaks of 'our white-liver'd Professor, Dr.
----,' or describes the highest official in the University as 'old
Smooth-boots, the Vice-Chancellor,' it is generally for the very
sufficient reason that the person in question is what Dr. Johnson called
a 'vile Whig.' But Tory politics and common-room scandal and jobbery
apart, the University would appear to have slept the sleep of the
unjust. 'Terrae Filius' grumbles at the corrupt method of
'examination,' and 'The Student' is lively and satirical on the
peccadilloes and escapades of various members of society. But your
prose essayist is apt to be intermittent, and the publication that
relies mainly on him leans on a breaking reed; so that we can hardly be
surprised that the last-named periodical should eke out its pages with
imitations of Tibullus, to the first of which the Editor appends the
encouraging note, 'If this is approved by the publick, the Author will
occasionally oblige us with more _Elegies_ in the same style and
manner.'
Now that every one is anxious to see his own name and his friend's name
in print, and that the general public takes, or pretends to take, a keen
interest in the details of every cricket-match and boat-race, a paper
chronicling University matters cannot complain of the smallness of its
_clientele_. Every one wants news. The undergraduate who has made a
speech at the Union, or a century for his college second eleven, wants a
printed certificate of his glorious achievements. Dons, and
undergraduates too, for that matter, are anxious to read about the last
hint of a possible Commission or the newest thing in University
Extension. Men who have gone down but a short time ago are still
interested in the doings of the (of course degenerate) remnant who are
left; and even the non-academic Oxford residents, a large and increasing
class, are on the watch for some glimpse of University doings, and some
distant echo of common-room gossip. Modern journalism appeals more or
less to all these classes; it cannot complain of the want of an
audience, nor, on the whole, of a want of news to satisfy it, and
certainly an Oxford organ cannot lack models for imitation, or awful
examples to avoid. It is, in fact, the very multiplicity of
contemporary periodicals that is the source of difficulty. A paper
conducted in the provinces by amateurs--that is, by persons who have
also other things to do--is always on its probation. The fierce light of
the opinion of a limited public is continually beating on it. Its
contributors should do everything a little better than the hirelings of
the merely professional organs of the unlearned metropolis; its leaders
must be more judicious than those of the 'Times,' its occasional notes a
little more spicy than Mr. Labouchere's, and its reviews a little more
learned than those of the 'Journal of Philology.' Should it fall short
of perfection in any of these branches, it 'has no reason for
existence,' and is in fact described as 'probably moribund.' Yet
another terror is added to the life of an Oxford editor: he _must_ be at
least often 'funny;' he must endeavour in some sort to carry out the
great traditions of the 'Oxford Spectator' and the 'Shotover Papers;'
and as the English public is generally best amused by personalities, he
must be careful to observe the almost invisible line which separates the
justifiable skit from the offensive attack. Now, the undergraduate
contributor to the press is seldom successful as a humourist. He is
occasionally violent and he is often--more especially after the festive
season of Christmas--addicted to sentimental verse; but for mere
frivolity and 'lightness of touch' it is safer to apply to his tutor.
It is a rather remarkable fact that almost all University
papers--certainly all that have succeeded under the trying conditions of
the game--have been managed and for the most part written, not by the
exuberant vitality of undergraduate youth, but by the less interesting
prudence of graduate maturity. It is remarkable, but not surprising.
Undergraduate talent is occasionally brilliant, but is naturally
transient. Generations succeed each other with such rapidity that the
most capable editorial staff is vanishing into thin air just at the
moment when a journal has reached the highest pitch of popularity.
Moreover, amateur talent is always hard to deal with, as organizers of
private theatricals know to their cost; and there is no member of
society more capable of disappointing his friends at a critical moment
than the amateur contributor to the press. Should the spirit move him,
he will send four columns when the editor wants one; but if he is not in
the vein, or happens to have something else to do, there is no promise
so sacred and no threat so terrible as to persuade him to put pen to
paper. If these are statements of general application, they are doubly
true of undergraduates, who are always distracted by a too great
diversity of occupations: Jones, whose power of intermittent satire has
made him the terror of his Dons, has unaccountably taken to reading for
the Schools; the poet, Smith, has gone into training for the Torpids;
and Brown, whose '_Voces Populi_ in a Ladies' College' were to have been
something quite too excruciatingly funny, has fallen in love in the
vacation and will write nothing but bad poetry. Such are the trials of
the editor who drives an undergraduate team; and hence it comes about
that the steady-going periodicals for which the public can pay a yearly
subscription in advance, with the prospect of seeing at any rate half
the value of its money, are principally controlled by graduates. No
doubt they sometimes preserve a certain appearance of youthful vigour by
worshipping undergraduate talent, and using the word 'Donnish' as often
and as contemptuously as possible.
[Illustration: _SAILING ON THE UPPER RIVER. Drawn by L. Speed._]
Nevertheless, there appear from time to time various ephemeral and
meteoric publications, edited by junior members of the University. They
waste the editor's valuable time, no doubt; and yet he is learning a
lesson which may, perhaps, be useful to him in after-life; for it is
said that until he is undeceived by hard experience, every man is born
with the conviction that he can do three things--drive a dog-cart, sail
a boat, and edit a paper.
VI--THE UNIVERSITY AS SEEN FROM OUTSIDE.
'A man must serve his time to every trade
Save censure--critics all are ready made.'
_Byron._
It has been said that the function of a University is to criticise; but
the proposition is at least equally true that Oxford and Cambridge are
continually conjugating the verb in the passive. We--and more
especially we who live in Oxford, for the sister University apparently
is either more virtuous or more skilful in concealing her peccadilloes
from the public eye--enjoy the priceless advantage of possessing
innumerable friends whose good nature is equalled by their frankness;
and if we do not learn wisdom, that is not because the opportunity is
not offered to us. It is true that our great governing body, the
Hebdomadal Council, has hitherto preserved its independence by a prudent
concealment of its deliberations: no reporter has ever as yet penetrated
into that august assemblage; but whatever emerges to the light of day is
seized upon with avidity. Debates in Convocation or even in Congregation
(the latter body including only the resident Masters of Arts), although
the subject may have been somewhat remote from the interests of the
general public, and the number of the voters perhaps considerably
increased by the frivolous reason that it was a wet afternoon, when
there was nothing else to do than to govern the University--debates on
every conceivable subject blush to find themselves reported the next
morning almost in the greatest of daily papers; and perhaps the result
of a division on the addition of one more Oriental language to
Responsions, or one more crocket to a new pinnacle of St. Mary's Church,
is even honoured by a leading article. This is highly gratifying to
residents in the precincts of the University, but even to them it is now
and then not altogether comprehensible. Nor is it only questions
concerning the University as a whole which appeal to the external
public; even college business and college scandal sometimes assume an
unnatural importance. Years ago one of the tutors of a certain college
was subjected to the venerable and now almost obsolete process of
'screwing up,' and some young gentlemen were rusticated for complicity
in the offence. Even in academic circles the crime and its punishment
were not supposed to be likely to interfere with the customary
revolution of the solar system; but the editor of a London daily
paper--and one, too, which was supposed to be more especially in touch
with that great heart of the people which is well known to hold
Universities in contempt--considered the incident so important as to
publish a leading article with the remarkable exordium, 'Every one knew
that Mr. ----, of ---- College, would be screwed up some day!' Most of
the _abonnes_ of this journal must, it is to be feared, have blushed for
their discreditable ignorance of Mr. ----'s existence, not to mention
that leaden-footed retribution which was dogging him to a merited doom.
[Illustration: _PORCH OF ST. MARY'S. Drawn by J. Pennell._]
It is hardly necessary to say that in nine cases out of ten comment on
the proceedings of a learned University takes the form of censure: nor
are censors far to seek. There are always plenty of young men more or
less connected with the Press who have wrongs to avenge; who are only
too glad to have an opportunity of 'scoring off' the college authority
which did its best--perhaps unsuccessfully, but still with a manifest
intention--to embitter their academic existence; or of branding once for
all as reactionary and obscurantist the hide-bound regulations of a
University which did not accord them the highest honours. In these cases
accuracy of facts and statistics is seldom a matter of much importance.
Generally speaking, you can say what you like about a college, or the
University, without much fear of contradiction--provided that you
abstain from mere personalities. For one thing, the cap is always fitted
on some one else's head. It is not the business of St. Botolph's to
concern itself with an attack which is obviously meant for St. Boniface:
it is darkly whispered in the St. Boniface common-room that after all no
one knows what actually _does_ go on in St. Botolph's: and obviously
neither of these venerable foundations can have anything to do with
answering impeachments of the University and its financial system.
Moreover, even if the Dons should rouse themselves from their usual
torpor and attempt a defence, it is not very likely that the public will
listen to them: any statement proceeding from an academic source being
always regarded with the gravest suspicion. That is why 'any stick is
good enough to beat the Universities,' and there are always plenty of
sticks who are quite ready to perform the necessary castigation.
Moreover, these writers generally deal with a subject which is always
interesting, because it is one on which every one has an opinion, and an
opinion which is entitled to respect--the education of youth. Any one
can pick holes in the University system of teaching and
examination--'can strike a finger on the place, and say, "Thou ailest
here and here,"'--or construct schemes of reform: more especially young
men who have recently quitted their Alma Mater, and are therefore
qualified to assert (as they do, and at times not without a certain
plausibility) that she has failed to teach them anything.