When in October, 1910, we arrived, in a hansom, at the sombre gate
of New College, Oxford; trod for the first time through that most
impressive of all college doorways, hidden in its walled and winding
lane; timidly accosted Old Churchill, the whiskered porter, most
dignitarian and genteel of England’s Perfect Servants; and had our
novice glimpse of that noble Front Quad where the shadow of the
battlemented roof lies patterned across the turf--we were as innocently
hopeful, modestly anxious for learning and eager to do the right thing
in this strange, thrilling environment as ever any young American
who went looking for windmills. No human being (shrewd observers
have remarked) is more beautifully solemn than the ambitious Young
American. And, indeed, no writer has ever attempted to analyze the
shimmering tissue of inchoate excitement and foreboding that fills the
spirit of the juvenile Rhodes Scholar as he first enters his Oxford
college. He arrives with his mind a gentle confusion of hearsay about
Walter Pater, Shelley, boat races, Mr. Gladstone, Tom Brown, the
Scholar Gypsy, and Little Mr. Bouncer. Kansas City or Sheboygan indeed
seem far away as he crosses those quadrangles looking for his rooms.
But even Oxford, one was perhaps relieved to find, is not all
silver-gray mediæval loveliness. The New Buildings, to which Churchill
directed us, reached through a tunnel and a bastion in a rampart not
much less than a thousand years elderly, were recognizably of the
Rutherford B. Hayes type of edification. Except for the look-off
upon gray walls, pinnacles, and a green tracery of gardens, and the
calculated absence of plumbing (a planned method of preserving monastic
hardiness among light-minded youth), the immense cliff of New Buildings
might well have been a lobe of the old Johns Hopkins or a New York
theological seminary. At the top of four flights we found our pensive
citadel. Papered in blue, upholstered in a gruesome red, with yellow
woodwork, and a fireplace which (we soon learned) was a potent reeker.
It would be cheerful to describe those two rooms in detail, for we
lived in them two years. But what first caught our eye was a little
green pamphlet lying on the red baize tablecloth. It was lettered
NEW COLLEGE, OXFORD
Information and Regulations
_Revised October, 1910_
Our name was written upon it in ink, and we immediately sat down
to study it. Here, we thought, is our passkey to this new world of
loveliness.
First we found the hours of college chapel. Then, “All Undergraduates
are required to perform Exercises.” In our simplicity we at first
supposed this to be something in the way of compulsory athletics, but
then discovered it to mean intellectual exercises. Fair enough, we
thought. That is what we came for.
“Undergraduates are required, as a general rule, to be in College or
their Lodgings by 11 p. m., and to send their Strangers out before that
time.... No Undergraduate is allowed to play on any musical instrument
in College rooms except between the hours of 1 and 9 p. m., unless
special leave has been obtained beforehand from the Dean.... No games
are allowed in the College Quadrangles, and no games except bowls in
the Garden.” Excellent, we meditated; this is going to be a serious
career, full attention to the delights of the mind and no interruption
by corybantic triflers.
“A Term by residence means pernoctation within the University for
six weeks in Michaelmas or in Hilary Term, and for three weeks in
Easter or in Trinity (or Act) Term.”... We felt a little uncertain as
to just what time of year Hilary and Act happened. But we were not
halting, just now, over technicalities. We wanted to imbibe, hastily,
the general spirit and flavour of our new home.... “Every member of
the College is required to deposit Caution-money. Commoners deposit
£30, unless they signify in writing their intention to pay their
current Battels weekly; in this case they deposit £10. An undergraduate
battling terminally cannot withdraw part of his Caution-money and
become a weekly battler without the authority of his parent or
guardian.” We at once decided that it was best to be a weekly battler.
Battling, incidentally, is a word that we believe exists only at Eton
and Oxford; dictionaries tell us that it comes from “an obsolete verb
meaning to fatten.” Sometimes, however, in dispute with the Junior
Bursar, it comes near its more usual sense. We wondered, in our young
American pride, whether we were a Commoner? We were pleased to note,
however, that the alternative classification was not a Lord but a
Scholar.
We skimmed along through various other instructions. “A fine of 1s. is
charged to the owner of any bicycle not put away before midnight.” The
owner, or the bicycle, we mused? Never mind--we would soon learn. Coals
and faggots, we noted, were variable in price. “The charge for a cold
bath is 2d., for a hot 4d., inclusive of bath-towel.” The duties of a
mysterious person named as the Bedmaker (but always, in actual speech,
the Scout) were punctually outlined. But now we found ourself coming
to Kitchen, Buttery, and Store-Room Tariffs. This, evidently, was the
pulse of the machine. With beating heart we read on, entranced:
Beer, Mild half-pint 1½
Beer, Mixed “ 2
Beer, Strong “ 2½
Beer, Treble X glass 3
Beer, Lager pint 6
Stout half-pint 2
Cider “ 1½
There was something significant, we felt by instinct, in the fact that
Treble X was obtainable only by the glass. Vital stuff, evidently.
Our education was going to come partly in casks, perhaps? In the
Kitchen Tariff we read, gloatingly, magnificent syllables. _Grilled
Sausages and Bacon_, commons, 1/2. _Devilled Kidneys_, commons, 1/.
(A “commons,” we judged, was a large portion; if you wanted a lesser
serving, you ordered a “small commons.”) _Chop with Chips_, 11d.
_Grilled Bones_, 10d. _Kedgeree_, plain or curried, commons, 9d. (Oh
noble kedgeree, so nourishing and inexpensive, when shall we taste your
like again?) Herrings, Bloaters, Kippers, each 3d. (To think that,
then, we thought the Junior Bursar’s tariff was a bit steep.) Jelly,
Compôte of Fruit, Trifle, Pears and Cream. Creams ... commons, 6d.
“Gentlemen’s own birds cooked and served ... one bird, 1/. Two birds,
1/6.”
We went on, with enlarging appreciation, to the Store Room and Cellar
Tariffs: Syphons, Seltzer or Soda-water, 4½d. Ginger-beer, per bottle,
2d. Cakes: Genoa, Cambridge, Madeira, Milan, Sandringham, School, each
1/. Foolscap, per quire, 10d. Quill Pens, per bundle, 1/6. Cheroots,
Cigars, Tobacco, Cigarettes--and then we found what seemed to be the
crown and cream of our education, LIST OF WINES.
Port, 4/ per bottle. Pale Sherry, 3/. Marsala, 2/. Madeira, 4/.
Clarets: Bordeaux, 1/6. St. Julien, 2/. Dessert, 4/. Hock or Rhenish
Wine: Marcobrunner, 4/. Niersteiner, 3/. Moselle, 2/6. Burgundy, 2/ and
4/. Pale Brandy, 5/. Scotch Whisky, 4/. Irish Whisky, 4/. Gin, 3/. Rum,
4/.
It is really too bad to have to compress into a few paragraphs such a
wealth of dreams and memories. We sat there, with our little pamphlet
before us, and looked out at that great panorama of spires and towers.
We have always believed in falling in with our environment. The first
thing we did that afternoon was to go out and buy a corkscrew. We have
it still--our symbol of an Oxford education.
[Illustration]