smaller colleges. I declare that the idea of tying them all
together seemed to me to be a horrible piece of vandalism. These
sweet and gentle little places, with a quiet, dignified history and
tradition of their own, are very attractive and beautiful. I went
and explored a little college I am ashamed to say I had never
visited before. It shows a poor plastered front to the street, but
the old place is there behind the plaster. I went into a tiny, dark
chapel, with a high pillared pediment of carved wood behind the
altar, a rich ceiling, and some fine columned alcoves where the
dignitaries sit. Out of the gallery opens a venerable library, with
a regretful air of the past about its faded volumes in their high
presses, as though it sadly said, "I am of yesterday." Then we
found ourselves in a spacious panelled Hall, with a great oriel
looking out into a peaceful garden, embowered in great trees, with
smiling lawns. All round the Hall hung portraits of old worthies--
peers, judges, and bishops, with some rubicund wigged Masters. I
like to think of the obscure and yet dignified lives that have been
lived in these quaint and stately chambers. I suppose that there
used to be a great deal of tippling and low gossip in the old days
of the vinous, idle Fellows, who hung on for life, forgetting their
books, and just trying to dissipate boredom. One tends to think
that it was all like that; and yet, doubtless, there were quiet
lives of study and meditation led here by wise and simple men who
have long since mouldered into dust. And all that dull rioting is
happily over. The whole place is full of activity and happiness.
There is, if anything, among the Dons, too much business, too many
meetings, too much teaching, and the life of mere study is
neglected. But it pleases me to think that even now there are men
who live quietly among their books, unambitious, perhaps
unproductive, but forgetting the flight of time, and looking out