It is a rash and delicate task to attempt the sudden "reform" of an ancient university. The task is task is still more delicate when it is essayed by one man and in response to popular clamour. The progress of institutions, to be beneficial, must needs be slow and unconscious. The Universities of Oxford and Cambridge especially are bad material for the careless hand of experiment. They have grown up sometimes in defiance of good sense, always in scorn of the baser sort of logic, to be the admirable instruments which they are, and the best service which their friends can do them is to leave them alone. Their very faults lie on the side of excellence, and it is out of the respect we feel for them that we would not have them in any single respect other than they are. It is easy to imagine a University better fitted than they for what are called "the national requirements." But we would recommend those who are in search of "the perfect University" to turn their eyes towards the provinces, and to leave Oxford and Cambridge to their noble history, their ineffaceable tra

ditions, their wise prejudices. Nothing short of complete reconstruction would satisfy the demands of their enemies, and in the process it is very sure that every one of their virtues would perish.

However, Lord Curzon is a brave man, and in a recent pamphlet he has set forth at length what he believes are the true Principles and Methods of University Reform. He has passed in review the constitution, the purposes, and the resources of Oxford. Though he sits in the Chancellor's chair, his is not the attitude of defence. He does not think that his high office imposes an inflexible loyalty. He is a niggard neither in change nor attack. It is impossible not to admire the energy wherewith he plans the approach and assaults the citadel, thus involving the University, which his duty binds him to protect, in a state of civil war. We wish only that he had looked upon Oxford with the eye not of a politician but of a statesman. From beginning to end he writes with an air of management. There seem to be certain interests which demand accommodation, certain classes which insist that they should

for them. It is as though Oxford were asked not to do her duty but to pay a ransom, and now and again we cannot help thinking that Lord Curzon suggests what is the lowest price the other side is likely to accept. But the time has not yet come for surrender; an accidental parliamentary majority is no proof of a changed heart; and we are of good hope that the University of Oxford will continue to do its work for many years, without even half an eye turned upon the pollingbooth.

The cause of the frequent discussion is clear to all. The prime hero of the twentieth century is "the Poor Man." He has taken the place once held by the Knights of the Round Table. He is Sir Galahad, brave as a lion, spotless as a dove. The glass of fashion and the mould of form, he engrosses all the virtues of the human race, and alone among men is entitled to the universal respect. It matters not that his head is as empty as his pocket. He is noble, he is intelligent, he is supreme. Is he not poor? And does not poverty, honest poverty, carry with it something far better than mere brains or common energy? At first sight it looks as though the Poor Man- we use the term in its modern and political sense-were the creature of philanthropy. The romance of sacrifice and generosity seems to cling about him. But, unhappily for the perfectibility of

able legend. The Poor Man was born on the hustings, and the millionaire is his godfather. A general election has proved him numerous, and Mr Carnegie has duly blessed him as the saviour of society. It is plain, therefore, that the University of Oxford was built for his reception, and thither he must go at all costs or none, and there he must learn just as much or just as little as he chooses. The Poor Man's champion, the Bishop of Birmingham, whose respect for accuracy is not irreproachable, has informed us that Oxford is "not in any serious sense a place of study at all." And therefore its portals are to be thrown open to the Poor Man, who will not be asked to pass even the modest barrier of examination which lies in the path of the "idle rich." How this will enhance the University's reputation for learning we do not know, nor does it matter vastly. The chief thing is that the Poor Man should find his way to Oxford. What he does there is of secondary importance. The Commissioners of 1850 had in their eye the poor man (without capitals), whom they wished to qualify for "the service of the State or the Church." But, as Lord Curzon says, "they were more concerned in helping real ability than they were in compensating real poverty.' This, one would have thought,

was

sufficient. To help real ability is, indeed, the one and sufficient duty of a

University, and so well has Oxford performed this duty, that in the last half century few men of real talent who wished to enter there have been excluded from its colleges. Scholarships have been thrown open, exhibitions have been founded, the Non-Collegiate system has been elaborated. And only one condition has been exacted from the beneficiaries that they should devote their hours to study, and pass in due season the examinations prescribed by the University. In other words, there has been made no distinction of class. The University, having granted its scholarships, knew not the difference between rich and poor. It respected industry and intelligence, and went not beyond its province into the cockpit of politics.

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But the Poor Man has changed all that, and the University is asked to find in compensating real poverty" a new and wholly undesirable function. The Poor Man is to be sent to Oxford, not because he possesses ability, not because he will get any profit when he gets there, but because he is poor. An uncomfortable childhood, we are told, merits compensation, and compensation is to be sought and found in colleges, which were founded to instruct those who wish to learn, not to solace those who have fallen by the way. In other words, Oxford is regarded by Lord Curzon and his friends as a vast workhouse, where a sojourn is not an opportunity of learning, but a sort

of

"consolation prize" in the race of life. Thus a double injustice is proposed, first to the University, then to the Poor Man himself. Oxford cannot assume this ungrateful task of "compensation" without lowering her standards and debasing her coinage. If, as Lord Curzon says, it is her object to give "a broad and liberal education," she is not attaining that object in presenting the Poor Man with "an admixture of History and Geography and English Literature and Natural Science.' The Working Men's College, which Lord Curzon wishes to found, would lie far outside the scope of a University. It would teach nothing that could not be learned with greater ease at Cardiff or Bristol or Liverpool, admirable centres of instruction, which Lord Curzon goes out of his way to underrate. The students who frequented it would neither proceed to a degree nor carry away a single ounce of authentic scholarship. As a large concession the Chancellor would not confine the normal course "exclusively to Sociology and Economics, since it is doubtful if of themselves these are capable of ensuring a liberal education." He would therefore permit the "admixture" mentioned above, and his college would be very fortunate if it escaped a constant succession of strikes.

The injustice done to the Poor Man would be greater even than the injustice done to the University. He, the wretched dupe of an impossible

compromise, would be told that he had received a University education when he had not, and would suffer for the rest of his life from the deception practised on him. And even if the deception do not inflate him with a false pride, he would not get an adequate return for the time he had wasted at Oxford. Education is not an excellent thing of itself. It is often the worst possible clog upon a journey through It is a thousand times better to be a good carpenter than a bad smatterer, and a smattering is all that Oxford can offer to the Poor Man. Yet this smattering, small as it is, will be sufficient to turn the Working Man against his craft. If Lord Curzon's college were established, it would achieve no other purpose than is achieved by Ruskin College. That is to say, it would turn decent working men into agitators, Secretaries of Trades Unions, and Labour Members. In brief, the Poor Men would not take back to their workshops a bettertrained mind. They would use the University as a means of getting out of their workshop altogether. And the world cannot show a more bitterly tragic figure than the aimless, half-educated loiterer who believes himself too good for one trade and is manifestly not good enough for another.

The University, in fact, has a plain and simple duty to perform. It is the patron of learning, the guardian of scholarship. It touches re

motely the practical work of life. It is not asked to fit its alumni for the profitable exercise of trade or profession. Its very uselessness should be its greatest glory. To those who have a talent for humane letters or for science its door stands open wide. It asks of them not what they have in their pocket, but how they can turn their brains to the best account, not for worldly profit but in the cause of knowledge. The scholarships and exhibitions offered by the colleges fall into the right hands. No more than six per cent of those who gain them, Lord Curzon admits, could proceed to Oxford without their aid, and though it would be well for the six per cent to resign their emoluments, few institutions show so narrow a margin of waste as this. For the rest, as it is not 8 philanthropic institution, Oxford welcomes all those of the leisured class who can pay her fees and pass her examinations. They, one would think, need no apology. They help to provide the money, without which not even a college can exist, and in fair exchange they carry away with them a memory of discipline, which lasts for their lifetime. If they are found incompetent to learn, they are summarily sent down, and abundantly do they deserve their fate. Lord Curzon would make an exception in favour of "the poor Passman, poor in intellect and previous training as well as in funds," who should be

ploughed as often as he likes without reproof; and it is difficult to understand the motive of this clemency. Surely the University would act the kindliest part in telling "the poor Pass-man" that he had missed his way. What mercy will the world show to one who, "poor in intellect as in funds," has nothing to support his incompetence save a pass degree? However, as we have said, the leisured class, which contributes largely to the prosperity of Oxford, needs no excuse. And it is the sign of a mad age that Lord Curzon defends this class with some zeal and energy. "In opening the University to the poor," he writes, "we do not wish to close it to the rich."

At first we thought that Lord Curzon was pleasantly ironical. But no; he is merely making a rash concession to a disfavoured class. The Poor Man, in the grandeur of his soul, and those who indiscreetly champion his cause, have no desire, as yet, yet, to exclude the miscreant who carries the fatal brand of leisure upon his brow from the benefits of Oxford.

Somewhere in the course of his argument Lord Curzon declares that he holds to the old ideal of Oxford education. We are sure that he does. We wish only that, in his love of policy, he had not wantonly suppressed that ideal. Every suggestion that he makes, every proposal that he brings forward, renders its realisation impossible. Nothing can be more

He

bitterly opposed to the old ideal of Oxford than the making of agitators in a workingman's college, except another project, hastily outlined by Lord Curzon, of training business men. "I should like to see," says Lord Curzon, “a substantial two years' course with instruction in Modern History, Commercial Geography, Political Economy, the Methods of Accounting, and the Principles of Exchange, culminating in a Diploma, specially constructed for the requirements of a business career." If a man, destined for business, can spare a few years for Oxford, no doubt he will be the better for it. will not be the better for it, if Oxford fumbles to teach him what he can learn only in the hard stress of competition. He might as well practise the art of swimming on land as attempt to pick up the rudiments of commerce at Oxford. Non omnia possumus omnes, and Oxford is prevented by her "old ideal" from inculcating the true principles of accounting and exchange. She would prove as ill a hand at the making of clerks as at the making of agitators, and they will best serve her who frankly recognise her limitations. Unless she be first destroyed, she cannot be converted into an intellectual restaurant, where dinners are served à la carte, and where each man may order, at his own price or none, the chop or steak which suits him. best. Her banquet and her charge are fixed, and they had