I learned from Barfleur where Walter Pater and Oscar Wilde lived, where Shelley’s essay on atheism was burned, and where afterwards a monument was erected to him, where some English bishops were burned for refusing to recant their religious beliefs and where the dukes and princes of the realm were quartered in their college days. Sir Scorp descanted on the pity of the fact, that some, who would have loved a world such as this in their youth, could never afford to come here, while others who were as ignorant as boors and as dull as swine, were for reasons of wealth and family allowed to wallow in a world of art which they could not possibly appreciate. Here as elsewhere I learned that professors were often cads and pedants--greedy, jealous, narrow, academic. Here as elsewhere precedence was the great fetish of brain and the silly riot of the average college student was as common as in the meanest school. Life is the same, be art great or little, and the fame of even Oxford cannot gloss over the weakness of a humanity that will alternately be low and high, shabby and gorgeous, narrow and vast. The last thing we saw were some very old portions of Christ College, which had been inhabited by Dominican monks, I believe, in their day, and this thrilled and delighted me quite as much as anything. I forgot all about the rain in trying to recall the type of man and the type of thought that must have passed in and out of those bolt-riven doors, but it was getting time to leave and my companions would have none of my lagging delight. It was blowing rain and as we were leaving Oxford I lost my cap and had to walk back after it. Later I lost my glove! As we rode my mind went back over the ancient chambers, the paneled woodwork, stained glass windows, and high vaulted ceilings I had just seen. The heavy benches and somber portraits in oil sustained themselves in my mind clearly. Oxford, I said to myself, was a jewel architecturally. Another thousand years and it would be as a dream of the imagination. I feel now as if its day were done; as if so much gentle beauty can not endure. I had seen myself the invasion of the electric switch board and the street car in High Street, and of course other things will come. Already the western world is smiling at a solemnity and a beauty which are noble and lovely to look upon, but which cannot keep pace with a new order and a new need. CHAPTER XVI A CHRISTMAS CALL