To know all is to excuse all――to know all about the bringing-up of English Public School boys makes one excuse much. The atmosphere and tradition of those places is extraordinarily strong, and persists through all modern changes. Thirty-eight years have gone since I was a new boy, but cross-examining a young nephew who left not long ago, I found almost precisely the same features and conditions. The War, which has changed so much of our social life, will have some, but no very great, effect on this particular institution. The boys still go there from the same kind of homes and preparatory schools and come under the same kind of masters. And the traditional unemotionalism, the cult of a dry and narrow stoicism, is rather fortified than diminished by the times we live in. Our Universities, on the other hand, have lately been but the ghosts of their old selves. At my old College in Oxford last year they had only two English students. In the Chapel under the Joshua Reynolds window, through which the sun was shining, hung a long “roll of honour,” a hundred names and more. In the College garden an open-air hospital was ranged under the old City wall, where we used to climb and go wandering in the early summer mornings after some all-night spree. Down on the river the empty College barges lay stripped and stark. From the top of one of them an aged custodian broke into words: “Ah! Oxford’ll never be the same again in my time. Why, who’s to teach ’em rowin’? When we do get undergrads again, who’s to teach ’em? All the old ones gone, killed, wounded and that. No! Rowin’ll never be the same again――not in my time.” That was _the_ tragedy of the War for him. Our Universities will recover faster than he thinks, and resume the care of our particular ‘Kultur,’ and cap the products of our public schools with the Oxford accent and the Oxford manner.