Nothing is so deserving, few things so exacting, of respect, from transitory men as age. Things change, and improvements are questioned or questionable; but, for me, age is as good as an improvement; and Oxford honours what is old with particular dignities and graces; under her influence the work of age is at once blander and more swift. But this gentle tyranny,--as of the Mother of [Illustration: OXFORD, FROM THE SHELDONIAN THEATRE On the extreme left of the picture shows the roof of the Schools; the dome of the Radcliffe Library, St. Mary’s tower and spire, and Merton tower, occupying the centre of the picture. To the right, over part of Brasenose College, are the elm trees of the Broad Walk. In the foreground are the pinnacles and roof of the Bodleian Library. The view is from the Cupola of the Sheldonian Theatre, looking south on a stormy day.] Christ, who, in Leonardo’s picture, unites angel and holy child and St. John with outspread hands,--is exerted not only upon the stones, but also upon the people of the place. A man may at Oxford rejoice in the company of another whom it is a self-sacrifice to meet elsewhere. He finds himself marvelling that one who was merely a gentleman in London can be interesting in Long Wall Street or on the Cherwell. The superb, expensive young man who thinks that there is “practically nobody in Oxford”--the poor, soiled scholar--the exuberant, crimson-lipped athlete, whose stride is a challenge, his voice a trumpet call--the lean and larded æsthete, busily engaged upon the quaint designs of oriental life,--all discover some point in common when they are seen together in the Schools, or on the riverside. I was never more effectually reminded of this Oxford magic than when I heard the City Band playing opposite University one day. I was indifferent, and for the time ignorant and incapable of knowing, whether the music was that of Wagner or Sousa. It seemed to me the music of Apollo, certainly of some one grander than all grand composers. And yet, as I was informed, what I had entirely loved was from an inferior opera which every street boy can improve. It was another music, and yet symphonious, that I heard, when I came again to Addison’s Walk at Magdalen. I stopped at Magdalen cloisters on my way-- O blessed shades! O gentle cool retreat From all th’ immoderate Heat In which the frantic World does burn and sweat!--