The most interesting period of the College history was during the reigns of the Stuarts. The same spirit of devotion to the Church and loyalty to the throne which had animated Laud and Juxon still breathed in their successors. Tobias Rustat, Esquire, Yeoman of the Robes to Charles II., and Under Housekeeper of Hampton Court, left a large sum to endow loyal lectures--two on “the day of the horrid and most execrable murder of that most glorious Prince and Martyr”; one to be read by the Dean of Divinity, and the other by “some one of the most ingenious Scholars or Fellows whom the President shall appoint,” setting forth the “barbarous cruelty of that unparalleled parricide”; one by the Dean of Law on October 23rd, “which was the day wherein Rebellion did appear solemnly armed against Majesty”; and a fourth on the 29th of May, “setting forth the glory and happiness of that day,” which saw the birth of Charles II. and his “triumphant return.” There is in the College library a curious portrait of Charles I., over which in a minute hand several Psalms are written. Tradition has it that when the “merry monarch” visited Oxford he asked for this eccentric piece of work, and that when, on leaving, in recognition of his loyal welcome he offered to give the Fellows anything they should ask, they declared that no gift could be so precious as the restoration to them of the portrait of his father. The story, true or not, could only be told of a College which was famous as the home of devoted loyalty to the Stuarts. It was Dr. Peter Mews (or Meaux), Baylie’s successor as President, who lent his carriage horses to draw the royal cannon to Sedgmoor. When Nicholas Amherst (the author of a collection of scurrilous essays which he called after the name of the licensed buffoon at the Encænia, Terræ Filius) was expelled the College for his irregularities, he made up a plausible tale that the reason for his expulsion was that he was the only man loyal to the Hanoverian line in a nest of Jacobites. He lost no opportunity of attacking the College, with no regard for truth or consistency. Dr. Delaune (President 1698-1728) was his most prominent victim. Once, says he, that learned President was affronted in the theatre by Terrae Filius, who called out to him by name as he came in, shaking a box and dice, and crying “_Jacta est alea_, doctor, seven’s the main,” in allusion to “a scandalous report handed about by the doctor’s enemies, that he had lost great sums of other people’s money at dice.” But Jacobitism was an accusation much more plausible, and we are inclined not altogether to disbelieve him when he says that the Latitudinarian Hoadly was abused in a Latin oration in chapel as “iste malus logicus, pejor politicus, pessimus theologus; a bad logician, a worse statesman, and the worst of all divines.” Dr. Richard Rawlinson, who had been a gentleman commoner of the College, and left to it on his death in 1755 the bulk of his estate, was a