Possibly there was as simple a chasm between Lord Curzon and Lord Milner.  But I am afraid that the chasm will become almost imperceptible, a microscopic crack, if we compare it with the chasm that separates either or both of them from the people of this country.

Of course the truth is exactly as the Bishop of Birmingham put it.  I am sure that he did not put it in any unkindly or contemptuous spirit towards those old English seats of learning, which whether they are or are not seats of learning, are, at any rate, old and English, and those are two very good things to be.  The Old English University is a playground for the governing class.  That does not prove that it is a bad thing; it might prove that it was a very good thing.  Certainly if there is a governing class, let there be a playground for the governing class.  I would much rather be ruled by men who know how to play than by men who do not know how to play.  Granted that we are to be governed by a rich section of the community, it is certainly very important that that section should be kept tolerably genial and jolly.  If the sensitive man on the Outlook does not like the phrase, “Playground of the rich,” I can suggest a phrase that describes such a place as Oxford perhaps with more precision.  It is a place for humanising those who might otherwise be tyrants, or even experts.

To pretend that the aristocrat meets all classes at Oxford is too ludicrous to be worth discussion.  But it may be true that he meets more different kinds of men than he would meet under a strictly aristocratic regime of private tutors and small schools.  It all comes back to the fact that the English, if they were resolved to have an aristocracy, were at least resolved to have a good-natured aristocracy.  And it is due to them to say that almost alone among the peoples of the world, they have succeeded in getting one.  One could almost tolerate the thing, if it were not for the praise of it.  One might endure Oxford, but not the Outlook.

When the poor man at Oxford loses his angles (which means, I suppose, his independence), he may perhaps, even if his poverty is of that highly relative type possible at Oxford, gain a certain amount of worldly advantage from the surrender of those angles.  I must confess, however, that I can imagine nothing nastier than to lose one’s angles.  It seems to me that a desire to retain some angles about one’s person is a desire common to all those human beings who do not set their ultimate hopes upon looking like Humpty-Dumpty.  Our angles are simply our shapes.  I cannot imagine any phrase more full of the subtle and exquisite vileness which is poisoning and weakening our country than such a phrase as this, about the desirability of rubbing down the angularities of poor men.  Reduced to permanent and practical human speech, it means nothing whatever except the corrupting of that first human sense of justice which is the critic of all human institutions.