I often wonder whether Mr. Cecil Rhodes, while he had the English Government in one pocket, the English Press in the other, and South Africa in the hollow of his hand, felt a certain impotency before Oxford.  He had to acknowledge its influence over himself—­an influence stronger than Dr. Jameson or the Afrikander Bond.  He was never quite sure whether he admired more the loneliness of the Matoppos or the rather over-crowded diamond mines of Kimberley.  On the grey veld he used to read Marius the Epicurean, and sought in Mr. Pater the key to the mystery he was unable to solve.  He turned to the Thirty-nine Articles (more tampered with at Oxford than in any other cathedral city) with the same want of success.  That always seems to me a real touch of Oxford in what some one well said, was an ‘ugly life.’  What a wonderful subject for the brush of a Royal Academician! no ordinary artist could ever do it justice:  the great South African statesman on the lonely rocks where he had chosen his tomb; a book has fallen from his hand (Mr. Pater’s no doubt); his eyes are gazing from canvas into the future he has peopled with his dreams.  By some clever device of art or nature the clouds in the sky have shaped themselves into Magdalen Tower—­into harmony with his thoughts, and the setting sun makes a mandorla behind him.  He is thinking of Oxford, and round his head Oriel clings as in ‘The Blessed Damozel.’

He could terrorise the Colonial Secretary, he could foment a war and add a new empire to England; he could not overcome his love of Oxford, the antithesis of all sordid financial intrigue and political marauding.  Athens was after all a dearer name than Groot-Schuurr.  He set fire to both.

I speculate sometimes whether the University was aware of his testamentary dispositions before it conferred on him an honorary degree.  I hope not.  He deserved it as the greatest son of Oxford, the greatest Englishman of his time.  Imre Kiralfy, who has done for a whole district of London what Mr. Rhodes tried to do for the empire, is but an impresario beside him.  A French critic says we cannot admire greatness in England; and this was shown by the timid way a large number of Imperialists, while professing to believe the war a righteous one, thought they would seem independent if they disclaimed approval of Mr. Rhodes, by not having the pluck to admit the same motives though ready enough to share the plunder.  You may compare the ungrateful half-unfriendly obituaries in the press with the leaders a few days later, after the will was opened.