Keturah M. Jacobs
The day had
finally arrived to leave for Oxford. For three months I was going to be
studying literature within the wondrous walls of this intellectual haven, just
as many great writers before me had done. Not to say that I fancy myself a
great writer or even aspire to be such, but the idea of studying in the same
place that inspired so many great minds was an amazing opportunity, to say the
least. I hoped that all I had learned in Dr. Bump’s class would influence my
experience there, and I couldn’t have been more excited. The flight was overly
long, but I didn’t mind. My mind was filled with all the places I would like to
visit, as well as all the architectural history I had learned to appreciate
during my Victorian Literature course. It would be interesting to see all the
places up close that I had only read about or seen pictures of.
When
I arrived on campus, I couldn't wait to explore, and since I had a few days
until classes started, there was plenty of time. I would be studying at Balliol
College and staying in the dormitory there. Not wanting to waste any time, I
began unpacking and pondered my new surroundings. Adjusting to dorm life would
be difficult, as I hadn’t lived in such close quarters since my freshman year
when I lived in Jester West. The dormitories at Balliol were certainly
different than Jester though. Compared to Jester, which had felt like living
within the walls of a prison, Balliol was like a palace. The rooms were still
rather small, but there were rich wooden floors and wooden paneling on the
walls in place of the vinyl tiles and cinder blocks that I had known. Here, my
desk and my bed were not built into the wall. The window overlooked a lush
courtyard that I imagined would be a delightful place to relax on a sunny
afternoon. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to get used to after all. After
unpacking all of my things, I went out in search of some sort of adventure, and
boy did I ever find one.
The
first place I went was the Balliol library. I stood admiring a bust of Matthew 
Arnold
and murmuring to myself the words of his famous poem The Scholar Gipsy, “The generations of thy peers are fled, And we
ourselves shall go; But thou possessest an immortal
lot, and we imagine thee exempt from age…”[1]
Then as if from thin air, a voice answered, “Why, thank you, you are too kind.”
I turned around, wondering who had said that, but there was no one behind me.
Turning back I saw that the expression on Matthew Arnold’s plaster face had
changed. He was smiling.
“Well go on then,
that’s very good,” the statue said. With a swift intake of breath I stepped
backwards, unable to believe my eyes. Matthew Arnold’s ghost stepped out from
the statue and stood before me.
“It’s been some
time since anyone has stopped by to pay me such homage. Matthew Arnold, pleased
to make your acquaintance,” he said holding out his hand. I felt faint, but I
placed my hand in his and his hand was firm.
“My n-name is
Keturah Jacobs, p-pleased to meet you,” I stuttered. It isn’t everyday that you
meet one of the most influential writers of an era, especially one from such
distant past. After a moment I regained my senses and said,
“You know, I have
heard you heralded as ‘the leading man of letters of [your] time.’[2]
There is so much I would like to ask you about.”
“Well, I have
heard it mentioned a time or two, but one cannot linger too much on flattery,
especially since I am dead. What should you like to ask of me? It would be an
honor to share with you all I know,” he replied. I was taken aback by the
generosity of such an offer. It occurred to me that I didn’t know where to
begin such an interview, but I asked him the first thing that came to mind.
“You have written
so many influential pieces, what inspires you?”
“Such
a grand question. Oxford has been a source of inspiration to myself and to many others before and after me. Do you not
know we are in ‘that sweet city with her dreaming spires?’”[3] he answered.
“Sure, I’ve read
that, but what does it mean?” I asked.
“Give it time and
you shall understand,” he told me.
“But how can that
place be the same as the one you yourself called ‘the home of lost causes?’”[4] I
questioned.
“This discussion
would take much too long to try and explain, I should
rather like to show you. If it is not improper, would you like to accompany me
on a tour of the countryside? I can arrange for a chaperone, if you like. The
real answer to all your questions lies in nature.”
“You know Matt, is
it okay if I call you Matt? In this day and age, men and women don’t have to
follow such strict social doctrines as in your day. And besides, you’re a
ghost. Why should anyone be fearful of my reputation for hanging out with a
ghost? Unless they think I’m crazy…”
“I wouldn’t want
to offend any young woman. It isn’t proper, or wasn’t in my day, for young men
and women to go about in such a manner unaccompanied. Things certainly have
changed since my day,” he said glancing around the library, “but I have always
preferred to treat people with respect.”
“That’s very
honorable, and I appreciate the gesture, but it really isn’t necessary for a
chaperone. These days guys like to pretend that chivalry isn’t dead, but I
think you are proof positive that they’re wrong. So do you hang around here
very often these days?” I asked, almost feeling as if I were hitting on a
ghost. I laughed to myself at the thought.
“Not especially
often. Actually, I can’t remember the last time I set eyes upon these walls.
Your words, as you stood here repeating my poem, seemed to wake me from a long
slumber. I do believe that must be it, kind of like rubbing a lamp to produce
the genie.” After a moment’s pause he clapped his hands together and said,
“Well then, since you have no objections, let us be off. By the by, what year
is it anyway?”
“It’s
2005,” I answered.
As we stepped out
of the library, the air seemed to change. Matthew’s muddled grey, ghostly color
washed away and there seemed to be new life breathed into him. There was a freshness to his skin, his cheeks were rosy, and he had a
spring in his step. He offered me his arm and as I took it, I noticed that my
hand was gloved. I looked down and in place of my jeans and t-shirt was a long
gown of rich blue material. We had stepped out of the library into the
Victorian era.
“That’s better,
shall we take a stroll ‘round the grounds?” he asked. I nodded,
my eyes wide with amazement at the sight of having moved backward in time.
“Balliol College,
as you probably know, was my alma mater,” he said, pointing back to the
building we had just exited. “When I first came to college, my father didn’t
think me a very serious student, but I certainly proved him wrong on that
account.”
“Will
you show me the elm tree that you used to walk to with Arthur Hugh Clough?” I
asked him.
“Why,
certainly. I should like to see that old tree again myself.
It is a bit of walk, though, will you be all right for such long exercise?”
“You need not
worry about me.”
We set out from
Balliol and left the campus behind.
“Do you hear
that?” he asked. “‘All the live murmur of a summer’s day.’”[5]
“You use a lot of
nature and imagery in your poetry. It always helps me to imagine that I am
there, seeing the colors, smelling the smells, experiencing the emotions. I’ve
got to hand it to you Matt, you know how to make words leap off the page and
bring poetry to life,” I said. To this he answered,
“‘We have to turn
to poetry to interpret life for us, to console us, to sustain us.’”[6]
It was hard to explain, but what he said made so much sense, and I was
enjoying this lesson I was learning very much.
As
we walked along, I noticed that it had started getting rather late, and the sun
began to set. I recalled the lines from his poem Thyrsis, “back’d
by the sunset, which doth glorify The orange and pale
violet evening-sky,”[7] and
almost as if on cue, we came to a clearing and he exclaimed, “the Tree! the Tree!”[8] We
laughed and stood gazing at the tree a moment. Then turning back we headed for
Oxford. All the way we discussed his philosophy about religion and nature.
“Matthew, would
you mind if I ask you a very personal question?” I asked him.
“Well, I suppose
it would be all right.”
“Why do you think
so many men of your time experienced a disappearance of God?” I asked him.
“That is a grand question,” he said slowly,
scratching his chin. “For me personally, I found that I needed something more
concrete to hold on to, to believe. And while there must be something greater
than the individual, I found that it was nature rather than God that I could
believe in.”
“Yes, but did you
lose faith completely?”
“Well, I don’t
know that I would say that I lost faith, but rather that I changed what it was
that I had faith in. Having been influenced by two very differing religious
views, my father on the one hand and my friend John Henry Newman on the other,
my mind began to question exactly what it is that I believe.”
“I question what I
believe all the time, but I’ve never felt as if God himself had disappeared. I
still believe in God, I just don’t know that I believe that any one religion is
correct. What do you think?” I asked.
“For me it was as
if God had disappeared. I didn’t just question religion, I questioned God
himself. I discovered that there is merit in the study of theology, and it unconsciously
became the focus of much of my studies. I believe I was searching my soul to
discover the true nature of God. But nature was all I discovered.”
“Some people have
hypothesized that perhaps it was God who turned his back on you. Did you ever
feel that way?”
“To some extent I
suppose. It is likely that it occurred somewhat simultaneously, and therefore
you cannot really say if it was God that turned his back on me or me who turned
my back on God. However you choose to look at it, the disappearance of God in
my life became a search for permanence, for something concrete. God was
insubstantial, but nature was a tangible force whose power I could experience
and whose beauty I could see with my own eyes.”
“But
if God created nature, then isn’t it his power and beauty that you are
experiencing?”
“I cannot say
whether or not that’s true. I can neither prove nor disprove the existence of
God on that basis,” he replied. I pondered over this, and we walked the rest of
the way in silence.
Back
at Balliol we reentered the library, and upon doing so, my clothes returned to
their normal state.
“This has been
quite an interesting day to say the least. I think tomorrow I might venture
into London. Would you care to accompany me at Kensington Gardens?” I asked
him.
“To
be sure. That is a place that I often would go to write and take
luxurious walks. I shall meet you there ‘round three o’clock if it suits you.”
I said that it did and wished him a pleasant evening, though I’m not sure that
that matters to a ghost. Once in my dorm room, I sat down to write a letter.
Dear Dr. Bump,
You will never believe what happened
to me today. Actually, you probably will since you always wanted us to feel the
spirits of the past embodied in a place. Well, not only did I feel the spirit,
but I met face to face with Matthew Arnold in the library at Balliol. We walked
to the famous elm tree from his poem, just as he would have done in his school
days with Arthur Hugh Clough. I read that Matthew Arnold “knew he needed Clough
nearby to remain a poet… [because] their talents and
fates were linked since his friend’s willingness to commit feelings to verse
gave Matthew a similar boldness.”[9]
What a magnificent sight it was to behold. If I didn’t understand sense of
place before, I think I’m starting to. He seemed to be aware of everything
going on around him. I suppose it’s true that “he was to expand emotionally and
intellectually at Oxford.”[10]
Nature seemed to captivate his spirit, and I can see how these walks
would have inspired his writing. I wonder if he was somewhat like the
scholar-gipsy in his poem who was “a seeker of truth who has forsaken rational
knowledge for the inspiriting wisdom of nature.”[11]
Well anyhow, I just wanted to tell you this exciting discovery. Tomorrow we are
going to Kensington Gardens. I can hardly wait.
-Keturah M. Jacobs
I
folded the letter and placed it in an envelope, then carefully addressed it to
Dr. Bump. I lay down on my bed and stared at the ceiling, going over in my mind
the amazing day I had had. I fell asleep thinking of Matthew Arnold and began
to dream.
I
was walking toward the elm tree. It was still a ways off, but in the distance I
could make out the figure of a man. I was certain that it was Matthew, and I
began running toward the tree to meet him. To my surprise, as I neared the
tree, it was not Matthew after all. I walked up to him and he turned around,
smiling.
“And
how are you enjoying Oxford thus far?” he asked.
“It’s amazing,” I replied, somewhat
confused. Then it dawned on me who this man was. “You’re Arthur Hugh Clough,
aren’t you?”
“The
very same, but you may address me as Clough. And you are?”
“My
name is Keturah Mary Jacobs, but you can call me Keturah.”
“It’s
very nice to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise. This has been such a strange trip. Who would have
thought that I would meet Matthew Arnold and then Arthur Hugh Clough? No one is
ever going to believe me when I tell them.”
“It
only matters that it is in your heart. We are real in your heart, even if no
one else believes your story. No one can take that away from you.”
“Man,
I heard that you have ‘idealism about love,’[12]
but I can never tell how much scholars speculate about that kind of stuff.”
“Love
is one of those things that you have to experience to understand. You can
create in your mind an idea about love, but it isn’t real and pales in
comparison to the actuality of love. I wanted to believe that love is as
wonderful as it is made out to be, but I never understood it until I met
Blanche. In the meantime I ‘was using poetry as a means of clarifying to [my]self questions, problems, and possible answers.’[13]
But not just in relation to love; I used poetry to work out all the things in
my life that I was confused about or suspicious of.”
“I
never would have guessed that from your poetry. One of my favorites is your
poem, Dipsychus. What inspired you to write it?”
“The
word dipsychus means ‘having two minds.’[14]
It was an attempt to understand the dichotomy of my own internal thoughts; ‘the
struggle undergone by a sensitive, thoughtful and conscientious mind drawn in
two opposite directions.’”[15]
“What
two directions were you drawn in?”
“Well,
by ‘the aspirations of a noble nature on the one hand, and promptings to
acquiescence in common standards of morality and action on the other.’”[16]
“Why
do you think that you and Matthew never seemed to see eye to eye on each other’s
poetry? I mean, you were both great writers and you both appreciated the works
of many other great writers, but you seemed to criticize one another very
harshly.”
“Yes,
well, Matthew always expected great things from me, and he felt that I wasn’t
living up to my potential. I knew his criticism came from a place of love and
that’s why I ‘was able to accept [his] outbursts with some serenity.’[17]
It saddened me that we seemed to be growing apart, especially after he was
engaged to Francis. I suppose that my criticism of his work was a way to get
back at him. We often used our work to present ‘challenges and replies to each
other.’[18]
It could almost be seen as a sort of game if we hadn’t really intended to hurt
the other one.”
“That
seems terribly childish, why couldn’t you two just get over yourselves?”
“That is a fair charge, I
suppose. We did in many ways, but not in others. Perhaps it was I who
maintained the grudge. But we went long periods without speaking or writing and
Matthew often had ‘an aloof attitude when [we] were together.’[19] And
I always wanted Matthew to appreciate my work, and it hurt me deeply that he
felt I ‘was not an artist.’[20] The
problem lies in the fact that we ‘were separated by fundamental moral,
intellectual, and aesthetic differences.’[21]
But deep down we always cared for one another. He
didn’t really understand my mind very well or didn’t try very hard to do so
anyway. My mind was always questioning. Having been under the tutelage and
influence of his father, Dr. Thomas Arnold, at Rugby and then John Henry
Newman’s influence at Oxford, I was forced ‘very early to examine the most
difficult questions of life that can be put before any thinker.’[22]
While we were both influenced by these same two men, we had different
approaches to understanding what they were teaching us.”
“I
guess it just amazed me to find out that you two disagreed so much. Everyone
always talks about how you were such great friends. And they only seem to
remember you in terms of Matthew’s tribute poem, Thyrsis, which he wrote in your memory. ‘Now seldom come I, since I
came with him./ That single elm-tree bright/ Against the
west--I miss it! is it gone?/ We prized it dearly;
while it stood, we said,/ Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead;/ While
the tree lived, he in these fields lived on./ Too
rare, too rare, grow now my visits here,/ But once I knew each field, each
flower, each stick;/ And with the country-folk acquaintance made/ By barn in
threshing-time, by new-built rick./
Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assay'd./ Ah
me! this many a year/ My pipe is lost, my shepherd's
holiday!/ Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart/ Into the world and
wave of men depart;/ But Thyrsis of
his own will went away.’”[23]
“While
our friendship was ‘the closest and most meaningful of [my] life, at the same
time… it was the most uneasy, emotionally and intellectually.’[24]
That he honored my memory with such a beautiful poem means so much to me.”
Clough was silent. After a few moments he said, “I wondered when you came here today
with Matthew if I might have the chance to meet you also. I’m so glad you came
back.”
“But
this is only a dream, we’re not really here.” With those words his image began
to fade. “Wait! Clough, come back.
There is so much I want to ask you still.”
“The
tree, Keturah, I’ll be at the tree. Bring Matthew.” And then he was gone.
The next day I
planned to wander some around the Oxford campus before heading to London. I
could hardly wait to tell Matthew about my dream. He had said he would meet me
at 3 o’clock, but I did not know how to find him any sooner. So I contented
myself with wandering around campus for the time being. The beauty of the
architecture itself was moving, and I again heard the words of Matthew Arnold
in my head, “steeped in sentiment as she lies, spreading her gardens to the
moonlight, and whispering from her towers the last enchantments of the Middle Age.”[25]
The stone buildings with their carved and sculpted arches, the gargoyles
guarding the very spires as they dream, it all felt so poetic. It’s no wonder
that so many writers feel inspired to write here. It’s really too bad that I’ve
never really made such connections on campus at UT. I wonder why there is such a marked
difference in the way in which they view their world here at Oxford. It’s
almost as if it’s a spirit in the very air, whispering tales of its history to
all those who pass 
between
her gates. The college itself almost looks like an imperial castle with its
towers ascending into the heavens. There are countless libraries and chapels
holding the spirits of the great thinkers of the past who had once studied and
prayed within their walls.
By chance I
wandered into Oriel College where my new friend had been a fellow in his day.
As I am fond of libraries, I chose to start my tour there. It was a wonder to
me that students were able to concentrate in these libraries. They were so dark
with their wood paneled walls stacked to the ceiling with books. It seemed more
conducive to napping than anything else. The chapel, on the other hand, was
bright with light flooding in the many windows and its lofty ceilings. The pews
were simple and wooden, but carved beautifully. It amazed me to know that I was
standing in the very room where John Henry Newman presided over worship. Indeed
his spirit was rich in this place. Though it was a new addition, a
stained-glass window commemorating him had been placed there, and it served
well its purpose of capturing his spirit.
After
lunch I headed for London to meet Matthew at Kensington Gardens. I didn’t know
much about the place other than what he had written in the Lines Written in Kensington Gardens. Right on time, he was there waiting at the
gates. I again took his offered arm and as we passed through the gate, we
shifted back into his time. Here there 
was
rolling green grass in every direction and a lake lined with trees. I admit I
have beheld such beauty in my hometown of Austin, but never with the sense of
the history that lingers here. And coupled with this sense of the past spirits
embodied there, was a sense of the present life embodied here as well; so much
beauty. “Here at my feet what wonders pass, What
endless, active life is here!”[26]
“I
had the most amazing dream last night. I met Clough at the elm tree,” I finally
said as we walked along the lake.
“My
dear Clough; how I have missed him.”
“Matthew,
I think we should go back to the elm tree. I think he’s going to be there
waiting for us to come back, he said so in my dream.”
“We
are a long way from there, perhaps we shall go tomorrow,” he answered quietly.
Something in his voice made me wonder why he hesitated at the idea of seeing
his old friend.
“Don’t
you want to see him, Matthew? He was your dearest friend in the world.”
“Of
course I wish to see him again. You have no idea how much. The thought of it is
simply overwhelming. He left us so early and we never really reconciled with
one another. That saddened me to no end.”
“Why
were you always so hard on him anyway? It seems that you ‘two, who discussed
poetry endlessly, were incapable of appreciating each other’s work.’[27] His
poetry is wonderful.”
“I
know it could have been. I was always ‘urging him to exert himself and not
waste his powers.’[28]
He never believed in himself. His mind was always suspicious and questioning.
He could have been great if only he’d have believed in himself, even a little
bit. But no matter how I tried to get him to see that, he would never listen.
And he resented me for it, though he tried not to let on that he did.”
“But
why would you treat your dearest friend like that? When I have a friend who
needs encouragement, I don’t criticize them. Don’t you think you should have
been more encouraging?”
“I
was trying to give him constructive criticism, but I can’t help it if he
couldn’t take it.”
“But
you ‘privately maintained [that] he had no vocation for literature.’[29]
Why would you say that about your friend?”
“Because it was true. I watched him fumble about, and he
never applied himself at all. He could have been great, but his ‘chronic state
of introspective criticism on himself… diminishes the linearity and directness
of the feeling expressed’[30]
and this led to ‘the failure of Clough’s poems to achieve beauty.’[31] I
have a strong ‘distaste for the critical questioning and all-doubting spirit’[32]
embodied in Clough’s work. I knew how brilliant he was, and yet he allowed his
suspicions to overpower him. I wanted more than anything for him to be
successful, and it pained me to watch him throw his life away.”
“If
you felt that way, then why did you two maintain your friendship?”
“It
goes so much deeper than that. Clough was such a great influence for me in my
Oxford days. He was the reason that I didn’t flunk out of school. If it wasn’t
for him, I would have ditched school every day to go on a fishing expedition. I
suppose I felt ‘an intellectual indebtedness to Clough.’”[33]
“Then
let’s go see him. We can wait until tomorrow if you insist upon it, but we have
to go. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t. Remember your own words…
‘Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be,/
Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour/ In the
old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill!’”[34]
“You
are absolutely correct. And we shall go tomorrow morning. That way we’ll have
the whole day ahead of us. Yes tomorrow…meet me in the library as before,” he
murmured and strolled off towards a grove of trees.
“See
you tomorrow,” I called after him, and he waved his hand in acknowledgment
without looking back. I walked to the gates, and as I stepped outside time
again shifted back to normal. I decided to head back to Oxford rather than stay
to site-see in London because I couldn’t wait for the next day when I would go
with Matthew to see Clough. It would be their first encounter in 144 years.
The next morning I woke up earlier than usual. I was so
excited about meeting with Clough again and even more excited about reuniting
Matthew with his dear old friend. I dressed in a hurry and ran as fast as I
could to the library to meet Matthew. When I got there, he was nowhere to be
found. I walked up and down rows and rows of books, but he wasn’t there.
Feeling rather hurt and disappointed, I walked over to the statue of Matthew
where we had first met. I stared into his marble face,
waiting for it to change, but it didn’t budge. I was about to give up and go
back to my dorm room when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Ready for the big day?” Matthew asked. I turned around and
there he was, his pale grey face smiling with anticipation.
“Absolutely! This is so exciting. I almost thought you had
bailed on me, but I should have known better. What about you, are you ready to
see Clough?”
“Yes.
I spent all night pondering what I might say to him.”
“It’s
so strange that in the last 144 years since he died that you’ve never seen him.
I mean you’re both in the afterlife now. Why did you never meet before?”
“It’s
like I told you when we first met. Your words seemed to awaken me. Never before
had I been stirred from my rest. You are the key to all of this. But I am
grateful to you for whatever you did to make it happen.”
We
set out from the library and headed away from Oxford. We walked at a very brisk
pace, both of us eager to see Clough. 
As
we came to the top of the hill, there he was waiting by the tree, just as he
said he would be.
“Come
on,” I said, grabbing Matthew’s hand and running across the field. We must have
made record time. For a moment we stood there catching our breath, or at least
I did, and Matthew and Clough just stood there staring at one another, but not
saying anything. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Clough’s face
broke into a smile.
“Whatever
took you so long to get here, Matt?” Clough asked. Matthew stepped forward and
the two friends embraced one another. I suddenly felt as though I did not
belong there, but I wasn’t sure how to gracefully and silently walk away
without offending either of them. At length, they let go of one another and
turned to me.
“Thank you for
bringing him here today, Keturah,” Clough said.
“I’m
sure you two have so much to talk about. I think I’ll just leave you guys alone
to catch up. I would just be a third wheel,” I said.
“Please
stay, it is because of you that we are even here today,” Matthew said.
“Yes,
you must stay. You said you had questions for me still,” Clough added.
“Well
I guess if you both would like for me to stay, then I will. This is wonderful.
Who would have thought any of this would happen to me this summer?” I said.
We
spent the afternoon sitting under the tree, talking to no end about poetry,
about life, about God. I even shared some of my poems with them. Luckily, after
being dead for so long, neither of them had any desire to critique my poetry.
I’m sure they thought my poems were terrible, but they were nice enough not to
say so. We laughed for hours and hours.
Finally, the three of us walked back to Oxford.
“Thank
you so much for everything you have taught me these past few days. I studied
Victorian Literature last semester and I never quite had a grasp of many of the
ideas we discussed. But thanks to you, I understand so much more than I ever
expected,” I said.
“It
has been a pleasure to know you, Keturah. Good luck in your studies,” Matthew
answered. As he and Clough walked away I could hear their joyful voices fading.
I closed my eyes and breathed a deep sigh. When I opened my eyes again, they
were gone. I went back to my dorm room and sat down to write another letter to
Dr. Bump. These strange and amazing experiences were too exciting to keep to
myself, and I knew that he was the only person who would be able to appreciate
them.
Dear Dr. Bump,
This trip to Oxford has been the
strangest experience of my life, and I have only been here a few days. After I
wrote to you the other day, I had a dream about Arthur Hugh Clough. It felt as
though I were really talking to him. He told me all about his friendship with
Matthew Arnold. I was very surprised to find out that they weren’t nearly as
close as historians make them out to be. They were always arguing with one
another and criticizing each other’s poetry. At the very end of the dream, he
told me to bring Matthew to the elm tree. It seemed so real that I had to bring
Matthew to the tree. When I met up with Matthew at Kensington Gardens, I told
him about the dream and that I though we should go see Clough at the elm tree.
So we went the next day, and the two friends reunited for the first time since
Clough’s death. They were so grateful to me for giving them the opportunity to
reconcile their differences. I got the feeling that both of them always really
cared for the other one, and that despite their differences, they always needed
each other. I spent the entire day discussing life, poetry and God with Matthew
Arnold and Arthur Hugh Clough. Can you believe it? I’m sure you can, though I
still feel baffled by the experience. Did you know that Clough resigned his
fellowship at Oriel College because of his loss of faith and the disappearance
of God in his life? He told me that the college required him to be ordained in
the Church of England, and rather than sign the Thirty-Nine Articles, he
stepped down from his position. It appears that the disappearance of God in his
life had a much bigger impact on him than it did on Matthew. It has been so
interesting to discover firsthand all of the topics that we discussed in class
last semester. If it hadn’t been for your class, I wouldn’t be here at Oxford
right now. Thanks for the inspiration; it has really changed my life.
Sincerely,
Keturah M. Jacobs
In
every new place I visited that summer, I felt the inspiration that so many
people who have passed before me have drawn from. There lay within them an
inherent quality of understanding that transcended time. Enclosed within its
gates, Oxford was a world all its own that cultivated so many great minds. What
was it about this place that made it the breeding ground for worldly knowledge
and understanding beyond what was captured in textbooks? I felt I had to
understand. I turned back in my memory to John Henry Newman’s Idea of a University. Was Oxford this
ideal place whose sole purpose was the “cultivation of the intellect”[35]
and if so, what made it so different from other universities that did not seem
to capture the same spirit? Within its walls… somehow completely closed off
from the city, the think-tank is untainted by the influence of the hustle and
bustle of economy going on outside its walls. Young minds flock here with the
dream to become great like all those before them. Immersed in this intellectual
incubator, dreams become reality. Great ideas begin and end alike within these
walls.
I pondered over
this all summer. I never did run into Matthew Arnold or Arthur Hugh Clough again.
I wondered if it were all a dream. But I had a new understanding of what was
once said of his idea that “human sensation and sentiment derive from a nature
greater and more permanent than the individual self.”[36]
When I got home, I felt a new sense of place in Austin. My apartment was warm
and inviting, the memories of so much laughter rang in my ears. My roommate was
excited to hear all about my trip, but I was content to just ponder it a while
longer. Poetry took on a new meaning for me as “the relations of ideas, to the
pursuit of those moral and emotional qualities that will help to preserve continuity
within cultural change,”[37]
and my experience at Oxford, meeting Matthew Arnold and Arthur Hugh
Clough, had helped to shape that.
Back on campus the
first week of the fall semester, I happened to decide to visit the Tower. I had
never been inside before. On the fourth floor, inside the Wrenn
Library, there on the ceiling was the Oxford Crest. Oxford’s influence had
transcended geography even to make its mark here. Reflective of this I wandered
over to the Biology ponds and noticed the rustle of the wind in the grass, the
gurgling of the waterfall, birds chirping, the turtles lazily basking in the
sun… “Here at my feet what wonders pass, What endless,
active life is here!”[38] Perhaps
we don’t have Arnold’s “dreaming spires,” but there is a unique sense of place
here that is felt through time.
Word Count: 6,163
Word Count minus quotes: 5567