The Castle tower, the tower of S. Michael’s, the crypt of S. Peter’s in the East, Holywell and the Castle mill, the chancel of S. Cross, these are all landmarks that recall the days when D’Oigli governed Oxford, and the servants of William surveyed England and registered for him his new estate. But there is one other item in the Domesday record which deserves to be noticed:
“All burgesses of Oxford hold in common a pasture without the wall which brings in 6s. 8d.”
How many Oxford men realise, when they make their way to Port Meadow to sail their centre-boards on the upper river, that this ancient “Port” (or “Town”) Meadow is still set apart for its ancient purpose, that the rights of the freemen of Oxford to have free pasture therein have been safeguarded for eight hundred years by the portreeve or shire-reeve (sheriff), annually appointed to fulfil this duty by the Portmannimot (or Town Council)?
Robert D’Oigli died childless. He was succeeded by his nephew, the second Robert, who had wedded Edith, a concubine of Henry I. She, dwelling in the Castle, was wont to walk in the direction of what is now the Great Western Railway Station and the cemetery, being attracted thither by the “chinking rivulets and shady groves.”
And it is said that there one evening, “she saw a great company of pyes gathered together on a tree, making a hideous noise with their chattering, and seeming, as ‘twere, to direct their chatterings to her.” The experience was repeated, and the Lady sent for her confessor, one Radulphus, a canon of S. Frideswide’s, and asked him what the reason of their chattering might be. Radulphus, “the wiliest pye of all,” Wood calls him, explained that “these were no pyes, but so many poor souls in purgatory that do beg and make all this complaint for succour and relief; and they do direct their clamours to you, hoping that by your charity you would bestow something both worthy of their relief, as also for the welfare of yours and your posterity’s souls, as your husband’s uncle did in founding the College and Church of S. George.” These words being finisht, she replied, “And is it so indeed? now de pardieux, if old Robin my husband will concede to my request, I shall do my best endeavour to be a means to bring these wretched souls to rest.” And her husband, as the result of her importunities, “founded the monastery of Osney, near or upon the place where these pyes chattered (1129), dedicating it to S. Mary, allotting it to be a receptacle of Canon Regulars of S. Augustine, and made Radulphus the first Prior thereof.”
Osney was rebuilt in 1247. The Legate proclaimed forty days’ indulgence to anyone who should contribute towards the building of it. The result was one of the most magnificent abbeys in the country. “The fabric of the church,” says Wood, “was more than ordinary excelling.” Its two stately towers and exquisite windows moved the envy and admiration of Englishmen and foreigners alike. When, in 1542, Oxford ceased to belong to the diocese of Lincoln, and the new see was created, Robert King, the last Abbot of Osney, was made first Bishop of Osney. But it was only for a few years that the bishop’s stool was set up in the Church of S. Mary. In 1546 Henry the VIII. moved the see to S. Frideswide’s, and converted the priory, which Wolsey had made a college, into both college and cathedral. And the Abbey of Osney was devoted to destruction. “Sir,” said Dr Johnson when he saw the ruins of that great foundation, stirred by the memory of its splendid cloister and spacious quadrangle as large as Tom Quad, its magnificent church, its schools and libraries, the oriel windows and high-pitched roofs of its water-side buildings, and the abbot’s lodgings, spacious and fair, “Sir! to look upon them fills me with indignation!” Agas’ map (1568) represents the abbey as still standing, but roofless; the fortifications in 1644 accounted for the greater part of what then remained. The mean surroundings of the railway station mark the site of the first Cathedral of Oxford. The Cemetery Chapel is on the site of the old nave. A few tiles and fragments of masonry, the foundations of the gateway and a piece of a building attached to the mill, are the only remains that will reward you for an unpleasant afternoon’s exploration in this direction. Better, instead of trying so to make these dead stones live, to go to the Cathedral and there look at the window in the south choir aisle, which was buried during the Civil War and, thus preserved from the destructive Puritans, put up again at the Restoration. This painted window, which is perhaps from the hand of the Dutchman Van Ling (1634), represents Bishop King in cope and mitre, and among the trees in the background is a picture of Osney Abbey already in ruins. The bishop’s tomb, it should be added, of which a missing fragment has this year been discovered, lies in the bay between the south choir aisle and S. Lucy’s Chapel. But there is one other survival of Osney Abbey of which you cannot long remain unaware. You will not have been many hours in the “sweet city of the dreaming spires” before you hear the “merry Christ Church bells” of Dean Aldrich’s[8] well-known catch ring out, or the cracked B flat of Great Tom, booming his hundred and one strokes, tolling the hundred students of the scholastic establishment and the one “outcomer” of the Thurston foundation, and signalling at the same time to all “scholars to repair to their respective colleges and halls” and to all the Colleges to close their gates (9.5 P.M.).