But prospects brightened after the war. Some who had fled when the city of Oxford was garrisoned now returned, and were promoted according to seniority. Graduates too came from Cambridge, and helped to fill up vacancies; also young men long kept at home, entered their names upon the college books, and supplies from public schools were to some extent renewed.
Scenes of festivity revived. On the 17th of May, 1649, the University prepared for the arrival of two distinguished visitors. Fairfax and Cromwell, with a staff of officers, were on their way to receive academic honours; and on their arrival, being welcomed with great rejoicing, they were at once conducted to the apartments of the Warden of All Souls, where they received a magnificent entertainment. Heads of houses paid their respects, and one of the fellows of the hospitable college in which they were lodged delivered a congratulatory speech, which Wood reports to have been a bad one, "but good enough for the occasion." The hero of Naseby assured the authorities that he and his companions were well aware no commonwealth could flourish without learning, and that whatever the world said to the contrary they meant to encourage it more and more. He and his companions, with their suite, dined at the table of the President of Magdalen, and afterwards played bowls on the college green. In the afternoon, the degree of Doctor of Laws was conferred on the generals, and that of Master of Arts on the principal officers. The chieftains were robed in scarlet, and with the exception of the hood and square cap—which some Puritans scrupled to wear—and the silver staves—which the beadles had not been able to obtain from their predecessors in office—the appearance of things in the Convocation House remained much as usual. All the members standing bareheaded, Proctor Zanchy presented the guests to the Vice-Chancellor, and delivered a short speech. The speech is not reported, but if an incident, such as occurred when South was conducting a soldier to receive an honorary degree, had taken place on this occasion, the witticism of that orator would have been very appropriate:—"Præsento vobis virum hunc bellicosissmum," commenced the speaker. Just then the warrior happened suddenly to turn round, "Qui nunquam antea tergiversatus est," added the ready wit.
The Earl of Pembroke, who had been Chancellor, died in January, 1650. At a convocation held twelve months afterwards, the University elected Cromwell to the vacant office. Warriors seem not the fittest persons for such a post, but as respects the University which placed Wellington in the chair once occupied by Cromwell many will agree with Kohl: "These are the two most remarkable Chancellors of Oxford, ever heard of."
Owen Vice-Chancellor.
When Dr. Fell had been ejected from the Deanery of Christ Church, Dr. Edward Reynolds, a Presbyterian, succeeded him for a short period, after which Dr. Owen, the Independent filled the office. Although he had been a student in the University his Independency had excited such strong prejudices, that on his taking a Doctor's degree some did "intend to battle him, when he came to dispute, thinking that as he had been so long time absent from the University, he would be unready both in speaking Latin and disputing. He was better prepared, however, than they were aware of, and keeping them to the strict rules of disputation, he managed the whole exercise with such exactness as frustrated their expectations."[244]
Owen was admirably fitted for the station which he occupied. To a rare amount of theological learning he united personal endowments and accomplishments, such as carry with them an indefinable influence, and command respect even from the prejudiced. He had a dignified presence, a face not soon to be forgotten, eyes of penetrating brightness, lips of firm resolve, a countenance generally very grave, and which could be very stern, profuse locks curling over the shoulder, and altogether the air and bearing of a gentleman. His appearance had arrested Cromwell's notice. "Sir," said the general, laying his hand on Owen's shoulder, "you are a person I must be acquainted with." "That," replied the Divine; with the courtliness of a cavalier, "will be much more to my advantage than yours." They became friends. Cromwell honoured Owen, and nominated him to the Vice-Chancellorship after the Parliament had appointed him to the Deanery.
Although Owen rose to the Vice-Chancellorship in September, 1652, it is remarkable that there is no annual oration by him for the year 1653.[245] The circumstance becomes significant on a perusal of the oration for 1654, and some light is thrown on the state of the University during the year when the oration was omitted. In 1654, the speaker pointedly alludes to some extraordinary perils the University had just survived.[246] There had been a conflict, he said, out of which the University rose, not with trophies, spoils, and garlands, but with scars, and with torn standards, dragged in dust. He and his learned colleagues had fought for what had been handed down from antiquity—the depository of past ages, and the seed-plot of precious hopes. They had put to flight wine-shops, ale-sellers, mimics, farces, buffoons, the public riots, and disgraceful scenes infesting the streets. Halls and edifices had been deserted and insulted, tottering to their fall, supporters had gone, props were removed, and things presented a melancholy spectacle; but God had preserved and wonderfully restored the University, after winds and storms had assailed it in vain. Under Owen's rhetorical Latin, so characteristic of the age, we discover the fact that the former year, when the annual oration had been omitted, was one of strange confusion in Oxford.
His Speeches.
The oration of 1657 further indicates the difficulties of the year 1653, and touches upon some which seemed far more threatening than any mentioned in the former speech. Five years—said Owen—had passed since his elevation to office, and for two years after that elevation the critical situation of the University had been a subject for astrologers and newspapers—to such a pitch did things arrive that to have advocated public schools would have been reckoned offensive to religion. Everything disgraceful was imputed to the advocates of learning. Affairs were in confusion, and on the edge of the pit, and the University was saved by a miracle. "When," he adds, "it appeared to what length audacity, rage, and ignorance would carry those from whom better things might have been expected, the Supreme Arbiter of Events so frustrated their efforts in a moment, that with all their strength they scarcely could take care of themselves who three days before were in the act of devouring us. Nothing remained to these wretched creatures except great disgrace, everlasting infamy of the unprincipled attempt upon the seats of learning, which God in His displeasure averted."[247]