The pictures in the lecture-rooms and on the walls of the staircase leading to them form a sort of overflow collection, and though of unequal merit, a few are worth attention. There are also some pictures of merit in the library among which I note in particular portraits of Tennyson and Lightfoot.
The engravings of former members of the College placed in the small combination room will repay study. There are at present between one hundred and fifty and two hundred here, but there are many more in portfolios in the library. Several of these have been acquired in recent years through the generosity and knowledge of John Charrington.
The painted glass in the hall shows numerous coats of arms, and anyone acquainted with heraldry [116] ]will find here a rich field of study. The windows could have been filled over and over again with the arms of former famous members of the College, but the matter has been managed in a haphazard way, and many distinguished sons of the House are unrepresented. In spite of some bad glass the collection is interesting. Perhaps however any further account of it here would be more technical than would be justified in a paper like this. Of other glass in the College, the windows in the chapel are typical of the art of 1870, and are only moderately satisfactory. The window at the south end of the library, executed in 1775, was made by Peckitt of York, after a design by Cipriani: it illustrates some curious points in the history of the art of stained glass, but the design is impossible, and the scheme of colour atrocious.
Sculpture, unless it is absolutely first rate, does not represent a man as well as portraiture. The number of pieces of statuary of the first class in Great Britain is small, and in the possession of such pieces the College is extraordinarily fortunate. The statue of Newton, with its proud inscription “Newton qui genus humanum ingenio superavit,” in the antechapel by Roubiliac—“the marble index of a mind for ever voyaging through strange seas of thought alone”—is of the highest merit. It was described by Chantrey as “the noblest of [117] ]English statues,” and I have never seen any modern piece of statuary anywhere which can be ranked superior to it: the man lives and almost moves. Thorwaldsen’s statue of Byron, rejected by the authorities of Westminster Abbey on account of his alleged atheistical opinions, which stands in the library, and that of Bacon in the antechapel may also be reckoned among examples of first-class statuary. Of these three pieces two are by foreigners. There are also in the antechapel statues of Barrow, Macaulay, Whewell, and Tennyson, and in the library a large number of busts. The statues of Edward III on the clock tower, of Henry VIII, James I, Anne of Denmark, and Prince Charles on the great gate, and of queen Elizabeth on the queen’s gate are interesting, though not to be reckoned as works of art.
Old Silver Plate has a peculiar beauty. We have some fine specimens though they are fewer and later than from our history we should expect. Most of the pieces are kept in the butteries, and can be seen by visitors. Twice a year anyone entering the hall will see the junior bursar there with all the plate spread before him checking it by his lists, a pretty spectacle which always suggests to me the picture of the king “in his counting house counting out his money,” and formerly in “May-week” typical pieces were set out on show in the hall.
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]We have a catalogue of the plate—a large and valuable collection—owned by King’s Hall in the fifteenth century, and we may reasonably suppose that this, as well as the plate belonging to Michael-House, came in due course to us; all this has gone with the possible, but doubtful, exception of a censer boat now in the library. We know also that some plate was given us in Tudor and early Stuart times: of this, only five pieces remained to us at the restoration. I take it however that until well into the eighteenth century people were accustomed to regard plate, other than pieces of historic interest, as a convenient way of keeping portable wealth in a form which could be easily turned into coin, and its dispersion in times of emergency when money was wanted is not surprising.
It was customary for noblemen and fellow-commoners to present plate to the House when they completed their academic career: their caution-money being commonly employed for or towards the purpose. After the restoration, thanks to this graceful practice, our possessions of this kind grew rapidly. Unfortunately a good many of our pieces were lost through two burglaries, one in 1795 and the other in 1798; for instance, no less than fifty-five drinking cups some of great beauty were then taken. During the eighteenth century, in colleges and throughout the country, large numbers of [119] ]“standing pieces” of plate were melted down, and the metal used to make spoons and forks; this accounts for the disappearance of some of our treasures of an earlier date. Until 1870 new pieces continued to be added in large numbers: in that year the College abolished the general admission of noblemen and fellow-commoners, holding that distinctions of rank were undesirable in academic life; and since then our collection has increased only by special gifts or by purchase.
Of our pre-commonwealth plate the oldest pieces are two silver-gilt flagons, dated 1607–08, given us in 1636 by John and Bernard Stuart, sons of the duke of Lennox, then about sixteen and fourteen years old. There is in the small combination room a charming print of Vandyke’s portrait of the brothers: both boys were killed during the Civil War, John at Edgehill and Bernard at Rowton Heath. Whistles are placed in the handles of these flagons, so they must have been originally intended for secular use, but they have been included, as far back as our records go, among the communion plate: perhaps the spouts were added when the vessels were placed in the chapel. Our next earliest piece is the handsome cup, dated 1615–16, given us by Nevile probably in 1615: it was originally silver-gilt. The fourth of these pieces is a bursarial rose-water basin and ewer dated 1635–36. We owe it to Ambrose [120] ]Aykerod who was bursar in that year: his arms are engraved on the cup, and the inscriptions on it refer to vows and pledges by him which are now inexplicable. The only other early piece which survived the Civil War was a cup given by John Clarkson between 1610 and 1620 and known from its inscription “Pauper Johannes Dictus Cognomine Clarkson Hunc Cyathum Dono Gratuito Dedit” as the “Pauper Joan Pot”: this was stolen in 1798. Clarkson had matriculated as a sizar in 1553, obtained a scholarship in due course, and graduated B.A. in 1560.
Apart from the four pieces mentioned above, the most striking objects in our collection are the rose-water basins and ewers, the Duport standing salt, the standing or loving cups, the tankards, and the punch-bowls.
We have several notable rose-water basins and ewers. The earliest of these is the set given by the earl of Kent in 1662 to commemorate the passing of the Act of Uniformity. The date is given by a quaint double chronogram: and the central inscription Νιψον ανομηματα μη μοναν οψιν reads alike forwards and backwards. Another beautiful set is that given by the duke of Buckingham in 1671, the circumference of the basin being over seven feet. The visitor should also notice a set of 1740 bequeathed by David Humphrey, and a set of 1748 [121] ]given by William John Bankes. Another set consists of a basin of 1716 given by John Bennet, with a graceful ewer probably made about 1675. This ewer must have been originally a “standing cup” since a whistle is placed in the handle, but a spout was added between 1789 and 1810 with the intention of turning it into a flagon: on it are engraved the Trinity and Westminster arms, and in an early catalogue it is called the Busby cup: its donor is unknown.