Oxford Classics: Teaching and Learning 1800–2000. Edited by CHRISTOPHER 
STRAY. London: Duckworth Publishing, 2007. Pp. x + 275. Cloth, $70.00. ISBN 
978–0–7156–3645–9.


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CJ Online Exclusive: 2008.12.02

“This is the first book to be devoted to a study of classics in Oxford” 
(p. ix). [[1]] Thus begins the Preface to a book devoted to a most 
interesting task, for few classicists on the planet would not like to know 
more about the incredible engine of things classical that has touched all 
our lives, at every stage of our career, from OCT texts and commentaries to 
the Oxford Classical Dictionary, and beyond.

There is much of merit in this first study, but as is the case with many 
first studies, more questions are raised than answered, and the general 
reader is left wishing for a more synoptic view and, decidedly, for more 
help in understanding Classics in Oxford in particular and England in 
general.

Those wishing for this broader view will come away from this volume 
unsatisfied. To a certain degree, this is inherent in the book’s 
structure—a series of 15 discrete articles arranged chronologically by 
subject matter. 200 years, divided into 15 chapters over 247 pages of text, 
is bound to leave some gaps. Moreover, the tone of the articles varies 
widely, with some reading like formal presentations and others more 
conversational. In tone and aim they range from those aimed at the 
specialist to others with the generalist in mind. But over all hangs the 
specter of jargon—those not privy to the English, and especially the 
Oxfordian, educational system, will find themselves longing for an 
acquaintance who went to Oxford—or at least a glossary of terms.

The first essay, for example, is by the editor and claims that its aim is 
“to look at what is distinctive about Oxford, and about Oxford 
classics,” especially as opposed to those at Cambridge (p. 2). [[2]] But 
the purpose is thwarted by the constant use of difficult phrases. Dos moi 
pou sto (p. 2), and “a similarly calcenteric Christ Church man,” (p. 7) 
imply that only those familiar with Archimedes or the Hellenistic scholar 
Didymus Calchenterus (“Bronze-Guts”), so named for his ability to 
“crank out” publications, need read further. “Insider language” 
abounds. One page contains “The Examination Statute of 1800,” “The 
Thirty Nine Articles,” “Literae Humaniores,” and the statement that 
“(Cambridge) was much less High Church and more latitudinarian than 
Oxford” (p. 3). This is followed by more: Classical Tripos, the Previous 
Examination, Responsions, Honour Moderations (p. 4); sixth form (p. 5); 
Mods without Greats (p. 8); Senior Classic at Cambridge (p. 9); Eighth 
Classic (p. 10). Occasionally a term is defined, and we find that 
Wranglers, Senior Optimes and Junior Optimes are “first, second and third 
class honours men” (p. 4). But the overall effect is one of writing for a 
very select audience—those who have drunk deeply not just of the Classics 
but of Oxford itself.

Nor is this confined to a single author. Throughout the remaining essays 
these terms abound and are joined by a host of others. The average 
reader—and not just the American one, but any not familiar with the 
structure of Oxford—will, upon finishing the essays, remain unclear about 
the nature of the distribution of power and influence between colleges and 
university, and, if he or she has lasted this long, will utter great thanks 
to Stephanie West, who helps the reader (p. 205) with a clarification of 
the duties of professors, tutors and lecturers. She similarly (p. 206) 
helps with definitions of many (but not all) of the terms used so freely 
before her essay.

It is true that such information can be found on-line, but, to say the 
least, one expects better, and at a certain point, I fear, long before 
Prof. West’s assistance appears, many a reader will have abandoned the 
task and put the book aside, missing out on some of the more interesting 
essays later in the collection. It is perhaps inevitable that the 
readership of these essays will be confined to those who know something 
about the Classics. But clouding them with jargon known to a select (in 
both senses of the word) readership was quite avoidable, and detracts from 
what could have been an enlightening overview of Classics at Oxford. The 
collection would have been enhanced immensely by an introductory essay on 
the Oxfordian system and a tighter editorial hand.

This is not to say that the essays lack merit. Some are gems unto 
themselves, others have nuggets worth mining, while some are for the 
dedicated specialist only. They are assembled chronologically by subject 
matter, and most focus on an individual scholar or teacher. The earlier 
period is covered by Heather Ellis on Newman and Arnold [[3]], Stefano 
Evangelista on Walter Pater [[4]], Christopher Collard on Arthur Sidgwick 
of Greek prose composition fame [[5]], and Anne Rogerson on Conington’s 
commentary on the Aeneid. [[6]] Stephen Harrison focuses on Henry 
Nettleship as an educational innovator, while August A. Imholtz, Jr. 
provides delightful insight into the creation of the monumental “Liddell 
and Scott,” placing it in its historical context and even including a 
plate of an annotated galley sheet for a graphic reminder of the immense 
work involved. [[7]] Richard Hingley writes intriguingly of the Roman 
scholar Francis John Haverfield (d. 1919) and the connections he saw 
between the Roman Empire and Edwardian imperialism. [[8]]

Paul Millett’s study of Alfred Zimmern and The Greek Commonwealth (pp. 
168–202) takes us away from higher profile scholars and shows us the life 
of a classically trained Oxford man who wrote an engaging portrait of 
ancient Greece but also used this knowledge to inform his work for the 
League of Nations. [[9]] Stephanie West’s first-hand, well written 
account of Eduard Fraenkel’s Oxford days is engaging, and it is 
interesting to compare her recollections with those of Robin Nisbet and 
Donald Russell, whose essays cover 1936–1988. [[10]]

Some essays offer insight into areas too long ignored. Isobel Hurst (pp. 
14–27) does an excellent job of painting a picture of the first women 
who, justifiably chafing at their brothers’ ease of access to Oxfordian 
Classics and, one presumed, subsequent success, struggled their way into 
this world and proved that women too could excel there. Here we meet 
Dorothy Sayers, of course, but also the pioneering Girton School and one 
Agnata Frances Ramsay, whose success even spawned a cartoon in Punch. We 
also hear of the assistance afforded the movement by none other than Henry 
Nettleship and Arthur Sidgwick, both of whom have their own studies later 
in the collection. Likewise, the aforementioned essay on Walter Pater 
touches on the prejudices (and laws) that prevailed against homosexuals in 
19th century England, just as Millett touches on anti-Semitism in the case 
of Zimmern. [[11]]

Oxbridge had many “others.” Edmund Richardson offers a fascinating 
study that begins with Jude Fawley from Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure. 
[[12]] Fawley, a stonemason who longed to enter the halls of academia, met 
only with rejection. Through this prism, Richardson shows clearly that, in 
19th-century England, the study of the Classics was sought not as a refuge 
from the modern world but as “a way to participate all the more 
aggressively in it” (p. 29). Case studies treat several individuals who 
went on to positions of power in Victorian government and the Church, as 
well as some remarkable failures. No talk of Oxford would be complete 
without at least a nod to the OUP, and Graham Whitaker charms with a 
tantalizing study of OCT texts that were never printed. [[13]]

In the final essay in the collection, James Morwood attempts to bring the 
reader up to date on the current, beleaguered state of Classics in England 
and of Oxford’s attempt to deal with it through curricular reform and an 
emphasis on modernizing its language teaching. [[14]] The piece is notable 
for its mention (and praise) of the new interaction between the schools and 
the universities.

The notes for almost all the essays are copious and often discursive, 
containing a wealth of information to lead a curious reader forward. The 
text is very clean, although the index is mostly a list of personal names. 
There are no entries, for example for “Women,” “Homosexuality” or 
“Publication,” despite their prominence in several essays. 
Illustrations are infrequent but aptly chosen.

What, then, is the final evaluation of this volume? Whitaker inadvertently 
sums up a reviewer’s problem nicely as he concludes his own essay: “It 
is difficult to summarise, or to draw conclusions from, a general survey 
such as this” (p. 163). There is much of value in this book and much that 
delights. In the end, and despite its problems, it is more than what James 
Morwood cleverly calls “Oxford navel-gazing” (p. 246).

It is fascinating to visualize Fraenkel, or “Uncle Ed” as his students 
called him—undoubtedly behind his back—leading a class in song (pp. 
208–9). And it is stunning to read of the linguistic talents of those 
gone by. When F.C. Geary missed a Fraenkel seminar, he penned an “apology 
in resonant Aeschylean iambics, such as few if any of us could compose 
now” (p. 220). And many a modern Classicist struggling to attract majors 
would welcome Gilbert Murray’s promotion in 1889 of the value of studying 
the Classics in translation (p. 21). Those who clash with administrators 
will recognize Jowett’s motto: “Never retreat. Never explain. Get it 
done and let them howl” (p. 40). Those seeking tenure will be intrigued 
by Russell’s insistence that there were days when people knew that “to 
be outstanding as a scholar does not entail having a conspicuous place in 
L’Année Philologique” (p. 230), and by Nisbet’s clarion call for 
authorities to “Assess scholarship by its art, not by the 
land-surveyor’s tape-measure” (p. 225). One such “non-publisher” 
was F. C. Geary, mentioned above, who, despite having no monographs, 
published a slim volume of poems on contemporary matters in the more 
difficult Horatian meters, establishing that “Mussolini” is a double 
trochee (p. 220)! Other scholars will shake their heads at hearing that 
Francis John Haverfield had “few major publications” just after 
learning that the man died at age 59 and had published two books and well 
over four hundred papers on a variety of topics ranging from Roman Britain 
to Albrecht Dürer (p. 136).

Such nuggets and much insight are to be found in the book, but getting at 
it is harder work than it needs to be. Many readers will simply dip into 
the work for information on their particular areas of interest, or will 
stop reading early, missing the essays toward the end. Others may avoid the 
book, feeling it does not warrant the price. Much of this could have been 
avoided with a tighter editorial eye that kept potential readers in mind 
while trying to knit the essays into a cohesive unit through adjustments to 
tone and style and, perhaps, short introductory essays setting each piece 
into a greater whole.

There is much to learn from this first book on Oxford Classics. But perhaps 
the biggest lesson is how better to approach any book that attempts to sum 
up the history of a discipline. Such books should lay out a broad, 
accessible picture for readers who are interested but lack the background 
information of insiders. When an overview is eventually written of the 
Classics in America or Germany, one hopes that such amenities are appended 
and that we can all profit more easily as a result.

KENNETH F. KITCHELL, JR.
University of Massachusetts Amherst

[[1]] I follow the American convention of capitalizing “Classics” 
throughout except in direct quotes. I have likewise Americanized 
capitalization conventions in titles.

[[2]] Christopher Stray, “Non-identical Twins: Classics at 
Nineteenth-century Oxford and Cambridge,” pp. 1–13.

[[3]] Heather Ellis, “Newman and Arnold: Classics, Christianity and 
Manliness in Tractarian Oxford,” pp. 46–63.

[[4]] Stefano Evangelista, “Walter Pater’s Teaching in Oxford: Classics 
and Aestheticism,” pp. 64–77.

[[5]] Christopher Collard, “Schoolmaster, Don, Educator: Arthur Sidgwick 
Moves to Corpus in 1879,” pp. 78–93.

[[6]] Anne Rogerson, “Conington’s ‘Roman Homer’,” pp. 94–106.

[[7]] Stephen Harrison, “Henry Nettleship and the Beginning of Modern 
Latin Studies at Oxford,” pp. 107–16; August A. Imholtz, Jr., 
“‘Liddell and Scott’: Precursors, Nineteenth-century Editions, and 
the American Contributions,” pp. 117–34.

[[8]] Richard Hingley, “Francis John Haverfield (1860–1919): Oxford, 
Roman Archaeology and Edwardian Imperialism,” pp. 135–53.

[[9]] Paul Millett’s “Alfred Zimmern’s The Greek Commonwealth 
Revisited,” pp. 168–202.

[[10]] Stephanie West’s “Eduard Fraenkel Recalled,” pp. 203–16; 
Robin Nisbet and Donald Russell, “The Study of Classical Literature at 
Oxford, 1936–1988,” pp. 217–38. Nisbet’s essay is based on a 1988 
speech, updated and revised in 1991 and reprinted here unchanged; 
Russell’s is a version of a paper given in 1996.

[[11]] Evangelista (n. 4, above), pp. 67–8; Millet (n. 9, above), pp. 
184–5.

[[12]] Edmund Richardson, “Jude the Obscure: Oxford’s Classical 
Outcasts,” pp. 28–45.

[[13]] Graham Whitaker, “What you Didn’t Read: The Unpublished Oxford 
Classical Texts,” pp. 154–67.

[[14]] James Morwood, “Small Latin and Less Greek: Oxford Adjusts to 
Changing Circumstances,” pp. 239–49.


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