Those three names lay my intellect prostrate.  The rest of the argument I understand quite well.  The social exclusiveness of aristocrats at Oxford and Cambridge gives way before the free spirit of competition amongst all classes.  That is to say, there is at Oxford so hot and keen a struggle, consisting of coal-heavers, London clerks, gypsies, navvies, drapers’ assistants, grocers’ assistants—­in short, all the classes that make up the bulk of England—­there is such a fierce competition at Oxford among all these people that in its presence aristocratic exclusiveness gives way.  That is all quite clear.  I am not quite sure about the facts, but I quite understand the argument.  But then, having been called upon to contemplate this bracing picture of a boisterous turmoil of all the classes of England, I am suddenly asked to accept as example of it, Lord Milner, Lord Curzon, and the present Chancellor of the Exchequer.  What part do these gentlemen play in the mental process?  Is Lord Curzon one of the rugged and ragged poor men whose angularities have been rubbed away?  Or is he one of those whom Oxford immediately deprived of all kind of social exclusiveness?  His Oxford reputation does not seem to bear out either account of him.  To regard Lord Milner as a typical product of Oxford would surely be unfair.  It would be to deprive the educational tradition of Germany of one of its most typical products.  English aristocrats have their faults, but they are not at all like Lord Milner.  What Mr. Asquith was meant to prove, whether he was a rich man who lost his exclusiveness, or a poor man who lost his angles, I am utterly unable to conceive.

There is, however, one mild but very evident truth that might perhaps be mentioned.  And it is this:  that none of those three excellent persons is, or ever has been, a poor man in the sense that that word is understood by the overwhelming majority of the English nation.  There are no poor men at Oxford in the sense that the majority of men in the street are poor.  The very fact that the writer in the Outlook can talk about such people as poor shows that he does not understand what the modern problem is.  His kind of poor man rather reminds me of the Earl in the ballad by that great English satirist, Sir W.S.  Gilbert, whose angles (very acute angles) had, I fear, never been rubbed down by an old English University.  The reader will remember that when the Periwinkle-girl was adored by two Dukes, the poet added—­

  “A third adorer had the girl,
    A man of lowly station;
   A miserable grovelling Earl
    Besought her approbation.”

Perhaps, indeed, some allusion to our University system, and to the universal clash in it of all the classes of the community, may be found in the verse a little farther on, which says—­

  “He’d had, it happily befell,
    A decent education;
  His views would have befitted well
    A far superior station.”