Rhodes Scholars, Oxford, and the Creation of an American Elite. Thomas J. Schaeper
I only had a hat like a Rhodes Scholar, I'd be happy for life.”2
One member of the first class, William Crittenden, was a genuine California frontiersman. He carried a pistol in his trousers. One morning soon after arrival at Trinity College he became irritated when his scout was tardy in running an errand. Crittenden thereupon fired a shot out his bedroom window. That certainly roused staid, old Oxford from its slumbers. The college president immediately summoned Crittenden and requested that the gun be deposited with the college for safekeeping.3 Crittenden's classmate Henry Hinds, from North Dakota, also brought a revolver with him. Becoming bored at a lawn party for freshers, he decided to liven up the affair by shooting at the heels of one unfortunate British student, whom he chased around the gardens.4 Here too the college appears to have been lenient. Neither Crittenden nor Hinds was “sent down.” The former eventually got a Second in law and the latter a First in geology.
Another thing that set the Americans apart was their manners. They were louder and more outgoing than the typical British student. Another member of the class of 1904, Ralph Blodgett of Missouri, discovered this in his first evening at Wadham College. He entered the hall for dinner, marched up to a group of older students and boldly introduced himself. “My name's Blodgett,” he declared, to which they responded with stony silence and dropped jaws.5
Rhodes Scholars had to discover what the British already understood. New students were mere “freshers.” Only after they passed their preliminary examinations, usually at the end of the first year, did they acquire senior status. Whether they were natives or foreigners, freshers were not expected to speak to senior students unless the latter initiated the engagements.6
Rhodes Scholars also had to learn that in Oxford they were “commoners,” not “scholars.” The term “scholar” was reserved for those students who had won scholarships offered by the colleges themselves. These students were entitled to wear to dinner and lectures gowns that were more elaborate than those of their classmates. Through the succeeding years numerous Americans would win some of these awards in competitions held while they were in Oxford. Only these Rhodes Scholars were “scholars” in British eyes.
Britain was not so much unfriendly as indifferent. Young men who had been star athletes, top students, and home-town heroes in the States arrived in Oxford to find that the Red Sea did not part for them. They were expected to accommodate themselves to Oxford, not vice versa. A university that was accustomed to educating future prime ministers, famous authors, and members of the House of Lords was not going to become excited by the arrival of a few dozen Rhodes Scholars from the United States, Germany, and the various regions of the Empire.
In a few cases British students did go out of their way to make life uneasy for the Americans. If it was the Americans who were singled out, that was partly because there were more of them than all the other Rhodes Scholars combined. It was also because of Britain's uneasy fascination with the strapping giant of a nation that was just then emerging as a world power and possible rival. Finally, it was also because the Americans, in their personalities and their educational backgrounds, were less like the British than were most of the other Rhodes Scholars.
One American from these early years who was singled out for special treatment was the product of a big state university in the South. He was a member of Phi Beta Kappa, a football star, and a respectable baritone. As he departed for Oxford his home-town newspaper lauded him as “the Perfect Man.” The Associated Press picked up this article, and it was published in newspapers in New York and elsewhere. Correspondents for the major London dailies were amused by it, and they cabled copies to their head offices. When the ship carrying Rhodes Scholars arrived in England, this young man was swarmed by reporters and photographers. Whereas freshers normally were ignored, the “perfect man” was invited to party after party by senior British students. It took a while for the American to figure out why he was so popular. The organizers of the festivities were charging guests a shilling for the privilege of seeing “the perfect man.”7
The great majority of Rhodes Scholars, however, had a less remarkable transition to Oxford life. Upon the advice of their scouts and others, they quickly relegated their fraternity pins, Stetsons, turtleneck sweaters, and brightly colored pants and shirts to storage trunks. Using the first installment of their stipends, they rushed to the gentlemen's shops on the High to purchase gray flannel pants (“bags”) and tweed jackets.
One newcomer had nearly the reverse experience of Crittenden and Hinds. Just as Hugh Moran of California was moving into his rooms at Wadham in October 1905, he was greeted at the door by a fellow of the college. The gentleman had heard that Moran was from the western states. The visitor inquired, “And I say, do tell me, did you ever know Billy the Kid?” The don was somewhat disappointed to learn that Moran did not know the famous outlaw. However, at least the American was able to say that he had been reared in cattle country.
The don introduced himself as R. B. Townshend and astonished the American by announcing, “Some years ago I had a rahnch-a horse rahnch, in Coloraydo. Glorious country that!” Townshend then related his personal background. He had always considered himself an outdoorsman, and after graduating from Cambridge he struck out for Colorado. He took up horse ranching: “not thoroughbreds, you know, but mustangs and cow ponies, and all that. Those were the days…. Cattle coming in from Texas, and plenty of holdups and cattle rustling.”8
Upon the death of his father, the disconsolate Townshend had to return to England. There he married a lady “of some substance and excellent family.” The new Mrs. Townshend refused to go to America, and so they settled in Oxford. Townshend took up the life of an Oxford don, tutored in the classics, and wrote scholarly books. On the side he published children's adventure stories about the Wild West.
Townshend invited Moran to his home for the following Sunday afternoon. The don lived just up the Banbury Road, one of the major avenues passing through the city. To his astonishment, Moran was told to expect some horseback riding and “a bit of roping.” When he arrived at the “rancho,” Moran was taken to the back garden, for some roping and “a bit of a shoot.” In the “corral” Moran discovered that the horse was made of wood and the steer that would be roped was a log with some branches serving as horns. Moran then proceeded to have a try at roping, managing to bring the “steer” to the ground on his third try. Townshend then introduced the visitor to a motley group of neighborhood boys, who formed a sort of boys' scout troop. Producing a pair of .22 caliber rifles, Townshend guided his scouts through a session of target practice.
Moran's fast friendship with this unusual rancher/don was exceptional. Most American Rhodes Scholars experienced something between the warmth of Moran's welcome and the rude treatment of “the perfect man.”
Most also adjusted to the fact that British aloofness resulted more from reserve and timidity than from any sort of anti-American animus. Reminiscing decades later, one American admitted that his first two terms were torture. He got along well once he learned to tame his American “enthusiasm” and accept British indifference to his superior achievements in his pre-Oxford existence.9 Also the Americans had to break their habit of yelling to each other or to British students while out on the streets. One of the early scholars later noted that the best advice he had ever received on how to adjust to British customs and sensibilities was always to keep his fork in his left hand and his tongue in his cheek.10 Some Americans never made the adjustment. Of the class of 1904, one young man who could not adjust to Oxford committed suicide-a second died of natural causes. Another was so overworked in his studies that he had a nervous breakdown that turned out to be permanent. Each succeeding year there was at least one American who resigned the scholarship and returned home early. Every year or so there was also someone who got married and thus had to relinquish the scholarship.11
Other Americans went to the opposite extreme. They donned plus-fours, carried canes, and affected British accents. What were natural habits for the British became artificial mannerisms for their American emulators. One of the most outlandish of these specimens was Edwin Hubble (1910). Soon after he moved into Queen's, he adopted a British accent that he would keep the remainder of his life. He punctuated every sentence with anglicisms like “jolly,” “ripping,” “splendid