A gouty old dignitary, in
a white surplice, came hobbling along from one extremity of the court;
and by and by, from the opposite corner, appeared Dr. Pusey, also in a
white surplice, and with a lady by his side. We met him, and I stared
pretty fixedly at him, as I well might; for he looked on the ground, as
if conscious that he would be stared at. He is a man past middle life,
of sufficient breadth and massiveness, with a pale, intellectual, manly
face. He was talking with the lady, and smiled, but not jollily. Mr.
Parker, who knows him, says that he is a man of kind and gentle
affections. The lady was his niece.
Thence we went through High Street and Broad Street, and passing by
Baliol College,--a most satisfactory pile and range of old towered and
gabled edifices,--we came to the cross on the pavement, which is supposed
to mark the spot where the bishops were martyred. But Mr. Parker told us
the mortifying fact, that he had ascertained that this could not possibly
have been the genuine spot of martyrdom, which must have taken place at a
point within view, but considerably too far off to be moistened by any
tears that may be shed here. It is too bad. We concluded the rambles of
the day by visiting the gardens of St. John's College; and I desire, if
possible, to say even more in admiration of them than of those of New
College,--such beautiful lawns, with tall, ancient trees, and heavy
clouds of foliage, and sunny glimpses through archways of leafy branches,
where, to-day, we could see parties of girls, making cheerful contrast
with the sombre walls and solemn shade.
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