Throughout the nineteenth century, the University of Cambridge did a brilliant job. But its habits were adapted to very special circumstances.
The formal teaching at Cambridge was competently done, by interesting men of first-rate ability. But courses assigned to each undergraduate might cover a narrow range. For example, during my whole undergraduate period at Trinity, all my lectures were on mathematics, pure and applied. I never went inside another lecture room. But the lectures were only one side of the education. The missing portions were supplied by incessant conversation, with our friends, undergraduates, or members of the staff. This started with dinner at about six or seven, and went on till about ten o’clock in the evening, stopping sometimes earlier and sometimes later. In my own case, there would then follow two or three hours’ work at mathematics.
Groups of friends were not created by identity of subjects for study. We all came from the same sort of school, with the same sort of previous training. We discussed everything — politics, religion, philosophy, literature — with a bias toward literature. This experience led to a large amount of miscellaneous reading. For example, by the time that I gained my fellowship in 1885 I nearly knew by heart parts of Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. Now I have forgotten it, because I was early disenchanted. I have never been able to read Hegel: I initiated my attempt by studying some remarks of his on mathematics which struck me as complete nonsense. It was foolish of me, but | am not writing to explain my good sense.
Looking backwards across more than half a century, the conversations have the appearance of a daily Platonic dialogue. Henry Head, D’Arcy Thompson, Jim Stephen, the Llewellen Davies brothers, Lowes Dickinson, Nat Wedd, Sorley, and many others — some of them subsequently famous, and others, equally able, attracting no subsequent public attention. That was the way by which Cambridge educated her sons. It was a replica of the Platonic method. The “Apostles” who met on Saturdays in each others’ rooms, from 10 p.m. to any time next morning, were the concentration of this experience. The active members wete eight or ten undergraduates or young B.A.’s, but older members who had “taken wings” often attended. There we discussed with Maitland, the historian, Verrall, Henry Jackson, Sidgwick, and casual judges, or scientists, or members of Parliament who had come up to Cambridge for the weekend. It was a wonderful influence. The club was started in the late 1820’s by Tennyson and his friends. It is still flourishing.
My Cambridge education with its emphasis on mathematics and on free discussion among friends would have gained Plato’s approval. As times changed, Cambridge University has reformed its methods. Its success in the nineteenth century was a happy accident dependent on social circumstances which have passed away — fortunately. The Platonic education was very limited in its application to life.
In the autumn of 1885, the fellowship at Trinity was acquired, and with
