In the wittiest of all his books, and one of the wisest, _Friendship's
Garland_,[10] he thus summarized the too-usual result of our "grand,
old, fortifying, classical curriculum." To his Prussian friend enquiring
what benefit Lord Lumpington and the Rev. Esau Hittall have derived from
that curriculum, that "course of mental gymnastics," the imaginary
Arnold replied: "Well, during their three years at Oxford, they were so
much occupied with Bullingdon and hunting that there was no great
opportunity to judge. But for my own part, I have always thought that
their both getting their degrees at last with flying colours, after
three weeks of a famous coach for fast men, four nights without going to
bed, and an incredible consumption of wet towels, strong cigars, and
brandy-and-water, was one of the most astonishing feats of mental
gymnastics I ever heard of!"

It must be admitted that his effect on the Universities was not very
tangible, not very positive. It was not the kind of effect which can be
expressed in figures or reported in Blue Books. One cannot stand in the
High Street of Oxford, or on King's Parade at Cambridge, and point to an
Institute, or a college, or a school of learning, and say: "Matthew
Arnold made that what it is."

His effect was of a different kind. It was written on the fleshly tables
of the heart. To Oxford men he seemed like an elder brother, brilliant,
playful, lovable, yet profoundly wise; teaching us what to think, to
admire, to avoid. His influence fell upon a thirsty and receptive soil.
We drank it with delight; and it co-operated with all the best
traditions of the place in making us lifelong lovers of romance, and
truth, and beauty. One of the keenest minds produced by Oxford between
1870 and 1880 thus summarized his effect on us: "I think he was almost
the only man who did not disappoint one."