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| Oxford University All Souls College |
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| An early 20th Century postcard of All Souls. |
All Souls College was founded by Henry VI and Henry Chichele, Archbishop of Canterbury, in
1438. There were to be 40 Fellows, 16 of whom should study civil or canon law, the
remaining 24 to study arts, philosophy and theology. All were to take Holy orders. The College
today is an academic research institution with no undergraduates.
All Souls is on the High Street adjoining Radcliffe Square with Hertford to the north and
Queen's to the east.
The majority of Fellows are elected from Oxford's most brilliant undergraduates, with only one
or two (and sometimes none) gaining entry each year. Some distinguished Fellows are chosen
from outside the University.
The full name of All Souls is "The Warden and College of the Souls of all Faithful People
deceased in the University of Oxford".
1438. There were to be 40 Fellows, 16 of whom should study civil or canon law, the
remaining 24 to study arts, philosophy and theology. All were to take Holy orders. The College
today is an academic research institution with no undergraduates.
All Souls is on the High Street adjoining Radcliffe Square with Hertford to the north and
Queen's to the east.
The majority of Fellows are elected from Oxford's most brilliant undergraduates, with only one
or two (and sometimes none) gaining entry each year. Some distinguished Fellows are chosen
from outside the University.
The full name of All Souls is "The Warden and College of the Souls of all Faithful People
deceased in the University of Oxford".
In May 1961, an article appeared in the American magazine "Time" - we have taken the liberty of reproducing it here in case it becomes
unavailable on the magazine's website. Hope they don't mind ! (This link leads to the article if you would like to read the original).
The Soul of All Souls.
The world's most worldly ivory tower is tiny All Souls College, the select nook at Oxford University that since 1438 has operated on the
theory that men of learning should also be men of influence. All Souls consists of 52 Fellows, ranging from brilliant graduate students who
conduct research of "unfathomable depth" for up to 14 years, to the most active leaders of British culture and politics.
All Souls' proudest pursuit is dinner-table conversation; in few other stylized societies, even the cannibalistic, do men so assiduously eat
their way to power. On weekends, the talk lures Fellows and former Fellows ("quondams") from all over England for "an intellectual Turkish
bath," and sometimes All Souls pays a penalty. In the 1930s, when some of its Fellows were notorious architects of appeasement, "that
disastrous dinner table" (as Lord Boothby put it) tarred All Souls with the ignominious brush of Munich. Long since recovered from that
cabalistic image. All Souls today is a unique bridge between thought and action.
Charmed Circle. Founded 523 years ago this week by the worldly divine, Henry Chichele, Archbishop of Canterbury, All Souls was set up for
"poor and indigent clerks" to pray in perpetuity for the souls of noblemen "drenched with the bowl of bitter death" during England's
ruinous wars against France. Not much perpetual praying is done any more; rather the college is in purpose much like the Institute for
Advanced Study in Princeton, which in fact was modeled on All Souls. The school was not always respected; the 18th century All Souls
degenerated into "a charmed circle of county families," where fellowships were sold for cash and the college porter once aptly remarked
that "they've no call to read books—they're all gentlemen."
All Souls' roster of former Fellows ranges from Architect Christopher Wren and Lawyer William Blackstone of Commentaries fame, to
Britain's turn-of-the-century Prime Minister Lord Salisbury, and three viceroys of India (Curzon, Chelmsford, Halifax). Typically, the Fellows
lean heavily to law and history. Only recently did All Souls elect its first modern scientist. Geneticist (specialty: butterflies) Edmund B. Ford,
but the belated-ness of this honor fails to disturb Warden John H. A. Sparrow, a former barrister. "Is it more important to be like everyone
else," he asks, "or to be like yourself?"
Swallow the Pits. On some occasions. All Souls elects distinguished Fellows from outside, such as T. E. Lawrence, who wrote most of his
Seven Pillars of Wisdom under All Souls' auspices. But most Fellows are "straight gate" entrants, culled from Oxford's most brilliant new
graduates. Each year only one or two pass muster, and in some years, none do. Each candidate submits two papers on his specialty, two
more on such matters as politics and literature, a translation paper, and another on a one-word topic such as faith or loyalty.
Then ensues the viva voce, an oral third degree or "form of mental vivisection" before the assembled Fellows, consisting of tricky questions
put by wily Fellows trying to push their own candidates. Nor are the social graces neglected. In the 18th century, when manners rivaled
kinship as a qualification, legend has it that candidates were given a cherry tart to eat, their fate depending on how delicately they
disposed of the pits at table. One Fellow was elected solely for his ability to swallow pits without interrupting his chatter, and even today
candidates may be given a banana to see how decorously they skin it.
Keep Talking. All Souls, cracks one scholar, "is where the editor of the Times and his associates meet to decide just how little they will let
their readers know." It is the sanctum sanctorum "where the best brains of Oxford are preserved—in alcohol." The food and chatter go on—
and on. When some 40 men of distinction sat down to dinner last week, the talk ranged from ancient Rome to resurgent Germany, from
one politician's contempt for W. H. Auden to a scientist's fondness for Dean Rusk, from spies, space and poetry to psychoanalysis and
"charlatan" sociologists. Turtle soup and sherry yielded to turbot meuniere and a Graves; filet mignon and a Chambertin made way for
cheese, fruit and serious wine drinking, followed by brandy, cigars and Scotch until 2 a.m.
At one point, peering down the table, a top Tory and a greying don saw the port stalled before two earnestly conversing young Fellows. In a
flash, don and politician pelted the offenders with hard toffees until, smarting and shamefaced, they restored the port and the talk to their
measured rounds. Thus has it ever been at All Souls, where, as one Fellow sums up. "It's everyone else who's out of step, not us."
unavailable on the magazine's website. Hope they don't mind ! (This link leads to the article if you would like to read the original).
The Soul of All Souls.
The world's most worldly ivory tower is tiny All Souls College, the select nook at Oxford University that since 1438 has operated on the
theory that men of learning should also be men of influence. All Souls consists of 52 Fellows, ranging from brilliant graduate students who
conduct research of "unfathomable depth" for up to 14 years, to the most active leaders of British culture and politics.
All Souls' proudest pursuit is dinner-table conversation; in few other stylized societies, even the cannibalistic, do men so assiduously eat
their way to power. On weekends, the talk lures Fellows and former Fellows ("quondams") from all over England for "an intellectual Turkish
bath," and sometimes All Souls pays a penalty. In the 1930s, when some of its Fellows were notorious architects of appeasement, "that
disastrous dinner table" (as Lord Boothby put it) tarred All Souls with the ignominious brush of Munich. Long since recovered from that
cabalistic image. All Souls today is a unique bridge between thought and action.
Charmed Circle. Founded 523 years ago this week by the worldly divine, Henry Chichele, Archbishop of Canterbury, All Souls was set up for
"poor and indigent clerks" to pray in perpetuity for the souls of noblemen "drenched with the bowl of bitter death" during England's
ruinous wars against France. Not much perpetual praying is done any more; rather the college is in purpose much like the Institute for
Advanced Study in Princeton, which in fact was modeled on All Souls. The school was not always respected; the 18th century All Souls
degenerated into "a charmed circle of county families," where fellowships were sold for cash and the college porter once aptly remarked
that "they've no call to read books—they're all gentlemen."
All Souls' roster of former Fellows ranges from Architect Christopher Wren and Lawyer William Blackstone of Commentaries fame, to
Britain's turn-of-the-century Prime Minister Lord Salisbury, and three viceroys of India (Curzon, Chelmsford, Halifax). Typically, the Fellows
lean heavily to law and history. Only recently did All Souls elect its first modern scientist. Geneticist (specialty: butterflies) Edmund B. Ford,
but the belated-ness of this honor fails to disturb Warden John H. A. Sparrow, a former barrister. "Is it more important to be like everyone
else," he asks, "or to be like yourself?"
Swallow the Pits. On some occasions. All Souls elects distinguished Fellows from outside, such as T. E. Lawrence, who wrote most of his
Seven Pillars of Wisdom under All Souls' auspices. But most Fellows are "straight gate" entrants, culled from Oxford's most brilliant new
graduates. Each year only one or two pass muster, and in some years, none do. Each candidate submits two papers on his specialty, two
more on such matters as politics and literature, a translation paper, and another on a one-word topic such as faith or loyalty.
Then ensues the viva voce, an oral third degree or "form of mental vivisection" before the assembled Fellows, consisting of tricky questions
put by wily Fellows trying to push their own candidates. Nor are the social graces neglected. In the 18th century, when manners rivaled
kinship as a qualification, legend has it that candidates were given a cherry tart to eat, their fate depending on how delicately they
disposed of the pits at table. One Fellow was elected solely for his ability to swallow pits without interrupting his chatter, and even today
candidates may be given a banana to see how decorously they skin it.
Keep Talking. All Souls, cracks one scholar, "is where the editor of the Times and his associates meet to decide just how little they will let
their readers know." It is the sanctum sanctorum "where the best brains of Oxford are preserved—in alcohol." The food and chatter go on—
and on. When some 40 men of distinction sat down to dinner last week, the talk ranged from ancient Rome to resurgent Germany, from
one politician's contempt for W. H. Auden to a scientist's fondness for Dean Rusk, from spies, space and poetry to psychoanalysis and
"charlatan" sociologists. Turtle soup and sherry yielded to turbot meuniere and a Graves; filet mignon and a Chambertin made way for
cheese, fruit and serious wine drinking, followed by brandy, cigars and Scotch until 2 a.m.
At one point, peering down the table, a top Tory and a greying don saw the port stalled before two earnestly conversing young Fellows. In a
flash, don and politician pelted the offenders with hard toffees until, smarting and shamefaced, they restored the port and the talk to their
measured rounds. Thus has it ever been at All Souls, where, as one Fellow sums up. "It's everyone else who's out of step, not us."
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