THOSE who on that grey February day, with its pitiless east wind,
straggled sadly away from the shadow of the great church where they had
laid all that was mortal of their friend, must have found it hard to
believe that the familiar figure would never again be seen pacing down
that very walk. Day by day it used to pass along the huge white front of
the Fellows' buildings, with steps short but never hurried, the broad
shoulders swaying almost imperceptibly, the great head set back, and the
kindly humorous eye glancing over the great buttresses that fronted him,
as he clasped the well-worn note-book to his side. And the mourners felt
the blank still more, because it was just on such occasions as that
which they had been attending, that he knew how to render sympathy and
comfort as no one else alive could do. They could some of them remember
how in such moments of unutterable regret, he would come close to them
with no easy words of healing, for a grief that words could not touch,
but with love and sadness and mute inquiry in his eyes, would in tender
demonstration take and retain a hand--and nothing more--only saying,
perhaps, "I understand," and so pass on, knowing that by showing human
fellowship, by suffering with you--for he made no pretence not to
suffer--he had done far more than if he had pointed you to a help of
which you knew already, and to a strength to which you could not yet
aspire.
And thus it was that the grey-headed contemporaries of his undergraduate
days wept at that vault with men young enough to have been his sons, all
feeling that the earth was poorer--not only for all the learning that
had descended almost unrecorded into the grave, not because of the works
unfinished that no one else could dare to do, but because they had lost
so much love. And not love of an ordinary kind: Henry Bradshaw loved
both well and wisely--of the words and events of intercourse with him
you never wished a single thing done or said otherwise. He was one of
those on whom had fallen the true priestly nature. It came so naturally
to him to bear others' burdens that it at last became natural for others
to lay them on him; he knew that repentant recital of failures to one
whom we revere is in itself a potent absolution--and he had the true
priest's tact: he did not want to set right, to give advice, but to hear
what his friend had to say: how it was said was nearly as important to
him as what was said; the more detailed was the difficulty or the
struggle or the misadventure, the better he was pleased. "Go on," he
would say, if the inquirer feared he wearied him, "tell me every thing
you can: it is so _interesting_." In that word lay the secret of his
influence over the young men who talked so naturally to him of all their
doings--the young men that many complain it is so hard to influence. The
fact is, they do not want merely sympathy--_that_ they can get, and more
than they want, in their home circle--where it is apt to be (they think)
unintelligent sympathy--which floods but does not fill. No! what they
want is to feel that their trials are _interesting_. It is the season of
egoism--they are supremely interested in themselves, self-conscious. Any
one who finds them interesting too will influence them.
No one is ever widely loved who has not mannerisms--those little ways
and methods that stir such smiling affection, that are so eagerly
consulted during life, and that wring the heart with pathos, and brim
the eyes to recall, when all is over. Who that knew them well will ever
forget those broad high rooms? They were on the first-floor, by the
Hall, looking into the College Court in front with all its trim
stillness, broken only by the drip of the falling fountain. The windows
that looked that way were always bright with flowers, geranium and
lobelia as I remember them. The room behind looked across a little
grassy court, on the huddled high-roofed buildings of St. Catharine's,
with their Flemish outline, on the left, and the huge glossy walnut in
the inner court; straight in front it commanded Queen's Lane from end to
end, and on the right there rose the battlemented brick towers and the
quaint oaken _fleche_ seen over apple trees and orchard walls--and the
whole view rounded off by the high garden-elms across the river.
In the window-boxes in that room--for many years his favourite
sitting-room--grew stubbly smoke-dried evergreens, cypress and lignum
vitae. On the left as you entered stood a huge serviceable deal press
with innumerable drawers, on one side of which were pinned notices and
invitations; to the left of the room, books, the larger at the top in a
book-case, passing over the door and embedding it--a family picture or
two, and some dusky oil paintings. In one corner an untenanted frame,
with the glass in it, showing the wall-paper through, which he would
neither take down nor get refilled. A large telescope on a stand by one
of the windows--and the broad table with its rough red cloth strewn with
books and papers, in orderly confusion, at which his visitor would find
him sitting, with his back to the fire, writing in that broad blunt
readable hand, or handling affectionately some yellow manuscript or
brown clasped quarto. "How nice of you," he would say as you entered
and stepped on to the square bordered carpet laid on the bare boarded
floor. "I suppose you mean that I ought to get it stained," he would add
with a smile, interpreting a hardly momentary glance that you gave as
you crossed the threshold.
In the outer room, rarely used except in the summer, were many books and
a few pictures--an original sketch by Thackeray, a bold pen-and-ink
drawing of the view from the back window of the rooms--six postcards
illustrated and sent him by some artistic friend on a tour, a grand
piano, on which I never heard him or any one but Dr. Stanford presume to
play. In this room were held the delightful Sunday evening assemblies to
which friends used to drop in uninvited for tea and talk, while he would
sit caressing the hand of some more favoured intimate, or dropping those
wonderfully humorous sentences, sometimes caustic, had it not been for
the glance with which they were accompanied, shooting through with
little shafts of criticism any affectation or prejudice, any little
idiosyncrasy and personal peculiarity that displayed itself in those
round him, and laughing every now and then with that delightful intimate
laugh, that irradiated his face. "Oh I forgot," he would say (after
mentioning the name of some other undergraduate) to the young friend
sitting by him, reputed to be exclusive in his social estimates--"not
b.s." (best set), or, by a little gesture with his finger he would
indicate the "nasus aduncus"--or on the entrance of another he would
playfully hide a little gold charm which he wore on his watch chain,
because the newcomer was supposed to have an aversion to it--and if the
delinquent pleaded that such an aversion had never been hinted or
expressed, "Oh, I like you to dislike it," he would say, "it's so
characteristic."
And one special gift he had, which is indeed rare. He could rebuke and
yet not give offence--for he was never an instant out of season. He
could, with a little barbed speech, pierce right to the heart of some
weakness, probe some secret fault that, unconsciously to its possessor,
was betraying itself to others, stab a pretence or an arrogance through
and through at the right moment, and yet never make the auditor dislike
him. As a rule, the critic and the censor are obeyed and hated. We
recognise that we are the better for the stroke, but we hate the hand
that directed it. But with Henry Bradshaw it was never so: one could not
feel personal resentment, though the little wound rankled long. Even
those whom he emphatically did not like, with whom he was most unsparing
of criticism and direct derision, did not resent it: they were uneasy
under it, but anxious for his good opinion, anxious to redeem
themselves in his eyes.
The conversation with him, as I remember it, was never sustained or
argumentative. He did not care to sift the problems of life and being,
or to hear them sifted before him--that was not the way in which life
presented itself to him. He was hereditarily endowed with much of the
Quietist instinct: he had not (on the surface, at least) questionings of
heart and searchings of spirit. He was what can be called a
life-philosopher; that is to say, he was not for ever deducing a system
from faith or experience, like some restless spirits, and modifying it
from day to day; he was simply acting, when it became him to act, in the
way that his pure high instincts led him, and growing wiser so. And thus
voluble or flashy talkers, keen, disputative, absorbed spirits,
conversational dogmatists, found little to satisfy them in him: they
were even apt to despise him in his greatness; and he too was uneasy in
such society, he sported his door against them, he gave them no
encouragement--unless, indeed, he had been their father's friend; then
everything was forgiven.
In his bedroom, which latterly became his sitting-room, he kept all the
Irish pamphlets which he and his father had amassed--for he was of Irish
descent. It was a very characteristic room--the walls were covered to
the top with bookcases, painted white, and gradually sloping away
inwards as they descended, so that he could have the larger books at the
top, and the smaller at the bottom. These were filled with grey and
white and blue paper volumes, many unbound and dusty, tied up in masses
with strings and paper of all colours; in one corner an immense heap
standing high up on the floor. "I know they oughtn't to be here--they
ought to be in the library," he would say, "but of course that has never
been done." It was in this room, so he told us, that he used to be
ceaselessly annoyed by a mouse, which began to perambulate about 2 A.M.,
night after night, for many weeks: night after night he would resolve,
he said, to "humour it no longer"--but night after night he would at
last get up and open the door for it to go into his other room, which it
instantly did, returning by some secret way to renew its wanderings the
next night. "There never was such a pampered mouse," he used to say.
The rooms all through were filled with little mementoes, of which he
would sometimes give us the history, from the little pictures and
ornaments on the ledges and chimney-pieces, to the incongruous-looking
tea-set that he used, and that formed so integral a part of the picture
in _tete-a-tete_ talks with him--every single piece of which was a
memorial of some one. In former times he had a little toy, a model of
the old Eton Long Chamber bedsteads that stood on his table. One evening
a fantastic wild friend, who had been at Eton with him, was sitting with
him--a man who had been miserable, hounded and persecuted through the
whole of his school-life there--and, stung by a sudden thought, perhaps
some barbarous association, seized this model with the tongs, and
crushed it into the fire--the owner sate immovable till the holocaust
was over, and then said gently, "Was that necessary?"
Nothing was more remarkable than the kind of men to be found in his
rooms: any one engaged in arduous literary work of a nature involving
special research we were sure to see there sooner or later. Many of the
rising men in the University who knew greatness when they saw it--and
not only these, but scapegraces to whom Bradshaw accorded an almost
fatherly protection, "outsiders," so called, who for some venial social
defect, some ungraciousness of manner, or want of refining influences,
society in general had rigorously excluded--these were to be found
expanding in his presence--and the strangest thing about these
intimacies was a point to which many will bear testimony, that if they
grew at all, they grew to include all the home circle of which his
friend was a part. "All my brothers and sisters," said one who was much
with him, "unknown to him before--he came to realise and love them all
for themselves."
He was a wonderful instance of a man, unmethodical and dreamy by nature,
made business-like by consideration for other people: his library-work
was always exactly done. His own private work suffered by the rigorous
self-sacrifice with which he devoted his time to the details of
business: invitations and other social requirements did not come off so
well. He was said frequently to neglect these. "I hardly ever go out,"
he used to say, though it was not for want of being asked: but it so
soon got to be understood that such was his habit, and he was so welcome
when he did come, though he had not announced his intention of so doing,
that the delinquencies were accepted in the spirit in which they had
been committed. Indeed, so great was his dislike of being forced to a
decision, that it is related of him that a friend who had written to ask
him to dinner, on receiving no answer, sent him two postcards, with
"Yes" written on one, "No" on the other, and by return of post received
them both.
When one speaks of Bradshaw's "work," it is hard to make the uninitiated
quite understand either its extent, its importance, or its perfection.
He knew more about printed books than any man living--he could tell at a
glance the date and country, generally the town, at which a book was
published. And the enormous range of this subject cannot be explained
without a technical knowledge of the same. He was one of the foremost of
Chaucer scholars, a very efficient linguist in range (though for
reading, not speaking purposes), as, for instance, in the case of the
old Breton language, which he evolved from notes and glosses, scribbled
between the lines and on margins of Mass books--and his joy at the
discovery of a word that he had suspected but never encountered was
delightful to see. He could acquire a language for practical purposes
with great rapidity--as, for instance, Armenian, which he began on a
Thursday morning at Venice, and could read, so as to decipher titles for
cataloguing, on Saturday night. He had a close and unrivalled knowledge
of cathedral statutes and constitutions. He was an advanced student in
the origins of liturgies--especially Irish--and, indeed, in the whole of
Irish literature and printing he was supreme--and, finally, he was by
common consent the best palaeographist, or critic of the date of MSS. in
the world.
The story of his adventure in the Parisian Library is worth recording
here: a book had been lost for nearly a century; he went over to Paris
to see if he could discover it. Search was fruitless, though there was a
strong presumption as to the part of the library where it would be
found. He stood in one of the classes describing its probable
appearance to the librarian, and to illustrate it said, "About the
height, thickness, and of similar binding to this," taking a book out of
the shelves as he did so. It was the missing volume.
So too he would refer Oxford men by memory to the case and shelf of the
Bodleian where they would find the book for which they had looked in
vain--and most characteristic of him was the explanation which he once
gave me of his enormous knowledge. "You know," he said, "I have never
worked at anything for myself, except, perhaps, at Chaucer, all my life
long: all the things that I do know I have stumbled across in
investigating questions for other people." How much of this knowledge
was merely held in solution in that amazing brain, how much was
committed to paper, I do not know--of the latter, comparatively little.
He had a long series of miscellaneous note-books, but most of them so
technical as to be unintelligible except to one as far advanced in such
knowledge as himself. His published works are but a few pamphlets.
The way in which all this work was done, all this knowledge was
accumulated, was, among the other peculiarities of his genius, the most
amazing. No man ever seemed to have more leisure; he would talk with
perfect readiness not only on any special matter that any friend wished
to consult him on, but he enjoyed trivial, leisurely gossip, and never
showed impatience to continue his work, or the least desire to return to
it. The secret was that he never left off. Except for rare holidays,
visits to relations or foreign tours, he never left Cambridge for years.
His hours were most perplexing; he would generally work very late at
night, sometimes till four or five in the morning, if there was much
work on hand, go to the library about eleven, return for lunch, then
back to the library again, with perhaps a visit to a Board or Syndicate
till tea-time--for he took no exercise except spasmodically. Then he
would go into Hall, or not, as the fancy took him, on the majority of
days not doing so, and tasting nothing but tea and bread-and-butter in
his rooms--and then from eight o'clock he would sit there, working if
uninterrupted, but with his doors generally open to welcome all
intruders, ceaselessly, patiently acquiring, amassing, disintegrating
the enormous mass of delicate and subtle information which not only did
he never forget, but all of which he seemed to carry on the surface, and
carry so lightly and easily too--for he did not appear to be erudite--he
never played the _role_ of the learned man, though with acquirements as
ponderous and detailed, and to the generality of people as
uninteresting, as the real or the fictitious Casaubon.
Yet this knowledge was not only of things that lay inside his own
subjects, but extended to all kinds of paths that could never have been
suspected. I have never met a person so nearly omniscient. If you wanted
to hear private and personal details about a man with whom you became
connected in a business or official capacity, he could give them. He
drew the man, or the family, or the place he lived in. I once travelled
up to London with him and pointed out a great house that was gradually
getting absorbed into the creeping metropolis but which still preserved
its country characteristics, stately and smoke-dried. "Yes," he said,
"it used to be much fresher; I used often to go there when I was a boy;
it belonged to the----" and there came out a little string of old-world
anecdotes and tales. Presently we passed a church (near Barnet) with an
ivied tower, which had been engulfed in the town. This also I showed
him. "Yes," he said, "I was christened there."
The story is almost too well-known to require repetition, of Mommsen,
who said, after half-an-hour's conversation with Bradshaw on some
historical _specialite_: "If I had had a shorthand writer with me, I
could have got in half-an-hour's talk enough materials to have made an
interesting volume." And this fabric had been ceaselessly growing and
expanding, fitting itself into order and connecting itself together,
ever since the early days when in the school-yard at Eton, a boy who
was possessed of some bibliographical treasures saw Henry Bradshaw issue
out of college, carrying two curious volumes under his arms, stealing
off to some secret haunt to study them, and greeted him with: "Hullo,
Bradshaw, whose books have you got there?" The only answer, delivered
without a sign of confusion, in the tones which even then were more
expressive in their imperturbability than most men's, "Yours."
Professor Prothero, in his Life of Henry Bradshaw, gives a rationalistic
explanation of this story that I can hardly credit. He says that the
books were from the School Library, and that Bradshaw's reply was meant
to indicate that the volumes belonged as much to one person as another.
As this explanation deprives the story of most of its point and all of
its humour, I have preferred to retain it in its lighter, if more
apocryphal, form--the form in which I heard it from one of Bradshaw's
Eton friends. And we may here add the delightful touch with which he
dismissed the claims of a celebrated forger of MSS. to have been the
writer of the "Codex Sinaiticus." "I am sure if he had ever seen it, he
could never have pretended to have written it," he said.
And in an instant the whole structure breaks and melts before our eyes:
the knowledge gone, God knows whither: the centre of so many quiet
activities, of so many dependent lives slipped from its place. However
often we say to ourselves that nothing runs to waste, that hoarded
experience--gathered painfully in life and seemingly only to be applied
in life--thus vanishing in an instant, is hidden not gone, the blank is
there. As Bradshaw himself said to a friend after a great trial that he
had told him of, which seemed to have in it no wholesome flavour, to be
nothing either in prospect or in retrospect, but the very root of
bitterness itself, "Everything is the result of something--whether it is
our own fault or not, it means something: what we have to do is to try
and interpret it."
And we feel that when such a life, acting as it did so directly on
others and affecting them so visibly, is cut short, there is not a sheer
waste of love. And though we may be called fanciful, we seem to trace a
hopeful analogy in the ease with which he renewed old intimacies, silent
for a long interval--he took up the friendship where he had laid it
down: there was no adjustment necessary--one became part of his life
again at once, because one had never ceased to be so. Such an affection,
when it has passed the veil, seems to be waiting for us still--it seems
emphatically to have but gone before.
1885.