of his college. Soon afterwards he returned to Eton as an
Assistant-Master. Mr Gladstone was one of the first set of boys who, in
Eton phrase, were ‘up to him’ in school. He filled his difficult
position with a judicious blending of severity and kindliness that made
him thoroughly respected by everybody, and at the same time beloved by
those boys who saw enough of him to discover that his dignified and
slightly pompous demeanour concealed a singularly warm and sympathetic
heart. His house was well-conducted and deservedly popular; and though
in those days masters did not see much of their pupils in private, he
contrived to turn several of his boys into life-long friends. In 1838 he
became Lower Master—an office which he held until he returned to
Cambridge in 1850. While in that influential position he introduced at
least one reform into the school; he got what was called ‘an
intermediate examination’ established, by which the collegers were
enabled to test their capacities before submitting to the final
examination which was to determine their chances of obtaining a
scholarship at King’s.
In November 1850, the Provostship of King’s College having been vacated
by the death of the Rev. George Thackeray, Dr Okes was elected his
successor. So anxious was he to abolish the anomalous position of
King’s-men with regard to University degrees that, on his way from Eton
to Cambridge to be inducted into his new dignity, he stayed a few hours
in London to take counsel with the Bishop of Lincoln, as Visitor of the
college, on the best way of effecting an alteration. The needful
negotiations were pressed forward without loss of time, and on the 1st
May, 1851, the college informed the University of their willingness to
abolish the existing state of things. The University, as might have been
expected, took time to consider the matter; and it was not until
February 18, 1852, that the Senate accepted the proposed reform.
Meanwhile Dr Okes had been elected Vice-Chancellor, and, in virtue of
that office, had the pleasure of signing the report which concluded the
negotiations. His year of office as Vice-Chancellor ended, he took but
little part in University business. He served on the Council of the
Senate from 1864 to 1868, and he was occasionally a member of
Syndicates; but, with these exceptions, he devoted himself to the
affairs of his college.
When he returned to the University the ancient constitution still
subsisted, and it may be doubted whether he could ever have brought
himself into cordial sympathy with the changes inaugurated by the
statutes which came into operation in 1858. The abolition of the old
_Caput_, and the virtual dethronement of the Heads of Colleges, must
have seemed to him to be changes which savoured of sacrilege. Still,
when a reform had been once carried he accepted it loyally, and never
tried by underhand devices to thwart its provisions, or to diminish its
force. He was too straight-forward to pretend that he liked change, but
he was too honest to take away with one hand the assent that he gave
with the other. In regard to his own college he was before all things an
Etonian, and he clung to the ancient system by which King’s was
recruited exclusively from Eton. But, when it was decided, in 1864, to
throw the college open, under certain restrictions, to all comers, he
offered no violent resistance to the scheme, though he did not like it;
and it may be doubted whether he ever felt that the newcomers were
really King’s-men. His sense of duty, as well as his natural kindliness,
compelled him to accept them; but he looked upon them as aliens. This
strong conservative bias, opposed to the liberal instincts of a society
which his own reform had created, sometimes brought him into collision
with his Fellows; but such differences were not of long duration. He was
never morose. He never bore a grudge against any one. His sense of
humour, and his natural gaiety of spirits, carried him through
difficulties which his habitual tone of mind would hardly have enabled
him to surmount. When his portrait was painted by Herkomer, the artist
showed him as he lived, with a smile on his kind face. It was objected
that so jocose a countenance was at variance with the dignity of his
position. ‘What would the Provost of King’s be without his jokes?’ was
the reply of a sarcastic contemporary. The remark had a deeper meaning
than its author either imagined or intended.
_1 December, 1888._
HENRY RICHARDS LUARD[118].
Nearly half a century has elapsed since Dr Luard became a member of
Trinity College. When he came up, the University was a very different
place from what it is now; the Statutes of Elizabeth were still in
force; and the only study which obtained official recognition was that
of mathematics. It is true that a Classical Tripos existed, but anybody
who wished to be examined in it was obliged to obtain an honour in
Mathematics first. The first Commission was not appointed until 1850,
the year in which he proceeded to the degree of Master of Arts. Nor were
the changes that resulted from their labours so sweeping as to alter, to
any overt and material extent, the character of the University. The
University of our own time, due to more recent legislation, did not come
into being until he had reached middle life.
These prefatory sentences are necessary to explain his character, which
has often been misunderstood. He passed his youth and many years of his
manhood in the old University, and though he was compelled,
intellectually, to admit the advantage of many of the changes which have
taken place in recent years, I doubt if he ever cordially accepted them.
He was a man of the older generation, who had lived down into the
present, and though he made friends in it, and derived many substantial
advantages from it, he was always casting lingering looks behind, and
sighing for a past which he could not recall. He remembered the time
when the resident Fellows of his college were few in number, when they
all lived in college rooms, and met every day at the service in Chapel
or the dinner in Hall, and commonly took their daily exercise, a walk or
a ride, in each other’s company. As his older friends passed away, he
found a difficulty in making new ones; he felt out of his element; he
was distracted by the multiplicity of tastes and studies; and vehemently
disapproved of the modifications in the collegiate life which the new
statutes have brought about. Though he himself, by a strange irony of
fate, was the first Fellow to take advantage of the power of marrying
and still retaining the Fellowship, he bitterly regretted that such a
clause had ever become law; and it is hardly too much to say that he
predicted the ruin of the college from such an innovation. And yet he
was by no means an unreasoning or unreasonable Conservative. In many
matters he was a Reformer; I have even heard him called a Radical; but,
when his beloved college was concerned, the force of early association
was too strong, and he regarded fundamental change as sacrilege.
Luard was fourteenth wrangler in 1847, a place much lower than he had
been led to expect. The cause of his failure is said to have been
ill-health. His disappointment, however, was speedily consoled by a
Fellowship, a distinction to which he is said to have aspired from his
earliest years. A friend who sat next him when he was a student at
King’s College, London, remembers his writing down, “Henry Richards
Luard, Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge,” and asking, “How do you
think that looks?” But, though he was really a first-rate mathematician,
his heart was elsewhere. He delighted in classical studies, especially
Greek, and to the end of his life continued to collect early editions,
and more, to read Greek authors. Not long ago, in the interval between
two pieces of hard work, I think between two volumes of his edition of
Matthew Paris, I found him reading the _Supplices_ of Euripides. He
complained that it was dull, but he went through with it. His
acquaintance with Greek scholarship was very accurate and remarkable. He
knew all about the emendations in which the scholars of the last century
displayed their ingenuity; he spoke of Bentley, Porson, Gaisford,
Elmsley, and the rest, as though they had been his personal friends, and
he could quote from memory, even to the last, many of their most
brilliant achievements. For Porson he had a special cult, and the Life
of him which he contributed to the _Cambridge Essays_ (1857) is a model
of what such a composition should be, as remarkable for good taste and
temperate criticism, as for erudition. He resented any slights on Porson
as almost a personal affront; and spoke with unmeasured denunciation of
any edition of a Greek Play, or other classical work, in which Porson
did not seem to be fully appreciated. He had a priceless collection of
_Porsoniana_, books which had belonged to Porson, and had been annotated
by him, with notices of his life and labours, all of which he bequeathed
to the Library of Trinity College; and he edited Porson’s
_Correspondence_, and the _Diary of Edward Rud_, which throws so much
light on the history of the college during the stormy reign of Dr
Bentley. It must be confessed that Luard’s affection for these giants of
classical criticism rather blinded him to the merits of their successors
in our own time. He had a particular dislike for English notes; and I
had rather not try to remember what I have heard him say about English
translations printed side by side with the original text.
Let it not be supposed, however, that Luard confined his attention in
literature to the classics. He was an insatiable reader of books on all
subjects, and if the book was a new one he was particular that his copy
should be uncut. He liked to read sitting in his armchair, and to cut
the leaves as he went along. What he began, he considered it a point of
honour to finish. It was a joke against him that he had read every word
of _The Cornhill Magazine_, which he had taken in from the beginning;
and I have heard him admit, more than once, that this was really the
case. I think it quite likely that he had submitted the volumes
published under the authority of the Master of the Rolls, to the same
searching investigation; for he could give a curiously minute account of
the merits and demerits of each work, supported, as usual with him, by
numerous quotations, cited with much volubility of utterance, and, it
may be added, with unerring accuracy. The pace at which he got through a
ponderous volume—without skipping, be it remarked—was really
astonishing, and when he had come to the end he could not only give a
clear and connected account of what he had read, but it became part of
himself, and he could quote long afterwards any passage that had
specially struck him.
The variety of Luard’s interests at all periods of his life, was
remarkable, especially when it is remembered that he was a genuine
student, with a horror of superficiality, and a conscientious
determination to do whatever he took in hand as well as it could be
done. But he was no Dry-as-dust. He was keenly alive to all that was
passing in the world, and unlike a contemporary Cambridge antiquary who
was once heard to ask, “Is the _Times_ still published?” he not only
read the paper through every day, but had his own very definite opinions
on men and measures. There was nothing narrow about him; he was a
patriotic Englishman, but he did not ignore the existence of the
Continent, and his favourite relaxation was foreign travel. As a young
man he had travelled extensively, not only in Europe, but in Egypt,
where he had ascended the Nile as far as the second cataract: and, as he
grew older, he still sought refreshment in going over parts of his old
tours, especially in those by-ways of Central Italy which lie within the
limits of what he affectionately called “dear old Umbria.” He spoke more
than one foreign language fluently; and, being entirely destitute of
British angularity, and British prejudices in politics and religion, he
always got on exceedingly well with foreigners, especially with foreign
ecclesiastics. I feel that I am saying only what is literally true when
I affirm that few Englishmen have understood the creed and the practice
of the Roman clergy in Italy so thoroughly as he did. In illustration of
this view I would refer my readers to an article called _Preaching and
other matters in Rome in 1879_ which he contributed to the _Church
Quarterly Review_[119]. Further, he took an intelligent interest in
antiquities of all sorts, and had an acquaintance with art that was
something more than respectable. Here his excellent memory stood him in
good stead, for he never forgot either a picture which he had once seen,
or the place in which he had seen it.
In politics he called himself a Tory, and he certainly did vote on that
side; but he was in no sense of the word a party-man. For instance, when
his friend Mr George Denman came forward as a Liberal candidate for the
representation of the University in 1855, Luard was an active member of
his committee. His knowledge of Italy made him watch the course of
events there in 1859 with an enthusiastic sympathy, which was divided
almost equally between the Italians and their French allies. With a
curious perversity, which was not uncommon in his appreciation of men
and his judgment of events, he hated Garibaldi as much as he admired
Victor Emmanuel and Cavour. But from the first he never doubted of the
cause of freedom, and astonished his Conservative friends by offering a
wager across the high table at Trinity as to the time it would take the
combined French and Italian forces to occupy Milan. So far as I can
remember, he was right almost to the very day.
From his boyhood Luard had been an ardent collector of books, and it was
probably this taste that induced him to take a further excursion into
the past, and begin the study of manuscripts. Professor Mayor tells me
that the influence and example of Dr S. R. Maitland turned his attention
to the Middle Ages in the widest sense—their history, their literature,
and their life. This may well have been the case, for I know, from many
conversations, that he had the profoundest respect and admiration for Dr
Maitland’s character, and for the thoroughness of his studies and
criticisms. I do not know how Luard acquired his very accurate knowledge
of medieval handwriting; but I remember that in 1855 or 1856 he gave me
some lessons of the greatest value. In the second of these years the
first volume of the Catalogue of Manuscripts in the University Library
was published, into the preparation of which he had thrown himself with
characteristic enthusiasm. As time went on, the direction of the work
was left more and more to him; he became the editor, and to him the
excellent index, published in 1867, is mainly, if not entirely, due.
From the study of manuscripts to their transcription and publication the
transition is easy, and we need therefore find no difficulty in
accounting for his employment by the Master of the Rolls. He began his
work on that series in 1858 by editing certain _Lives of Edward the
Confessor_, written in old French. This work, on which he had bestowed
infinite pains, was not free from errors. The study of the language in
which it is written was not understood at that time as it is now, and it
is no discredit to Luard’s memory to admit that he was not fully
prepared for the task. But such mistakes as he made are no justification
for the savage and personal attack to which he was subjected, eleven
years afterwards, by a critic who ought to have known better. I do not
feel that this is the place to criticise, or even to mention, the long
list of historical works that Luard subsequently edited, the last of
which appeared not long before his death. His labours in this field of
research have been better appreciated in Germany than in England, but
even here scholars like Bishop Stubbs and Professor Freeman have spoken
with cordial appreciation of the value of his work. It is worth noting
too that here his passion for old methods of editing deserted him;
nothing can be more thoroughly modern than his treatment of these
ancient records. Nor can I leave this part of my subject without
noticing his indexes. He was the very prince of index-makers; every
sheet, before it was finally passed for press, was fully indexed, with
the result that not only were mistakes recognised and corrected, but the
index itself, worked out on a definite system conceived from the
beginning, was carried through to a satisfactory conclusion without
haste or weariness, and became a real catalogue of the subjects referred
to in the work itself.
Luard was Registrary of the University from 1862 to his death in 1891.
To this work he brought the same painstaking accuracy, and the same
unselfish readiness to endure hard work, that distinguished his other
labours. The ordinary duties of his office were discharged with
marvellous rapidity, and almost painful attention to detail; and the
records were admirably re-arranged. Mr Romilly, his predecessor, had
brought order out of confusion, and prepared an excellent catalogue on
modern lines; but Luard went a step farther. He bound the contents of Mr
Romilly’s bundles in a series of volumes, each of which he indexed with
his own hand. These separate indexes were then transcribed, and finally
bound together so as to form a complete catalogue of the contents of the
Registry. Every paper can now be found with the least possible loss of
time, while each bound volume contains a complete history of the subject
to which it relates, so far as it can be illustrated by documents in the
Registry.
Luard’s duties as Registrary, added to the continuous strain of his
historical work, would have been enough for most people; but he never
forgot that he was a clergyman, as well as a man of letters, and he took
care always to have some active clerical work to do. He was an eloquent
preacher, and his sermons in the College Chapel used to be listened to
with an interest that we did not always feel in what was said to us from
that pulpit. They were plain, practical, persuasive; the compositions of
one who was not above his congregation; who had nothing donnish about
him, but who spoke to the undergraduates as one who had passed through
the same temptations as themselves, and who was, therefore, in a
position to show them the right road. On the same principles, for the
twenty-seven years during which he was Vicar of Great S. Mary’s, he
laboured in the parish in a spirit of true sympathy. There was no
fussiness about him; he did not take part in movements; he did not
‘work’ a parish as a modern clergyman does, on the principle of
perpetual worry, leaving neither man, nor woman, nor child at peace for
a moment; he led his people to better things by gentle measures; he
sympathized with their troubles; he relieved their necessities; in a
word, he exercised an unbounded influence over them, while refraining
from interference in matters of moral indifference. His memory will long
be venerated there for active benevolence, and punctual discharge of all
that it became him to do. I have heard that the full extent of his
charities will never be known. He hated display, and avoided reference
to what he was about unless it was necessary to stimulate others by
mentioning it; but those who know best tell me that his labours among
the poor were unremitting, and that his generosity knew no limits.
Nor should it be forgotten, in even the most summary record of Luard’s
life at Cambridge, that it was he who got Great S. Mary’s restored in
the true sense of the word, by removing the excrescences which the
taste, or, rather, want of taste, of the last century had piled up in
it. He pulled down the carved work thereof—the hideous ‘Golgotha’—with
axes and hammers, and exhibited to an astonished and by no means
complacent University the noble church in the unadorned simplicity of
its architecture. The restoration of the University Church to something
like its ancient arrangement will be an enduring monument of his
parochial life.
He was a High Churchman, but a High Churchman with a difference. He
belonged to the school of Pusey and Liddon rather than to that of the
modern Ritualist, whose doings were as alien to his convictions and
feelings as those of the party whom he scornfully styled ‘those
Protestants.’ I have heard him called narrow and intolerant. I beg leave
to refer such detractors to the sermon preached by him on the Sunday
after the death of Frederick Denison Maurice. And this brings me to what
was, perhaps, the leading principle of his whole life—his absolute
honesty and fearlessness. He held certain beliefs and certain opinions
himself, which he cherished, and which were of vital importance to
himself; but he did not shut his eyes to the possibility that others who
held diametrically opposite views might be in the right also. And if he
found a man sincere, no considerations of party, of respectability, of
imaginary dangers concealed behind opinions held to be heretical, would
prevent him from speaking out and proclaiming his admiration.
In manners Luard had much of the stately courtesy which we commonly
ascribe to the last century, joined to a vivacious impulsiveness due, no
doubt, to his French extraction. This impulsiveness led him into a
rapidity of thought and utterance which often caused him to be
misunderstood. He said what came first into his thoughts, and corrected
it afterwards; but, unfortunately for him, people remembered the first
words used, and forgot the explanation. Hence he was often
misunderstood, and credited with opinions he did not really hold. He
delighted in society, and few men knew better how to deal with it, or
how to make his house an agreeable centre of Cambridge life. In this he
was ably seconded by his admirable wife, _qui savait tenir un salon_, as
the French say, more successfully than is usual in this country. Without
her help he would hardly have been able to find the time required for
his continual hospitalities. The house was different from any other
house that I have ever known, and reflected, more directly, the peculiar
gifts and tastes of its owner. The pictures, the china, the books that
lined the walls, bespoke the cultivated scholar; but the modern volumes
that lay on the tables showed that he was no dry archaeologist, but full
of enthusiasm for all that was best in modern literature. He had a keen
sense of humour, and an admirable memory; and when the conversation
turned that way, would tell endless stories of Cambridge life, or repeat
page after page of his favourite Thackeray. At the same time he did not
engross the conversation, but drew his guests out, and led each
insensibly to what was interesting to him or to her. It is sad to think
that all this has passed away; that exactly one month after Luard’s
death his friends stood again beside his grave to see his only child
laid in it; that his house will pass into alien hands; and that his
library will share the fate of similar collections. ‘_Eheu! quanto minus
est cum aliis versari quam tui meminisse._’
RICHARD OWEN[120].