The Dons: Mentors, Eccentrics and Geniuses

COPYRIGHT

HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1999

Copyright © Noel Annan 1999

Noel Annan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780002570749

Ebook Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9780007391066

Version 2016-08-24

DEDICATION

To Francis Haskell

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Introduction

I: The Dons Create an Intellectual Aristocracy

II: The Genesis of the Modern Don – William Buckland

III: The Charismatic Don – John Henry Newman

IV: Benjamin Jowett and the Balliol Tradition

V: The Don as Scholar – Frederic Maitland

VI: The Pastoral Don – The Ethos of King’s

VII: The Trinity Scientists – J. J. and Rutherford

VIII: The Don as Wit – Maurice Bowra

IX: The Don as Performer – George Rylands

X: The Don as Dilettante – John Sparrow

XI: The Don as Magus – Isaiah Berlin

XII: Women Dons in Cambridge

XIII: The Don as Administrator

XIV: ‘Down with Dons’

Annexe: The Intellectual Aristocracy

Index

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

INTRODUCTION

Anyone who writes about Oxford and Cambridge owes a debt to the scholars who wrote the history of those universities and of their individual colleges. But I owe a special debt of gratitude to the memorialists – those like Mark Pattison and William Tuckwell at Oxford and Leslie Stephen and the American, Charles Bristed, at Cambridge – who left us their personal impression of what life was like there in times gone by and of the dons whom they remembered. This book is not for the experts: they will know the references all too well. It is for the common reader.

I had another reason for writing about dons. Nearly forty-five years ago I was asked to contribute to a volume of essays to mark G. M. Trevelyan’s seventy-fifth birthday. My subject was one which I hoped would give him pleasure: the intermarriage between some families – for instance the Trevelyans, Macaulays and Arnolds – that created what I called an intellectual aristocracy. That essay has long been out of print and not easily accessible. Furthermore, it did not sit easily with the other chapters. But if you are interested in the ramifications of these families, you will find the detail of their intermarriage in the Annexe at the end of the book.

Dons are so often stereotyped. I wanted to show what a variety of dons there are, all of them memorable, all exhibiting different talents. Of course, there were others it would have been right to include. G. M. Trevelyan was one. In my first term at Cambridge he invited me to tea, and at the end of my last term before I graduated he wrote me a peremptory, almost illegible note telling me to come next morning and read aloud to him the papers I had written on my special subject – he said they were illegible. Later, when I was Provost of King’s and he was almost blind, I used to read poetry to him – the old favourites, Milton, Wordsworth, Tennyson, Meredith. Sometimes, sobbing with emotion, he would join me and declaim some of the hundreds of lines he knew by heart. But David Cannadine wrote an admirable memoir of Trevelyan that says so much of what needs to be said.

Then there was Keynes, whom I got to know during the war, but no less than three biographies of him exist as well as countless articles. Indeed, I could have chosen Roy Harrod, Keynes’s first biographer. At Oxford they played a game where you have to describe people in words of one syllable. The winner was the word for Harrod: ‘don’. Harrod was a great writer of notes to his colleagues, within the Establishment but always willing to advance unorthodox opinions, a critic of the tutorial which, he thought, was being used for spoon-feeding; yet none was more loyal to Oxford’s rituals or more insistent on a don’s obligations to his pupils. A tutorial should correct ‘points of style, presentation, logic, modes of criticising authorities studied etc.’ His ingenious and quirky mind enlivened the high table at Christ Church.

I had an excuse for omitting two influential dons, F. R. Leavis and Michael Oakeshott, since I had written at length on each in Our Age. But why omit towering scientists like Florey and Todd? Or one of Oxford’s most revered scholars in classics, John Beazley, who brought order into the study of Attic vases? Or socialist thinkers like G. D. H. Cole or ‘Sage’ Bernal? Or miraculous eccentrics such as the professor of Modern Greek at Oxford, R. M. Dawkins, remembered for his cackle of laughter and keen interest in flagellomania?

I would have liked to have included more scientists. When I returned to Cambridge after the war one of the scientists who became my special friend was Victor Rothschild. He did research on spermatozoa in the zoology lab, but although a fellow of Trinity he did not teach and left the university to become chief scientific adviser to Royal Dutch Shell. I had made a rule for myself not to write about the living and I therefore did not choose Alan Hodgkin, Nobel Prizeman and Master of Trinity, who died only as this book was ready to go to press. The others were in the molecular biology unit – Max Perutz, Sidney Brenner and Francis Crick, the discoverer, with Jim Watson, of the structure of DNA, all still happily alive. I failed to persuade Francis to allow his name to go forward for a fellowship at King’s. He would not join any society with a chapel: to do so would have been to connive at error; and King’s undeniably had a chapel.

Universities have endured hard times since government decided to move to mass higher education, none more so than the elite institutions I knew so well in London – University College, Imperial College and the London School of Economics – and the leading civic universities. It is these places, with Oxford and Cambridge, that are the guardians of intellectual life. Over thirty years ago I tried to put into words what such places exist to do. They cannot teach the qualities that people need in politics and business. Nor can they teach culture and wisdom, any more than theologians teach holiness, or philosophers goodness or sociologists a blueprint for the future. They exist to cultivate the intellect. Everything else is secondary. Equality of opportunity to come to the university is secondary. The matters that concern both dons and administrators are secondary. The need to mix classes, nationalities and races together is secondary. The agonies and gaieties of student life are secondary. So are the rules, customs, pay and promotion of the academic staff and their debates on changing the curricula or procuring facilities for research. Even the awakening of a sense of beauty or the life-giving shock of new experience, or the pursuit of goodness itself – all these are secondary to the cultivation, training and exercise of the intellect. Universities should hold up for admiration the intellectual life. The most precious gift they have to offer is to live and work among books or in laboratories and to enable the young to see those rare scholars who have put on one side the world of material success, both in and outside the university, in order to study with single-minded devotion some topic because that above all seems important to them. A university is dead if the dons cannot in some way communicate to the students the struggle – and the disappointments as well as the triumphs in that struggle – to produce out of the chaos of human experience some grain of order won by the intellect. That is the end to which all the arrangements of the university should be directed.

I still believe that this is the principle that should govern Oxford and Cambridge and our élite universities.

CHAPTER ONE The Dons Create an Intellectual Aristocracy

The word ‘don’ carries many meanings, quite a number of them ironical. Some use it loosely to mean anyone who holds a post at a university, but well into the twentieth century it meant something more precise. ‘Don’ did not immediately suggest a creative scholar or a professeur of a particular subject, still less a privatdozent. A don was not expected to be an intellectual nor yet a man with a passion for general ideas. No: essentially he was a teacher and a fellow of an Oxford or Cambridge college; a teacher who stood in a peculiar relation to his pupils in that they came to his rooms individually each week and were taught by him personally. And since these pupils were men of his own college, his first allegiance was not to the university but to his college – to the close-knit society whose members had elected him. To the other fellows he was bound by ties of special loyalty and affection – sometimes, of course, by the no less binding ties of enmity and loathing which led to feuds and vendettas within the society,

It was only in late Victorian days that election to fellowships and university posts at Oxford and Cambridge began to be made on merit; and even then, merit could be determined by numbers of tests which were by no means all strictly academic. Was he, it could be asked, a good college man, sociable, willing to share in due course in the administration of the college, a potential bursar, tutor or dean? Was he a man of character as well as intellect, for he was educating the next generation who were to be the clergymen, statesmen and gentlemen of England?

In the early years of the nineteenth century before the ancient universities were reformed everything depended on patronage and few were ashamed to admit it. ‘I don’t know what we’re coming to,’ said Canon Barnes of Christ Church in the 1830s. ‘I’ve given Studentships to my sons, and to my nephews, and to my nephew’s children, and there are no more of my family left. I shall have to give them by merit one of these days.’ An old fellow of Merton was urged to award a fellowship to the candidate who had done best in the examinations. ‘Sir, I came here to vote for my old friend’s son, and vote for him I shall, whatever the examiners may say.’ To appoint by merit had echoes of the French Revolution. Had not Napoleon declared that every soldier carried a marshal’s baton in his knapsack, and look what ruffians Junot, Augereau and Ney were. Wellington per contra defended the system of officers in the army purchasing their commissions since, as gentlemen of England, they could be depended upon to be loyal as well as brave. Patronage was the passport to getting on in life. The venerable Dr Routh, President of Magdalen, who died in 1854 in his hundredth year, was in no doubt: ‘Take my advice, sir,’ he said to an undergraduate destined for Parliament; ‘choose some powerful patron, sir, and stick to him – stick to him always, sir, that is the only way.’* Today it is not the only way. Men and women can rise on their own merits; but, if they are honest and reflect, how many will admit that someone – a friend of their family, a teacher skilled in writing testimonials or an employer or senior colleague who took a shine to them – gave them their chance?

In the ancient universities, in which the majority of fellows were clergymen, patronage affected professorships, canonries and country livings to which, if a fellow decided to marry, he could be appointed. In those days politics were more concerned with religion, and which prime minister was in office mattered because patronage was often in his gift. Readers of Trollope’s Barchester Towers will remember how the fall of the Conservative ministry dashed Archdeacon Grantly’s hopes of being made bishop and the preferment went to Dr Proudie. Tories could be expected to appoint High Churchmen, the Whigs to prefer liberals or what came to be called Broad Churchmen. But it was not as simple as that. How staunch a Protestant was a candidate? Was he stalwart against Catholic Emancipation? Routh was a High Churchman and the only head of a college to support John Henry Newman when Newman declared that Anglican beliefs were not inconsistent with Roman dogma, but he opposed Sir Robert Peel when Peel stood for the chancellorship of Oxford because Peel had finally brought himself to vote for Catholic Emancipation.*

What kind of don did this system of patronage throw up? Writing at the end of the nineteenth century William Tuckwell, a fellow of New College, thought they fell into four categories: cosmopolitan, ornamental, mere – and learned. The cosmopolitan don, intelligent but worldly, would be found in London as often as Oxford, seeing that the political interests of his friends at Westminster were reflected in elections to posts in Oxford and pari passu that patronage by cabinet ministers flowed into the right channels in the university. The ornamental don held university offices. He became a proctor and looked forward to offers of succulent benefices in the Church. He was therefore so cushioned by genial company and emoluments that further effort on his part was not required and he added nothing to learning. Preferment in the Church was what occupied his mind. But if he failed to get it he might die as senior fellow of his college, renowned for his nose for a vintage. Or he became an eccentric whom younger fellows boasted of having known.

The mere don referred to the bulk of the fellows, tutors who took the undergraduates in their college through Latin and Greek texts, up in arms at any attempt by the professors to deflect their pupils to attend professorial lectures. A mere don might well be voted in as head of a house, the compromise candidate when the supporters of the two abler rivals produced a deadlock by their intransigence. He would then preside ‘with a late-married wife as uncouth and uneducated as he … respecting no man in the University and respected by no man out of it’. There were indeed some roughnecks among the heads or others, such as the Rector of Lincoln, Edward Tatham, a stickler for Anglican orthodoxy and hater of dissenters, whose violence of language did his cause more harm than good. In a two-and-a-half-hour sermon he declared that he wished ‘all the Jarman critics at the bottom of the Jarman Ocean’. Yet there were fine heads of houses, among them Tatham’s opponent, Cyril Jackson, the Dean of Christ Church, Richard Jenkyns of Balliol and later the liberal reformer Francis Jeune of Pembroke.

Tuckwell’s fourth category was the learned don. The days had passed since Gibbon could portray the dons as stupefied by their dull and deep potations while supinely enjoying the gifts of their founder. A few were certainly learned and edited classical texts. Many more were quick and elegant versifiers in Latin and Greek. Common room talk was peppered with Latin tags; some could even pun in Greek. Arthur Ridding not only described the Duke of Wellington lying in state as ‘splendide mendax’ but, seeing a wretched horse, scarcely more than skin and bones, hauling a barge along the tow-path of a canal, muttered ‘to pathos’ (towpath ’oss). There was the good-natured Henry ‘Horse’ Kett, whose long face so resembled a horse’s head that undergraduates filled his snuff-box with oats. Realising that many undergraduates found the compulsory questions on Aristotelian logic beyond their powers, ‘Horse’ Kett wrote a book called Logic Made Easy. His fellow examiner Edward Copleston at once wrote a devastating riposte and headed his pamphlet with the Virgilian warning about never trusting a Greek even with a gift in his hands: ‘Aliquis latet error; Equo ne credite, Teucri’ (Some trick here; don’t trust the horse, Trojans). But although Oxford scholars read German commentaries on classical texts, they could not be compared to the German classical scholars, at that time the finest in the world.

Out of these learned dons there emerged an intellectual aristocracy. Dons formed dynasties. When Frederic Maitland married the sister of H. A. L. Fisher, later to be Warden of New College, he became a nephew of Julia Stephen, the wife of Leslie Stephen and mother of Virginia Woolf, and counted among his other cousins the Oxford scholars F. H. and A. C. Bradley, and the headmaster of Rugby W. W. Vaughan, a member of another clan of dons. Maitland’s daughter was to marry a don.*

What was happening was that certain families of a serious cast of mind intermarried and their children became scholars and teachers, joining those at Oriel and Balliol in Oxford, or at Trinity and St John’s in Cambridge. They led the movement for academic reform within the universities and became the first professors of the new civic academies; and their achievements as headmasters at Shrewsbury or Harrow or Rugby were watched by the professional classes, eager to educate their sons well at schools where they mixed with those of the lesser aristocracy or gentry. When these sons in turn came to marry, what was more natural than to choose a wife from the families of their fathers’ friends whose fortune and upbringing matched their own?

They were a new status group. Sociologists distinguish a social group from a social class. These families were not concerned with the means of production and creation of wealth. What marked them off was not wealth but standing. A section of the Victorian middle class rose to positions of influence and respect as a range of posts passed out of the gift of the nobility into their hands. They naturally ascended to positions where academic and cultural policy was made. In literary life they were the backbone of the Victorian intellectual periodicals. In public service they were strongest in the Indian and home civil service rather than in diplomacy, which for long was too expensive for them and attracted the sons of the upper classes; but once diplomats could support themselves on their salary they began to invade the foreign service.

They were not a narrow professoriate. They could not be when most fellowships had to be vacated on marriage or the holder required to take holy orders. True to the traditional role of Oxford and Cambridge, which was to educate men for service in Church and State, they overflowed into the new professions. The days when Addison could define the professions as divinity, law and physic were past. Not only were the old professions expanding to include attorneys and apothecaries, but the establishment in 1828 of the Institution of Civil Engineers to further ‘the art of directing the Great Sources of Power in Nature for the use and convenience of mankind’ marked the rise of a new kind of professional man. Members of these intellectual families became the new professional civil servants at a time when government had become too complicated and technical to be handled by the ruling class and their dependants. They became school inspectors or took posts in the museums or were appointed secretaries of philanthropic societies; or they edited or wrote for the periodicals or entered publishing houses; or, as journalists ceased to be hacks scribbling in Grub Street, they joined the staff of The Times. Thus they gradually spread over the length and breadth of English intellectual life, criticising the assumptions of the ruling class above them and forming the opinions of the upper middle class to which they belonged.

This intellectual aristocracy was not an intelligentsia, a term which, Russian in origin, suggests the shifting, shiftless members of revolutionary or literary cliques who have cut themselves adrift from the moorings of family. The English intellectual élite, wedded to gradual reform of accepted institutions and able to move between the worlds of speculation and government, was stable. That it was so – that it was unexcitable and, to European minds, unexciting – was in part due to the influence of these academic families.

Why was this so? One reason was that, although they supplanted the placemen or kinsmen of the nobility and gentry, quite a number of them were in fact related to the gentry and even at a few removes from the nobility. Numbers of dons and at one time the headmasters of Eton, Radley and Rugby were connected to the Lytteltons. The Stanleys of Alderley keep cropping up in the family trees and connect with the Lubbocks and the Buxtons. The historian Hugh Trevor-Roper descends from Barbara Villiers, the mistress of Charles II, and is connected with a viceroy of India and with Robert Brand, the fellow of All Souls and member of Milner’s kindergarten* after the South African war. Arthur Balfour, the Prime Minister and nephew of the Marquess of Salisbury, was the brother-in-law of the Cambridge philosopher Henry Sidgwick and of the physicist and Nobel Prizeman Lord Rayleigh; and one of his nieces married a Trevelyan. The Trevelyans and Stracheys were cadet branches of old West Country families with baronetcies created in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The Babingtons, who were Leicestershire country squires, were not the only family to trace their descent from a Duchess of Norfolk who was a great-great-granddaughter of Edward I: so could the Cripps family, the Venns, the Thorntons and the Plowdens – even, improbably, among her remote descendants were Lytton Strachey and Duncan Grant. Henry Thornton, the leader of the Clapham Sect, smiled satirically at his brother’s breakfast party for Queen Charlotte and her daughter in his exquisitely embellished villa. ‘We are all City people and connected with merchants and nothing but merchants on every side,’ he said; and the subsequent failure of his brother, who died under an assumed name in New York, may have seemed like a judgement on such luxurious display. All the same the Thorntons were cousins of the Earl of Leven and could trace their descent to the last of the Plantagenets, ‘false, fleeting, perjur’d Clarence’.

Nevertheless they did not think of themselves, whatever their connections, as being part of the ruling class and the established circles of power. Nor did the nobility or upper gentry think of them as equals. When, in one of Trollope’s political novels, Lady Mary Palliser pleads with her father, the Duke of Omnium, to be permitted to marry Frank Tregear, she argues: ‘He is a gentleman.’ ‘So is my private secretary,’ replies the duke. ‘The curate of the parish is a gentleman, and the medical man who comes here from Bradstock, the word is too vague to carry any meaning that ought to be serviceable …’ The word ‘gentleman’ became in Victorian times a subject of dialectical enquiry and nerve-racking embarrassment. Newman and Huxley both redefined it to meet the needs of their status group and the realities of a new age. To have been to a public school was not a necessary qualification; but to have been to a university, or by some means to have acquired professional status, was. Political necessity did not oblige them, as so often in France, to polarise themselves and identify with the party of order or the party of liberty; nor, as in Russia, to face the consequences of living beneath a despotism; nor, like professors in Germany, to become State officials. They formed a barrier to the jingoism and aggressive philistinism at the turn of the century. For the most part they preferred the manners of Asquith and Balfour to those of Lloyd George or Lord Hugh Cecil, though there were some stalwart Tories among them. The question of Home Rule for Ireland and later the rise of the Labour Party pushed some of the radicals among them to the right in late Victorian times.