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