Something must certainly be done for them: not too much, of course, that would never do; but something

For Liberalism, after all, implies rather more than a political creed or an economic philosophy; it is a profoundly conscience-stricken state of mind. It is the final expression of everything which is respectable, God-fearing and frightened. The poor, it says, are always with us, and something must certainly be done for them: not too much, of course, that would never do; but something. The poor might reasonably be expected to have their own opinions about this; and, indeed, in certain periods of the Victorian era they gave vent to these opinions in a most disconcerting manner. But they, too, had been infected with the same disease. ‘Several toasts were given’ (so writes an observer of a workmen’s dinner during the prolonged erection, in the ’70s, of the Albert Memorial) ‘and many of the workmen spoke, almost all of them commencing by “Thanking God that they enjoyed good health”; some alluded to the temperance that prevailed amongst them, others observed how little swearing was ever heard, whilst all said how pleased and proud they were to be engaged on so great a work.’ (Lytton Strachey, Queen Victoria, p. 324.)

G. Dangerfield, The strange death of liberal England (1936), 181

The principles of progress and reform had been those of wisdom and justice in every age of the world

He [Dr Arnold] was, as he consistently declared, a Liberal. In his opinion, by the very constitution of human nature, the principles of progress and reform had been those of wisdom and justice in every age of the world - except one: that which preceded the fall of man from paradise. Had he lived then Dr Arnold would have been a Conservative.

L. Strachey, Eminent Victorians (1918), 174

He could not withstand the last enchantment of the Middle Age

If Newman had never lived, or if his father when the gig came round on the fatal morning, still undecided between the two Universities, had chanced to turn the horse's head in the direction of Cambridge, who can doubt that the Oxford Movement would have flickered out its little flame unobserved in the Common Room of Oriel. And how different, too, would have been the fate of Newman himself! ... At Oxford, he was doomed. He could not withstand the last enchantment of the Middle Age.It was in vain that he plunged into the pages of Gibbon or communed for long hours with Beethoven over his beloved violin. The air was thick with clerical sanctity, heavy with the odours of tradition and the soft warmth of spiritual authority.

[There's actually lots more of this. I'd urge you to read it]

L. Strachey, Eminent Victorians (1918), 23