Part 5

And she, like Nature, has the power of creating in her devotees a minute interest which I rarely experience in other writers. It does not seem to Austenites a foolish thing to inquire what was Mr. Woodhouse's Christian name, a problem only soluble by remembering that he thought it "very pretty" of poor Isabella to call her eldest little boy Henry, and by implication proving that the child, who should have been christened John after his father, was named after his grandfather. And I am proud to remember that when the problem of Mr. Woodhouse's name was propounded to my mother, she solved it at once, and as though it were a question too simple to be asked. Nor does it seem to us trivial that the word given by Frank Churchill to Jane during the "word-game" at Hartfield was 'Pardon.' This was traditionally known in the author's family, indeed Mr. Austen Leigh {66} says that she was always ready to reveal such valuable facts as that Mrs. Norris' "considerable sum" given as a present to William in _Mansfield Park_ was one pound; that Miss Steele never caught the Doctor, and that Mary Bennet married an unfortunate clerk of her uncle Philip's. These revelations lend an air of history to her romance, they give the exciting quality of treasure-trove to the secrets she shares with us. "And here," as children's books say, "a very pretty game may be played by each child saying" what question he would put to the ghost of Jane Austen. For myself I believe I should ask, "Would Fanny Price really have married Crawford if he had not eloped with Miss Bertram?" If in the words of Captain Price there had not been "the devil to pay" in Wimpole Street. Then, too, I should have liked some eugenic information about Elizabeth's (Mrs. Darcy's) children. Because if there was reversion to the type of Lydia it would have been serious. One can fancy Elizabeth retorting that if he said another word about the Lydia type she would pray for an infant possessing all the qualities of Lady Catherine de Burgh, a gift well within the powers of the gods who rule heredity.

I doubt whether Jane Austen consciously painted the results of heredity; rather, I suppose that her memory working instinctively, made, for instance, the Bennet family consist of types recalling the father or mother. She could hardly have known of the questionable theory that the eldest child is commonly inferior to the second, and nevertheless she makes Jane Bennet inferior in capacity to Elizabeth, although so greatly superior to the younger children of Mrs. Bennet's type.

There are other cases of heredity among her characters; for instance, in _Persuasion_, the snobbery and selfishness of Miss Elliott clearly reproduces her father, while Anne, as we know from Lady Russell, was a true child of her mother. I like to fancy that the querulousness and weakness of Mary (Mrs. Charles) was a perverted gentleness coming from her mother, while her vulgarity came from Sir Walter. Then again, Emma had none of Mr. Woodhouse's qualities, and we must suppose her to be a repetition of her mother. Unless, indeed, her general kindliness came from her father, and possibly also the stupidity which wrecked her matrimonial agency. We must, I think, believe that Mrs. Woodhouse had been a managing woman, who probably insisted on Mr. Woodhouse marrying her; thus her instinct for matrimonial scheming was confined (we may fancy) to her own interests. It is too fanciful to suggest that Mrs. Woodhouse had a tinge of hardness in her which came out in Emma's celebrated rudeness to Miss Bates. At any rate, it is certain that it was not a heritage from her father. I knew a lady who could never forgive this slip of poor Emma. And the vividness of this feeling was not a symptom of that want of literary sense which makes the gallery hiss the villain on the stage, but must be taken as a proof of the vitality of the character. Isabella Woodhouse is obviously of her father's type, with hardly a mental feature to remind us of Emma.

In the Bertram family the inheritance is not very clear; the Miss Bertrams seem to show the hard narrowness of Mrs. Norris, and none of the sheep-like good nature and futility of Lady Bertram. I suspect that in Mrs. Norris, hardness and business tendency were an inheritance from her uncle, the Huntingdon solicitor, for we know that he made the harsh and commercial statement that his niece was at least 3000 pounds short of any equitable claim to the hand of Sir Thomas. We do not know anything of the parents of Lady Bertram, but we may suspect that her Ladyship inherited from her mother the soft and cushiony character of which she is a great example. Mrs. Price, with her small income and large family, was unfortunately of the same easy and futile temper. Edward Bertram is obviously his father the Baronet over again, with all his kindness and extreme respectability, while what will ultimately grow into Sir Thomas' pomposity is like the delicate tissues of the sucking pig in Charles Lamb's essay, not to be described by the gross terms applicable to the adult, "Oh, call it not fat! but an indefinable sweetness growing up to it," etc. The elder brother, Tom, who began life as a cheerful, irresponsible person, falls under the family curse in consequence of a mysterious fever, so that he doubtless inherited the fatal tendency from Sir Thomas, together with a certain insouciance and want of heart, which one can imagine to be forms of Lady Bertram's emptiness and Mrs. Norris's hardness.

This is a subject on which a Mendelian inquirer might endlessly speculate, but the characters in fiction being even less susceptible to experiment than our living friends and acquaintance, the interest of the matter is soon exhausted.

It is to be regretted that Miss Austen did not allow the characters of one novel to appear in the next. It is true that this would have upset plots in an absurd way, but I should like to know what would have happened if, when Henry Tilney had made up his mind that he was in love with Catherine, Elizabeth Bennet had appeared? He would surely have repented of his entanglement with Catherine. There is, however, this to be said, that I strongly suspect Elizabeth of being his first cousin. She is so like him that she might have failed to please him, or he may have known her from a little girl and looked on her as a sister. Or the marriages of cousins may have been as impossible among the Tilneys as in the Royal Family of Crim Tartary, where Bulbo's beautiful Circassian cousin simply had to be allowed to die of love for him.

There are many possibilities in the combination of characters now separated by inexorable paper and ink. One can imagine a meeting at Bath between General Tilney and Sir Walter Elliott; they would clearly sympathise, and unless the General has injured his complexion by incautious zeal on active service, which seems unlikely, Sir Walter would have had "no objection to being seen with him anywhere"; he might even have walked arm-in-arm with him as he did with Colonel Wallis, who "was a fine military figure, though sandy haired." Again, Mr. Collins would have been charmed with Mr. Dashwood in _Sense and Sensibility_, for although the two characters are not quite similarly compounded of snobbery and folly, yet there is a common substratum of meanness that must have served as a bond.

It would be interesting to treat the whole of Miss Austen's characters as the flora of a given land is dealt with, to divide them into genera and species, and to provide an analytical key. Take, for instance, the young men: these would correspond to a Natural Order, say the Ranunculaceae, and may be divided, as the following table shows, into two groups, Attractive and Unattractive, and these are subdivided again into four groups which correspond to genera. No. 1, which we should call Brandonia, possesses the three species _Brandonia brandoni_, _ferrarsi_, and _bertrami_, and so on with the rest.

[Picture: Table of characters]

Brandon, Dashwood, Ferrars, R. Ferrars, Willoughby are in _Sense and Sensibility_; E. Bertram, Crawford, Rushworth in _Mansfield Park_; Mr. Collins, Darcy, Wickham in _Pride and Prejudice_; Tilney and Thorpe in _Northanger Abbey_; Mr. Elton, F. Churchill and Knightley in _Emma_; Wentworth and Mr. Elliot in _Persuasion_.

Then of course we should need descriptions to distinguish the species, thus in genus (ii) Darcy would be known by pride, Knightley by calm sense, Tilney by light-hearted cheerfulness, while Wentworth would be easily recognised by his sub-dull character. Naturalists would dispute whether Mr. Elton should be in the same genus as Wickham, or in the quite distinct genus (iv); or again, whether F. Churchill should not be placed with Darcy and Knightley. In the same way Captain Wentworth might perhaps be placed in the dull group with Brandon, Edward Ferrars and Edward Bertram.

I have not attempted to include in the system all the young men who occur in the novels. I leave the completion to those who can devote a life-time to the subject, and who are possessed of the necessary discrimination and patience to marshall and arrange the whole flora of Miss Austen's world.

In connexion with this subject I have found it interesting to read for the first time quite recently Miss Austen's unfinished novels, _Lady Susan_ and _The Watsons_. It is easy to classify some of the characters--thus Mrs. Robert Watson is obviously Mrs. Elton, as, indeed, Mr. Austen Leigh points out in his _Memoir_.

In the following scene the character addressed as Jane is Mrs. Robert Watson, who has come to stay at the house of Mr. Watson, her father-in-law. Elizabeth is the eldest of the Watson girls, and keeps house for her father. "I hope you will find things tolerably comfortable, Jane," said Elizabeth, as she opened the door of the spare bed-chamber. {73}

"My good creature," replied Jane, "use no ceremony with me, I entreat you. I am one of those who always take things as they find them. I hope I can put up with a small apartment for two or three nights without making a piece of work. I always wish to be treated quite _en famille_ when I come to see you. And now I do hope you have not been getting a great dinner for us. Remember we never eat suppers." And then: "Mrs. Robert, exactly as smart as she had been at her own party, came in with apologies for her dress. 'I would not make you wait,' said she, 'so I put on the first thing I met with. I am afraid I am a sad figure. My dear Mr. W. (addressing her husband) you have not put any fresh powder in your hair.'"

This is certainly Mrs. Elton's double, and the resemblance extends to calling her husband Mr. W. It gives one a certain shock of surprise to find an old friend masquerading as a new acquaintance, nor is she the only example in the book. I think the following speech of Mr. Tom Musgrave will recall a well-known character.

"Oh, me," said Tom, "whatever you decide on will be a favourite with me. I have had some pleasant hours at 'speculation' in my time, but I have not been in the way of it for a long while. 'Vingt-un' is the game at Osborne Castle. {74a} I have played nothing but 'Vingt-un' of late. You would be astonished to hear the noise we make there--the fine old lofty drawing-room rings again. Lady Osborne sometimes declares she cannot hear herself speak. Lord Osborne enjoys it famously, and he makes the best dealer without exception that I ever beheld--such quickness and spirit, he lets nobody dream over their cards. I wish you could see him over-draw himself on both his own cards. It is worth anything in the world!"

We may surely recognise the folly and underbred parade of Mr. John Thorpe in Mr. Tom Musgrave's speech. Again, Tom Musgrave plagues Emma just as Thorpe persecuted Catherine by an ill-timed invitation to a _tete-a-tete_ curricle drive.

The heroine, Emma Watson, has no resemblance to Emma Woodhouse. In situation she may be compared to Fanny Price, for she has been brought up by a refined aunt, and is suddenly plunged into the very different manners and surroundings of her pushing jealous sisters; but in character she seems to me to have none of the charm which has given Fanny Price such various admirers as the Rev. Sydney Smith and Mr. F. W. H. Myers. {74b} It is perhaps characteristic of her creator's truth, that her heroine who is made known to us just as she arrives at her new home in uncomfortable surroundings and among unknown sisters, should be reserved and a little prim, and that we should be made to feel that this was not her complete character. Possibly she would have developed into a Fanny Price with a strong touch of Eleanor Dashwood, but this is a barren speculation.

Another unfinished novel was begun in January, 1817, and twelve chapters were written by the middle of March. Miss Austen died on July 18 of that same year. This unnamed novel, to judge by extracts published in the _Memoir_ (p. 181), promised to contain at least one admirable character in the person of Lady Denham, who seems an ill-natured and grasping Mrs. Jennings (if that is not a contradiction in terms), with a strong flavour of Lady Catherine de Burgh.

Miss Austen's works are not only to be studied from the point of view of genetics, nor merely by a naturalist whose desire is to classify without inquiry as to the origin of his species; they also supply material for the geographer. I do not know who first identified the Highbury of _Emma_ with Cobham, as being seven miles from Boxhill and 18 from London ("sixteen miles, nay 18, it must be full 18 to Manchester Street"). The identification is confirmed by a slip on the part of the authoress, who, in a single passage, printed Cobham in place of Highbury. By this method of mensuration my friend the Master of Downing has shown Kellynch Hall in _Persuasion_ to be near Buckland St. Mary, and Mansfield Park to coincide roughly with Easton, near Huntingdon.

The geography of Lyme Regis is of interest.

The party from Upper Cross drove in a leisurely way to Lyme, and the afternoon was well advanced as they descended the steep hill into the village. The hill is doubtless much as it was, and nearly at the bottom are the two hotels mentioned; it is, honestly speaking, impossible to say at which of the two the Musgroves put up. I am inclined to believe it was that on the west side, but my reasons, if indeed they exist, are not worth giving.

The house in which Miss Austen is known to have stayed is probably Captain Harville's. It is near the Cobb, and presents that air of not having much room inside, which we gather from the description in _Mansfield Park_.

But these points are of trifling interest in comparison with the really important question--where did Louisa's accident occur? There are three separate flights of steps on the Cobb, and the local photographer, in the interests of trade, had to fix on one of them as the scene of the jump. I cannot believe that he is right. These steps are too high and too threatening for a girl of that period to choose with such a purpose, even for Louisa, whose determination of character we know to have been one of her charms. Then, again, this particular flight is not (so far as I could make out) in the New Cobb, which is where the accident is described as occurring. It is true that at first sight it hardly looks dangerous enough to bring about the sight which delighted the fishermen of Lyme, namely, a "dead young lady," or rather two, for the sensitive Mary contributed to the situation by fainting. I am, however, confirmed in my belief by what happened to myself, when I went to view the classic spot. I quite suddenly and inexplicably fell down. The same thing happened to a friend on the same spot, and we concluded that in the surprisingly slippery character of the surface lies the explanation of the accident. It had never seemed comprehensible that an active and capable man should miss so easy a catch as that provided by Louisa. But if Captain Wentworth slipped and fell as she jumped, she would come down with him.

I am told that when Tennyson visited Lyme he repelled the proposals of his friends, who wished him to see something of the beauties of the place, and insisted on going straight to the flight of steps. This is an attractive trait in Tennyson's character, but it may not have been pleasing to his hosts.

VI. THE EDUCATION OF A MAN OF SCIENCE

An Address to the Association of University Women Teachers, January 13, 1911

In the following pages I propose to give my own experience of education, that is to say, not of educating others, but of being educated. It seems to me that the education of one's youth becomes clear to one in middle life and old age; and that what one sees in this retrospect may be worth some rough record and some sort of criticism. One may, of course, be mistaken about what was bad and what was good in one's training. But the experience of the pupil is, at the least, one aspect of the question. And I think that the memories of how we were taught is something much more definite and vivid, something that can be more easily made interesting to one's readers, than the generalised experience gained as a teacher.

Any record of education which extends fifty years back has a certain value, and my experience may serve as a stepping-stone to that of my father, of which we fortunately have an account in his own words, and these take us back to a period more than one hundred years ago.

Those of us who are inclined to despair over education as an inherent misfortune of youth, may be encouraged by this putting down of milestones, and may almost believe that we have moved in the right direction. Whereas, to those optimists who are cheerfully and unhesitatingly educating their allotted prey of children, it may be as salutary, as a cautionary story, to realise that the same optimism ruled one hundred years ago, when the Eton latin grammar was a symbol to innumerable complacent schoolmasters of what was best in the best of all possible worlds. But the chief part of what I have to say is autobiographical, and I have only an occasional remark to make on the progress and improvement that have occurred in education.

My ignorance of educational methods may probably lead me to repeat what is well known; because what seems to me bad in my training has doubtless been recognised as such by modern teachers, nor can I hope to have anything very new to say about what seems to me to have been good.

As children, we, my brothers and sisters, were treated by our parents in a way the very reverse of the pitiless 18th and early 19th century manner--the spirit of those surprising stories such as the _Purple Jar_, where the child is deceived by her abominable parent. In fact, a chief characteristic of our parents' treatment of us was their respect for our liberty and our personality. We were made to feel that we were "creatures whose opinions and thoughts were valuable to them."

The happy relations with our elders which we enjoyed in the holidays to some extent counteracted the evil effects of going to school. The worst of a boarding-school is that it is a republic of children, where the citizens are saturated in the traditions and conventions peculiar to themselves, and are, for more than half their lives, deprived of the saner ideals of grown-up people. Before we went to school we were taught by governesses. I cannot help wishing that we had had foreign teachers who would have taught us to speak their language--a thing that can be done so easily in childhood. I have never got over the want of fluent French and German, and I resent the fact that I should be condemned to feel like a child or a boor in the presence of foreigners. We are taught Latin and Greek because, as we are assured, they introduce us to the finest literature in the world. To most boys they do nothing of the kind, and are an intolerable burden. French and German taught by the oral methods really do introduce us to whole nations of minds that are otherwise cut off from us; and not merely minds mirrored in books, but more especially those of human beings as given in speech.

This is all very familiar, I only mention it because it is a special case of a wider question, namely: How much can be safely poured into a receptive child which he will be thankful for as he gets older? I mean, rather: What is the proportion that ought to be maintained between learning to reason, _e.g._, Euclid; exercising the attentive faculties, _e.g._, in plodding through a Latin book with a dictionary; and the more or less mechanical acquirement, as in learning by heart? Why was I not taught addition by memorising tables as in the case of multiplication? It could have been built into the structure of my mind equally well, and would have saved much misery. It is, of course, essential that what is learned should be true. I have heard a credibly attested story of a dame-school at the beginning of last century, where class and teacher were heard chanting together: Twice 1 is 2, twice 2 is 3, twice 3 is 4, etc.

I certainly believe in learning by heart, and I am grateful for having learned many dates at school; most of them are forgotten, but enough to be of some use are retained. The worst of it is that I am as likely to know the date of the Flood as that of the Fire of London, and of the battle of Arbela as that of Worcester.

I am also grateful for having been made to learn Shakespeare by heart, although we had to do it before breakfast. I do not imagine that I now remember any of it, but it gave me some idea of the beauty of literature, which I hardly gained at all from the classics. It also started me reading Shakespeare out of school. I believe this is the easiest way of supplying some modicum of literature to a boy who cannot get it out of Latin and Greek. And a kind of Cowper-Temple Shakespeare, without note or comment, is more effective than regular so-called literary lessons, and the worrying of boys about the metre or the difference between a hawk and a handsaw. A boy does not want to understand everything, and he likes to get his poetry in a book which looks as if it were meant for reading, not for cramming or for holiday tasks.

Personally, I also resent that I was not taught at school to read music by the sol-fa system, which is another of the things that can be poured into most children not only easily but with pleasure to themselves. I have been assured by a learned musician, that in the 17th century reading music was as much a sign of culture as reading a book. There was recently an excellent letter in the _Times_ {82} on public school music, pleading that boys should be allowed to drop, let us say greek iambics, and devote the time to serious musical study. The writer describes how at a certain school a good professional orchestra gives a concert once in each term, for which the boys are prepared by having the themes of the movements, _e.g._ of a Beethoven symphony, played over to them on the piano and expounded. He describes how an athletic boy, a member of the football team, declared, when the concert was over, that there was nothing to live for during the rest of the half, apparently not even football. No wonder that the writer of this letter should respectfully deride a former Head Master of Eton for his approval of choral singing, on account of its "moral and political value."