FRANCIS NEWMAN AS A TEACHER
Francis Newman was certainly one of the greatest mathematical and
classical scholars of his day. So that when the authorities of University
College secured him for their staff, they knew that they could have
obtained no better man for their purpose.
As a teacher he showed an infinite fertility of method in dealing with the
young men who, there for the purpose of learning, yet did not always
_want_ to learn! He had, in especial, that rather vague and narrow
definition of genius--"an infinite capacity for taking pains." He "took"
them always with any scholar who had failed to grasp his meaning in some
one of his instructions. He could put the whole matter in some absolutely
new light--take it from an utterly different point of view; so that, while
giving another chance to the slow-witted, he did not keep his whole class
waiting. The quality of teaching is not strained. It is doubtful if it is
capable of being learnt, if not in the first instance, in some measure,
innate. Lying dormant in a man's being--even if, perhaps, its presence is
unrecognized by its owner--it can certainly be developed by him when he is
conscious of it. But if the power in embryo be absent, it is a difficult
matter indeed to attain by effort any capacity of which one has not
already the beginnings in oneself. Indeed, a famous writer of another age
has written the word "impossible" against this attempt.
Frank Newman could, and would, take any trouble to help any dull student
over some mathematical or classical stile, but he was not an adept at
quickly getting into touch with that Presence which has moved, in
whimsical measure, through the ways and by-ways of this life since the
world began with coat of many colours, upon which the sun of merry
imagination was always sparkling, and cap and bells which could for the
moment ring sudden, spontaneous mirth across the shadows of the darkest
day. If in medieval days it could cross the cell of some grave and
reverend monastery, and guide the hand of some sculptor busy at his
gargoyle for some majestic church, surely it could, with the greatest ease
in the world, cross the threshold of some crowded class-room where a
learned, absorbed professor was endeavouring to gain the attention of a
number of young men rejoicing in their youth and on the look-out for the
first suggestion of the Spirit of Humour. Frank Newman was not quick at
appreciating the quips and cranks, the--to others--irresistibly mirth-
provoking sallies of humour. He was not quick at seeing a joke. And when
middle age was well past with him, he did not always see when he had
himself been provocative of an upset of gravity on the part of the
students. He did not always discover in time the pranks and designs for
diverting the course of true knowledge in which the average young
Englishman loves to indulge. He had not a very close focus for this sort
of thing, and probably the reason was, that he was so absolutely absorbed
in the subject which he was teaching or upon which he was lecturing. But
in teaching a mixed class of boys or young men it is a _sine quâ non_ that
one possesses a "mind's eye" with easily adjustable focus, as in a
photographic camera; otherwise one cannot keep in mental touch with those
members of the class who "come to" play "and remain to" distract the
attention of fellow-students. Another reason why Newman did not appeal to
these non-studious ones was attributable to the fact that he was, in many
ways, very eccentric both in manner and dress. Now, everyone who knows the
average English boy at all, knows that if there is one thing he cannot
stand it is eccentricity. To be eccentric is to be taboo. As regards the
"correct" thing to wear, and the "correct" thing to do and how to do it,
he is generally quite as particular as the average young woman over
fashion. And anyone who offends in these respects has his name written
upon the ostracisic shell. If it happens to be a master--well, his
peculiarities are quite enough to divert the boy's attention successfully
from the weightier matters in which the master is vainly endeavouring to
instruct him.
Sir Alfred Wills, Mr. Winterbotham, Sir Edward Fry, Mr. William de Morgan,
and others, to whose kindness I am indebted for many reminiscences of
Professor Newman as a teacher, tell me that he had many eccentricities
which perpetually aroused their sense of humour. Sir Edward Fry tells me
that his manner, when he himself was at college in 1848, was "somewhat
nervous, perhaps even a little irritable, and he was not exactly popular
as a professor. But his lectures were very interesting and stimulating."
He adds that he was "a very brilliant scholar, with a tendency towards
eccentricity."
This eccentricity showed itself in various forms, but one very noticeable
one was that of dress. I am told by a friend that he often dressed in the
onion fashion--three coats one over the other, and the last one--green!
That he often wore trousers edged with a few inches of leather, and that
his hats were not immaculate. Well, perhaps it has never been quite
understood from what part of old and unfashionable attire the Spirit of
Humour winks at one with such twinkling fun in the corner of its eye that
laughter is irresistible. But none the less, few there are of us who have
not--though it may be against our steadier and wiser judgment--at some
time or other caught sight of that wink, and laughed spontaneously. To
everyone who saw it, when the relics were collected and placed in his old
house in Cheyne Row, Carlyle's old 'top' hat was irresistibly funny.
Nothing loses caste more completely than a top hat when it is behind the
time, and the shine is off the silk.
Sir Alfred Wills mentions, in the reminiscences which follow, which he has
kindly sent me, that at one time Newman "took to walking from his house"
(in town) "to the college and back in cap and gown." This, however, was
not such a startling vagary of costume in a London street as was that of a
certain professor of my acquaintance, very absent-minded and dreamy, who,
intent on making some abstruse point clear to a young lady pupil, walked
one evening round and round a London square with her, talking earnestly,
and attired in his top hat and dressing-gown!
As regards Newman's teaching of Latin, Sir Alfred Wills says that "much
the best thing that" he "got from" him "was the practice in writing" it.
He tells us that his lectures showed signs of the most profound research,
and that he took untiring trouble in explaining any difficulty which had
arisen. If the difficulty had been that of some member of one of his
classes, he would not keep the whole class waiting while he went over the
difficult part of the lesson again, but he would approach the subject from
an altogether different point of view, and throw, for the class _in toto_,
a new light upon it.
Of course it was not only in Latin that he wished to make pupils think of
it as a "spoken language," for Mr. Darbishire tells us that "one of his
special endeavours was to accustom his students to deal with Greek _as a
spoken language_" [Footnote: It will be remembered that Francis Newman
introduced the "new" pronunciation of Latin.] (as, for instance) "in
reading Greek plays." Mr. Darbishire further tells us that Newman was
accustomed to have a series of meetings in his study for conversation in
Latin.
As regards old methods of teaching Latin, I should like to quote from a
paper on "Modern Latin" which Francis Newman wrote in 1862, because there
is very much in what he says which shows where the failure of the old
system comes in:--
"In general the old method was one of repetition: _it dealt immensely in
committing Latin to memory_. Ridiculous as was the system of giving to
boys a Latin syntax in the Latin language, it at any rate did accustom
them to the reiteration of a small number of words expressed in very
simple sentences, and conveying knowledge of _immediate utility_.... While
I nevertheless believe that at most schools the boys still learn grammar
by heart, I venture to remark that the newer method of teaching, so far as
known to me, has immensely lessened the _quantity_ of Latin which is thus
learned....
"Further, it seems to me that we want what I may call a Latin novel or
romance--that is, a pleasing _tale_ of _fiction_ which shall convey
numerous Latin words which do not easily find a place in poetry, history,
or philosophy. Nothing has struck me as being so much to the purpose as an
imitation of the story of Robinson Crusoe, which brings in much that is
technical to special occupations--as in nautical affairs--carpentering,
fowling, pottery, basket-making, agriculture, etc.... If anyone had genius
to produce in Terentian style Latin comedies worthy of engaging the minds
and hearts of youth (for I can never read a play of Terence to a young
class without the heartache), I should regard this as a valuable
contribution."
I pass on now to some reminiscences, kindly contributed by Sir Alfred
Wills, of the professor in relation to his University College students in
1846:--
"I have a very distinct recollection of the personality of Mr. F. W.
Newman. He was appointed to the Professorship of Latin in University
College in 1846, and I entered the college in October, 1846, and attended
his first lecture and all those he delivered in the course of that
session.
"He was of middle stature, very well made, with a face that always
reminded me of the type of the North American Indian, with which I was
familiar from Mrs. Catlin's book published in 1841. His complexion was
dark, his hair very black and with no tendency to curl, and he wore it
long, and his nose was aquiline. He differed from the Indian type,
however, in that his face was rather narrow than broad.
"His voice was particularly clear and 'carrying,' and every syllable could
be heard. I ought to have added to my description that his eyes were blue,
bright, very expressive, and his smile, not very often seen, peculiarly
sweet and engaging. He was decidedly eccentric. At one time, in dirty
winter weather, he wore trousers of which the lower six or eight inches
were of black leather; and at another time, upon what occasion I forget,
he took to walking from his house to the college and back in cap and gown.
There was a 'Cap and Gown' movement among the students, or some of them,
in the session 1847-8, but it was not upon that occasion, for I remember
seeing him in the streets in cap and gown, and during the session 1847-8,
I was at home in bad health, having overworked myself. He would now and
then, very seldom, ask some of the students to breakfast at his house. It
was an odd mixture of hospitality and formality. He never seemed quite at
his ease on such occasions, and I have a very distinct remembrance of one
of these occasions.
"It was in singularly gloomy and bitter weather in the winter or very
early spring of 1849. We were rather a large party. There was no fire
either in the room in which we assembled or in the breakfast room; and I
have not often been colder. There was only one guest who was not a
student, and he was a certain Herr Vukovich (that was how the name was
pronounced) who had been Hungarian Minister of Justice during the short
period when Kossuth was supreme in Hungary.
"When he came in, Professor Newman said: 'Gentlemen, this is Herr
Vukovich, lately Minister of Justice in Hungary,' and then turning to Herr
V., he added, 'I shall not introduce these gentlemen to you by name, as it
would be of no interest to you; and besides, you would forget their names
at once'; and then he went off at score with, 'I have never been able to
understand, Herr Vukovich, how it is that you have never introduced the
Bactrian camel into Hungary,' and then proceeded to enlarge upon the
admirable suitability of the Bactrian camel to the climate, soil, roads,
conditions of Hungary. Herr V. _looked_ very much as if he had never heard
of the Bactrian camel.
"During the whole of the session 1846-7, Newman's lectures were the wonder
of all who heard him. We read with him some of Cicero's letters to
Atticus, and his stores of information of every description--antiquarian,
philological, historical, and literary--were absolutely marvellous. I have
never destroyed or lost my notes of them, and I feel sure that they would
justify all that I have said. We all felt that we had secured for the
college an intellectual giant. I had the great advantage of being, during
my first session, in the senior class in both Latin and Greek, and we had
for our Greek Professor Mr. Malden, who, I should think, was unsurpassed
for sound and elegant scholarship, and in whose lectures I delighted from
first to last during my two sessions (1846-7 and 1848-9), but certainly
during the first session, Professor Newman's lectures were those which
made upon me the deepest impression, which remains unimpaired to this day.
It seemed as if no trouble was too great for him to take in preparing for
them and as if nothing which could throw any light upon a set of letters,
which are often obscure and difficult, ever escaped his eagle eye or his
profound research. When I returned to college in 1848, I met with a
profound disappointment. I have been asked for my recollections, and I
must make them truthful. Professor Newman was at that time much engrossed
with his theological and religious works.
"_The Soul_ was published in 1849, and whether that may account for the
change or not, the fact is that the lectures of that session presented a
marked contrast to those of the earlier session, and I don't think I am
exaggerating when I say that they were dry and jejune to the last extent.
And I felt throughout that session that much the best thing I got from it
was the practice in writing Latin, which was always an important part of
his teaching, and in which he was a master himself. I am sure it is true
that days often passed without there being anything in the lectures which
I cared to preserve or even to note. I had that year, however, the
privilege of reading the Nicomachean Ethics with him as a private pupil,
and found him as good in Greek and as interested in illustration as I had
previously found him in his Latin lectures.
"I forbear to touch upon his private character. That impressed itself
insensibly upon us as worthy of the highest respect. But it was simply
from the natural effluence of a noble character, for we came rarely into
anything like personal intimacy with him. He was reserved and even shy,
and I doubt if any of us knew much more of him privately than I did--which
was not much."
I think these reminiscences of Sir Alfred Wills bring before us very
vividly the sort of intercourse which existed between professor and pupil
in those days. It reveals Newman as a man with whom the pupil would not
feel altogether at his ease--towards whom he would not be moved to get
into close sympathy, and this, perhaps, very largely because of a certain
stiffness and formality of manner which unavoidably erects a barrier
before any natural, spontaneous conversation.
Sir Edward Fry mentions Newman's manner as a "nervous" one, but says that
his lectures were very stimulating, leading one to infer that even if the
delivery was not arresting or impressive, yet all this was made up for by
the force and brilliance of the matter itself.
It will be remembered that, at any rate, in his Oxford days, J. H. Newman
had not an impressive manner either.
We come now to some other keenly interesting recollections--those of Mr.
William de Morgan, who has kindly written them for this memoir. Mr. de
Morgan tells me that his father and Francis Newman were old friends, but
they were widely apart on religious questions, and that he remembers "when
the Martineau controversy was at its height" he said to him: "Newman and I
were very old colleagues, and I loved and respected him. But if I had been
supposed to have any official knowledge of Newman's views about
Christianity derived from my position as a Professor, I should have thrown
up my situation long ago." And Mr. de Morgan adds: "This had reference to
the absolute agnosis on religious views which was the banner U.C. nailed
to the mast in old days." He says he remembers, in his boyhood, that there
were many religious discussions between his parents and Francis Newman,
but that he was far too young to understand what they were about then, and
remembers them consequently but vaguely.
"When I came to see more of Newman as a Professor in class, I had arrived
at the condition of a pert and very foolish boy of sixteen who had made up
his mind to be an artist and failed altogether to take advantage of the
splendid opportunities before him. I attended Newman's classes; saw him
every day; might have acquired the knowledge of much of the Latin
classics. Somehow I missed my chances, and I cannot now recall a single
instance of my availing myself of the interviews he accorded so gladly to
any attentive student to get at difficult passages, and so on. In my time
I suspect his classes included a larger number than usual of bad and idle
young scaramouches, who deserved to be turned out of the class, instead of
the sort of over-forbearance their Professor showed. I feel sure now that
a more truculent character than his would have enforced order better, with
advantage to the weak and wavering pupils. He treated boys too much like
human creatures--and some of us were as mischievous as monkeys. I
recollect a particular instance illustrating this fact and his
forbearance.
"The weather was bad, and bad colds abounded. One day Newman ventured to
remonstrate gently with the victims of catarrh--indeed, the noise was
awful. But he had the indiscretion to add: 'Gentlemen, if you cannot wipe
your noses, I must really ask you to blow them outside the door.' Of
course the results were awful! The young imps rushed out incessantly into
the passage, and made noises like motor-cars. If the Professor committed
an error of judgment in his first edict, he certainly made up for it by
the way he kept his temper. In this he was really perfect. But the boys
presumed on it, of course. I remember that one of them, instead of
attending to his _Juvenal_, wrote a long poem about this nose incident,
which passed from hand to hand.
"There was another incident about that time which I fancy others may
remember better than I. It was snow time, and the schoolboys in the
playground were pelting papers in the college precinct. Newman passed by,
and a heavy volley all but destroyed his umbrella, which he used as a
shield. A few days after he came into the Common Room with a new umbrella.
'See what a beautiful present I've had,' he said, 'from my young friends
across the railings.' I have an impression that it was a guinea umbrella
bought with penny subscriptions; but this may be another story that has
got mixed with it."
Sir Edward Fry writes, in response to a request from me for his
recollections of Newman:--
"I attended Professor Newman's senior class on Latin literature for two or
three sessions in 1848, and I have a very vivid remembrance of him; at
that time he had not assumed a beard, and his clean-cut features were not
obscured by hair, as in later life. His lectures were very interesting and
stimulating. If I may venture to express an opinion on the point, I should
describe him as a very brilliant scholar, with a tendency towards
eccentricity.
"We read whilst I was with him some three or four of the early works of
Livy, and some of the histories of Tacitus; and his expansion of the
Constitution of Rome, both at the early and later date, was of very
unusual excellence. Such was my memory, and this has been confirmed by a
reference to my notebooks which I have made in consequence of your note. I
think his estimate of character did not always agree with that of Tacitus.
Other subjects which I recollect as having been expounded were the
relation of Latin to the Celtic group of languages, and that everlasting
question, the relation of the Etruscans and the Pelasgi.
"Once a week Newman used to give out a piece of English prose to be
rendered into Latin; these he corrected, reading also to us his own
version. Since your note I have looked at such notes of his lectures as I
can find, and at his corrections of my Latin prose."
Mr. Talfourd Ely, writing on Francis Newman as a teacher, says "he was
most careful and conscientious in his work. He was refined and even
fastidious in literary taste. To the ordinary undergraduate, such as
myself, he seemed too little like other men. We did not understand his
genius, and were too apt to judge him by peculiarities of garb and speech.
Like many other scholars, he could hardly keep in touch with young
athletes, and probably did not care to do so. But personally I was greatly
indebted to him, and I can never forget his generous help and kindly
thoughtfulness."
Mr. Winterbotham, also pupil of Francis Newman, says:--
"I was more keen on mathematics than classics, and was not what he would
have considered a promising pupil. My brother Edward, who was a year my
senior, was not much better.... My recollections are confined to the
peculiarities of his dress and manner: the rug with a hole in the middle
for his head, which formed his outer garment in winter. The complete suit
of dark grey alpaca, _tail_ coat, waistcoat, and trousers, which he donned
in warm weather.
"His remonstrance to the class on the indignity inflicted on him by the
boys at the adjoining school, who snowballed him and broke his umbrella,
was followed by his request that they would 'use their influence with the
boys' by way of protecting him in future, and his recognition of their
efforts next day, when he exhibited a new umbrella presented to him by the
boys.... For dear old De Morgan [Footnote: Father of the Mr. de Morgan who
contributes his reminiscences, and old friend of Newman.] I had a great
regard, and I was better able to appreciate his marvellous powers as a
mathematician."
Here is a short reminiscence by Professor Pye Smith:--
"Newman was a small, dark, slightly-built man, with black moustache and
beard, and a doubtful affected manner. He made us read long passages
without comment, and rarely went beyond the translation. I do not think I
ever spoke to him (or others of his class). The memory of his teaching
would, I think, be most valuable in correcting the Latin verses we made
for his comment and correction. The only professors at that time whom I
got great benefit from were Aston Key, De Morgan, and Masson."
The next reminiscence belongs to a much later date in the Professor's
life. In 1863 he was no longer teaching at University College. Mrs.
Kingsley Tarpey says she remembers him first in the summer of 1874 or
1875. Her descriptions of him, his opinions, and his life as she knew it
are full of keen interest.
[Illustration: FRANCIS NEWMAN
IN MIDDLE AGE
FROM PHOTO BY JOHN DAVIES, WESTON-SUPER-MARE]
In the quotation from a letter which follows, Professor Newman's own views
on teaching at the college are given:--
"You say there is a complaint that '_as the students cannot be got to
prepare their work_ the lessons _have come to be_ mere prelections from
the professors.' I am not aware of any change in the pupils since I have
been here, except that my classes are smaller, in part owing to the
removal of Coward College and the rivalry of the new institution in which
it is now comprised; in part (I happen to know) from dread of my personal
... influence; in part, I suspect, from the working of London University,
which I think bad; and others must add, whether worst of all is, my own
want of judgment in selecting subjects, and the mode of the treatment.
Undeniable it is that my classes are smaller, that my half-dozen best
scholars are decidedly below the half-dozen best I had in the first year
or two. But if I am myself to blame, it is, I think, _from the very
reverse process_ of that implied in the words above quoted, viz. I often
question whether it would not be at once wiser and more right to raise my
teaching to the small minority of my best pupils, and ignore the many who
come in on my classes unprepared. I have of late suspected that I allow
the University so to drag me down into school teaching that the abler and
advanced students are driven away from me. Moreover, I am getting quite
sick of going again and again over elementary books in mere school
fashion.
"To vary this, I have this term given one day a week in my senior class to
lecture _on_ books, viz. 1st, on Horace's _Odes_, which nine out of ten
have already read, and which I myself read with the junior class last
session (having engaged to do this before I guessed that the University
would select the same year for B.A.), and many of the junior class being
this year in my senior class. 2nd, on the _Epistles_ of Cicero, which are
enormously too long and too difficult for pupils to read, and in which,
nevertheless, candidates for honours at B.A. are liable to be examined. I
conjecture that somebody has seen this announcement of mine in our
prospectus, and imputes it to a _relaxation of discipline_ in my pupils
(indeed there is little enough, and always was, in the majority of mine;
they only want to scrape through their degree, and the University kindly
keeps its real demands at a minimum). On the contrary, it is an effort of
mine to make the lectures less unworthy of my more advanced pupils. I may
add that I have _always_ lectured more or less in this way on Cicero's
_Letters_.... At the same time I avow my entire dissatisfaction with
things as I have them. In June I have to print and publish the books in
which I will lecture from October to June next, _while I have not the
slightest idea who will be in the classes_. In August, out comes the
statement of University books for the following year, which often
increases my confusion. It is easier to complain of this than to remedy
it."
It is not difficult to understand Newman's point of view as regards the
almost impossibility of keeping in hand in one class a team of students--
some eagerly desirous of going forward into the real study of literature,
and others only anxious to "scrape through" for the purpose of obtaining
their degree.
Mrs. Kingsley Tarpey's reminiscences begin thus:--
I think it was in the summer of 1874 or 1875 that Professor Newman first
came to visit us. My mother had been much interested in some articles of
his on vegetarianism, and had corresponded with him on the subject, and
when the Annual Conference of the Vegetarian Society was held in
Manchester later on, he stayed with us. This visit was the beginning of a
very warm friendship with our family, which lasted close on twenty years.
During that time my mother corresponded regularly with Professor Newman,
but unfortunately only some eighteen or twenty of his letters have been
preserved. There is scarcely one of these, however, that does not contain
something of permanent interest and value.
I remember very well, in the days when we used to have visits from him,
that Professor Newman was looked upon by very many as a mere faddist. His
extreme views on several subjects no doubt took him out of range of the
sympathies of the "man in the street." But it is strange to find, on
looking through these letters, how advanced opinion is coming into line
with his so-called outrageous ideas of a generation ago. It would have
given him keen pleasure, if he could have lived till now, to see the
strides that have been made of late years in the Women's Suffrage
movement, and the admission of women to public bodies. In social and moral
reform, and in the Temperance movement also, the progress has been very
marked, and we may soon have an Act prohibiting the smoking of tobacco by
young boys--a matter on which Professor Newman had very strong views.
Last, but not least, the Vegetarian movement, in which he took so keen an
interest, has gained new vigour from the advocates of the simple life.
I remember that on the occasion of his first visit we children regarded
him with mingled awe and curiosity. His quaint appearance and his formal,
deliberate manner of speech made him seem to us like a being from another
world. We were at once fascinated and repelled, and I think he became at
first the object of our constant, though furtive, observation. But his
unvarying gentle kindness and extreme simplicity very soon won our
confidence, and later on an accident made us his fast friends and
admirers.
It happened that the second or third time that he came to Manchester for
the annual meeting of the Vegetarian Society, my father and mother were
away, and it fell to the younger members of the household to entertain our
distinguished visitor. It was an occasion looked forward to with
trepidation and misgiving, but we need not have felt alarmed. No one could
have been more genial in his attitude to the youthful housekeepers. He
would chat easily and pleasantly with even the youngest of us, and he
always managed to find some interesting topic. Sometimes he would give us
an account of the doings at the Conference during the day. I remember some
curious facts about some of the members. One man ate nothing but apples,
and considered them a complete and ideal food for man. Another varied his
diet between roots and nuts. He carried assorted strange nuts with him in
his pocket, and after his speech he presented some to the President. Our
Professor brought them home with him and wished us to try them, but I am
afraid that, with the conservative instinct of young animals, we
distrusted the unknown, and we did not venture. The Professor considered
that our molar teeth clearly indicated grain, roots, and nuts as our food,
and the incisors as clearly suggested fruit, but at that time he was in
some doubt about the canine teeth. At his request some of us gravely
cracked nuts with him, and after the experiment we agreed that human
beings more naturally crack nuts with the back teeth, where leverage is
most powerful. A suspicion remained that our pointed fangs _might_ have
been used to tear flesh!
During this same visit it was suggested that the Society should change its
name to one that would describe it more accurately, "Vegetarian,"
strictly, implying that the members would eat only vegetables. There was
much difficulty in finding a portmanteau word that would convey
vegetables, eggs, and milk. Professor Newman much disliked the idea of
calling it the VEM Society (the name that was afterwards adopted, I
think); his proposal was "Anti-creophagite," or "Anti-creophagist." But he
could get no support for this name; members objected that no one would
know what it meant or how to spell it. Professor Newman had been pained to
learn that only two or three people in the hall knew the Greek word.
He was very much interested in language, and it was characteristic of him
never to pass a word that he did not know. He had a great dislike and
contempt for _slang_, and he deplored the growing use of it, and the
impoverishment of the language that resulted. But dialect words, or old
words that lingered in some parts of the country, while they had dropped
out of common speech, interested him greatly. One day a younger sister of
mine brought him a footstool as he sat reading, and in offering it to him
called it a "buffet." It is not a word in common use, but I think we had
adopted it from the nursery rhyme about "Miss Muffett, who sat on a
buffet." The Professor was on the alert at once.
"That word is quite new to me," he said. "Did you say 'bussock'? I wonder
is that a Lancashire word, or does it come from Ireland? 'Bussock'! Will
you spell it for me, please?"
My sister was far too young and too shy to correct him, and after faintly
murmuring "buffet" again, she ran away in extreme confusion. I am afraid
"bussock" went down in the Professor's notebook as an interesting variant
of "hassock."
In this connection some delightful stories were told by Dr. Nicholson, of
Penrith, an old friend of Professor Newman's and of my father's. The
Professor was staying at Penrith, and the two friends had been walking up
a steep path. When they stopped to rest, the doctor was regretting that
his climbing days were virtually over.
"The truth is," he said humorously, "we are neither of us as steady on our
pins as we once were."
"Pins, Nicholson, pins! What are _pins_?" asked Professor Newman gravely.
On another occasion they were out walking together and the first Lord
Brougham passed them in an open carriage. Dr. Nicholson remarked upon Lord
Brougham wearing "goggles," and Professor Newman said, in his gentle
deliberate way, "Now, Nicholson, may I ask what you exactly mean by
'goggles'?"
The Professor wore hats that in those days were considered amazing: large
white or light grey hats made of soft felt. On one of his visits to
Penrith he had walked up from the station to the house, and he was
followed by a crowd of little boys shouting "Who's your hatter?" which was
a catch-phrase of the time. The Professor described to Dr. Nicholson what
an extraordinary interest the boys had shown. "They repeatedly asked me,"
he said, "to tell them who was my hatter, and really, Nicholson, at the
time I could not remember the man's name."
Miss Nicholson, of Penrith, adds another story which should have place
here.
"My own chief recollection of him," she writes, "is of a day when he and
the second Mrs. Newman came into Penrith with me, where I had some
shopping to do. On the way into the town Professor Newman said, 'You do
not seem to be very clear as to the history of John Brown and the battle
of Bull's Run.' I said I was not very clear about it, so he began from the
beginning, so to speak, and the story of John Brown lasted till we reached
home again. I went into shops to make my purchases, and on each occasion
as I came out Professor Newman took up his tale just where he had left
off. He showed no annoyance at the frequent interruptions or at my
inevitable lapses of attention. His wonderfully clear, distinct
enunciation, and his marvellous memory for facts, never faltered."
There was an extraordinary absence of humour about Professor Newman that
made him at times unconsciously very humorous. I wish I could remember the
quaint wording of an advertisement of his for a cook in a vegetarian
paper. There was a long and precise account of the services required for
"the smallest possible family," and application was to be made by letter
to "Emer. Prof. F. W. Newman," etc. We thought some of the cooks might be
puzzled to know what Emer. Prof. meant. I remember also an artless post
card he wrote after one visit explaining that he had forgotten his
_teeth_, and asking to have them sent after him.
He had a very odd theory about baldness in men. It sounds a little like a
joke, but I believe it was meant in all seriousness. He had observed that
men with a very strong growth of beard were more liable to go bald early
than those who had the hair on the face thin and scanty. He described this
as a kind of _landslip_, I remember, and his idea was that human beings
could only have a small crop of hair, and that a good crop on the chin
meant a failure higher up. And that, he thought, accounted for the fact
that women rarely go bald.
At the time of the visit I have described, our whole family had become
enthusiastic vegetarians--indeed, I may say the whole household of
fourteen, for the servants had followed suit. This was a great pleasure to
Professor Newman, for it was through his writings that my mother had first
become interested in the subject. He had great hopes at one time that she
would also share in some other crusades of his against alcohol, tobacco,
vaccination, etc. etc. He sent her a great number of leaflets and
pamphlets on all these subjects, but though my father was a non-smoker and
almost a total abstainer, he was so from habit and inclination and not
from any pledge, and I do not remember that the Professor made any convert
except myself. I came across a bundle of tracts of his which no one seemed
to be reading, and I devoured them all. For some years, from about the age
of fifteen, I was an enthusiastic follower of Professor Newman, even in
his most extreme ideas. I am afraid he never became aware of this,
however, for of course it was only with the older members of the family
that he would discuss such questions.
The most enjoyable visit we ever had from him was also the last of any
length that he paid us. I think it must have been in the summer of 1879 or
1880, when we were living in the country a few miles from Manchester. It
was then I first learnt what a delight a country walk might be. He joined
some of the younger members of the party who were taking the dogs out for
a run, and I do not think two hours were ever spent by us in a more
interesting and fascinating way. He had the rare and charming gift, in
talking to young people, of making them feel that he regarded them as
equals. And though he was imparting knowledge all the time, he had the air
of being really more interested in what they had to contribute. That walk
was a revelation to me, a kind of treasure trove of natural science.
Hitherto my love of nature had been almost entirely aesthetic and
poetical, and this walk with the Professor gave me a new pleasure and a
new interest in country life.
I should run into great length if I were to set down all the little traits
and incidents that go to make up the memory of that gentle and charming
personality. His eccentricities were entirely lovable, as we knew them,
and even when he meant to be severe his unconsciously humorous way of
putting things took away the sting, as when, one day at lunch, he pointed
at a jug of claret and asked, "What is that ugly black liquid? I say ugly
and black because I believe it to be some kind of wine."
He had kind and courteous ways with women, and he surprised one by his
thoughtfulness in domestic matters. There was no subject too small or too
remote for his consideration. I remember his showing us a new scientific
way to build a fire, lighting it from the top; and it is upon a lesson of
his on rural sanitation that I have based my own management of those
matters in our country home. I have a pleasant memory of his holding a
skein of wool for me to wind one wet afternoon, and of his telling me the
while of his observations of a family of _bugs_. He was travelling in the
East, and at some place where he stayed was much distressed by vermin. At
last he discovered that a procession of bugs came out nightly from a
certain crack in the plaster, and by removing the paper he could get a
very good view of the colony with the aid of a glass. He did not disturb
them, it is needless to say, but watched them during his stay, and learnt
many curious things about their habits and customs. He formed a very high
opinion of their intelligence, I remember.
One day he came in and found my mother and some of us sitting sewing; he
asked if he might read to us, and said that his mother and sister used to
like him to read to them when they had work to do. I do not remember in
the least what he read to us, though I am sure it was appropriate and
instructive; but I remember well that he stood while he read, and that his
delivery was as clear and as careful as if he had been reading to a large
audience.
After his second marriage we saw him but little, but my mother heard from
him now and then, and he often sent her articles he had written. In the
last years of his life he wrote but seldom. I give extracts from letters
over a period of about eighteen years.
FRANCIS NEWMAN IN PRIVATE LIFE
BY MRS. BAINSMITH, SCULPTOR
My father and mother were very great personal friends of Newman's,
consequently I saw a great deal of him during my early girlhood.
My father was the late George Bucknall, of Rockdene, Weston-super-Mare,
and for many years was a great invalid. He suffered from locomotor ataxy.
Professor Newman lived just across the road from our house: we could often
see him walking about his garden, or sitting at his library window, and
very often he came across to our house to discuss his books or letters
with my father.
As a young girl I remember the great fascination of his courtly, genial
manners. I shall never forget my first interview with him. It happened on
my return home from school for the holidays. Being much distressed at
having to change from the old pronunciation of Latin to the "new," it
occurred to my father that I should ask Professor Newman to help me. So I
went in to see him. He was sitting by the fire in large fur-lined boots
made of felt, and wearing two coats (for he always found it difficult to
keep sufficiently warm). When I stated my difficulty, he went to his
shelves with his wonderful smile (the room was lined from floor to ceiling
with books) and took out his translation of the _Iliad_, and read it to
me. Then he said quite casually, "Now I will read the same passage to you
in Latin." And he proceeded to read it aloud in a musical voice of
exquisite charm. I cannot express the pleasure which this gave me, nor how
it set me at my ease with him from that moment. He gave me a very warm
invitation to come again, and he would gladly help me in any holiday work
I wanted to do.
I was always specially struck with his way of talking about religion. He
was very reverent in what he said, and it was evident that he was at heart
deeply religious. I mention this because in later years it has been often
a shock to me to find him condemned by others for doubting revealed
religion.
The Professor's special views on foods were very strong, and he had a
great dislike for the custom of rearing cattle for food. Once he gave a
dinner party to show how many choice courses could be served with
vegetarian recipes only. As my mother was ill at the time, I was invited
to go with my father. I remember the delightful way in which he received
us. He presented the "youngest lady" (myself) to the "oldest gentleman"--
the late Professor Jarrett, who was an old college friend of his, and who
was staying with Newman. I remember the awe with which I gazed at him. Mr.
and Mrs. Dymond, Mr. and Mrs. Temperley Grey, and Mr. and Mrs. F. G.
Comfort were among the other guests.
Once, when he was talking to my mother, he said: "You are wearing a nice
coat" (a black fur one). "I suppose it is very dear? How much a yard do
you think it would cost?" As he spoke he looked down at his own coat (the
outside one of three), and said: "I have had this coat twenty years and
cannot match the cloth." This was not to be wondered at, for it was a long
hairy one--quite green with age. Another day I came into the room and
heard the Professor say to my mother quite seriously: "I never can
understand how it is that my hat always interests the idle little boys in
the street. They say as I pass them, 'Where did you get that hat?'
Everyone wears a hat of one shape or another, and I really fail to see why
_mine_ should be so very interesting."
He was wearing a soft felt hat with a very broad brim, set far back on his
head; and with his peculiar American-looking beard and thin grey locks
that came down over the high Gladstone collar which he always wore, and a
black and white shepherd's-plaid scarf wound round his neck and twisted
over in front with its ends tucked into his waistcoat, he looked
sufficiently odd.
I remember once running as fast as I could to catch the post, and as I
started I saw the Professor in front of me, evidently bent on attaining
the same object. Great was his glee when at last I did overtake him
(though I had some difficulty, for he ran well even at the age of
seventy), and he said, "I thought I would give you a good race, but you
have caught me up after all!"
One day he called just as I was going for a ride. He gave me quite a
lecture on the dangers of the side-saddle, and said very earnestly that
women ought to ride "astride" (at that time this was a thing _incompris_
in England). He declared that women in other countries were accustomed to
riding thus, and that it was the only safe method of riding.
At the time of his brother's being made Cardinal, some ardent admirers of
the Professor's in Australia sent him a very beautiful silver inkstand.
His delight and pleasure in receiving such a present was great. But that
people should think of him in that way was a great surprise, for his
humility as regarded his powers was a very noticeable fact about him
always. The design of the inkstand was one of great beauty and good
workmanship. It represented ostriches standing under a palm tree, and
beside them was an exquisitely made silver feather for a pen.
[Illustration: FRANCIS NEWMAN
EMERITUS PROFESSOR OF LONDON UNIVERSITY
Enlargement of photograph of the bronze bust done from life by Mrs.
Georgina Bainsmith, sculptor, of St. Ives, Cornwall, which is now in
University College, London.]
One afternoon my father, mother, and I were all sitting reading, when the
door opened and the Professor walked in. He held his hat in his hand, and
a large rug was fastened round his shoulders like a shawl (over his three
coats), and in his hands he held a small brown-paper parcel. As he came in
he said, "I don't know why your maid did not announce me--I see she is a
stranger"; and then turning to my mother, who had been ill, he said, "My
cook has made a new vegetarian dish for my lunch to-day, and I requested
her to make some for you, as I am quite sure it will suit you." The dish
turned out to be delicious--one of those which his wonderful vegetarian
cook was so constantly inventing. [Footnote: The parlourmaid, on being
reprimanded for not showing Newman into the drawing-room, said she thought
she was only to show "gentlemen" into the drawing-room!]
Newman had a theory that plants feel pain, and that we should treat all
vegetable life as if it were sentient, and care for it accordingly.
The Professor was always ready to respond to any appeals for the
advancement of the Woman's Suffrage movement. At that time it was very
unpopular, but whenever we had meetings in favour of it at our house he
was always the moving spirit.
At Weston-super-Mare Newman lived a life of great seclusion, and I believe
I was the only young girl who visited him constantly--indeed, ours was the
only house to which he came almost daily. Once when he was very ill, I
think I was the only visitor admitted; and as Hannah, his old servant,
ushered me in with a smile of pleasure, I heard a curious sound. On
looking back to the hall door I saw a huge netting hanging from where the
letter-box should be, trailing along the floor like a huge sausage,
crammed full of letters of enquiry for the Professor. Hannah told me "the
master had not been able to attend to them."
I had long possessed a great wish to devote my time to the study of
modelling, and my father's great wish was that I should devote myself to
Art. In 1885 I gained the distinction of a silver medal at Taunton
Exhibition for modelling some flowers in clay on vases, with low relief
panels. This pleased the Professor very much; and when, one day, I told
him how keenly I wanted to model a bust of his head and shoulders, he
smiled, and said, with an odd boyish, shy sort of pleasure, "Was he good-
looking enough to be immortalized?" and added he would be delighted to sit
to _me_ for his portrait, though he had always refused to sit to others to
be photographed.
So he used to come and talk to my mother, and thus I was able to work at
my modelling with ease. Great was my delight when I found I possessed
power over the clay, and was succeeding in making a portrait which
everyone considered a good one. The Professor insisted on my being very
particular over the collar and the scarf. (His collars always had to be
made for him, as he could not buy in shops the kind he wore.) In later
years of hard student life that followed, for me, with the added
distinction of other medals, nothing ever came up to the excitement caused
by my portrait of the Professor. The bust [Footnote: This bust is now
standing in the general library of London University, with this
inscription:--
"FRANCIS WILLIAM NEWMAN
(brother of the Cardinal),
Emeritus Professor of University College, London.
Natus June 27, 1805. Obiit October 4th, 1897.
As an expression of the great esteem and affection in which he was held
by all who knew him, this bust (modelled from life by the
Sculptor) is presented to this University by
GEORGINA BAINSMITH, Sculptor,
"St. Ives, Cornwall." Aug. 1907.] has always been one of my greatest
treasures; and after the lapse of years that have gone by since it was
first modelled, I still revere and reverence his memory and his truly
beautiful life. Whatever he wrote, _this_ is what his actual life and
deeds expressed strongly: "_he lived to do good_." This is what impressed
me most as a young girl, and my life has been richer and nobler for the
honour and privilege of knowing Francis Newman.
Georgina Bainsmith,
_née_ Bucknall. St. Ives, Cornwall.
[Illustration: ANOTHER VIEW OF THE BUST IN UNIVERSITY COLLEGE (OF FRANCIS
NEWMAN), ON ITS PLINTH
BY MRS. GEORGINA BAINSMITH, SCULPTOR, OF ST. IVES, CORNWALL
The Reproduction is by Mr. J. C. Douglas, of Strives, Cornwall, and was
photographed from the clay before it was cast.]