  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 qu 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 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. |
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