EDUCATION, 13th Jy.
Is one of the recent numbers of the Spectator there is a clever and decidedly humorous letter from a correspondent who signs herself "Elcon",—the recital of whose woes will, we feel sure, find a sympathetic echo from several stray denizens of the East. The subject treated is one that is not usually put before the public; we are so accustomed tu hearing the benefits of education landed and extolled that it is rare indeed to find any one coming forward to show the reverse side of the medal; and a paper having for its title "I'he Disadvantages of Education" must necessarily claim a certain amount of attention' from those who are anxious to learn in what those disadvantages can possibly consist, The writer first gives wus a glimpse of the course of training she went through, which comprised three years' study at a ladies' college at one of our Universities and two years spent in Dresden and Paris; after which f returned home to "Slocum in the Shires""—a spot that, judging from her description, must be a very good type of most English country neighbourhoods, The "sweet girl-graduate" fondly and quixotically imagined that lier introduction to this somewhat limited environment would work a wonderful change in the place; she fancied she could raise it to her level, and returned to her home fully printed with intellectual antidotes against the fatal poison of dumes and. boredom. But alas! all her efforts were nuavailing, although we must acknowledge that she worked with an enthusiasm that was most praiseworthy in the face of such overwhelming odds; and what odds so overwhelming as those of invincible and contented ignorance? Her Mutual Improvement Society—a gathering together of girls for the purpose of reading French or German or studying some period in history or Jiterature—was attended by a swell minority who soon fell away; and she gives an amusing description of the experiences of various Oxford Extension lecturers who finally fled in dismay before the impossibility of sowing good seed in such hopelessly barren soil. Finally the writer discovered that her well meant attempts to elevate thetoneof her neighbourhood had only resulted in obtaining for herself the branding epithet of cever—atitle that for woman has the same dawning consequences as giving a bad name to a dog. In a place like Slocum it condemns her to absolute solitariness; it effectually pre~ vents any assimilation on her part with her neighbours, whose want of comprehension and lack of sympathy with her tastes render them tongue-tied and idiotic in her presence. Quida said long ago in one of the saddest of her poetically pathetic stories that "when the laurel grows from the breast of a woman, it hurts;' and in a social environment such as that described in the Spectator, it cannot be denied that intellectual culture only builds up for a women a vast shrine into which she alone may enter, and whose lamp she herself must keep alight unaided. There is a pathos about the whole letter in spite of all its humorous touches; and we cannot help wondering what would be the end of this misunderstood maiden and her unfulfilled ideals. Notwithstanding the mournful sentences with which her words conclude, we venture to hope that some day one of the "enthusiastic Oxonians" may be persuaded to renew his lectures at Slocum, when perhaps the only really sympathetie member of the audience may be singled out and invited to berake herself to a more congenial neighbourhood where, as the wife of a full-blown Professor, she may once again unfold her intellectual wings and soar aloft in a more harmonious atmosphere. As we hinted at the beginning of this article, we fancy the experiences quoted above must often be repeated in some of our eastern outports. he limitations to be met with in these remote spots are, if possible, more overwhelming than any to be found in English country life. To a certain extent people are obliged to keep up a superficial interest in politics and literature at home; and it is quite possible to come across well-read and cultivated men and women even in a fox-hunting county. But there is no doubt that in the East the main interest of everyone's life is dollar-grinding, and we can quite imagine that in a quarter of the globe where business reigns supreme, woman with any pretensions to cleverness would find the road to popularity an extremely hard one to tread. A man with an intellectual reputation will be forgiven as long as he has a daily occupation that brings him in touch with his companions; but a clever woman in the East has no such link with her neighbours, and her cultured tastes and hobbies raise an effectual though invisible barrier around her, that walls her in as entirely as the Sleeping Beauty's enchanted briers. Unless she consents to lead a life of continual self-restraint, to keep all her favourite pursuits in the background, and undergo every day a sort of mental crucifixion of every intellectual desire and aim, she will soon find herself condemned to complete and utter social isolation. 'I'he old heart-breaking wail of Dorothea Brooke in George Eliot's Middlemarch, "How can one ever do anything nobly Chistian living among people with such petty thoughts?" must often be inwardly uttered by women in outports who have yearnings for a higher life than one that is bounded by gossip and scandal and who have no wish to submit without a struggle to the deadening coma of their environment. We do not altogether agree with the Spectator's comments on Elcon's letter. We quite share the opinion that culture is not everything and does not necessarily expand the human heart; but we cannot see why all the unselfishness should be on one side, nor why intellect should always be asked to sacrifice itself for the sake of stupidity, as a matter of duty. The latter quality is often shown to us in strange guises, it is true; but whilst recognising that there may be a certain moral value in the limitations of which Elcon complains, we cannot admit that the "pair of finite hearts that yearn" would be assuaged by adopting the somewhat priggish advice offered by the Spectator. A woman whose soul's springs are ready to gush forth at the first sympathetic touch of a modern prophet, would gain no comfort by being told to "rest content and find enjoyment in the intellect she. has developed in herself individual mental advancement calls for companionship almost more than anything else, and the stream must be constantly fed to prevent its running dry. That famous poet of modern Italy, Leopardi, whose short life was such a tragic record of uncongenial influences, once wrote a sentence to a friend that showed plainly what torture these very limitations of which we have been speaking, may inflict. "TI believe you know," he says, "but I hope you may never experience, how thought can crucify and martyrise anyone who thinks somewhat differently from others." There is a prophecy of tragedy in these words; a prophecy that found its fulfilment not long afterwards im the death of the writer from what we are inclined to stigmatise, in defiance of all physiological laws, as a broken heart. he Spectator recommends writing as a remedy for the sufferings caused by "limitations," and certainly where this talent exists it is a great resource for a mind that would otherwise be socially cramped. It is an undoubted outlet that cannot be too highly estimated; but unfortunately, every one is not possessed of a facile pen, and a well-stored intellect does not always imply that its owner is a "ready writer." The Spectator seems to think that soil like Slocum is rather favourable than otherwise to intellectual growth; but the examples quoted of Shakespeare and George Eliot serve but to increase our own firm belief that only great geniuses can struggle out of such a bog.
There is a common prejudice to the effect that clever people—especially women—must necessarily be prigs, and in consequence they are considered by the general public to be absolutely incapable of descending from their lofty heights and unbending like ordinary mortals. he fallacy of this idea was
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.