Marianne Dashwood

Marianne (Kate Winslet) and Elinor (Emma Thompson)

 [Image source: https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.vox.com/platform/amp/culture/2017/7/15/15955872/movie-of-week-sense-sensibility-jane-austen . From Ang Lee's 1995 movie adaptation of Sense and Sensibility.]


Two sisters; the sweet-tempered elder one is fond of drawing, the passionate younger one plays the pianoforte. That's the premise of Ann Radcliffe's A Sicilian Romance (1790). But contrasted sisters feature in many other novels of the 1790s, too.

In Radcliffe's novel the lead role in the story is very definitely taken by the younger sister Julia; after the first couple of chapters Emilia is given nothing further to do, and is finally consigned to a future in the shadows, a premonition of Sonya's fate in War and Peace. Anyway, Jane Austen reverses the emphasis. She presented Sense and Sensibility (1811) principally from the viewpoint of the elder sister, Elinor Dashwood. A balanced view of the book should probably focus much more on Elinor. Yet it's Marianne who asks the questions, who bothers us, and who gives this Jane Austen novel its distinctive flavour.

Marianne's sensibility, or rather her belief in the sensibility valorized by novels, is extreme. For Marianne is doctrinaire on these points; "her opinions are all romantic", Elinor tells Colonel Brandon (Ch 11). In that respect Sense and Sensibility, specifically Marianne's part in it, continues the critical examination of current literary values that was played out by Catherine Morland in Northanger Abbey (written 1798-99).

The practical difference between the sisters is perhaps better stated without using the words of the title. The sisters aren't enormously different in either sense or sensibility. But Elinor, we are told at once, has a "coolness of judgment" that contrasts with the "eagerness" and "imprudence" manifested both by Marianne and their mother (Ch 1). In a precisely similar situation, i.e. an agreeable admirer who doesn't declare himself, the sisters behave in opposite ways. Elinor, re Edward Ferrars, doesn't allow her feelings full rein (Ch 4). Marianne, re Willoughby, does just that (Chs 9 - 16).

"I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him -- that I greatly esteem, that I like him."
   Marianne here burst forth with indignation --
   "Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again and I will leave the room this moment."
   Elinor could not help laughing. (Ch 4)

And we laugh too, at this early juncture. A younger sister (Marianne isn't yet seventeen) may harmlessly give vent to vehement opinions, prejudices that are essentially literary, particularly in a matter where her own heart isn't engaged and she isn't called on to act.

Those literary prejudices continue to operate in her early opinion of Willoughby: "His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story" ... "that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue" (Ch 9).

There's still some laughter in the next dialogue of values between the sisters, but it's getting more strained. Sarcasm? Reductiveness? Neither sister can be quite exonerated from those charges.

"Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for one morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary dispatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask." --
   "Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull and deceitful: -- had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared." (Ch 10)*

Elinor's unprompted comment, offered under the guise of playfulness, contains at least two grains of sand. One of them Marianne doesn't notice; the implication that Willoughby's expressed opinions chime in all too neatly with Marianne's own, that he follows her lead and, in consequence, shouldn't be taken on trust. (And, in fact, we soon see that he's loose with the truth; he "does not dislike" Colonel Brandon, and almost immediately afterwards claims the privilege of continuing to dislike him as much as ever (Ch 10).)

 The other is an older sister's mockery of the limited range of a younger sister's preoccupations. (It's the same kind of joke about the young that the narrator (or Elinor?) makes re Sir John's entertainments: "in winter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the insatiable appetite of fifteen". After all, Marianne isn't so much beyond that age.)

In Marianne's reply, perhaps the word "reserve" is the key term here. For Marianne it's plainly pejorative, like the other three adjectives she uses, "spiritless, dull and deceitful". But "reserve" might also describe Elinor's behaviour throughout the novel, and particularly, of course, in regard to the undeclared Edward Ferrars of that earlier conversation.

Yet Elinor too sees "reserve" as a word with a negative valency. This is a joint judgment by the sisters, on Lady Middleton:

Her manners had all the elegance which her husband's wanted. But they would have been improved by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract something from their first admiration, by shewing that though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark. (Ch 6)

Later, Elinor reflects on the nature of Lady Middleton's reserve: "Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do" (Ch 11).

Reserve must not be cold; frankness and warmth are positive goods; but reserve arising from sense (prudence, discretion, sensitivity to others' feelings, propriety) is a practical good, a necessity. Thus, Elinor and Colonel Brandon, the moral grown-ups of the novel, both in their beliefs and in their behaviour. Here they are talking about Marianne's "romantic" opinions:

". . . A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself."
   "This will probably be the case," he replied; "and yet there is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions."
   "I cannot agree with you there," said Elinor. "There are inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest possible advantage." (Ch 11)

To which Colonel Brandon makes this enigmatic addendum:

". . . but a change, a total change of sentiments -- No, no, do not desire it, -- for when the romantic refinements of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous! I speak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who from an inforced change -- from a series of unfortunate circumstances" -- Here he stopt suddenly . . .  (Ch 11)

The story he refers to is eventually narrated in Vol II Ch 9. But to dread youthful romanticism being succeeded by misery and even by "falling" (as happened to the not-very-similar Eliza) is scarcely an argument in favour of that romanticism.

But still, for all her bad manners, for all her wilful wrongness, for instance about the weather (twice with very fateful effects), there's some deep things to be said for Marianne's ardour, though Brandon doesn't quite manage to say them. Without her emotional candour and her eagerness, what is life for? It cannot be just a matter of prudence and reserve, of crossing the Ts, of negotiation and maintenance, of avoiding a mess. Marianne's imprudence and refusal to hold back gives meaning as well as trouble to the lives of those around her, and when she looks back on it from her own respectable married existence it may continue to give meaning to that, too.


*

* The subjects of literary discussion between Marianne and Willoughby are men: Pope, Cowper, and Scott. Scott is an interesting inclusion; he couldn't have been a topic of general conversation until 1805 at the earliest, so Austen is stretching the chronology of a tale that was originally composed and set in the late 1790s. Perhaps Austen was bent on including a current author; Cowper had died in 1800. 

After Northanger Abbey, Austen tended not to name woman authors. (The play Lovers' Vows is immensely important to Mansfield Park, but we never hear of Elizabeth Inchbald.) It's as if Austen formally cedes the traditional claim that creation is an essentially male affair. But the concession is subversive. It, so to speak, clears the decks for the real literary debate to which Sense and Sensibility contributes; a debate taking place between woman authors. The irony in Elinor's reductive report cuts not only at Marianne's youthfully limited interests but also, I sense, at the male authors under review. The gentle implication is that these official bastions of the world of letters, precisely because they are men, don't actually have much to contribute to the deeper concerns of Austen's novels. If they did, she wouldn't name them. 

The beast's cry

Holloway, Bath (painting by Valérie Pirlot)

[Image source: http://valeriepirlot.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/painting-in-bear-flat-bath.html]

1. A MAN OF KINDNESS...

A day in Bath, for Laura and me, often ends with a galloping ascent (or sometimes a trudge) up Beechen Cliff via the steep lane known as Holloway, eventually to emerge on the surprising half-way plateau of Bear Flat.  Many years ago this lane was the main road into Bath from the south, but now it's just a local access road with minimal traffic and is good for striding out.

The Horse-trough, Holloway, Bath

[Image source: https://widcombewest.uk/arch/local-history/]


A renovated horse-trough, half-way along the lane, bears the following rhyme, commemorating a man's vicious treatment of his horse upon this spot. Perhaps it was a pack-horse carrying coal or other heavy goods into the city.

I learned the epigram by heart after repeated walks, but have corrected my memory from the image here. 


A man of kindness to his beast is kind,
But brutal actions show a brutal mind.
Remember! He who made thee, made the brute,
Who gave thee speech and reason, formed him mute.
He can't complain, but God's all-seeing eye
Beholds thy cruelty and hears his cry.
He was designed thy Servant, not thy Drudge.
Remember! his Creator is thy Judge.


The author is unknown. [.. or maybe not! keep reading...]

According to the Preface of the Third Edition of the veterinarian James White's Compendium of Cattle Medicine, the poem appeared in the Bath Herald on March 31, 1821. I don't know the date of White's third edition, but I've read that the fifth edition was 1828, so this must be a fairly contemporary witness.

White quotes the poem, with interesting differences from the above text, and with a Biblical epitaph:


A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast. -- Prov. xii. 10

A man of kindness to his beast is kind,
But brutal actions show a brutal mind.
Remember He who made thee made the brute,
Who gave thee speech and reason form'd him mute.
He can't complain, but God's omniscient eye
Beholds thy cruelty -- HE hears his cry.
He was design'd thy servant and thy drudge ;
But know that his Creator is thy Judge.


White's version of the penultimate line convinced me; Servants in 1821 were usually drudges; pack-horses definitely were. "Not thy drudge", I thought, must belong to a later age of sentiment.

All wrong, as it turns out.  And the poem didn't originate in Bath, after all.


*


The Atheneum Vol II includes this notice (I think, though it isn't clear, from around Nov 1817, but certainly no later than April 1818) :

CRUELTY TO ANIMALS

A master butcher, of Ipswich, named Beard, for a wager of 10l, undertook to ride his hackney mare, 14 hands high, from Ipswich to London and back again, a distance of 133 miles, in 19 hours! The barbarous owner, who weighed 10 stone, started from Ipswich at six o'clock in the the evening; he reached London at two in the morning, rested about two hours, and arrived in sight of Ipswich, and within half a mile of his own house, twenty five minutes within the time allowed, when the poor animal fell exhausted and soon expired. The following lines were printed and stuck up in various parts of the town of Ipswich the same evening :-

[Text  similar to White, except for "He was designed thy servant, not thy drudge ;". ]

So it's clear that the "not thy drudge" variant was already available in 1817, if the beast in question was a horse for riding rather than a pack-horse. And this became the more popular version, for instance in equestrian circles (see below).


A longer account of the Ipswich story, also under the heading "Cruelty to Animals" occurs in The Sportsman Magazine, from which it appears that Beard's attempt (which would no doubt have been treated as a sporting triumph if it had come off), occurred in Summer 1817. (His letter of grovelling apology was dated July 17th, 1817.)

Extract:

A concourse of people -- horse-jockies, etc, who lined the road, to witness her arrival, attempted to cheer and stimulate the poor dying creature with their cries. One of them bled her. Still anxious for the completion of their sport, they, after that useless operation had been performed, placed her on her feet, and endeavoured to shoulder her forward. As they pulled the bridle, in this effort, the shrieks and groans of the agonized animal were distressing beyond all description. In this last act of barbarity, however, Beard did not participate. Death, at length, terminated the misery of this poor victim of human brutality. On examination, it was found, that the fore shoes were worn quite bare; that one of her hind shoes was broken in two; that the other was broken, and one half gone; and that her hind hoofs were stumped up to the nail-holes. 

*

This, then, was the ugly reality behind William Harrison Ainsworth's fantasy (in his 1834 romance Rookwood) of Dick Turpin riding Black Bess from London to York in a single night, the noble animal's heart bursting at the last.

But was this Ipswich story the origin of our poem? No!

The poem had already appeared in The American Magazine (August 1815 - vol I, p. 127) *

[ * For more about this publication, see my follow-up post:
http://michaelpeverett.blogspot.co.uk/2016/11/charlotte-carpenter.html ]

This is not only the earliest but the most persuasive text I've seen. (The poem is beginning to make me think of George Crabbe now.)



ON CRUELTY TO BEASTS

"The righteous man regardeth the life of his beast."**

The man of kindness to his beast is kind,
But brutal actions show a brutal mind.
Remember, he who made thee, made the brute,
Who gave thee speech and reason, form'd him mute ;
He can't complain -- but GOD'S all-seeing eye
Beholds thy cruelty and hears his cry ;
He was designed thy servant and thy drudge,
But know that his Creator is thy JUDGE!


[** Proverbs 12:10]

I was happy to rediscover, in this earliest text encountered so far, an aspect of the horse-trough text that had appealed to me: the assertion that God's eye can hear.

Can an eye hear? Not really: the only thing an eye can hear is silence.

And as we saw in Ipswich, the mute beast is certainly not a silent beast, only a wordless one. Even we, even the cruel jockeys, can hear the cry, if it comes to that. But God hears in the Psalmist's sense: the sense in which a judge hears an appeal. The eye of God is no friend of the masters of this earth.

*

2. WILLIAM COWPER?

The poem in its various versions continued to circulate both in Britain and in America.

The poem appears in J. Barker's The Christian Investigator and Evangelical Reformer (1841),  the text more or less the same as in White. It also appears in The Mother's Friend (New York, 1843); on the wall of a Shaker barn, belonging to the ex-Quaker Robert White,  in 1846; and in The Lady's Equestrian Guide (1857).

Merch ei mam's comment on this post started me off in a new direction. Merch had seen the poem in a hand-written book on horse management belonging to the family. The original book dates from 1848, but maybe the poem was inserted by the village schoolmaster when he transcribed the book in 1864. Anyway, in this copy the poem is attributed to William Cowper.

The poem doesn't appear in Cowper's Works so far as I can tell (I checked Stebbing's 1869 edition) but a cursory search did turn up an earlier attribution of the poem to Cowper, in the 1824 American Sunday-School Teachers' Magazine and Journal of Education. The article notes the recent establishment in England of a society for the suppression of cruelty to animals (this was the SPCA, which became the RSPCA), and recommends Sunday-school teachers to set up similar societies in America. They would be "productive of much good", the author says, quoting the following anecdote (though without naming a source):

"It is customary in Huntingdonshire, (Eng.) sometimes to practice the following very cruel sport, called 'Cock running.' The wings of a fowl are clipped, and it is then set at liberty, while a number of persons, with their hands tied behind them, having entered as runners, at so much a head, chase, and endeavour to catch it with their mouths, the successful one being entitled  to the bird. An attempt was made to have one of these runnings on Shrove Tuesday, 1822; but a sufficient number of runners did not offer : this was attributed to a general distribution of the following beautiful lines from the poet Cowper:

A man of kindness to his beast is kind ;
But brutal actions show a brutal mind ...   "  etc

The poem was also attributed to Cowper in The World's Advance Thought (Portland, Oregon. Vol XXVI No. 2 (August 1913)). Most of the articles were written by Lucy A. Rose Mallory and "Poisoned Blood the Cause" is no exception. [It's a pro-vegetarianism article. The poisoned blood in question is the blood of those who eat meat.]

*

William Cowper would certainly be a good candidate, as far as the sentiments go.


Bitter the persecution and the pain
That man inflicts on all inferior kinds
Regardless of their plaints. To make him sport,
To gratify the frenzy of his wrath,
Or his base gluttony, are causes good
And just in his account, why bird and beast
Should suffer torture...

(from The Task, Book 3)

I would not enter on my list of friends,
Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility, the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
An inadvertent step may crush the snail
That crawls at evening in the public path ;
But he that has humanity, forewarned,
Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. ...

 (from The Task, Book 6)

Then there's "The Cock-Fighter's Garland". The poem is a bit too long to quote in full (it's on PoemHunter), but I'll give a couple of stanzas here, along with Cowper's accompanying note:

That such a man once was, may seem
Worthy of record, (if the theme
Perchance may credit win,)
For proof to man, what man may prove,
If grace depart, and demons move
The source of guilt within.

This man (for since the howling wild
Disclaims him, man he must be styled)
Wanted no good below;
Gentle he was, if gentle birth
Could make him such; and he had worth,
If wealth can worth bestow.

(St 2-3)

[Note] Written on reading the following, in the obituary of the "Gentleman's Magazine" for April, 1789 :-- "At Tottenham John Ardesoif, Esq, a young man of large fortune, and, in the splendor of his carriages and horses, rivalled by few country gentlemen. His table was that of hospitality, where, it may be said, he sacrificed too much to conviviality : but, if he had his foibles, he had his merits also, that far outweighed them. Mr. A. was very fond of cock-fighting, and had a favourite cock, upon which he had won many profitable matches. The last bet he laid upon this cock he lost ; which so enraged him that he had the bird tied to a spit and roasted alive before a large fire. The screams of the miserable animal were so affecting, that some gentlemen who were present attempted to interfere, which so enraged Mr. A., that he seized a poker, and with the most furious vehemence declared, that he would kill the first man who interposed ; but, in the midst of his passionate asseverations, he fell down dead upon the spot. Such, we are assured, were the circumstances which attended the death of this great pillar of humanity."

Despite all this evidence of common interests, I feel that our poem isn't by Cowper: the firm Augustan style seems unlike him. Animal cruelty was a hot topic of the later eighteenth century, and many progressive folk felt strongly about it: these debates, with their glimmering perception that man's responsibilities go beyond the benefit of his own kind, are the distant ancestors of today's anguish about a planet we seem intent on destroying. (And how much more, its proponents argued, should cruelty to our fellow man be condemned! The emergent animal welfare movement was closely linked to the anti-slavery movement.)

*

3. THE MERCIFUL MAN

At the end of the second chapter of Dickens' Barnaby Rudge (1841), Gabriel Varden, after an unpleasant incident on the dark road, and with a broken lantern, decides to drop in at the Maypole:

*

He tried to look stoically at the tavern, but his features would relax into a look of fondness. He turned his head the other way, and the cold black country seemed to frown him off, and drive him for a refuge into its hospitable arms.

'The merciful man, Joe,' said the locksmith, 'is merciful to his beast. I'll get out for a little while.'

And how natural it was to get out! And how unnatural it seemed for a sober man to be plodding wearily along through miry roads, encountering the rude buffets of the wind and pelting of the rain, when there was a clean floor covered with crisp white sand, a well swept hearth, a blazing fire, ...

*

Gabriel is evidently quoting a well-known saying to Joe (though resting his horse is really just an excuse for extending his own stay a little longer than replacing a broken lantern strictly requires...).

And so he is.  Like our "man of kindness" poem in Bath, The merciful man is merciful to his beast was often carved on horse-troughs and other drinking troughs (e.g. in Hampstead High Street (c. 1875), Lyndhurst (1902), Philadelphia (1913)), and is ultimately based on Proverbs 12:10 (KJV: "A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast: but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel"). But its origins seem to go back further than the poem: for example, it appears in a sermon of 1718 by the Quaker preacher Thomas Chalkley.

Scott was reputedly fond of the saying, and he used it in St Ronan's Well (1823), Chapter XXXVI.

The pig-sticking episode in Thomas Hardy's Jude the Obscure was, somewhat unexpectedly, reprinted by the Victorian Society for the Protection of Animals in their journal The Animal's Friend (Dec. 1895) under the heading "A Merciful Man", showing that the proverb was well-known enough to be glancingly alluded to. Hardy himself had quoted the saying, in rather memorable circumstances, in the story "A Few Crusted Characters" in Life's Little Ironies (1894). [This information comes from Adrian Tait's interesting paper on Hardy's thinking about inhumanity to animals: https://journals.openedition.org/fathom/619 .]