p. 382Chapter XIII — Character—The True Gentleman

“For who can always act? but he,
  To whom a thousand memories call,
Not being less but more than all
  The gentleness he seemed to be,

But seemed the thing he was, and joined
  Each office of the social hour
To noble manners, as the flower
  And native growth of noble mind;

And thus he bore without abuse
  The grand old name of
Gentleman.”—Tennyson.

“Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille,
Sich ein Charakter in dem Strom der
Welt.”—Goethe.

“That which raises a country, that which strengthens a
country, and that which dignifies a country,—that which
spreads her power, creates her moral influence, and makes her
respected and submitted to, bends the hearts of millions, and
bows down the pride of nations to her—the instrument of
obedience, the fountain of supremacy, the true throne, crown, and
sceptre of a nation;—this aristocracy is not an aristocracy
of blood, not an aristocracy of fashion, not an aristocracy of
talent only; it is an aristocracy of Character. That is the
true heraldry of man.”—The Times.

The crown and glory of life is
Character. It is the noblest possession of a man,
constituting a rank in itself, and an estate in the general
goodwill; dignifying every station, and exalting every position
in society. It exercises a greater power than wealth, and
secures all the honour without the jealousies of fame. It
carries with it an influence which always tells; for it is the
result of proved honour, rectitude, and
consistency—qualities which, perhaps more than any other,
command the general confidence and respect of mankind.

Character is human nature in its best form. It is moral
order embodied in the individual. Men of character are not
only the conscience of society, but in every well-governed State
they are its best motive power; for it is moral qualities in the
main which rule the world. Even in war, Napoleon said the
moral is to the physical as ten to one. The strength, the
industry, and the civilisation of nations—all depend upon
individual character; and the very foundations of civil security
rest upon it. Laws and institutions are but its
outgrowth. In the just balance of nature, individuals,
nations, and races, will obtain just so much as they deserve, and
no more. And as effect finds its cause, so surely does
quality of character amongst a people produce its befitting
results.

Though a man have comparatively little culture, slender
abilities, and but small wealth, yet, if his character be of
sterling worth, he will always command an influence, whether it
be in the workshop, the counting-house, the mart, or the
senate. Canning wisely wrote in 1801, “My road must
be through Character to power; I will try no other course; and I
am sanguine enough to believe that this course, though not
perhaps the quickest, is the surest.” You may admire
men of intellect; but something more is necessary before you will
trust them. Hence Lord John Russell once observed in a
sentence full of truth, “It is the nature of party in
England to ask the assistance of men of genius, but to follow the
guidance of men of character.” This was strikingly
illustrated in the career of the late Francis Horner—a man
of whom Sydney Smith said that the Ten Commandments were stamped
upon his countenance. “The valuable and peculiar
light,” says Lord Cockburn, “in which his history is
calculated to inspire every right-minded youth, is this. He
died at the age of thirty-eight; possessed of greater public
influence than any other private man; and admired, beloved,
trusted, and deplored by all, except the heartless or the
base. No greater homage was ever paid in Parliament to any
deceased member. Now let every young man ask—how was
this attained? By rank? He was the son of an
Edinburgh merchant. By wealth? Neither he, nor any of
his relations, ever had a superfluous sixpence. By
office? He held but one, and only for a few years, of no
influence, and with very little pay. By talents? His
were not splendid, and he had no genius. Cautious and slow,
his only ambition was to be right. By eloquence? He
spoke in calm, good taste, without any of the oratory that either
terrifies or seduces. By any fascination of manner?
His was only correct and agreeable. By what, then, was
it? Merely by sense, industry, good principles, and a good
heart—qualities which no well-constituted mind need ever
despair of attaining. It was the force of his character
that raised him; and this character not impressed upon him by
nature, but formed, out of no peculiarly fine elements, by
himself. There were many in the House of Commons of far
greater ability and eloquence. But no one surpassed him in
the combination of an adequate portion of these with moral
worth. Horner was born to show what moderate powers,
unaided by anything whatever except culture and goodness, may
achieve, even when these powers are displayed amidst the
competition and jealousy of public life.”

Franklin, also, attributed his success as a public man, not to
his talents or his powers of speaking—for these were but
moderate—but to his known integrity of character.
Hence it was, he says, “that I had so much weight with my
fellow citizens. I was but a bad speaker, never eloquent,
subject to much hesitation in my choice of words, hardly correct
in language, and yet I generally carried my point.”
Character creates confidence in men in high station as well as in
humble life. It was said of the first Emperor Alexander of
Russia, that his personal character was equivalent to a
constitution. During the wars of the Fronde, Montaigne was
the only man amongst the French gentry who kept his castle gates
unbarred; and it was said of him, that his personal character was
a better protection for him than a regiment of horse would have
been.

That character is power, is true in a much higher sense than
that knowledge is power. Mind without heart, intelligence
without conduct, cleverness without goodness, are powers in their
way, but they may be powers only for mischief. We may be
instructed or amused by them; but it is sometimes as difficult to
admire them as it would be to admire the dexterity of a
pickpocket or the horsemanship of a highwayman.

Truthfulness, integrity, and goodness—qualities that
hang not on any man’s breath—form the essence of
manly character, or, as one of our old writers has it,
“that inbred loyalty unto Virtue which can serve her
without a livery.” He who possesses these qualities,
united with strength of purpose, carries with him a power which
is irresistible. He is strong to do good, strong to resist
evil, and strong to bear up under difficulty and
misfortune. When Stephen of Colonna fell into the hands of
his base assailants, and they asked him in derision, “Where
is now your fortress?” “Here,” was his
bold reply, placing his hand upon his heart. It is in
misfortune that the character of the upright man shines forth
with the greatest lustre; and when all else fails, he takes stand
upon his integrity and his courage.

The rules of conduct followed by Lord Erskine—a man of
sterling independence of principle and scrupulous adherence to
truth—are worthy of being engraven on every young
man’s heart. “It was a first command and
counsel of my earliest youth,” he said, “always to do
what my conscience told me to be a duty, and to leave the
consequence to God. I shall carry with me the memory, and I
trust the practice, of this parental lesson to the grave. I
have hitherto followed it, and I have no reason to complain that
my obedience to it has been a temporal sacrifice. I have
found it, on the contrary, the road to prosperity and wealth, and
I shall point out the same path to my children for their
pursuit.”

Every man is bound to aim at the possession of a good
character as one of the highest objects of life. The very
effort to secure it by worthy means will furnish him with a
motive for exertion; and his idea of manhood, in proportion as it
is elevated, will steady and animate his motive. It is well
to have a high standard of life, even though we may not be able
altogether to realize it. “The youth,” says Mr.
Disraeli, “who does not look up will look down; and the
spirit that does not soar is destined perhaps to
grovel.” George Herbert wisely writes,

“Pitch thy behaviour low, thy projects
high,
So shall thou humble and magnanimous be.
Sink not in spirit; who aimeth at the sky
Shoots higher much than he that means a tree.”

He who has a high standard of living and thinking will
certainly do better than he who has none at all.
“Pluck at a gown of gold,” says the Scotch proverb,
“and you may get a sleeve o’t.” Whoever
tries for the highest results cannot fail to reach a point far in
advance of that from which he started; and though the end
attained may fall short of that proposed, still, the very effort
to rise, of itself cannot fail to prove permanently
beneficial.

There are many counterfeits of character, but the genuine
article is difficult to be mistaken. Some, knowing its
money value, would assume its disguise for the purpose of
imposing upon the unwary. Colonel Charteris said to a man
distinguished for his honesty, “I would give a thousand
pounds for your good name.” “Why?”
“Because I could make ten thousand by it,” was the
knave’s reply.

Integrity in word and deed is the backbone of character; and
loyal adherence to veracity its most prominent
characteristic. One of the finest testimonies to the
character of the late Sir Robert Peel was that borne by the Duke
of Wellington in the House of Lords, a few days after the great
statesman’s death. “Your lordships,” he
said, “must all feel the high and honourable character of
the late Sir Robert Peel. I was long connected with him in
public life. We were both in the councils of our Sovereign
together, and I had long the honour to enjoy his private
friendship. In all the course of my acquaintance with him I
never knew a man in whose truth and justice I had greater
confidence, or in whom I saw a more invariable desire to promote
the public service. In the whole course of my communication
with him, I never knew an instance in which he did not show the
strongest attachment to truth; and I never saw in the whole
course of my life the smallest reason for suspecting that he
stated anything which he did not firmly believe to be the
fact.” And this high-minded truthfulness of the
statesman was no doubt the secret of no small part of his
influence and power.

There is a truthfulness in action as well as in words, which
is essential to uprightness of character. A man must really
be what he seems or purposes to be. When an American
gentleman wrote to Granville Sharp, that from respect for his
great virtues he had named one of his sons after him, Sharp
replied: “I must request you to teach him a favourite maxim
of the family whose name you have given him—Always
endeavour to be really what you would wish to appear.
This maxim, as my father informed me, was carefully and humbly
practised by his father, whose sincerity, as a plain and
honest man, thereby became the principal feature of his
character, both in public and private life.” Every
man who respects himself, and values the respect of others, will
carry out the maxim in act—doing honestly what he proposes
to do—putting the highest character into his work, scamping
nothing, but priding himself upon his integrity and
conscientiousness. Once Cromwell said to Bernard,—a
clever but somewhat unscrupulous lawyer, “I understand that
you have lately been vastly wary in your conduct; do not be too
confident of this; subtlety may deceive you, integrity never
will.” Men whose acts are at direct variance with
their words, command no respect, and what they say has but little
weight; even truths, when uttered by them, seem to come blasted
from their lips.

The true character acts rightly, whether in secret or in the
sight of men. That boy was well trained who, when asked why
he did not pocket some pears, for nobody was there to see,
replied, “Yes, there was: I was there to see myself; and I
don’t intend ever to see myself do a dishonest
thing.”—This is a simple but not inappropriate
illustration of principle, or conscience, dominating in the
character, and exercising a noble protectorate over it; not
merely a passive influence, but an active power regulating the
life. Such a principle goes on moulding the character
hourly and daily, growing with a force that operates every
moment. Without this dominating influence, character has no
protection, but is constantly liable to fall away before
temptation; and every such temptation succumbed to, every act of
meanness or dishonesty, however slight, causes
self-degradation. It matters not whether the act be
successful or not, discovered or concealed; the culprit is no
longer the same, but another person; and he is pursued by a
secret uneasiness, by self-reproach, or the workings of what we
call conscience, which is the inevitable doom of the guilty.

And here it may be observed how greatly the character may be
strengthened and supported by the cultivation of good
habits. Man, it has been said, is a bundle of habits; and
habit is second nature. Metastasio entertained so strong an
opinion as to the power of repetition in act and thought, that he
said, “All is habit in mankind, even virtue
itself.” Butler, in his ‘Analogy,’
impresses the importance of careful self-discipline and firm
resistance to temptation, as tending to make virtue habitual, so
that at length it may become more easy to be good than to give
way to sin. “As habits belonging to the body,”
he says, “are produced by external acts, so habits of the
mind are produced by the execution of inward practical purposes,
i.e., carrying them into act, or acting upon them—the
principles of obedience, veracity, justice, and
charity.” And again, Lord Brougham says, when
enforcing the immense importance of training and example in
youth, “I trust everything under God to habit, on which, in
all ages, the lawgiver, as well as the schoolmaster, has mainly
placed his reliance; habit, which makes everything easy, and
casts the difficulties upon the deviation from a wonted
course.” Thus, make sobriety a habit, and
intemperance will be hateful; make prudence a habit, and reckless
profligacy will become revolting to every principle of conduct
which regulates the life of the individual. Hence the
necessity for the greatest care and watchfulness against the
inroad of any evil habit; for the character is always weakest at
that point at which it has once given way; and it is long before
a principle restored can become so firm as one that has never
been moved. It is a fine remark of a Russian writer, that
“Habits are a necklace of pearls: untie the knot, and the
whole unthreads.”

Wherever formed, habit acts involuntarily, and without effort;
and, it is only when you oppose it, that you find how powerful it
has become. What is done once and again, soon gives
facility and proneness. The habit at first may seem to have
no more strength than a spider’s web; but, once formed, it
binds as with a chain of iron. The small events of life,
taken singly, may seem exceedingly unimportant, like snow that
falls silently, flake by flake; yet accumulated, these
snow-flakes form the avalanche.

Self-respect, self-help, application, industry,
integrity—all are of the nature of habits, not
beliefs. Principles, in fact, are but the names which we
assign to habits; for the principles are words, but the habits
are the things themselves: benefactors or tyrants, according as
they are good or evil. It thus happens that as we grow
older, a portion of our free activity and individuality becomes
suspended in habit; our actions become of the nature of fate; and
we are bound by the chains which we have woven around
ourselves.

It is indeed scarcely possible to over-estimate the importance
of training the young to virtuous habits. In them they are
the easiest formed, and when formed they last for life; like
letters cut on the bark of a tree they grow and widen with
age. “Train up a child in the way he should go, and
when he is old he will not depart from it.” The
beginning holds within it the end; the first start on the road of
life determines the direction and the destination of the journey;
ce n’est que le premier pas qui coûte.
“Remember,” said Lord Collingwood to a young man whom
he loved, “before you are five-and-twenty you must
establish a character that will serve you all your
life.” As habit strengthens with age, and character
becomes formed, any turning into a new path becomes more and more
difficult. Hence, it is often harder to unlearn than to
learn; and for this reason the Grecian flute-player was justified
who charged double fees to those pupils who had been taught by an
inferior master. To uproot an old habit is sometimes a more
painful thing, and vastly more difficult, than to wrench out a
tooth. Try and reform a habitually indolent, or
improvident, or drunken person, and in a large majority of cases
you will fail. For the habit in each case has wound itself
in and through the life until it has become an integral part of
it, and cannot be uprooted. Hence, as Mr. Lynch observes,
“the wisest habit of all is the habit of care in the
formation of good habits.”

Even happiness itself may become habitual. There is a
habit of looking at the bright side of things, and also of
looking at the dark side. Dr. Johnson has said that the
habit of looking at the best side of a thing is worth more to a
man than a thousand pounds a year. And we possess the
power, to a great extent, of so exercising the will as to direct
the thoughts upon objects calculated to yield happiness and
improvement rather than their opposites. In this way the
habit of happy thought may be made to spring up like any other
habit. And to bring up men or women with a genial nature of
this sort, a good temper, and a happy frame of mind, is perhaps
of even more importance, in many cases, than to perfect them in
much knowledge and many accomplishments.

As daylight can be seen through very small holes, so little
things will illustrate a person’s character. Indeed
character consists in little acts, well and honourably performed;
daily life being the quarry from which we build it up, and
rough-hew the habits which form it. One of the most marked
tests of character is the manner in which we conduct ourselves
towards others. A graceful behaviour towards superiors,
inferiors, and equals, is a constant source of pleasure. It
pleases others because it indicates respect for their
personality; but it gives tenfold more pleasure to
ourselves. Every man may to a large extent be a
self-educator in good behaviour, as in everything else; he can be
civil and kind, if he will, though he have not a penny in his
purse. Gentleness in society is like the silent influence
of light, which gives colour to all nature; it is far more
powerful than loudness or force, and far more fruitful. It
pushes its way quietly and persistently, like the tiniest
daffodil in spring, which raises the clod and thrusts it aside by
the simple persistency of growing.

Even a kind look will give pleasure and confer
happiness. In one of Robertson of Brighton’s letters,
he tells of a lady who related to him “the delight, the
tears of gratitude, which she had witnessed in a poor girl to
whom, in passing, I gave a kind look on going out of church on
Sunday. What a lesson! How cheaply happiness can be
given! What opportunities we miss of doing an angel’s
work! I remember doing it, full of sad feelings, passing
on, and thinking no more about it; and it gave an hour’s
sunshine to a human life, and lightened the load of life to a
human heart for a time!” [392]

Morals and manners, which give colour to life, are of much
greater importance than laws, which are but their
manifestations. The law touches us here and there, but
manners are about us everywhere, pervading society like the air
we breathe. Good manners, as we call them, are neither more
nor less than good behaviour; consisting of courtesy and
kindness; benevolence being the preponderating element in all
kinds of mutually beneficial and pleasant intercourse amongst
human beings. “Civility,” said Lady Montague,
“costs nothing and buys everything.” The
cheapest of all things is kindness, its exercise requiring the
least possible trouble and self-sacrifice. “Win
hearts,” said Burleigh to Queen Elizabeth, “and you
have all men’s hearts and purses.” If we would
only let nature act kindly, free from affectation and artifice,
the results on social good humour and happiness would be
incalculable. The little courtesies which form the small
change of life, may separately appear of little intrinsic value,
but they acquire their importance from repetition and
accumulation. They are like the spare minutes, or the groat
a day, which proverbially produce such momentous results in the
course of a twelvemonth, or in a lifetime.

Manners are the ornament of action; and there is a way of
speaking a kind word, or of doing a kind thing, which greatly
enhances their value. What seems to be done with a grudge,
or as an act of condescension, is scarcely accepted as a
favour. Yet there are men who pride themselves upon their
gruffness; and though they may possess virtue and capacity, their
manner is often such as to render them almost
insupportable. It is difficult to like a man who, though he
may not pull your nose, habitually wounds your self-respect, and
takes a pride in saying disagreeable things to you. There
are others who are dreadfully condescending, and cannot avoid
seizing upon every small opportunity of making their greatness
felt. When Abernethy was canvassing for the office of
surgeon to St. Bartholomew Hospital, he called upon such a
person—a rich grocer, one of the governors. The great
man behind the counter seeing the great surgeon enter,
immediately assumed the grand air towards the supposed suppliant
for his vote. “I presume, Sir, you want my vote and
interest at this momentous epoch of your life?”
Abernethy, who hated humbugs, and felt nettled at the tone,
replied: “No, I don’t: I want a pennyworth of figs;
come, look sharp and wrap them up; I want to be off!”

The cultivation of manner—though in excess it is foppish
and foolish—is highly necessary in a person who has
occasion to negociate with others in matters of business.
Affability and good breeding may even be regarded as essential to
the success of a man in any eminent station and enlarged sphere
of life; for the want of it has not unfrequently been found in a
great measure to neutralise the results of much industry,
integrity, and honesty of character. There are, no doubt, a
few strong tolerant minds which can bear with defects and
angularities of manner, and look only to the more genuine
qualities; but the world at large is not so forbearant, and
cannot help forming its judgments and likings mainly according to
outward conduct.

Another mode of displaying true politeness is consideration
for the opinions of others. It has been said of dogmatism,
that it is only puppyism come to its full growth; and certainly
the worst form this quality can assume, is that of
opinionativeness and arrogance. Let men agree to differ,
and, when they do differ, bear and forbear. Principles and
opinions may be maintained with perfect suavity, without coming
to blows or uttering hard words; and there are circumstances in
which words are blows, and inflict wounds far less easy to
heal. As bearing upon this point, we quote an instructive
little parable spoken some time since by an itinerant preacher of
the Evangelical Alliance on the borders of Wales:—“As
I was going to the hills,” said he, “early one misty
morning, I saw something moving on a mountain side, so strange
looking that I took it for a monster. When I came nearer to
it I found it was a man. When I came up to him I found he
was my brother.”

The inbred politeness which springs from right-heartedness and
kindly feelings, is of no exclusive rank or station. The
mechanic who works at the bench may possess it, as well as the
clergyman or the peer. It is by no means a necessary
condition of labour that it should, in any respect, be either
rough or coarse. The politeness and refinement which
distinguish all classes of the people in many continental
countries show that those qualities might become ours
too—as doubtless they will become with increased culture
and more general social intercourse—without sacrificing any
of our more genuine qualities as men. From the highest to
the lowest, the richest to the poorest, to no rank or condition
in life has nature denied her highest boon—the great
heart. There never yet existed a gentleman but was lord of
a great heart. And this may exhibit itself under the hodden
grey of the peasant as well as under the laced coat of the
noble. Robert Burns was once taken to task by a young
Edinburgh blood, with whom he was walking, for recognising an
honest farmer in the open street. “Why you fantastic
gomeral,” exclaimed Burns, “it was not the great
coat, the scone bonnet, and the saunders-boot hose that I spoke
to, but the man that was in them; and the man, sir, for
true worth, would weigh down you and me, and ten more such, any
day.” There may be a homeliness in externals, which
may seem vulgar to those who cannot discern the heart beneath;
but, to the right-minded, character will always have its clear
insignia.

William and Charles Grant were the sons of a farmer in
Inverness-shire, whom a sudden flood stripped of everything, even
to the very soil which he tilled. The farmer and his sons,
with the world before them where to choose, made their way
southward in search of employment until they arrived in the
neighbourhood of Bury in Lancashire. From the crown of the
hill near Walmesley they surveyed the wide extent of country
which lay before them, the river Irwell making its circuitous
course through the valley. They were utter strangers in the
neighbourhood, and knew not which way to turn. To decide
their course they put up a stick, and agreed to pursue the
direction in which it fell. Thus their decision was made,
and they journeyed on accordingly until they reached the village
of Ramsbotham, not far distant. They found employment in a
print-work, in which William served his apprenticeship; and they
commanded themselves to their employers by their diligence,
sobriety, and strict integrity. They plodded on, rising
from one station to another, until at length the two men
themselves became employers, and after many long years of
industry, enterprise, and benevolence, they became rich,
honoured, and respected by all who knew them. Their
cotton-mills and print-works gave employment to a large
population. Their well-directed diligence made the valley
teem with activity, joy, health, and opulence. Out of their
abundant wealth they gave liberally to all worthy objects,
erecting churches, founding schools, and in all ways promoting
the well-being of the class of working-men from which they had
sprung. They afterwards erected, on the top of the hill
above Walmesley, a lofty tower in commemoration of the early
event in their history which had determined the place of their
settlement. The brothers Grant became widely celebrated for
their benevolence and their various goodness, and it is said that
Mr. Dickens had them in his mind’s eye when delineating the
character of the brothers Cheeryble. One amongst many
anecdotes of a similar kind may be cited to show that the
character was by no means exaggerated. A Manchester
warehouseman published an exceedingly scurrilous pamphlet against
the firm of Grant Brothers, holding up the elder partner to
ridicule as “Billy Button.” William was
informed by some one of the nature of the pamphlet, and his
observation was that the man would live to repent of it.
“Oh!” said the libeller, when informed of the remark,
“he thinks that some time or other I shall be in his debt;
but I will take good care of that.” It happens,
however, that men in business do not always foresee who shall be
their creditor, and it so turned out that the Grants’
libeller became a bankrupt, and could not complete his
certificate and begin business again without obtaining their
signature. It seemed to him a hopeless case to call upon
that firm for any favour, but the pressing claims of his family
forced him to make the application. He appeared before the
man whom he had ridiculed as “Billy Button”
accordingly. He told his tale and produced his
certificate. “You wrote a pamphlet against us
once?” said Mr. Grant. The supplicant expected to see
his document thrown into the fire; instead of which Grant signed
the name of the firm, and thus completed the necessary
certificate. “We make it a rule,” said he,
handing it back, “never to refuse signing the certificate
of an honest tradesman, and we have never heard that you were
anything else.” The tears started into the
man’s eyes. “Ah,” continued Mr. Grant,
“you see my saying was true, that you would live to repent
writing that pamphlet. I did not mean it as a
threat—I only meant that some day you would know us better,
and repent having tried to injure us.” “I do, I
do, indeed, repent it.” “Well, well, you know
us now. But how do you get on—what are you going to
do?” The poor man stated that he had friends who
would assist him when his certificate was obtained.
“But how are you off in the mean time?” The
answer was, that, having given up every farthing to his
creditors, he had been compelled to stint his family in even the
common necessaries of life, that he might be enabled to pay for
his certificate. “My good fellow, this will never do;
your wife and family must not suffer in this way; be kind enough
to take this ten-pound note to your wife from me: there, there,
now—don’t cry, it will be all well with you yet; keep
up your spirits, set to work like a man, and you will raise your
head among the best of us yet.” The overpowered man
endeavoured with choking utterance to express his gratitude, but
in vain; and putting his hand to his face, he went out of the
room sobbing like a child.

The True Gentleman is one whose nature has been fashioned
after the highest models. It is a grand old name, that of
Gentleman, and has been recognized as a rank and power in all
stages of society. “The Gentleman is always the
Gentleman,” said the old French General to his regiment of
Scottish gentry at Rousillon, “and invariably proves
himself such in need and in danger.” To possess this
character is a dignity of itself, commanding the instinctive
homage of every generous mind, and those who will not bow to
titular rank, will yet do homage to the gentleman. His
qualities depend not upon fashion or manners, but upon moral
worth—not on personal possessions, but on personal
qualities. The Psalmist briefly describes him as one
“that walketh uprightly, and worketh righteousness, and
speaketh the truth in his heart.”

The gentleman is eminently distinguished for his
self-respect. He values his character,—not so much of
it only as can be seen of others, but as he sees it himself;
having regard for the approval of his inward monitor. And,
as he respects himself, so, by the same law, does he respect
others. Humanity is sacred in his eyes: and thence proceed
politeness and forbearance, kindness and charity. It is
related of Lord Edward Fitzgerald that, while travelling in
Canada, in company with the Indians, he was shocked by the sight
of a poor squaw trudging along laden with her husband’s
trappings, while the chief himself walked on unencumbered.
Lord Edward at once relieved the squaw of her pack by placing it
upon his own shoulders,—a beautiful instance of what the
French call politesse de cœur—the inbred
politeness of the true gentleman.

The true gentleman has a keen sense of
honour,—scrupulously avoiding mean actions. His
standard of probity in word and action is high. He does not
shuffle or prevaricate, dodge or skulk; but is honest, upright,
and straightforward. His law is rectitude—action in
right lines. When he says yes, it is a law: and he
dares to say the valiant no at the fitting season.
The gentleman will not be bribed; only the low-minded and
unprincipled will sell themselves to those who are interested in
buying them. When the upright Jonas Hanway officiated as
commissioner in the victualling department, he declined to
receive a present of any kind from a contractor; refusing thus to
be biassed in the performance of his public duty. A fine
trait of the same kind is to be noted in the life of the Duke of
Wellington. Shortly after the battle of Assaye, one morning
the Prime Minister of the Court of Hyderabad waited upon him for
the purpose of privately ascertaining what territory and what
advantages had been reserved for his master in the treaty of
peace between the Mahratta princes and the Nizam. To obtain
this information the minister offered the general a very large
sum—considerably above 100,000l. Looking at
him quietly for a few seconds, Sir Arthur said, “It
appears, then, that you are capable of keeping a
secret?” “Yes, certainly,” replied the
minister. “Then so am I,” said the
English general, smiling, and bowed the minister out. It
was to Wellington’s great honour, that though uniformly
successful in India, and with the power of earning in such modes
as this enormous wealth, he did not add a farthing to his
fortune, and returned to England a comparatively poor man.

A similar sensitiveness and high-mindedness characterised his
noble relative, the Marquis of Wellesley, who, on one occasion,
positively refused a present of 100,000l. proposed to be
given him by the Directors of the East India Company on the
conquest of Mysore. “It is not necessary,” said
he, “for me to allude to the independence of my character,
and the proper dignity attaching to my office; other reasons
besides these important considerations lead me to decline this
testimony, which is not suitable to me. I think of
nothing but our army. I should be much distressed to
curtail the share of those brave soldiers.” And the
Marquis’s resolution to refuse the present remained
unalterable.

Sir Charles Napier exhibited the same noble self-denial in the
course of his Indian career. He rejected all the costly
gifts which barbaric princes were ready to lay at his feet, and
said with truth, “Certainly I could have got
30,000l. since my coming to Scinde, but my hands do not
want washing yet. Our dear father’s sword which I
wore in both battles (Meanee and Hyderabad) is
unstained.”

Riches and rank have no necessary connexion with genuine
gentlemanly qualities. The poor man may be a true
gentleman,—in spirit and in daily life. He may be
honest, truthful, upright, polite, temperate, courageous,
self-respecting, and self-helping,—that is, be a true
gentleman. The poor man with a rich spirit is in all ways
superior to the rich man with a poor spirit. To borrow St.
Paul’s words, the former is as “having nothing, yet
possessing all things,” while the other, though possessing
all things, has nothing. The first hopes everything, and
fears nothing; the last hopes nothing, and fears
everything. Only the poor in spirit are really poor.
He who has lost all, but retains his courage, cheerfulness, hope,
virtue, and self-respect, is still rich. For such a man,
the world is, as it were, held in trust; his spirit dominating
over its grosser cares, he can still walk erect, a true
gentleman.

Occasionally, the brave and gentle character may be found
under the humblest garb. Here is an old illustration, but a
fine one. Once on a time, when the Adige suddenly
overflowed its banks, the bridge of Verona was carried away, with
the exception of the centre arch, on which stood a house, whose
inhabitants supplicated help from the windows, while the
foundations were visibly giving way. “I will give a
hundred French louis,” said the Count Spolverini, who stood
by, “to any person who will venture to deliver these
unfortunate people.” A young peasant came forth from
the crowd, seized a boat, and pushed into the stream. He
gained the pier, received the whole family into the boat, and
made for the shore, where he landed them in safety.
“Here is your money, my brave young fellow,” said the
count. “No,” was the answer of the young man,
“I do not sell my life; give the money to this poor family,
who have need of it.” Here spoke the true spirit of
the gentleman, though he was but in the garb of a peasant.

Not less touching was the heroic conduct of a party of Deal
boatmen in rescuing the crew of a collier-brig in the Downs but a
short time ago. [400] A sudden storm which set in from
the north-east drove several ships from their anchors, and it
being low water, one of them struck the ground at a considerable
distance from the shore, when the sea made a clean breach over
her. There was not a vestige of hope for the vessel, such
was the fury of the wind and the violence of the waves.
There was nothing to tempt the boatmen on shore to risk their
lives in saving either ship or crew, for not a farthing of
salvage was to be looked for. But the daring intrepidity of
the Deal boatmen was not wanting at this critical moment.
No sooner had the brig grounded than Simon Pritchard, one of the
many persons assembled along the beach, threw off his coat and
called out, “Who will come with me and try to save that
crew?” Instantly twenty men sprang forward, with
“I will,” “and I.” But seven only
were wanted; and running down a galley punt into the surf, they
leaped in and dashed through the breakers, amidst the cheers of
those on shore. How the boat lived in such a sea seemed a
miracle; but in a few minutes, impelled by the strong arms of
these gallant men, she flew on and reached the stranded ship,
“catching her on the top of a wave”; and in less than
a quarter of an hour from the time the boat left the shore, the
six men who composed the crew of the collier were landed safe on
Walmer Beach. A nobler instance of indomitable courage and
disinterested heroism on the part of the Deal boatmen—brave
though they are always known to be—perhaps cannot be cited;
and we have pleasure in here placing it on record.

Mr. Turnbull, in his work on ‘Austria,’ relates an
anecdote of the late Emperor Francis, in illustration of the
manner in which the Government of that country has been indebted,
for its hold upon the people, to the personal qualities of its
princes. “At the time when the cholera was raging at
Vienna, the emperor, with an aide-de-camp, was strolling about
the streets of the city and suburbs, when a corpse was dragged
past on a litter unaccompanied by a single mourner. The
unusual circumstance attracted his attention, and he learnt, on
inquiry, that the deceased was a poor person who had died of
cholera, and that the relatives had not ventured on what was then
considered the very dangerous office of attending the body to the
grave. ‘Then,’ said Francis, ‘we will
supply their place, for none of my poor people should go to the
grave without that last mark of respect;’ and he followed
the body to the distant place of interment, and, bare-headed,
stood to see every rite and observance respectfully
performed.”

Fine though this illustration may be of the qualities of the
gentleman, we can match it by another equally good, of two
English navvies in Paris, as related in a morning paper a few
years ago. “One day a hearse was observed ascending
the steep Rue de Clichy on its way to Montmartre, bearing a
coffin of poplar wood with its cold corpse. Not a soul
followed—not even the living dog of the dead man, if he had
one. The day was rainy and dismal; passers by lifted the
hat as is usual when a funeral passes, and that was all. At
length it passed two English navvies, who found themselves in
Paris on their way from Spain. A right feeling spoke from
beneath their serge jackets. ‘Poor wretch!’
said the one to the other, ‘no one follows him; let us two
follow!’ And the two took off their hats, and walked
bare-headed after the corpse of a stranger to the cemetery of
Montmartre.”

Above all, the gentleman is truthful. He feels that
truth is the “summit of being,” and the soul of
rectitude in human affairs. Lord Chesterfield declared that
Truth made the success of a gentleman. The Duke of
Wellington, writing to Kellerman, on the subject of prisoners on
parole, when opposed to that general in the peninsula, told him
that if there was one thing on which an English officer prided
himself more than another, excepting his courage, it was his
truthfulness. “When English officers,” said he,
“have given their parole of honour not to escape, be sure
they will not break it. Believe me—trust to their
word; the word of an English officer is a surer guarantee than
the vigilance of sentinels.”

True courage and gentleness go hand in hand. The brave
man is generous and forbearant, never unforgiving and
cruel. It was finely said of Sir John Franklin by his
friend Parry, that “he was a man who never turned his back
upon a danger, yet of that tenderness that he would not brush
away a mosquito.” A fine trait of
character—truly gentle, and worthy of the spirit of
Bayard—was displayed by a French officer in the cavalry
combat of El Bodon in Spain. He had raised his sword to
strike Sir Felton Harvey, but perceiving his antagonist had only
one arm, he instantly stopped, brought down his sword before Sir
Felton in the usual salute, and rode past. To this may be
added a noble and gentle deed of Ney during the same Peninsular
War. Charles Napier was taken prisoner at Corunna,
desperately wounded; and his friends at home did not know whether
he was alive or dead. A special messenger was sent out from
England with a frigate to ascertain his fate. Baron Clouet
received the flag, and informed Ney of the arrival.
“Let the prisoner see his friends,” said Ney,
“and tell them he is well, and well treated.”
Clouet lingered, and Ney asked, smiling, “what more he
wanted”? “He has an old mother, a widow, and
blind.” “Has he? then let him go himself and
tell her he is alive.” As the exchange of prisoners
between the countries was not then allowed, Ney knew that he
risked the displeasure of the Emperor by setting the young
officer at liberty; but Napoleon approved the generous act.

Notwithstanding the wail which we occasionally hear for the
chivalry that is gone, our own age has witnessed deeds of bravery
and gentleness—of heroic self-denial and manly
tenderness—which are unsurpassed in history. The
events of the last few years have shown that our countrymen are
as yet an undegenerate race. On the bleak plateau of
Sebastopol, in the dripping perilous trenches of that
twelvemonth’s leaguer, men of all classes proved themselves
worthy of the noble inheritance of character which their
forefathers have bequeathed to them. But it was in the hour
of the great trial in India that the qualities of our countrymen
shone forth the brightest. The march of Neill on Cawnpore,
of Havelock on Lucknow—officers and men alike urged on by
the hope of rescuing the women and the children—are events
which the whole history of chivalry cannot equal.
Outram’s conduct to Havelock, in resigning to him, though
his inferior officer, the honour of leading the attack on
Lucknow, was a trait worthy of Sydney, and alone justifies the
title which has been awarded to him of, “the Bayard of
India.” The death of Henry Lawrence—that brave
and gentle spirit—his last words before dying, “Let
there be no fuss about me; let me be buried with the
men,”—the anxious solicitude of Sir Colin
Campbell to rescue the beleaguered of Lucknow, and to conduct his
long train of women and children by night from thence to
Cawnpore, which he reached amidst the all but overpowering
assault of the enemy,—the care with which he led them
across the perilous bridge, never ceasing his charge over them
until he had seen the precious convoy safe on the road to
Allahabad, and then burst upon the Gwalior contingent like a
thunder-clap;—such things make us feel proud of our
countrymen and inspire the conviction that the best and purest
glow of chivalry is not dead, but vigorously lives among us
yet.

Even the common soldiers proved themselves gentlemen under
their trials. At Agra, where so many poor fellows had been
scorched and wounded in their encounter with the enemy, they were
brought into the fort, and tenderly nursed by the ladies; and the
rough, gallant fellows proved gentle as any children.
During the weeks that the ladies watched over their charge, never
a word was said by any soldier that could shock the ear of the
gentlest. And when all was over—when the
mortally-wounded had died, and the sick and maimed who survived
were able to demonstrate their gratitude—they invited their
nurses and the chief people of Agra to an entertainment in the
beautiful gardens of the Taj, where, amidst flowers and music,
the rough veterans, all scarred and mutilated as they were, stood
up to thank their gentle countrywomen who had clothed and fed
them, and ministered to their wants during their time of sore
distress. In the hospitals at Scutari, too, many wounded
and sick blessed the kind English ladies who nursed them; and
nothing can be finer than the thought of the poor sufferers,
unable to rest through pain, blessing the shadow of Florence
Nightingale as it fell upon their pillow in the night
watches.

The wreck of the Birkenhead off the coast of Africa on
the 27th of February, 1852, affords another memorable
illustration of the chivalrous spirit of common men acting in
this nineteenth century, of which any age might be proud.
The vessel was steaming along the African coast with 472 men and
166 women and children on board. The men belonged to
several regiments then serving at the Cape, and consisted
principally of recruits who had been only a short time in the
service. At two o’clock in the morning, while all
were asleep below, the ship struck with violence upon a hidden
rock which penetrated her bottom; and it was at once felt that
she must go down. The roll of the drums called the soldiers
to arms on the upper deck, and the men mustered as if on
parade. The word was passed to save the women and
children; and the helpless creatures were brought from below,
mostly undressed, and handed silently into the boats. When
they had all left the ship’s side, the commander of the
vessel thoughtlessly called out, “All those that can swim,
jump overboard and make for the boats.” But Captain
Wright, of the 91st Highlanders, said, “No! if you do that,
the boats with the women must be swamped;” and the
brave men stood motionless. There was no boat remaining,
and no hope of safety; but not a heart quailed; no one flinched
from his duty in that trying moment. “There was not a
murmur nor a cry amongst them,” said Captain Wright, a
survivor, “until the vessel made her final
plunge.” Down went the ship, and down went the heroic
band, firing a feu de joie as they sank beneath the
waves. Glory and honour to the gentle and the brave!
The examples of such men never die, but, like their memories, are
immortal.

There are many tests by which a gentleman may be known; but
there is one that never fails—How does he exercise
power over those subordinate to him? How does he
conduct himself towards women and children? How does the
officer treat his men, the employer his servants, the master his
pupils, and man in every station those who are weaker than
himself? The discretion, forbearance, and kindliness, with
which power in such cases is used, may indeed be regarded as the
crucial test of gentlemanly character. When La Motte was
one day passing through a crowd, he accidentally trod upon the
foot of a young fellow, who forthwith struck him on the face:
“Ah, sire,” said La Motte, “you will surely be
sorry for what you have done, when you know that I am
blind.” He who bullies those who are not in a
position to resist may be a snob, but cannot be a
gentleman. He who tyrannizes over the weak and helpless may
be a coward, but no true man. The tyrant, it has been said,
is but a slave turned inside out. Strength, and the
consciousness of strength, in a right-hearted man, imparts a
nobleness to his character; but he will be most careful how he
uses it; for

“It is excellent
To have a giant’s strength; but it is tyrannous
To use it like a giant.”

Gentleness is indeed the best test of gentlemanliness. A
consideration for the feelings of others, for his inferiors and
dependants as well as his equals, and respect for their
self-respect, will pervade the true gentleman’s whole
conduct. He will rather himself suffer a small injury, than
by an uncharitable construction of another’s behaviour,
incur the risk of committing a great wrong. He will be
forbearant of the weaknesses, the failings, and the errors, of
those whose advantages in life have not been equal to his
own. He will be merciful even to his beast. He will
not boast of his wealth, or his strength, or his gifts. He
will not be puffed up by success, or unduly depressed by
failure. He will not obtrude his views on others, but speak
his mind freely when occasion calls for it. He will not
confer favours with a patronizing air. Sir Walter Scott
once said of Lord Lothian, “He is a man from whom one may
receive a favour, and that’s saying a great deal in these
days.”

Lord Chatham has said that the gentleman is characterised by
his sacrifice of self and preference of others to himself in the
little daily occurrences of life. In illustration of this
ruling spirit of considerateness in a noble character, we may
cite the anecdote of the gallant Sir Ralph Abercromby, of whom it
is related, that when mortally wounded in the battle of Aboukir,
he was carried in a litter on board the ‘Foudroyant;’
and, to ease his pain, a soldier’s blanket was placed under
his head, from which he experienced considerable relief. He
asked what it was. “It’s only a soldier’s
blanket,” was the reply. “Whose blanket
is it?” said he, half lifting himself up. “Only
one of the men’s.” “I wish to know the
name of the man whose blanket this is.” “It is
Duncan Roy’s, of the 42nd, Sir Ralph.”
“Then see that Duncan Roy gets his blanket this very
night.” [408] Even to ease his dying agony the
general would not deprive the private soldier of his blanket for
one night. The incident is as good in its way as that of
the dying Sydney handing his cup of water to the private soldier
on the field of Zutphen.

The quaint old Fuller sums up in a few words the character of
the true gentleman and man of action in describing that of the
great admiral, Sir Francis Drake: “Chaste in his life, just
in his dealings, true of his word; merciful to those that were
under him, and hating nothing so much as idlenesse; in matters
especially of moment, he was never wont to rely on other
men’s care, how trusty or skilful soever they might seem to
be, but, always contemning danger, and refusing no toyl, he was
wont himself to be one (whoever was a second) at every turn,
where courage, skill, or industry, was to be employed.”