Education begins the gentleman; but reading, good company, and
reflection must finish him.--LOCKE.
A man of polished and agreeable manners, as distinguished from
the vulgar and clownish.--WORCESTER.
It would be hard to find two persons that fully agree with regard
to what constitutes a gentleman. It is far easier to tell what a
gentleman is not than what a gentleman is.
For example, we all agree that the man is not a gentleman that
is ignorant of those usages that, by common consent, regulate
refined social intercourse; that does not, in his dress, conform,
within certain limits at least, to the prevailing modes; that is
desirous to attract attention by affecting eccentricities; that
bears himself as though he thought himself an object of special
attention, _i.e._, is self-conscious; that has no thought for the
comfort, the feelings, or the rights of others. In short, we all
agree that no man deserves to be called a gentleman that is not
a man of education; _i.e._, that is not sufficiently acquainted
with books and with the usages of refined social intercourse to
acquit himself creditably in the society of cultivated people. Not
moral worth, nor learning, nor wealth, nor all three combined,
can, unaided, make a gentleman, for with all three a man might
be coarse, unbred, unschooled in those things that no man can be
ignorant of and be welcome in the society of the refined.
A modern English writer says that to formulate the definition of a
gentleman in negatives would be easy. “As, for instance,” he says,
“we may say that a true gentleman does not soil his conscience with
falsehoods, does not waste his time on sensual indulgence, does
not endeavor to make the worse appear the better reason, does not
ridicule sacred things, does not wilfully give cause of offence
to any, does not seek to overreach his neighbor, does not forget
the respect due to womanhood, or old age, the feeble or the poor.
But, to speak affirmatively,” he continues, “a gentleman is one
whose aims are generous, whose trust is constant, whose word is
never broken, whose honor is never stained, who is as gentle as
brave, and as honest as wise, who wrongs no one by word or deed,
and dignifies and embellishes life by nobility of thought, depth of
feeling, and grace of manner.”
Thackeray wrote of the gentleman thus: “What is it to be a
gentleman? Is it not to be honest, to be gentle, to be generous,
to be brave, to be wise, and, possessing all these qualities, to
exercise them in the most graceful outward manner? Ought not a
gentleman to be a loyal son, a true husband, an honest father?
Ought not his life to be decent, his bills to be paid, his tastes
to be high and elegant, his aims in life lofty and noble? In a
word, ought not the biography of the First Gentleman in Europe to
be of such a nature, that it might be read in young ladies’ schools
with advantage, and studied with profit in the seminaries of young
gentlemen?”
Another English writer says that the primary essentials of what
constitutes the true gentleman are Goodness, Gentleness and
Unselfishness. “Upon these qualities,” he says, “are based all
those observances and customs that we class together under the head
of Good Manners. And these good manners, be it remembered, do not
consist merely in the art of bowing gracefully, of entering a room
properly, of talking eloquently, of being familiar with the minor
habits of good society. A man may have all this, know all this,
and yet, if he is selfish, or ill-natured, or untruthful, fail of
being a gentleman. Good manners are far from being the evidence of
good training only; they are also the evidence of a refined nature.
They are the fruit of good seed sown on good soil. As a just and
elevated thought clearly and gracefully expressed is evidence
of a well-trained mind, so every act, however unimportant, and
every gesture, however insignificant, is evidence of the kindly,
considerate, modest, loyal nature of the true gentleman, or--of the
reverse.”
In a story by Spielhagen, the distinguished German novelist, I find
the following:
“What do you call a gentleman?” asked the Duke. “Will you give me a
definition of the word?”
“That is not so easy, my lord; indeed, I am not sure that it is
possible to define the word satisfactorily,” replied Lady De Vere.
“By resorting to metaphors, however, I may perhaps be able to
outline what we all feel, but are unable fully to describe. A
gentleman is one in whom the vigorous and the delicate are happily
united. The soft, the refined--all that comes from frequenting the
society of women of culture, lies in the ‘gentle;’ the strong, the
firm, the stern--all that comes from battling with men, lies in the
‘man;’ ‘gentle’ implies the possession of all the social, ‘man’
of all the civil, virtues; ‘man’ is the fiery wine, ‘gentle’ the
tasteful goblet; ‘man’ is the sharp, correct drawing, ‘gentle,’
the warm, soft coloring; ‘gentle’ might be the Sybarite, who is
disturbed by the falling of a rose-leaf, ‘man’ is the Brutus,
who as judge knows not even his own child. Pericles, the brave,
magnanimous, amiable, refined Athenian, might be offered as an
example of the true gentleman.”
In his essay in _The Century_, for October, 1883, on the
“Characteristics of London,” W. J. Stillman contrasts the English
gentleman with the best American type as follows:
“And it is in this very class that we find here and there that
best type of humanity, as the world knows it, the true English
gentleman--a being whose exterior decorum may be counterfeited
by his emulator, whose inmost gentleness and courtesy may be
shadowed forth in peer or peasant--who loves his kind, and feels
the common bond of divine birth, but whose most perfect union
of noble demeanor and large-heartedness can only be found where
the best type of mind has been permitted the largest and richest
culture, and the completest freedom of hereditary development in
the most favorable external circumstances. There are nobles and
noblemen--men who seem to be conscious only that surrounding men
are lower than they, and others whose illumination pervades every
one near them and brings all up into the same world of light and
sweetness. The prestige of nobility is founded on a true human
instinct; occasionally one finds an English nobleman who justifies
its existence, and makes us snobs in spite of our democracy.
“I could, I am certain, point to Americans who in every substantial
trait of the gentleman will stand comparison with any aristocrat
born--men in whom gentlehood has grown to hereditary ripeness;
the third and fourth generations of men who have cultivated
on American soil the virtues of honesty, morality, sincerity,
courtesy, self-abnegation, humanity, benevolence; men and women
whose babyhood was cradled in those influences that make what we
call ‘good breeding,’ and to whom the various vulgarities of our
parvenu princes are as foreign as to the bluest-blooded heir of
Normandy fortune; and this is to me a more grateful and sympathetic
type of humanity than that of its English congener.”
In the writings of a Gallic philosopher, of a former generation,
that I lately chanced upon, I find the _homme comme il faut_--a man
that is pretty nearly the counterpart of our _gentleman_--described
essentially as follows:
At the first glance we discover in him nothing that arrests the
attention. He is simple, calm, ingenuous, manly rather than
graceful, sedate rather than animated. His manner is neither
reserved nor demonstrative, but attentive, respectful and guarded;
neither obsequious nor imperious, but calm and self-possessed. His
politeness appears in acts rather than in protestations. Though
he does not despise convention, he is not its slave; he does not
allow himself to be hampered by the unimportant, nor does he ever
see a heinous offence in a trifling breach of established usage.
His dress is an index of his character: simple, appropriate,
harmonious. The man of the world pronounces it tasteful, the man of
the people sees in it nothing that is unusual, and the man of sense
recognizes in it a certain independence of the newest mode.
Being of those that make haste discreetly, he studies the
characters of his acquaintances before giving them his confidence.
In conversation, he is neither impatient, restless, nor hurried,
and though he is careful in selecting his words, he attaches more
importance to the matter of his discourse than to the manner. Made
to give the tone, he is content to receive it: he is wont to take
as much pains to remain unnoticed as many another takes to make
himself seen.
If he appears in a circle where he is not known, the greater number
see in him only a quiet, plain man that, despite his simplicity,
however, has that about him to which they involuntarily yield their
respect. The superficial, the presuming, and the malicious, though
ignorant of the cause, are embarrassed by his steady, searching
glance; the loyal and the unfortunate, on the contrary, are drawn
toward him, feeling that in him they shall find a friend.
He is guarded in speaking ill of others, a thing he never does but
with right intentions--as, for example, to unmask a hypocrite,
to punish the guilty, or to protect the weak. In speaking of his
enemies, he never forgets to be just; he is not of those that are
blind to the virtues of even the most unworthy, nor is he of those
that are so ungenerous as to deny them.
He is temperate in sustaining his opinions, and opposes only to
be better informed, or to enliven the conversation; and often he
will suddenly acknowledge his defeat, and confess with generous
sincerity that the reasons of his opponent are better than his own.
His victories are not less noble. His aim is to enlighten, not to
humiliate, much less to offend. If he finds that he is opposed by
presumption, obstinacy or ignorance, it is his habit to yield.
“You may be right,” he will say; “my way of seeing things is often
erroneous, and this, quite likely, is the case now.”
He avoids what is likely to create discord, seeks to promote kindly
feeling among his fellows, and never pleads the faults of others
in extenuation of his own. He is slow to take offence, opposes
incivility with urbanity, and passion with moderation. Wrong-doing
he accounts a weakness, and he pleads weakness as its excuse; the
wrong-doer excites his pity rather than his hate.
He possesses, in a high degree, the happy faculty of adapting
himself to others, from whom he expects no more than they can give
and from whom he obtains the best they have. “There are few,” he
says, “in whom, if we study them, we do not find some estimable
qualities. If each has his weaknesses, so each has his virtues,
which it is for us to discover.” Herein he excels.
The same day may see him dogmatize with a pedant, reason with a
sage, shine in a social circle, console the unfortunate, contend
for the rights of humanity, and swear fidelity to the woman of
his choice. He talks trade to the shopkeeper, politics to the
ambitious, perspective to the painter, play-things to childhood,
house affairs to the matron, and probity to all. All he says bears
the impress of a benign, humane philosophy that is now grave and
now gay, as the time or the place may demand.
In nothing does his prudence more appear than in his pleasures,
for be their character what it may, they never see him overstep
the limit prescribed by decency and self-respect. That pleasure
that injures no one seems to him innocent, and that recreation that
follows labor seems to him reasonable.
Honesty with him has become a sort of instinct, which he exercises
without reflection. The possibility that he could take an ignoble
advantage, be wilfully unjust, or betray a trust, material or
confidential, has never crossed his thought.
In the management of his material concerns, he is a model. In
large expenditures he is guarded, in order that he may be the
better able to be liberal in small ones. He never is guilty
of that parsimony in little things that disgraces more than
display in great ones ever exalts. It is his special care to be
discriminating in his bounties, moderate in his expenditures and
punctual in his payments. He often denies himself the pleasures of
luxury to indulge in those of benevolence. If misfortune lessens
his income, he is prompt to retrench; he knows that the friends
and acquaintances he will lose should not be accounted veritable
losses. He is modest in prosperity, resigned in adversity, and
dignified always.
If he speaks of religion, he chooses carefully the time and the
place. Whatever the prevailing belief in the community in which
he lives, he considers it as forming a part of the laws, and he
respects whatever contributes to stability and order. He attacks
abuses only and seeks to destroy only what he can replace. He
takes nothing on trust, but examines well before giving his
assent; and that religion finds most favor with him that attaches
most importance to the doing of good deeds. The man that in his
eyes is the most truly religious is he that does most for his
fellows. He rejoices that beneficence is held in like esteem by
all creeds, however widely may differ their dogmas, and that
the various religions of the world repose on the belief in the
existence of a Supreme Being that punishes vice and rewards virtue.
He has the modesty to think and the honesty to confess that as
so many millions are in error, he also may err. Nor has he the
presumption, like so many of his fellows, to set himself up as an
infallible judge of others. But he pities those presuming motes
that live but an instant, come they know not whence, and go they
know not where, and yet would judge the whole by a part, and
eternity by a span, conclude that all is but the product of chance,
assert that what passes their reason is not reasonable, and deny
the existence of Him to whom millions of years are but a moment,
and millions of miles but a point.