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 100,000_l._ 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 100,000_l._ 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 30,000_l._ 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.”
FOOTNOTES
{4} Napoleon III., ‘Life of Cæsar.’
{15} Soult received but little education in his youth, and learnt next
to no geography until he became foreign minister of France, when the
study of this branch of knowledge is said to have given him the greatest
pleasure.—‘Œuvres, &c., d’Alexis de Tocqueville. Par G. de Beaumont.’
Paris, 1861. I. 52
{25} ‘Œuvres et Correspondance inédite d’Alexis de Tocqueville. Par
Gustave de Beaumont.’ I. 398.
{26} “I have seen,” said he, “a hundred times in the course of my life,
a weak man exhibit genuine public virtue, because supported by a wife who
sustained hint in his course, not so much by advising him to such and
such acts, as by exercising a strengthening influence over the manner in
which duty or even ambition was to be regarded. Much oftener, however,
it must be confessed, have I seen private and domestic life gradually
transform a man to whom nature had given generosity, disinterestedness,
and even some capacity for greatness, into an ambitious, mean-spirited,
vulgar, and selfish creature who, in matters relating to his country,
ended by considering them only in so far as they rendered his own
particular condition more comfortable and easy.”—‘Œuvres de Tocqueville.’
II. 349.
{31} Since the original publication of this book, the author has in
another work, ‘The Lives of Boulton and Watt,’ endeavoured to portray in
greater detail the character and achievements of these two remarkable
men.
{43a} The following entry, which occurs in the account of monies
disbursed by the burgesses of Sheffield in 1573 [?] is supposed by some
to refer to the inventor of the stocking frame:—“Item gyven to Willm-Lee,
a poore scholler in Sheafield, towards the settyng him to the Universitie
of Chambrydge, and buying him bookes and other furnyture [which money was
afterwards returned] xiii iiii [13s. 4d.].”—Hunter, ‘History of
Hallamshire,’ 141.
{43b} ‘History of the Framework Knitters.’
{44} There are, however, other and different accounts. One is to the
effect that Lee set about studying the contrivance of the stocking-loom
for the purpose of lessening the labour of a young country-girl to whom
he was attached, whose occupation was knitting; another, that being
married and poor, his wife was under the necessity of contributing to
their joint support by knitting; and that Lee, while watching the motion
of his wife’s fingers, conceived the idea of imitating their movements by
a machine. The latter story seems to have been invented by Aaron Hill,
Esq., in his ‘Account of the Rise and Progress of the Beech Oil
manufacture,’ London, 1715; but his statement is altogether unreliable.
Thus he makes Lee to have been a Fellow of a college at Oxford, from
which he was expelled for marrying an innkeeper’s daughter; whilst Lee
neither studied at Oxford, nor married there, nor was a Fellow of any
college; and he concludes by alleging that the result of his invention
was to “make Lee and his family happy;” whereas the invention brought him
only a heritage of misery, and he died abroad destitute.
{45} Blackner, ‘History of Nottingham.’ The author adds, “We have
information, handed down in direct succession from father to son, that it
was not till late in the seventeenth century that one man could manage
the working of a frame. The man who was considered the workman employed
a labourer, who stood behind the frame to work the slur and pressing
motions; but the application of traddles and of the feet eventually
rendered the labour unnecessary.”
{74} Palissy’s own words are:—“Le bois m’ayant failli, je fus contraint
brusler les estapes (étaies) qui soustenoyent les tailles de mon jardin,
lesquelles estant bruslées, je fus constraint brusler les tables et
plancher de la maison, afin de faire fondre la seconde composition.
J’estois en une telle angoisse que je ne sçaurois dire: car j’estois tout
tari et deseché à cause du labeur et de la chaleur du fourneau; il y
avoit plus d’un mois que ma chemise n’avoit seiché sur moy, encores pour
me consoler on se moquoit de moy, et mesme ceux qui me devoient secourir
alloient crier par la ville que je faisois brusler le plancher: et par
tel moyen l’on me faisoit perdre mon credit et m’estimoit-on estre fol.
Les autres disoient que je cherchois à faire la fausse monnoye, qui
estoit un mal qui me faisoit seicher sur les pieds; et m’en allois par
les ruës tout baissé comme un homme honteux: . . . personne ne me
secouroit: Mais au contraire ils se mocquoyent de moy, en disant: Il luy
appartient bien de mourir de faim, par ce qu’il delaisse son mestier.
Toutes ces nouvelles venoyent a mes aureilles quand je passois par la
ruë.” ‘Œuvres Complètes de Palissy. Paris, 1844;’ De l’Art de Terre, p.
315.
{77} “Toutes ces fautes m’ont causé un tel lasseur et tristesse
d’esprit, qu’auparavant que j’aye rendu mes émaux fusible à un mesme
degré de feu, j’ay cuidé entrer jusques à la porte du sepulchre: aussi en
me travaillant à tels affaires je me suis trouvé l’espace de plus se dix
ans si fort escoulé en ma personne, qu’il n’y avoit aucune forme ny
apparence de bosse aux bras ny aux jambes: ains estoyent mes dites jambes
toutes d’une venue: de sorte que les liens de quoy j’attachois mes bas de
chausses estoyent, soudain que je cheminois, sur les talons avec le
residu de mes chausses.”—‘Œuvres, 319–20.
{78} At the sale of Mr. Bernal’s articles of vertu in London a few years
since, one of Palissy’s small dishes, 12 inches in diameter, with a
lizard in the centre, sold for 162_l._
{79} Within the last few months, Mr. Charles Read, a gentleman curious
in matters of Protestant antiquarianism in France, has discovered one of
the ovens in which Palissy baked his chefs-d’œuvre. Several moulds of
faces, plants, animals, &c., were dug up in a good state of preservation,
bearing his well-known stamp. It is situated under the gallery of the
Louvre, in the Place du Carrousel.
{80a} D’Aubigné, ‘Histoire Universelle.’ The historian adds, “Voyez
l’impudence de ce bilistre! vous diriez qu’il auroit lu ce vers de
Sénèque: ‘On ne peut contraindre celui qui sait mourir: _Qui mori scit_,
cogi nescit.’”
{80b} The subject of Palissy’s life and labours has been ably and
elaborately treated by Professor Morley in his well-known work. In the
above brief narrative we have for the most part followed Palissy’s own
account of his experiments as given in his ‘Art de Terre.’
{84} “Almighty God, the great Creator,
Has changed a goldmaker to a potter.”
{85} The whole of the Chinese and Japanese porcelain was formerly known
as Indian porcelain—probably because it was first brought by the
Portuguese from India to Europe, after the discovery of the Cape of Good
Hope by Vasco da Gama.
{89} ‘Wedgwood: an Address delivered at Burslem, Oct. 26th, 1863.’ By
the Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone, M.P.
{115} It was characteristic of Mr. Hume, that, during his professional
voyages between England and India, he should diligently apply his spare
time to the study of navigation and seamanship; and many years after, it
proved of use to him in a remarkable manner. In 1825, when on his
passage from London to Leith by a sailing smack, the vessel had scarcely
cleared the mouth of the Thames when a sudden storm came on, she was
driven out of her course, and, in the darkness of the night, she struck
on the Goodwin Sands. The captain, losing his presence of mind, seemed
incapable of giving coherent orders, and it is probable that the vessel
would have become a total wreck, had not one of the passengers suddenly
taken the command and directed the working of the ship, himself taking
the helm while the danger lasted. The vessel was saved, and the stranger
was Mr. Hume.
{149} ‘Saturday Review,’ July 3rd, 1858.
{173} Mrs. Grote’s ‘Memoir of the Life of Ary Scheffer,’ p. 67.
{201} While the sheets of this revised edition are passing through the
press, the announcement appears in the local papers of the death of Mr.
Jackson at the age of fifty. His last work, completed shortly before his
death, was a cantata, entitled ‘The Praise of Music.’ The above
particulars of his early life were communicated by himself to the author
several years since, while he was still carrying on his business of a
tallow-chandler at Masham.
{216} Mansfield owed nothing to his noble relations, who were poor and
uninfluential. His success was the legitimate and logical result of the
means which he sedulously employed to secure it. When a boy he rode up
from Scotland to London on a pony—taking two months to make the journey.
After a course of school and college, he entered upon the profession of
the law, and he closed a career of patient and ceaseless labour as Lord
Chief Justice of England—the functions of which he is universally
admitted to have performed with unsurpassed ability, justice, and honour.
{263} On ‘Thought and Action.’
{277} ‘Correspondance de Napoléon Ier.,’ publiée par ordre de l’Empereur
Napoléon III, Paris, 1864.
{283} The recently published correspondence of Napoleon with his brother
Joseph, and the Memoirs of the Duke of Ragusa, abundantly confirm this
view. The Duke overthrew Napoleon’s generals by the superiority of his
routine. He used to say that, if he knew anything at all, he knew how to
feed an army.
{313} His old gardener. Collingwood’s favourite amusement was
gardening. Shortly after the battle of Trafalgar a brother admiral
called upon him, and, after searching for his lordship all over the
garden, he at last discovered him, with old Scott, in the bottom of a
deep trench which they were busily employed in digging.
{319} Article in the ‘Times.’
{321} ‘Self-Development: an Address to Students,’ by George Ross, M.D.,
pp. 1–20, reprinted from the ‘Medical Circular.’ This address, to which
we acknowledge our obligations, contains many admirable thoughts on
self-culture, is thoroughly healthy in its tone, and well deserves
republication in an enlarged form.
{329} ‘Saturday Review.’
{354} See the admirable and well-known book, ‘The Pursuit of Knowledge
under Difficulties.’
{356a} Late Professor of Moral Philosophy at St. Andrew’s.
{356b} A writer in the ‘Edinburgh Review’ (July, 1859) observes that
“the Duke’s talents seem never to have developed themselves until some
active and practical field for their display was placed immediately
before him. He was long described by his Spartan mother, who thought him
a dunce, as only ‘food for powder.’ He gained no sort of distinction,
either at Eton or at the French Military College of Angers.” It is not
improbable that a competitive examination, at this day, might have
excluded him from the army.
{357} Correspondent of ‘The Times,’ 11th June, 1863.
{392} Robertson’s ‘Life and Letters,’ i. 258.
{400} On the 11th January, 1866.
{408} Brown’s ‘Horæ Subsecivæ.’