Self Help

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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!" {35}

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 coeur--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. {36} 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.

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