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THE 
 
 GENTLE LIFE. 
 
His life was gentle ; and the elements 
 So mix'd in him that Nature might stand up, 
 And say to all the world, "This "was a man !" 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 

 \ 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 On the Difference between Leading the Gentle Life and being 
 
 ^Genteel . . . . . 
 
 Upon the Alleged Equality of Men 
 On the " Manner of the Man " 
 On what is called Etiquette 
 Touching Teaching and Teachers . » 
 
 On what is commonly called Luck in Life 
 On Successful People and Others who are not Successful 
 On Male and Female Flirts 
 
 On "Going a-Courting" .... 
 
 Relating chiefly to the Wives of Men 
 Principally concerning Women's Husbands . 
 The Disappointments of Life 
 On Religion in the Gentle Life 
 Getting On in the World and Growing Rich . 
 The Question of "Slang" in Writing and Conversation 
 The Servants within our Gates . , 
 
 On being Soberly Sad . 
 
 On being Merry and Wise 
 Regarding the Company we keep 
 
 Page 
 
 I 
 
 H 
 
 25 
 34 
 45 
 57 
 77 
 87 
 96 
 
 105 
 114 
 
 124 
 
 133 
 
 144 
 
 153 
 
 164 
 
 175 
 186 
 196 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 Page 
 
 Friendship in Gentle Life 
 
 . . 205 
 
 On the Good Opinion of -Ourselves which 
 
 the World calls 
 
 "Conceit" .... 
 
 . 214 
 
 On Speaking within Bounds 
 
 . 224 
 
 Good Humour and Bad Temper 
 
 • 233 
 
 High Life 
 
 . . 243 
 
 Indolence or Laziness . 
 
 . 252 
 
 On Wanting to be Somebody 
 
 . 261 
 
 Concerning certain Illusions , 
 
 . 272 
 
 On Decision of Character 
 
 . . 280 
 
 On the Lottery of Marriage . 
 
 . . .288 
 
 Is Knowledge worth having ? 
 
 . . 297 
 
 Upon Growing Old . 
 
 • 305 
 
PREFACE TO THE SECOND AND 
 THIRD EDITIONS. 
 
 N Edition of this book having been ex- 
 hausted in less than three months, it is 
 incumbent on the Author to thank the 
 Public, which has so well appreciated his 
 intentions and his efforts. In the Preface to the First 
 Edition he was rash enough to state that his plan 
 was the same as that of the master essayists — of 
 Lord Bacon, Montaigne, Addison, Steele, and Gold- 
 smith — namely, " that of speaking to the heart cer- 
 tain home truths which concern us all, in homely 
 language, which we all understand." A critic has 
 reminded him that it is dangerous to cite great 
 writers, because by so doing one invites com- 
 parison ; a second has insisted that the present 
 writer is an imitator of Mr. Thackeray ; and others 
 find out that he is extremely like Mr. Dickens, 
 Douglas Jerrold, and Mr. Helps, in his style and 
 treatment. The Author might, perhaps, remark 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 that there is little similarity between these various 
 writers, save in directness of purpose ; or he might 
 claim a merit in being "not one," but "the epi- 
 tome " of many men. This he has no intention of 
 doing ; but he may explain that, having been a 
 student of English literature — especially of the 
 dramatists and essayists — for some little time, it 
 is just possible that he has formed whatever style 
 he possesses, whether excellent or homely, on the 
 same models as the modern writers he is accused 
 of having imitated. 
 
 He will only add, that it is with an increased 
 confidence and diminished timidity, arising, not 
 from success, but from kindly treatment, that the 
 Author leaves his work to his best and only 
 Patron — the Public. 
 
 March, 1 864. 
 
 To the Third Edition of The Gentle Life the 
 Author can only add that the Essays have under- 
 gone a careful revision, and has but to reiterate 
 his thanks to his many readers, and the friends 
 which this book has made him. 
 
 August, 1864. 
 
ON THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN LEADING 
 
 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 AND 
 
 BEING GENTEEL. 
 
 VERY clever young author — who, if he had not 
 succeeded in a petty and provincial manner, and 
 had not thereby been hurried up to town, to 
 strive and to die, would have done great things — 
 once wrote a very violent song against the word "gentleman." 
 In his opinion, any one who used that word was little better 
 than a pretentious fellow, who despised his equals and sought 
 the company of his superiors. He grew morbidly angry at 
 the use of it, and rabidly cried out : — 
 
 "'Tis a curse to the land, deny it who can, 
 That self-same boast, I'm a gentleman.'" 
 
 But very many better and more reflective men than he 
 accept the term as one which conveys much in a small com- 
 pass, and which is in itself legitimate. 
 
 Mr. Thackeray very well sums up the duties of a gentleman 
 in a few queries which can only have one answer. " What 
 is it to be a gentleman ?" says he ; " is it to be honest, to 
 be gentle, to be generous, to be brave, to be wise, and, 
 
 B 
 
2 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 possessing all these qualities, to exercise them in the most 
 graceful outward manner? Ought a gentleman to be a loyal 
 son, a true husband, an honest father ? Ought his life to be 
 decent, his bills to be paid, his tastes to be high and elegant, 
 his aims in life to be noble ?" 
 
 Yes, he should be all these, and somewhat more — and these 
 all men can be, and women too. 
 
 Good and quaint Thomas Fuller, indeed, puts it to us 
 that a gentleman should be extracted from an " ancient 
 and worshipfull parentage. When a pepin (pippin) is planted 
 on a pepin stock, the fruit growing thence is called a renate, 
 a most delicious apple, as both by sire and damme well 
 descended. Thus his blood must needs be well purified 
 who is gentilely born on both sides." But we have long 
 outlived the folly of heraldic gentility, nor do we ask for six- 
 teen quarterings on each side before we admit a man to be a 
 gentleman. As any one who knows heraldry can testify, there 
 are certain marks of degradation which most men might 
 wear on their shields, but these are never seen ; whereas the. 
 honourable ensigns remain from year to year. But few of us, 
 from generation to generation, can bear the escutcheon of the 
 spotless knight, and the motto sans tachej therefore, we may, 
 if the reader so please, put out in this book that " folie," as 
 Chaucer calls it, of gentry by birth only. " Also," he writes, 
 " to have pride of gentrie is right gret folie ; for ofte-time the 
 gentrie of the bodie benimeth the gentrie of the soule : and 
 we ben also al of o fader and of o moder ; and we ben al of 
 o nature rotten and corrupt, bothe riche and poure." This is 
 from the sermon of the " Personne" in his Canterbury Tales, 
 and is, doubtless, what he himself thought. 
 
GENTILITY. 3 
 
 In the Romaunt of the Rose he again tells us how to esti- 
 mate one who leads the gentle life : — 
 
 " But who so is vertuous, 
 And in his port not outrageous, 
 When such one thou seest thee beforne, 
 Though he be not gentil borne, 
 Thou maiest well seine (this is in soth) 
 That he is gentil, because he dothe 
 As longeth to a gentil man." 
 
 Now, when we understand, what it really is to be a gentle- 
 man, it is hard to see how any one can get irritated at the 
 word, or how the mere external manner and pompous way of 
 George IV. could have caused his courtiers to apply to him 
 so universally the title of the " first gentleman in Europe." 
 Certainly he did not lead the gentle life ; and surely any one 
 can forgive Mr. Thackeray putting a few queries about him, 
 and about his title to the phrase, and also Robert Brough 
 for being very wildly angry at the word. For it is the abuse 
 of things, not the things themselves, that makes us hate them. 
 Weeds, thorns, and lawyers are very well in their way, but 
 they are very ill in ours. " Dirt," said Lord Palmerston, 
 quoting an unacknowledged authority, "is only matter in the 
 wrong place ;" and, if a man who strives all his lifetime to over- 
 reach others, and to hurt or insult those who are weaker or 
 less well-placed than he, calls himself a gentleman, no wonder 
 the word suffers. " There be some in France," sneers old 
 " Scholemaster" Ascham, " that will needes be jentlemen 
 whether men will or no, and have more jentleship in their 
 hat than their heade, and be at deadlie feud with bothe learn- 
 ing and honestie." And our Laureate bursts out indignantly 
 
 B 2 
 
4 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 against such upstarts, even m the midst of the most deep and 
 poignant grief that verse ever bore witness to : — "The churl 
 in spirit," he says, " will let his coltish nature break through 
 all assumption, whether he be a king or noble, if he be at heart 
 a clown. For who can always act ?" And, in testimony to 
 his friend, he concludes : — 
 
 " And thus he bore without abuse 
 
 The grand old name of gentleman, 
 Defamed by every charlatan, 
 And soiled with all ignoble use." 
 
 But happily a jewel is a jewel, whether soiled or not ; and 
 happily this title of "gentleman" is, like a jewel, easily washed 
 clean, and, in spite of the ignoble use it has had, it will ever 
 be loved and used. No man, be he behind a counter or in a 
 palace, need be ashamed of trying to be a gentleman. 
 
 Now there is a great difference in leading the gentle life 
 and in being merely "genteel," to which so many of the middle 
 class of people seem to us to limit their aims. " Perhaps, 
 after all, fear is at the root of the English veneration for 
 gentility." So writes George Borrow, author of The Bible in 
 Spain, an extraordinary book, written by an extraordinary 
 man, and, moreover, one who has thought out every sentence. 
 That which we quote is rather a stirring one, full of strange 
 accusation, against some at least. 
 
 What is gentility ? Everybody prides himself upon the 
 quality. The schoolmaster or mistress, the little village shop- 
 keeper, the doctor, the lawyer, the tooth-drawer, the publican, 
 the parson himself, and the lord in the great house : each and 
 all are genteel. One, no doubt, looks down upon the other, 
 and each makes exceptions to the other's character ; but they 
 
GENTILITY. 5 
 
 are all, in their own opinion, highly genteel persons. That is, 
 they are "the" people ; those whose opinions are worth some- 
 thing, who ought to be consulted, whose behaviour should 
 lead the ton, and without whom the village would not go on. 
 
 This anti- Christian good opinion of themselves character- 
 izes the genteel. The schoolmaster receives only " young 
 gentlemen to be educated for the Universities," &c. ; the 
 schoolmistress advertises that "no tradesman's" daughter 
 is permitted to associate and to be educated with the "young 
 ladies" who are "domiciled" at her "establishment;" and 
 the girls whose fathers are in trade either sink the fact, or 
 else declare that papa is a " merchant." In common life, too, 
 every one is an " esquire," a shield-bearer — that is to say, a 
 man of military rank, one who had nothing to do but to fight 
 — a term woefully misapplied. Every female is a lady, and, 
 in fact, every man might just as well be called a lord. Lord, 
 in Saxon, was one who saw that justice was administered ; 
 lady, in Saxon (laaf-dien), loaf-giver, bread distributor — in 
 fact, one who presided in assemblies over the distribution of 
 the meal. But Home Tooke, who rejects this derivation, 
 gives the following : — " Liaf or laaf is risen or raised, being 
 the participle of hlifian, to raise ; and laaf, loaf, is so called 
 because the dough is raised or risen. Hence lord and lady 
 are raised, exalted personages." Now, we cannot well be all 
 exalted people, so that the name, as usually applied, is absurd. 
 Better far go back to the old Adamite title of man and 
 woman ; better by far than the subterfuge of " person," which 
 is sad, bad, and insulting enough, as used by some lips. 
 
 But all this passion for titles and distinction, which is as 
 false and wicked a passion as need be, arises from, and is 
 
6 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 fostered by, the ignorant and wicked, way of treating those 
 people only with respect whose clothes and outward appear- 
 ance demand it. In construing the maxim " Give those 
 respect to whom respect is due," the ordinary mind sees only 
 respect due to the outward man, whereas that is very seldom 
 any guide to the inward man at all. There is a story told of 
 Cogia Effendi, the Persian sage, which quite illustrates our 
 position. Cogia, dressed as a poor man, entered a house 
 where a feast was going forward. His welcome was as might 
 have been expected — he was pushed by this one, hustled by 
 that, could not get near the table, and was so thrust about 
 that he withdrew. Cogia went home, dressed himself in a 
 most splendid style, placed jewelled slippers on his feet, a 
 robe of cloth of gold on his back, and a turban glittering 
 with a diamond aigrette on his head ; he moreover bound a 
 sabre to his side, in the hilt of which were some very valuable 
 jewels, and then strode into the room. The face of matters 
 was at once altered. Not only did the guests give way, but 
 the host himself, rushing up to Cogia, cried out, " Welcome, 
 my lord Effendi, thrice welcome ! What would your lord- 
 ship please to eat ?" Cogia's answer was quaint, but ex- 
 pressive. Stretching out his right toe, so that his slipper 
 sparkled and glittered, he took his golden robe in his hand, 
 and said with bitter irony, " Welcome, my Lord Coat, wel- 
 come, most excellent robe ! What will your lordship please 
 to eat ? For," said he, turning to his surprised host, " I 
 ought to ask my coat what it will eat, since the welcome was 
 solely to it." 
 
 The " genteel" people in this world do not, for we must be 
 just to them, seek only the coat. There must be more. There 
 
GENTILITY. 7 
 
 must be manner, place, position, influence. The genteel 
 know only the genteel. Out of their charmed circle a man 
 is nothing. The religious world, or rather we should say, 
 that so-called religious, is not more bitter in its sectarianism 
 than gentility is in its peculiar creed. " Allah bismallah /" 
 cries the frantic Turk, " There is but one God, and Mahomet 
 is His prophet." So, too, whispers the genteel " party." There 
 is but one way of doing a thing, but one way of living, but 
 one way of thinking, and that is, the genteel. 
 
 What gentility is, it would be hard to say. The word itself 
 is a very base diminutive : for what " gent" is to gentleman, so 
 " genteel " is to gentilitas, an abbreviation as well as a diminu- 
 tive. The word itself is modern. The gentle man is something, 
 though hard to prove what ; the genteel man is nothing, not 
 even the shadow of a gentleman. It would be more easy to say 
 what is not genteel than what is, to prove it from the negative 
 than from the positive side of the question. Many people 
 live as if they thought that it is not genteel to earn your bread, 
 or to work at any useful kind of employment — to give Provi- 
 dence, in fact, some little excuse for having made you ; but it 
 is highly genteel to be idle, and worse than idle, all day — to be 
 vain, proud, luxurious, or to work at some utterly worthless 
 and silly piece of finery, and to sell the same in the name of 
 charity at a fancy fair. It is never genteel to speak your 
 mind ; but it is so to use a false periphrasis, and with a com- 
 plimentary turn to insinuate a falsehood. It is not genteel to 
 walk quickly in a busy street, or, in fact, to walk naturally and 
 boldly anywhere ; but it is genteel to saunter in the busy 
 thoroughfares of a street — a drone hindering the entrance and 
 exit of the working bees. It is not genteel to have an opinion, 
 
8 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 and to think for yourself: but it is so to follow the dictates of 
 a ridiculous fashion, even if these should be injurious to the 
 health, or positively immoral and noxious to the soul. It is 
 not genteel to blush, to appear simple or innocent, to laugh 
 when all are laughing, to cry when all are crying ; but a dull, 
 stupid unenjoying stolidity, as dense as that of the Russian 
 moujik or English blase noble is highly genteel. It is highly 
 ungenteel, on the other hand, to be clever, to be original, 
 forcible, or quaint. To be an artist such as Raphael or 
 Michael Angelo, a musician as Haydn or Mozart, a poet like 
 Milton or Shakspere, a warrior like Gustavus or Cromwell : 
 to be any of these would at once bar any claim to gentility. 
 Those ethereal and polite souls who would " die of a rose in 
 aromatic pain" could not admit the thoughtful, painful, absent, 
 dreaming, earnest, and concentrative worker to be one of them. 
 Belgravia, the Tenth Avenue, the Champs Elysees, and the 
 Prado, not to mention Baker Street and Bloomsbury, would 
 thunder — No ! Etiquette would expire and Privilege would 
 die. Does any one suppose that Cromwell, Archimedes, 
 Savonarola, Luther, John Knox, Watt, Stephenson, Brunei, or 
 the Indian Napier were genteel men ? The word would not fit 
 their names by a long way. 
 
 Gentility is, moreover, " content to dwell in decencies for 
 ever." The idol to which it bows down is Propriety. Of this, 
 let us hear what a writer of keen observation and of very 
 great force says in regard to us English — " The keeping of 
 proprieties is as indispensable as clean linen. No merit 
 quite counteracts the want of this, whilst this sometimes 
 stands in lieu of all. ' 'Tis in bad taste' is the most formid- 
 able word an Englishman can pronounce. But this Japan 
 
GENTILITY. 9 
 
 costs them dear. There is a prose in certain Englishmen 
 which exceeds in wooden deadness all rivalry with other 
 countrymen. In this Gibraltar of propriety mediocrity gets 
 intrenched, and consolidated, and founded in adamant. An 
 Englishman of fashion is like one of those ' keepsakes ' bound 
 in vellum and gold, enriched with thick, hot-pressed paper, 
 fit for the hands of ladies and princes, but with nothing in 
 it worth reading or remembering." 
 
 This is very true ; this it is which makes society so dull, so 
 miserable, so sadly-brilliant, and so melancholy-gay. We 
 amuse ourselves, said the old French chronicler, " sadly, 
 moult tristement, after the manner of our country." This it 
 is that makes the lives of people, who should have everything 
 to make them happy, so weary — so very, very weary. This it 
 is that clothes certain West End streets in funereal gloom, 
 makes the very babies serious, the children given to genteel 
 tracts, the butler dress and look like a Methodist parson, the 
 footman like one with a " call," and a maid-servant a thou- 
 sand times more gloomy than Charlotte Corday on her mission. 
 This it is that represses every kindly feeling, every jollity and 
 merriment ; and the reaction from this fills the world with 
 " fast men," or, worse than fast men, with the gloomy, secret, 
 half-wild sinner, with the frenzied head and broken heart in 
 the other sex, and makes London abound with desolated 
 homes and marked outcasts. 
 
 One of the vices of gentility is that it is very prone to teach 
 all manner of falsehoods. Lying is diplomatic and is natu- 
 rally eminently genteel, since that quality is full of deception. 
 The poor beau Tibbs, who hungers to be asked to eat, who 
 could digest his kid glove after it had been twice cleaned, will 
 
io THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 declare that he could not " touch a morsel," or will refuse that 
 which he longs to pocket and to eat in secret, because society 
 compels him to do so. In the struggle to be one of the upper 
 ten thousand one must eat dirty pudding, and take a thou- 
 sand insults, and, after all, perhaps, not succeed. The motto 
 of the brave man is, " To be, rather than seem to be " — that 
 of the genteel person, to seem, rather than to be. Surely, a 
 tradesman must be ignorant or false when he calls his house 
 an emporium, a magazine, or a depot — that is, if he knows 
 the meaning of words. As his shop is merely a shop, he can, 
 from his position, have choice of being either an ignoramus 
 or a deceiver ; but the schoolmaster and mistress who dub 
 their schools "colleges" cannot have this excuse. They know 
 that their places are not colleges ; that they have not the 
 internal economy of a college ; that they are simply schools, 
 and nothing more. Why not stick boldly to the good old 
 name of " school," and spurn the genteel misnomer? Imagine 
 Eton or Harrow being called Harrow or Eton College, and 
 the head-master, the bearer of a title five hundred years old, 
 being degraded by the false name of the principal. Dr. 
 Hawtrey would die of apolplexy at the notion. So also to 
 call a gig, or a phaeton, or a common hack cab a carriage, 
 which is genteel usage, is just as petty and " snobbish " as it 
 is untrue. Carriages such are in one sense, but not in the 
 accepted sense, which is, as every one must know, that of a 
 four-wheel chariot. When a lady talks of her "carriage" the 
 mind is led to expect at least a brougham. This species of 
 exaggeration is by far too common. Now, to call anything 
 out of its name must be ignorance or deception ; upon one 
 horn of the dilemma gentility must fall. 
 
GENTILITY. II 
 
 This absurd passion of being well thought of in the world, 
 of sitting in the highest chamber, and of being greeted in the 
 market-place, is, perhaps, most noxious in two states of life 
 into which it is imported. It is very .bad in trade, for it looks 
 down upon it, and makes a man ashamed of gaining his live- 
 lihood honestly. It is bad enough in a profession, in law, 
 and in physic. It is worse in the army ; but it is worse than all 
 in marriage and in the Church. When religion, as old John 
 Bunyan said, begins to walk about in its " silver slippers," 
 there is not much religion at all. Of all pride in the world, 
 spiritual pride is the worst ; it is this that arms each fanatic 
 against the other ; if you despise a man's creed, you are not 
 far from hating him. The cobbler who fulminates against the 
 rector as a man of pride and sin, is not so bad as the rector 
 who despises the vulgar cobbler. The noble patrician and 
 philosopher at the time of Pliny looked down at the poor 
 Christian shrivelling in the flames of martyrdom, and won- 
 dered what the vulgar fellow was so stubborn for — more than 
 one elegant epigram attests this ; so, in after times, the 
 haughty Roman bishop sneered at the Puritan martyr. 
 
 In marriage, the passion for gentility has been the source 
 of much misery. It is at the bottom of half the romances. 
 The rich old citizen in Hogarth's pictures sells his daughter 
 for a rich match. " Old city snobs," writes the satirist of 
 snobbery, " have a mania for aristocratic marriages. I like to 
 see such. I am of a savage and envious nature. I like to 
 see these two humbugs, dividing as they do the social empire 
 of this kingdom between them, making truce and uniting for 
 the sordid interests of either. I like to see an old aristocrat, 
 swelling with pride of race — the descendant of illustrious 
 
12 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 Norman robbers — who looks down upon common English- 
 men as a free-born American does upon a nigger. I like to 
 see old Stiff-neck bow down his head, and swallow his 
 infernal pride, and drink the cup of humiliation poured out 
 by Pump and Aldgate's butler." But this unpleasant cup is 
 poured out and drank every day. Addison " wedded misery 
 in a noble wife ;" and he was not the last commoner who did 
 so. Many do so every day now. The daughter of a hundred 
 earls marries the son of a city clothier, or vice versa j and a 
 great punishment it is to both of them, after the nourish of 
 trumpets, and the "ceremony" at St. George's, Hanover 
 Square. 
 
 Gentility has its punishments — and, to be wholly fair, it has 
 even some virtues and merits. The pride and desire to be 
 seen of men rather than of God, is base and vulgar at the 
 core, but it leads to some good external results. The genteel 
 family is, at any rate, not a loud, bawling, and brawling family. 
 The genteel man will frequently overawe the pushing, mus- 
 cular, selfish man, who cares for nobody, and will be well 
 served ; he stares him down, and keeps him in his place. 
 Gentility insists upon broad phylacteries, no doubt ; but yet 
 upon undeniably clean linen, and decidedly clean behaviour. 
 It gives many wounds, but it carries its compensation ; it is 
 a sharp sword when turned against any one, but like that 
 magic blade in the legend, it can be turned into a buckler. 
 
 Much good cannot, however, be said of it. The best is, 
 that there are but few steps from that quality, which all those 
 of us who are good desire to possess, to that gentle bearing, 
 both of mind and heart, which when once seen is always loved. 
 We cannot all be lords and ladies : we cannot all, in our 
 
GENTILITY. 13 
 
 manners even, succeed in being genteel ; but all, from the 
 highest to the lowest, can be gentle men and women, and 
 we none of us can be more. To be humble-minded, meek in 
 spirit, but bold in thought and action ; to be truthful, sincere, 
 generous ; to be pitiful to the poor and needy, respectful to 
 all men ; to guide the young, defer to old age ; to enjoy and 
 be thankful for our own lot, and to envy none — this is, indeed, 
 to be gentle, after the best model the world has ever seen, 
 and is far better than being genteel. 
 
UPON THE ALLEGED EQUALITY OF 
 
 MEN. 
 
 HERE are a great many men who think that 
 they are as good as anybody else in the world ; 
 or, perhaps, as good as everybody else put 
 together. " A man, after all," poor little Snobley 
 will say, after he has been dwelling with unction on his 
 companionship with lords, " can be no more than a gentle- 
 man ;" and, if he had read the elder dramatists, he would 
 have quoted Hey wood : — 
 
 " I am a gentleman ; and, by my birth, 
 Companion with a king : a king's no more. 
 
 Nor is a king more ; but, as the mayor of a provincial town 
 said to Alexander Dumas, when he boastingly exclaimed, 
 " If I were not the countryman of Corneille, I should call 
 myself a dramatist"— "Mats Monsieur, il y a des degre'sf so 
 there are differences which the student of the gentle life will 
 accept very readily. Launce's dog— more immortal than 
 that of Aristides— was a vulgar dog, and " thrusts me himself 
 into the company of three or four gentlemanlike dogs," with 
 
EQUALITY. 15 
 
 a sad result to himself and to his master. The votary of 
 equality will, perhaps, do as the dog did : for it is a dangerous 
 " rabble charming" word, as South says, and turns the heads 
 of most of us. 
 
 The American Revolution of 186 1-2, and the political 
 failure of the so-called Republicanism of the great Western 
 Continent will have taught us something, if we are thereby 
 induced to think over the doctrine of " equality," which has 
 been since 1793 a great favourite with the poorer classes. 
 The usual assertion, quoted from the Declaration of American 
 Independence, that " all men are born equal," has formed 
 the basis of a great mistake. We certainly cannot swallow 
 that assertion whole. All men are not born equal. In a 
 Christian sense we all may and do have equal rights : the 
 right to liberty, the right of life, air and motion, to wise and 
 limited enjoyment ; but with these our equality ends. All 
 •men are not equally wise, gifted, clever, strong, handsome, or 
 tall. The brains of one nation and the brain of one man 
 are superior in weight, form, and activity to the brains of 
 another nation or another man. We all differ — 
 
 " No being on this earthy ball 
 Is like another, all in all." 
 
 Therefore every individual should live not for himself, but to 
 be valuable to others ; for it would be sheer midsummer 
 madness to preach up that ail are equally valuable. The 
 nation of Scotchmen and the nation of Londoners are about 
 equal in numbers, the former somewhat the more numerous ; 
 but just compare them with, let us say, the nation of Kroo- 
 men, and the Affghan or Egyptian nations, taking them 
 
1 6 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 as numerically the same. Who would not say that the pre- 
 servation of the Scotch or the Londoners to the world would 
 not outweigh in value that of the half-savage nations a 
 hundred-fold? Now, every schoolboy who is learning Euclid 
 knows that things. which are unequal in the whole must 
 be unequal in part ; hence an individual of a civilized nation, 
 which has proceeded through centuries of teaching, must be 
 more valuable and, in almost every way, superior to the 
 individual of an untaught nation. Nature continually asserts 
 this ; the savage dies out as the civilized man advances ; 
 the more noble growth supplants the lower and indigenous 
 growth. A grand doctrine this : to the timid and unreflect- 
 ing, apparently cruel ; but, to the thinking, full of the deep 
 and hidden wisdom of God. It is due reflection on this that 
 has made one most philosophical poet cry out — 
 
 " Yet I doubt not through ages one increasing purpose runs, 
 And the thoughts of men are widen' d with the process of the 
 suns;" 
 
 but such an admission is fatal to equality. 
 
 Plain-speaking like this will, without doubt, offend some. 
 But, nevertheless, it is no more plain than true. The framers 
 of the celebrated American Declaration knew just as well as 
 we do that they were preaching a doctrine of romantic false- 
 hood. It suited them at the time ; but they no more meant 
 that the Negro and the Red man within their gates were 
 equal to themselves than they meant to assert that they could 
 fly. What they meant to say was this : " W T e are no longer 
 colonists. We are a sovereign people ; we are quite equal 
 to King George and his whole crew. We will be free, and 
 
EQUALITY. 17 
 
 independent ; the English cannot hold us any longer ; and — 
 all men are equal." They proved that they meant something 
 very different by surrounding their constitution with checks 
 and guards upon private citizens, by forming two houses 
 exactly answering to our Lords and Commons — circum- 
 stances being considered — and by electing a sovereign Pre- 
 sident, who, they declared, and still declare, was superior to 
 any man then living upon earth. As time went on and the j 
 sovereign Republic increased, when want of labourers was ? 
 felt, they introduced (for the guilt is not and was not ours) 
 the Slave Trade ; and, under the protection of that precious 
 sophism that "all men are born equal," went and quietly 
 stole poor Quashee from Africa, put him in chains and ( 
 durance vile, and made him cultivate a foreign land for their 
 own benefit, they growing rich on the fruits of his labours, 
 and still talking about equality. To England, misfortune and 
 a long war had taught something. The doctrine of equality 
 had reached us ; but, luckily foi* us, wise and good men gave 
 the poetical legend a Christian significance, and Brougham 
 and Wilberforce thundered in our ears for the poor Black. 
 Chained and kneeling, his portrait was brought before us in 
 print-shops, on crockery, in pictures and in statues, and the 
 figure was made plaintively to ask, "Am I not a man and a 
 brother ?" 
 
 That question carried the day. We all owned that the Black 
 was a brother, although the free and equal Americans have 
 some doubt about it still ; and we quietly laid out twenty 
 millions of money to purchase his freedom. Wonderfully 
 have we gained by the whole bargain. We gained moral 
 force — belief in ourselves ; we felt that we had done what 
 
 c 
 
1 8 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 was good and true, a certain something which would last. It 
 will last. The anniversary of the great day of freedom has 
 just passed by, and the free blacks of America celebrated it 
 by going to church, and by prayer. Years hence, when the 
 negro race enjoys a larger freedom and a brighter prospect, 
 it will celebrate it still. Yet we must not forget that the 
 white and black races are totally unequal, so much so, that 
 there are those who argue for a perfectly separate creation of 
 the two races. A lower organization, a less beautiful form, a 
 lower facial angle, less ingenuity and activity, and more 
 endurance, patience, and content — all these prove the in- 
 ferior organization of the negro to the Caucasian race. 
 
 We might show also how very unequal nations are. 
 Preachers tacitly admit this when they talk of a people being 
 "highly favoured," or "highly gifted "by Providence : and this 
 favour, which establishes the inequality of man, is shown very 
 constantly and very remarkably. It extends not only to 
 nations, but to families and to individuals. As there are races 
 who fancy they are doomed, so there are others who may 
 readily be said to carry fortune with them, and others whom 
 Providence sees fit to supply with constant intellect and brain 
 power. As these are the elements of success, and as from the 
 latter riches and honour spring, it does not seem illogical 
 that a universal system of inequality should reign all over 
 the world, and that the dream of the enthusiasts should die 
 out. " Alas !" cries a French hero in a novel, "equality exists 
 only in the grave !" He is quite right. A hundred years 
 after death we may weigh the dust of the greatest hero, and 
 it is no more than that of the poorest beggar ; and the name 
 that remains is as light and useless as the dust. The proxi- 
 
EQUALITY. 19 
 
 mity of the tombs of Henry the Sixth and Edward the Fourth, 
 in St. George's Chapel, teaches a lesson : 
 
 " Here, o'er the Martyr-King the marble weeps, 
 And, fast beside him, once fear'd Edward sleeps : 
 The grave unites, where e'en the grave finds rest, 
 And mingled lie the oppressor and the opprest." 
 
 The equality which many preach up means in their mouths 
 little more than the universal scramble system — the share- 
 and-share-alike andall-begin-over-again suggestion, of which, 
 in times of revolution, King Mob has not been slow to avail 
 himself. But people have soon seen that a dead level is far from 
 being equality. If we were to share all the worldly goods to- 
 day, the distinction between rich and poor would have arisen 
 on the morrow. One would work, another would not ; some 
 would abstain, others would feast ; some would chaffer and 
 barter, others would be far above dealing in " vile merchan- 
 dise." Thus money would pass from hand to hand, and the 
 inequality would begin again. It is not perhaps very satis- 
 factory to repeat these old truths ; but old truths are like old 
 diamonds, and are brought into fashion by being reset. And 
 not alone in worldly goods would the inequality be apparent. 
 One man would learn and acquire where the other would 
 forget or despise. The inequality at once would commence ; 
 and it is as impossible to hope for a dead level in mankind 
 as it is to wish to plough down all the mountains and to fill 
 up all the valleys. But, acknowledging all this, we must also 
 be awake to the fact that there is an equality of responsibility 
 towards God, and a true religious equality, as it were, in man. 
 We have all parts to play, and these must be well played, or 
 
 C 2 
 
20 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 we are blameworthy. Whether we be kings or scavengers, 
 whatever we are about should be well done. Herein lies our 
 duty to work earnestly in that state of life to which it has 
 pleased God to call us ; and this thorough equality of duty, if 
 well performed, will lead to the equality of final reward ; which 
 mystery is, indeed, the subject of one of the most puzzling of 
 the parables : the hiring of Labourers, and the One Payment 
 to all. There our true equality commences and ends. It is 
 not of this world : thus much is certain. 
 
 It may therefore be at once said that equality is not the law 
 of Nature, and is consequently utterly false. As it is false, 
 so it is dangerous. The most tyrannical of times have been 
 those in which the government of the Democracy has in- 
 sisted on a forced equality, a man being guillotined for wear- 
 ing finer linen and having a whiter hand than another. The 
 most despotic of modern people are precisely those two, the 
 teacher and the pupil, which have abolished titular distinc- 
 tions, and endeavoured to run down all men to the same 
 political and social standard. La Belle France, who relied 
 upon her mission of holy bayonets, who destroyed the law of 
 entail and primogeniture, and banished her old nobility, is 
 the most warlike and restless of nations, and keeps us in 
 a constant state of military and naval preparation to keep 
 abreast of her. She has her hands quite full in China, Rome,. 
 Mexico, and Algeria, teaching the blessed doctrine of equality 
 with armed men and rifled cannon ! America, the disciple 
 of Lafayette and French doctrines, determined to propagate 
 liberty by enslaving six millions of brothers, and does not find 
 the equality doctrine to quite coincide with her supreme 
 wishes. So far from believing in that equality, her free and 
 
EQUALITY. 2i 
 
 enlightened citizens every day proclaim themselves and their 
 country to be superior to any other country in the world ; and 
 they have publicly preached the mischievous doctrine that no 
 one power, save America, had any right to exist upon that 
 hemisphere. Their fine assertions, therefore, have been well 
 said to have ended by proving "that, after a very short trial, 
 equality creates discontents as fatal as inequality ; that, for 
 want of regulation, freedom may degenerate into mere law- 
 lessness ; and that people who have been accustomed to bully 
 all other people, end by fighting amongst themselves." 
 
 The fox in the fable was a very wise fellow, when, finding 
 the grapes were above his reach, he contented himself with 
 the remark that they were sour. Having shown that equality 
 is perfectly unattainable, save in the grave and the church — 
 
 " One place there is beneath the burial sod, 
 Where all mankind are equalized by death ; 
 Another place there is — the Fane of God, 
 
 "Where all are equal who draw living breath " — 
 
 let us endeavour to show that it is very wisely so ordained ; 
 and that, after all, equality, could it be obtained, would not 
 be worth a pinch of snuff, and would not add to the happiness 
 of mankind. As variety adds beauty to the landscape, so 
 distinction adds happiness to life. . A man would sink down 
 to the merest trifler or sensualist had he not an object before 
 him. That object is, colour it how he may, Social Distinc- 
 tion. He does not want to be equal to his fellow-men ; he 
 wants to be above them. The natural desire of all of us is to 
 excel ; and with this aim we go through the world, pleased 
 and active, with a constant unattainable hope before us. It 
 is quite true that we may find that this dangling hope has 
 
22 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 been delusive, like the bundle of carrots which the sweep 
 holds on the end of a pole just before the donkey's head. The 
 farther we progress, we still find the social horizon before us ; 
 but we must be very poor fellows indeed, if, during our pro- 
 gress, we have not done an immense deal of good. The very 
 inequality of talents has enabled us to put ourselves to 
 market, and to sell that which we possess, and that others 
 desire to share. We find that here the highest revelation 
 and the greatest common sense, the acme of Rationalism, go 
 together. The Apostle speaks of our "having gifts differing 
 one from another ;" but not a word does he utter of equality ; 
 and these gifts to the individual are intended for the common 
 good. Indeed, not only do our gifts differ, but also, in a 
 natural progression, our very wishes and our tastes. 
 
 A great artist once told the author a story of a boy who 
 was placed with him by a fond father, for the purpose of 
 being made an historical painter. The wishes of the father 
 were stronger than the talent of the son, and the poor lad 
 was found crying bitterly in the studio, over his smeared and 
 clumsy drawings. " What is the matter, my dear fellow ?" 
 said the artist. The kindly question touched the boy, and 
 he no longer concealed his tastes, " Boo — boo — boo," sobbed 
 he, with a burst of tears and ingenuousness ; " Pa thinks I 
 can draw ; but I wants to be a butcher." There was his 
 affection set, not in portraying the human face divine, but in 
 chining beef and cutting up mutton chops. But great artists 
 think differently, as witness wondrous Giotto, the shepherd 
 boy, and our own clever but mediocre Opie, the " Cornish 
 boy, in tin mines bred." 
 
 No, our thoughts and tastes are unequal ; equally useful, 
 
EQUALITY. 23 
 
 perhaps, in the eye of One far, far above us, but not equally 
 honourable in the world's eye. How we wonder at each 
 other's varying tastes ! The man who collects coins cannot 
 hold patience with one who dabbles in wet, chalky rocks, is 
 enthusiastic about sea anemones, paddles in Hampstead 
 Ponds to fill his fresh-water aquarium, and is learned upon 
 infusoria and diatorus. We have, too, as our minds have 
 expanded, reversed the story which Horace tells ; and, instead 
 of the merchant envying the lawyer, and the lawyer the 
 farmer, we are all delighted with our own hobbies. The 
 naturalist and the foxhunter, delighted each with his sphere, 
 equally look down upon the man who heaps up Roman 
 coins — family, consular, or imperial — and regard the little 
 rounds of metal which so delight him with no more pleasure 
 than they would a heap of curried or leather money, or 
 American circulating postage-stamps. 
 
 Such is the beneficent rule which makes men unequal but 
 equally happy. When Pope asked, in very polished and 
 excellent verses, where happiness was, he might have been 
 answered by a cross-question, where was it not ? One places 
 it in fine horses, another in little dogs, a third in the fine 
 robes and pictures of the classic. Before Lord Dundreary 
 existed, a nobleman of his school placed all his excitement — 
 he called it happiness — in the possession of an abundant 
 collection of street-door knockers : and a second outdid him 
 by treasuring up a bag full of marble noses from various 
 antique statues which he had seen in his travels. This may 
 be going over very old ground ; but we may be permitted 
 sometimes to take and furbish up an old jewel. Nothing is 
 too frivolous, nothing too great, to constitute or feed happi- 
 
24 THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 ness, because the mind of man can contract or expand 
 almost infinitely ; and he who lives the gentle life will not 
 trouble himself about being equal to this man or superior to 
 that, but will be delighted in the contemplation of the fact 
 that, perhaps, all the happiness in the world arises from the 
 universal inequality of power, virtue, riches, possession, in- 
 tellect, and acquirement — nay, of every mental or physical 
 quality with which man is endowed. 
 
rff i ti m& 
 
 » '* " "" 
 
 ON THE "MANNER OF THE MAN." 
 
 HERE is a general complaint now-a-days preva- 
 lent, that we have "no gentlemen :" that is, no 
 young ones ; this may or may not be true ; but 
 people are inclined to think that we, at present, 
 do not breed the article. They are becoming as rare as 
 Chillingham bulls, or pug dogs of the Hogarth breed. The 
 gentlemen we have are "old"— as FalstafT said of him- 
 self, with a sigh — dying out ; and we shall soon inquire 
 for the true beau, and find him no more. Like the Mega- 
 therium and the Plesiosaurus, he will require a Waterhouse 
 Hawkins to describe, classify, ticket, docket him, and show 
 him at the Crystal Palace : " Here is the veritable effigy of a 
 true gentleman in the days of George III. and IV., once 
 very prevalent in Britain ; also in France before the great 
 revolution : became gradually extinct during the Victorian 
 and Napoleonic eras." 
 
 Speaking seriously, the assertion is very true ; so true, 
 that we hardly need a very general acquaintance with society 
 to assure us that manners are now unstudied, and that 
 manner is bad. The change may be natural enough : it 
 may not be regretted ; it may even carry with it certain 
 
26 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 rough virtues which we want ; but the change has taken 
 place. The men of one age are not those of another. " I 
 really do not know what to make of the young men of the 
 day," said a lady long known as a leader of society : " they 
 cannot talk, they lounge about, and are not fond of com- 
 pany. If they are with us for a short time, they wish to go 
 out and smoke a cigar." Young ladies all cry out to the 
 same tune. Woman is scarcely regarded as she used to be. 
 " Female society," writes a prominent Review, " is secretly 
 owned by all sensible men to be a bore. People may say 
 they like it ; but in the end the men will run out to their 
 clubs." On her part, woman has done a good deal to 
 deserve this : she has ceased to be wholly domestic and 
 feminine, and therefore interesting and real. She has aban- 
 doned her own exclusive province, and has not established 
 herself in another. But why should lovely woman ever con- 
 descend to dabble in political economy ? Can a gentleman 
 be a gentleman when logic requires the truth ? Will dry 
 dissertation fill up the place of compliment and flowery talk? 
 Will agricultural measures — Mill on Liberty— Buckle on 
 Civilization — High, Low, or Middle Church — Pleiocene 
 periods — Hind's new comet, and the division of labour, suffer 
 us to enjoy life as we used, and to amuse ourselves with the 
 innocent prattle of ladies' tongues ? 
 
 The development of the nation has also tended to destroy 
 true quietude and repose in manners. Formerly there was a 
 courtesy and gentleness in the behaviour of the gentleman 
 which distinguished him entirely from inferior grades. To 
 behave well in society was the study of a life. A gentleman 
 was known by the manner in which he entered a room, or 
 
THE MANNER OF THE MAN. 27 
 
 handed a lady to her carriage. Charles Lamb had seen a 
 gentleman who always took off his hat to a woman when he 
 spoke to her, even to a fish-fag. Woman was held to be of 
 a finer kind of clay than man ; just as Dresden is somewhat 
 finer and more fragile than Berlin ware. To her, outwardly, 
 more generous attention was paid. The very words " court, 
 courteous, courting, and courtly," spring from a verb chiefly 
 and most tenderly applied to woman. 
 
 It would seem, then, that our present male society fails 
 very much in attention to ladies, and exhibits a coarseness 
 and selfishness which are as unpleasant as they are noto- 
 rious. The equipoise of the sexes is thereby destroyed ; and 
 women, ever ready to worship the strong, have not hesitated 
 to copy the manners and dress of the male sex. We have 
 women who mainly, if not entirely, interest themselves in 
 sports and occupations which appertain to men alone, and 
 who love to imitate and ape the coarse expressions and 
 boyish slang of their brothers. All this is in bad taste. 
 Woman should be true to herself. Although to speak of one's 
 father as a " guv'nor," and to term a merry party " no end 
 jolly," may entrap some inexperienced freshman, yet it cannot 
 but make the judicious grieve. A charmed circle surrounds 
 women. They can always acquire the love, respect, and due 
 observance of man, if they choose to demand it. To do so 
 they must be true to themselves. It is their fault if they step 
 out of bounds. Vulgarity, hoydenishness, coarseness, and 
 the contempt which accompanies these qualities, are the 
 effects of bad manner and manners. It may pervade a 
 whole nation, as it has done the Americans. When it does 
 so, it renders them contemptible, however we may disguise it. 
 
28 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 Demosthenes, in giving his celebrated advice to an orator 
 — that eloquence consisted in three things, the first "action," 
 the second " action," and the third " action " — is supposed to 
 have intended manner only. To those who have studied 
 men in public schools of oratory, in the pulpit and the 
 House of Commons, the observation will not appear so 
 puzzling as some have found it. Many excellent speakers 
 are marred by a bad manner. Many capital preachers 
 throw away their sermons by a false delivery. We have 
 heard clergymen read the Ten Commandments in a whining 
 voice, as if they were asking a favour. Now, in many mat- 
 ters in life, the manner of doing a thing is of the greatest 
 importance. " You had better," wrote Lord Chesterfield to 
 his son, " return a dropped fan genteelly than give a thou- 
 sand pounds awkwardly ; and you had better refuse a favour 
 gracefully than grant it clumsily. Manner is all in every- 
 thing ; it is by manner only that you can please, and conse- 
 quently rise. All your Greek will never advance you from 
 secretary to envoy, or from envoy to ambassador ; but your 
 address, your air, your manner, if good, may." This is very 
 true. It has become the fashion to sneer at Chesterfield, 
 who was a perfect master of his art ; but it is useless to find 
 fault with what a perfect knowledge of mankind has dictated. 
 When people are in distress, and half savage, they do not 
 care about the manner or manners ; but when they are in 
 the least degree rich or civilized they do so. " Civility," said 
 another observer, " gains everything, and costs nothing." — 
 " I am the ugliest man in the three kingdoms," said Wilkes ; 
 " but, if you give me a quarter of an hour's start, I will gain 
 the love of any woman before the handsomest." 
 
THE MANNER OF THE MAN. 29 
 
 Lord Chatham was a wonderfully eloquent man, but his 
 manner added to his eloquence. So was Lord Mansfield, 
 the silver-tongued Murray, all ease, grace, suavity : his bare 
 narrative of a circumstance was said to be worth any other 
 man's argument. So again we may say of Lord Derby, of 
 Sir Robert Peel, and Mr. Gladstone. The manner of each of 
 these statesmen was and is perfectly indicative of his mind. 
 The way in which Peel hesitated and stammered till he 
 warmed into eloquence, and gained confidence as he saw his 
 arguments gain force, was a perfect lesson in manner. But 
 now-a-days, our oratory is fallen very low. We have little 
 grace, and hardly any action ; nor have we been celebrated for 
 it for many a long year. Burke, a notable orator, was stiff, 
 awkward, and confused. Napoleon thought so much of 
 manner that he studied it from Talma, the actor ; and thought, 
 with the Romans, that youth should be early brought into 
 contact with the posture-master and the orator. Chesterfield 
 has given an anecdote which will illustrate what we mean. 
 He had, it is well known, to introduce the bill for the altera- 
 tion of the calendar ; for although we were twelve days wrong, 
 yet Protestant England shunned the right because a Pope 
 had introduced it ; nor was it decorous for us to be set right 
 without an Act of Parliament. " I was," says Chesterfield, 
 " to bring in this bill, which was necessarily composed of 
 law jargon and astronomical observations, about which I 
 knew nothing ; but it was absolutely necessary to make the 
 House of Lords fancy I knew something ; and so I was par- 
 ticularly attentive to the choice of my words, the harmony 
 and soundness of my periods, and to my action. I succeeded : 
 many said I had made the whole very clear to them, when I 
 
30 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 had not even attempted to do so. Lord Macclesfield, who is 
 one of the greatest astronomers and mathematicians in 
 Europe, spoke afterwards with infinite knowledge, and with 
 all the clearness which the matter will admit of ; but, as his 
 manner, his periods, and his action were not so good as 
 mine, the preference was unanimously, but most unjustly 
 given to me." 
 
 This injustice, if it be so, is the same everywhere. A good 
 actor will take a small part, and by his manner elevate it and 
 make it stand out beyond the others. A bad one will degrade 
 a good part. At a public assembly a poor speaker will spoil 
 a good cause ; a good one, without half the weight or the 
 sense of the other, will make any one believe that he has all 
 the right on his side : it is the old art of Belial, " to make 
 the worse appear the better reason." But neither men nor 
 women should neglect this art. " Be ye wise as serpents ;" 
 "Do not put your light under a bushel," and a dozen other 
 texts, may be quoted to aid us. 
 
 Mr. Bright, in his speech some time ago, made a catchpenny 
 effect by falling foul of grammar. Of course all the people, 
 the great majority of the assembly, who did not understand 
 grammar, applauded Mr. Bright; but his grand alternative 
 was arithmetic. " Teach a boy the value of figures, and he 
 is a made man ;" that was the gist of his discourse. He may 
 be so ; but, in our opinion, too much calculation, too many 
 " figures," is much more likely to spoil a boy, to mar him 
 than to make him : he becomes selfish, calculating, cold ; as 
 careless of true nobility of purpose and of soul, and as wor- 
 shipful of material success as Mr. Bright himself. But teach 
 him true manners, and you will really benefit him and all 
 
THE MANNER OF THE MAN. 31 
 
 mankind. " Manners makyth man," quoth William of Wyke- 
 ham ; and the bishop's motto is a precious truth. Good 
 manner is compounded of two things — self-respect and a due 
 observance of the feelings of others. Good manners consist 
 in the polish put upon these, and are neither frivolous nor 
 useless, as some religionists think. There is evidence enough 
 and to spare, not only that the Saviour was " the first true 
 gentleman that ever breathed," but that His immediate dis- 
 ciples had studied manner as well as rhetoric. St. Paul, in 
 his speeches and letters, is the very model of a gentleman ; 
 so are also St. James, St. John, and others. In fact, gentle- 
 ness, forbearance, kindness to one another, conciliation, 
 quietude, and affection in manner and discourse, all of which 
 are of the very nature and essence of politeness, were strictly 
 enjoined by the first teachers of Christianity, and have no 
 right to be scorned by their followers now. 
 
 In teaching manners and politeness, Chesterfield himself 
 merges into a Christian teacher. His son. he writes, was not 
 to hurt anybody by a malicious speech, not to exalt himself 
 above others, not to indulge in any sneer. The temptation 
 of saying a witty thing is never to lead him away to do it at 
 any one else's expense. " This passion in people who fancy 
 they can say smart things, has made them more enemies, and 
 implacable ones too, than anything I know of," he adds. 
 Wordsworth puts, however, the true gentleman-feeling on it 
 when he vows — 
 
 ' ' Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
 With sorrow to the meanest thing that feels." 
 
 Other hints are very good, and show us that in good truth 
 
32 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 manners are minor morals, that an habitually rude man is 
 most likely a bad one. We are to talk, says Chesterfield, 
 often, but never long, so that others may have their chance of 
 speaking. We are to take rather than give the tone of the 
 company we are in. What is this but being " all things to all 
 men ?" We are not to bore people. " Never hold anybody 
 by the button, or the hands, in order to be heard out ; for, if 
 people are not willing to hear you, you had better hold your 
 tongue than them." Always look people in the face when 
 you speak to them. Never brag nor exaggerate. " A man 
 affirms," writes my lord, " and not without oaths, that he has 
 drunk six or eight bottles at a sitting. Out of charity I will 
 believe him a liar ; for, if I do not, I must think him a beast. 
 Neither retail nor receive scandal willingly : in the case of 
 scandal as well as of robbery, the receiver is always as bad 
 as the thief." 
 
 Any man can be polite, if he merely wills it. The true 
 gentleness and politeness of a good-humoured English mob 
 has often attracted and charmed foreigners. Politeness 
 arises from the heart. The man who is only " a gentleman 
 when he chooses," as more than one boasts he can be, is 
 merely a polished hypocrite. A gentleman is always one ; 
 and a polite nation is always polite. Sitting with their legs 
 over the chair back of another, carrying bowie knives, cutting 
 the furniture, and spitting in a circle around them, are not 
 only national faults, but absolutely sins amongst Americans. 
 They prove that they are careless of the comfort of others ; 
 and a long course of self-indulgence in rudeness must have 
 been gone through to bring them to the present point. 
 
 Of external manner and the look of a gentleman, of which 
 
THE MANNER OF THE MAN. 33 
 
 Hazlitt has written in a charming essay, we must say but 
 little. They arise more from harmony in the figure and face 
 than from anything else, and may therefore be considered as 
 natural gifts. Some truly excellent and noble men never 
 look like gentlemen. Such, for instance, were George the 
 Third, Charles Fox, Wilberforce, William Cobbett, and 
 Robert Burns. Yet all these, with all their faults and vices, 
 were Nature's noblemen. 
 
 On the other hand, no rags nor disguise can hide a certain 
 nobility and presence in other men. We may instance 
 Gentleman Jones, Munden, Farren, and Wallack, the actors ; 
 William Pitt, the Duke of Wellington, George Canning, Lord 
 Wellesley, Sir Joseph Banks (who, when bent nearly double, 
 always looked like a Privy Councillor), Sir Charles Bunbury, 
 and the vicious old Duke of Queensbury ; — all these men 
 looked like noblemen, and would have done so under any 
 circumstances. We may add that the photographs of the cele- 
 brities of the day, which are to be seen in every shop-window, 
 afford capital practice for the study of manner, as well as a 
 disappointing one for the study of expression, few men or 
 women being truly noble in their looks ; and that, as a rule, 
 the higher people are in social position and in mind, the 
 more attentive they are to their manners. 
 
 D 
 
S T* H 5 
 
 ON WHAT IS CALLED ETIQUETTE. 
 
 HE excellent David Garrick — Davie, as Dr. 
 Johnson called him — published a very excellent 
 book in its way, upon reading the Liturgy. 
 It would seem, from the pictures of his friend 
 Hogarth, and from Garrick's own book, that the majority of 
 parsons read as badly or worse than they do now. We 
 admit that perhaps it would be difficult, but let us con- 
 cede that, as a whole, they read worse. Well, Davie's book- 
 seller — for he was an author as well as a player, and he 
 is painted by Reynolds as rolling his eyes in a " fine frenzy," 
 with his MSS. on a little rococco occasional table, and pen 
 in hand, charged with poetry and ink, whilst behind him up 
 skips Mrs. Garrick for the purpose of pulling the inky pen 
 through his fingers — Davie's bookseller, or Davie himself, 
 suggested this book upon reading the prayers ; and a rich 
 book it is. Here, says Davie, when he comes to "miserable 
 sinners," you are to "lower your voice and roll your eyes ; here 
 you are to whisper, here to groan ; there to look miserable." 
 Davie wrote all this with bona fides. He merely gave a man 
 his stage directions how to pray ; very dreadful, perhaps, 
 and certainly very absurd. But are not our books of eti- 
 
ETIQUETTE. 3 $ 
 
 quette much the same ? Can manners be learnt by rote, 
 and the gentle life assumed? We think not; first make a 
 man good and good-wishing, and you will then make his 
 manners good ; all else is mere ceremony, although that is a 
 great thing. 
 
 From an old anecdote we learn that, when a certain King 
 of England expressed his contempt for court etiquette, by 
 saying that it was " all nonsense, only a ceremony," the 
 ambassador to whom he used the words retorted with, " And 
 what is your Majesty but a ceremony?" We could carry 
 this question still further : What are the aristocracy, the 
 government, the church, nay, the whole of society, but cere- 
 monies ? Were we to loosen these, what would become of 
 the whole edifice ? It would, like the globe of that philo- 
 sopher who had destroyed the principle of cohesion, fall at 
 once to pieces. Brute force and selfishness, and all their 
 attendant evils, would again be in the ascendant. Those 
 aspiring souls who look back to the good old times " when 
 wild in woods the noble savage ran," would find their wishes 
 realized, and would know exactly how very noble the un- 
 taught savage can be. The despised tradesman, the detested 
 hierarch, and the hated nobleman, would all disappear under 
 the same dead level of savagery. Intellect would be on a 
 par with stupidity, or rather its inferior, since the latter often 
 boasts superior bodily strength. There would be " no this, 
 no that, no nothing ;" for everything in our modern society 
 is built upon this universal ceremony. The common observ- 
 ance of the law, the obedience to rule, the love of parents, 
 the honesty towards all men, the sanctity of marriage, the 
 very feeling which keeps one man's fingers from another's 
 
 D 2 
 
36 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 throat, grow out of this ceremony, which some regenerators 
 affect to despise. Lower, however, than this universal code, 
 generally understood by all mankind, is another congeries of 
 widely spread laws, the rules of society in fact, the command- 
 ments of the minor morals, the decalogue of good behaviour 
 — in short, etiquette. 
 
 What is etiquette? The word is Anglo-Norman, and 
 primarily had — nay, has now — a far different signification. 
 It means simply the ticket which was tied to the necks of 
 bags, or affixed to bundles, to note their contents. Each 
 bag, being ticketed thus, was accepted unchallenged. From 
 this it would appear that the word passed at last, not to the 
 cards of invitation which one man sent to another, but to 
 certain cards upon which were printed the chief rules to be 
 observed by the guests. Certain forms of behaviour were 
 necessary to be observed ; these were laid down and written 
 upon the cards ; and thus behaviour was, or was not, " the 
 ticket," or etiquette, for there can be no doubt but the slang 
 term which we have just quoted has the same derivation. 
 
 So to be "the ticket" came to be the very general desire 
 of civilized people ; and, as others grew in civilization, eti- 
 quette became a necessary code, which has been digested 
 and written upon and reviewed perhaps as much, or more, 
 than any other code of laws in the world. 
 
 It is, however, necessary to instil and enforce this code, 
 and particularly so amongst uncultivated nations. Perhaps 
 the most polite, observant, head-uncovering, bowing, and 
 bending nation of the world — we only speak of the upper 
 classes — is Russia. It is, to one who has a liking for these 
 matters, quite a lesson to see a Russian nobleman of the 
 
ETIQUETTE. 37 
 
 high school in conversation with anybody ; he is the beau 
 ideal of good manners and gentlemanly bearing ; he takes off 
 his hat to every woman, he bares his head to a tradesman, 
 he salutes him when he enters his shop, he bows when he 
 goes. Princes of the blood imperial do this, and very pro- 
 perly too. But it is only within a very few years that the 
 Russian has learnt all this. There was a time when he was 
 as unlicked as the fable says a bear's cub is. When the 
 great Catherine gave receptions to her nobility, she was 
 obliged to publish certain rules of etiquette which would be 
 quite unnecessary now with the most untaught English 
 peasant. Gentlemen were not to get drunk before the feast 
 was ended ; ladies of the court were not to wash out their 
 mouths in the drinking-glasses, wipe their faces on the 
 damask, and were enjoined to eat, not pick their teeth, with 
 their forks ; noblemen were forbidden to strike their wives in 
 company, and so on. The curiosity is still to be met with 
 in books of table-talk ; and the edict was, without a doubt, 
 needed. But time has changed all this ; and, as we have 
 said, the Russian nobleman is the very best-mannered man 
 in the world — free from the stupidly stiff hauteur of our 
 English, from the over-polish and cringe of the French, the 
 stolidity of the Germans, and the innate but very apparent 
 pride of the Spanish. 
 
 When the Prince of Wales was in Canada, and all the 
 good colonists were flocking to see him, the newspapers, 
 which awhile ago could only talk upon fierce politics, became 
 the masters of the ceremonies, and taught etiquette. Thus 
 it would seem to be incumbent that every one who paid his 
 respects to " Victoria's big son," as the Yankees called him, 
 
33 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 should do so in a clean shirt and black coat, and should be 
 presented in due form. These little observances are quite 
 necessary, although there may be, as the chronicler of these 
 matters hints, rather a short supply of black dress-coats in 
 the colony. Those who desired to pay their respects to the 
 prince gave their tailor a job ; and so ceremony, as it often 
 does, helped trade ; and in a new country the charming ease 
 and good manners of the prince made everything smooth 
 and pleasant. In fact, from what we heard, never had there 
 been much less etiquette and never better manners throughout 
 a royal progress. The reason is this — education is generally 
 diffused. The progress of the prince was one of triumph over 
 official nonsense ; and every one did his best, and, having seen 
 that best admired and extolled, was delighted with the prince, 
 and the share he himself bore in the matter. This, too, is in 
 delightful contrast with the celebrated journey of George the 
 Fourth in Ireland, where every one of our fathers or grand- 
 fathers was ready to creep in the mud before him, where 
 they fought for the glasses he had drunk out of, and where 
 the slavishness of the subject was only equalled by the vanity 
 of the king. 
 
 But we have not only a contrast in the manners of the 
 people, but also in their thoughts. Our court, from which 
 all etiquette is and should be derived, is wonderfully purer 
 than it formerly was, and therefore has much less nonsense 
 about it. Certainly, both in drawing-rooms and levies, and 
 other court ceremonies, a great deal of positively superfluous 
 folly is indulged in, just as there is a great deal of stupid 
 finery and gold lace about the hangers-on of the court ; but 
 plain common sense is gradually winning the day. The 
 
ETIQUETTE. 39 
 
 weakest and most worthless sovereigns have always stuck 
 most exclusively to etiquette, just as the weakest and most 
 foolish men in common life are often those who assume the 
 greatest airs, and keep themselves most distant from their 
 fellows. George the Fourth would object to a man if his 
 collar were only half an inch too broad, and was himself all 
 his life studying the etiquette of manner and of dress. He 
 learned how to hold himself from Alvanley, and used to dress 
 after Beau Brummel, a great pattern and patron of his, from 
 whom he parted for a breach of etiquette committed in a 
 moment of conviviality : the Beau absolutely asked the prince, 
 whose hand rested on the bell-rope, to touch the bell ! The 
 offence was rank indeed, and never forgiven. 
 
 Charles the First, whom Vandyke's romantic portraits and 
 Walter Scott's novels have prevented from being regarded 
 in the true light, was a great stickler for etiquette ; he once 
 caned a young nobleman for appearing before him not dressed 
 according to its rules ; with evident delight he went through 
 all the tedious observances of a Spanish introduction to the 
 court ; he delighted to surround himself with ceremony and 
 with ceremonious people. His great archbishop, Laud, 
 whom he afterwards basely deserted, tried to revive as much 
 as he could, in the Church of England, the ceremonies of 
 that of Rome. Strafford, a great man and a great statesman, 
 was obliged to cramp his intellect within the ceremonial 
 bounds prescribed by the court, and so lost the day ! Nay, 
 from what one may gather, it really does admit of a doubt, 
 whether the pain of losing his crown and kingdom was not 
 to King Charles less than that of being treated without 
 ceremony, and being beaten by the vulgar rabble of the 
 
4 o THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 lower classes, as he contemptuously and falsely termed his 
 opponents. 
 
 Formerly there used to be an etiquette of war. As boxers 
 now-o'-days always politely shake hands before they fight, so 
 great generals sent messages to inform their opponents when 
 they were about to begin. Turenne and Conde opened their 
 trenches with much ceremony and a band of music — "a noise 
 of flutes, drums, and bassoons," as they called it. The 
 Frenchmen at Fontenoy, face to face with their English 
 opponents, politely bade them " to fire first." Sir Walter 
 Manny, in the front ranks before his men-at-arms, saluted 
 his opponents : " God you good den, messieurs," said he. 
 " I pray you accept this blow." And, swinging his two- 
 handed sword round his head, the battle began in earnest. 
 There are many who regret these good old times ; but they 
 forget that these well-mannered men oppressed their peasants, 
 drove them to open revolt, and made them the wretched 
 Jacquerie they were, and then slaughtered them by thousands. 
 Polite, sometimes, were the knights, but their rule was brutal ; 
 and the stroke of satire of a popular author is as deserved as 
 it is neat and trenchant, when he tells of a knight, " who 
 clad in armour of proof, bravely led his leather-jerkined or 
 bare-breasted followers to the death, and then politely returned 
 to breakfast with his friends." 
 
 The etiquette of war continued down to the end of the 
 reign of Louis the Sixteenth in France, when the Revolution 
 rather astonished the masters of the ceremonies, the court 
 gold sticks, silver sticks, and head basin and towel bearers. 
 The revolutionary rabble and generals were very untaught 
 people, who went their way without much ceremony ; and, 
 
ETIQUETTE. 41 
 
 when the Austrian and Prussian armies, who were not devoid 
 of good breeding, had to contend with a young general 
 named Bonaparte, before they could well make up their 
 minds how to fight him in the most polite way, he had broken 
 through their ranks and scattered them all to the wind. The 
 old generals made very bitter complaints that he did not 
 fight according to the rules of war ; at the game of bowls 
 he always managed to out-bowl them simply by mere force 
 of arm ; he hit the jack and carried it along with him. He 
 was the spoilt child of fortune, and was almost as great a 
 contemner of etiquette as Cromwell, whose life he always 
 studied. When the great Protector's wife and courtiers and 
 masters of the ceremonies had prepared a fine feast, he used 
 to delight in calling in a company of his old Ironsides and 
 seeing them devour it ; which, says one sage historian, was 
 a proof of his low origin. Nay, not so ; Cromwell came of 
 knightly blood ; and kingly blood even has been brutal and 
 rude. The circumstance, Avhich perhaps after all, occurred 
 only once, proved that he despised etiquette, and had some 
 humour : so he feasted those who had fought for him. 
 
 When Bonaparte was up in the saddle, none were so fond 
 of etiquette as he. His black Imperial Majesty Faustin the 
 First did not create more barons and dukes and marshals 
 than he did, nor was he more particular as to their behaviour. 
 The etiquette of the Imperial court was as strict, and even 
 more so, than that of the old-world ceremonious thrones, 
 which looked down upon it with immense contempt. Talley- 
 rand was bitter upon this aping of manners, and sneered at 
 the little Corsican, who had his marshals taught how to enter 
 the royal presence, and who himself learnt how to wear his 
 
42 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 royal robes from the great tragedian, Talma. But, after all, 
 there was nothing ridiculous in this. If an actor can (and 
 he can, and does) strut and walk better than a nobleman or 
 king, then let the king learn of the actor. It is from the 
 ignorance of grace and graceful bearing that our public pro- 
 cessions are such ridiculous things. The theatrical corona- 
 tion which Garrick rehearsed was better by far than the one 
 it imitated, and the wax figure of King George's court at 
 Madame Tussaud's outdoes the reality. Court etiquette has, 
 through its infraction, been the cause of more than one war ; 
 the ambassador of the Greeks to the Persian court, nearly 
 three thousand years ago, having to bow very low to the 
 monarch, dropped his ring, and, pretending to pick that up, 
 made the bend serve for the obeisance. Sir Henry Pottinger, 
 and, before him, the great Anson, flatly refused to comply 
 with the follies of Chinese court manners, which comprised 
 licking the dust before the great monarch ; and no doubt the 
 English were considered very ill-bred fellows. 
 
 Etiquette is mysterious ; good manners simple and easily 
 understood. Etiquette differs in various courts. Good 
 manners are the same all over the world. Good manners are 
 always the same. Etiquette plays some extraordinary tricks. 
 When Mr. Oliphant was in Japan, it amused him almost as 
 much as it horrified him to find that the strangest duello in 
 the world was there fought. When one courtier was insulted 
 by another, he who bore the insult turned round to the 
 insulter, and, quietly uncovering the stomach, ripped himself 
 open. The aggressor, by an inexorable law of etiquette, is 
 bound to follow the lead, and so the two die. The most 
 heart-rending look ever witnessed was one given by a Japanese, 
 
ETIQUETTE. 43 
 
 who, having been insulted by an American, carried out the 
 rule, expecting his opponent to follow suit. But the Yankee 
 would do nothing of the sort ; and the Japanese expired in 
 agonies — not from the torture of his wound, but from being 
 a sacrifice to so foolish and underbred a fellow — whilst the 
 American looked at him in a maze of wonder. 
 
 These extraordinary and out-of-the-way samples of manners 
 may go to prove that many silly, weak, and foolish customs 
 have been put down as the quintessence of etiquette. After 
 all, when one looks at the matter quietly, one begins to doubt 
 whether it be worth while to learn the modern stare and 
 " haw, haw !" the Grecian stoop, or English strut, or to polish 
 one's manners up to the very latest fashion. It is not the 
 chief end in life to act " according to the card," as Hamlet 
 says ; but it is to be honest, gentle, good, brave, cheerful, and 
 manly (or womanly, as the case may be). Lady Slylove, or 
 the Honourable Mrs. Fauxpas, may laugh at awkwardness, 
 and may sneer if a man does not handle his hat well, or omits 
 a morning call at the proper time ; but it may be that in the 
 end they, foolish people, will get laughed at for their non- 
 sense. As a man may be wise without learning, so one may 
 be polite without etiquette ; true politeness arises from the 
 heart, not the head. 
 
 A man who, in the popular phrase, is said to be a gentle- 
 man when he likes, seldom is a gentleman at all ; but simply 
 a fellow with some artificial polish on him, which he rubs up, 
 as one does furniture, when one's friends call. To show no 
 vulgar surprise, to laugh or to smile within reason and in the 
 right place, to use one's knife and fork at dinner gracefully, 
 to speak gently and kindly, and to act with ease and natural- 
 
44 
 
 THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 ness, is the sum and substance of etiquette. It is by striving 
 to be more than we are, by giving ourselves airs, by assuming 
 more knowledge than we have, and by a vast deal of non- 
 sensical pretence, that we render ourselves contemptible and 
 ridiculous; for such people, perhaps, the rules of etiquette 
 may be useful. 
 
TOUCHING TEACHING AND TEACHERS. 
 
 HEN Talleyrand, who may be taken as an im- 
 personation of worldly shrewdness, came to Eng- 
 land to inspect the nature of our education, he 
 observed of our public school system, " It is the 
 best which I have seen, and yet it is abominable." Matters 
 are not much better now. Every now and then a school- 
 master is condemned to hard labour for beating a boy nearly 
 to death because he cannot learn his lesson ; and, in one of 
 these cases, the only defence of the master really was thjs : 
 that he, the teacher, was so dull himself that he could not 
 distinguish between "could not" and "would not" — between 
 stupidity and laziness in a child. Now it will strike all of us 
 that that schoolmaster was wanting in the most essential 
 part of a schoolmaster's requisite knowledge of human nature. 
 But what is education ? The simple meaning of the word, 
 a leading forth from innate barbarism and ignorance, is not 
 quite all the answer that we want ; but it is the best that we 
 generally get. It is the training of the tender mind, the 
 teaching of "the young idea how to shoot," to pun on a hack- 
 neyed quotation ; and very badly some of the marksmen un- 
 derstand their business, and very much the world grumbles 
 
46 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 at them ; but there is this to be said, that they can grumble 
 at the world. Thus much at least we can say for the school- 
 master, that he does, to the best of his ability, instruct his 
 boys in obedience, in behaviour, in grammar, and in what 
 learning he has ; that he does for the most part keep up to 
 the old catechism, and teach his lads to avoid the pomps and 
 vanities of this wicked world, but to very little purpose, since 
 the lad gets all that is taught him at school subverted at 
 home; and foppery, dandyism, folly, idleness, pride, meanness, 
 love of position, of gold, and hatred and contempt of honest 
 labour, are taught him after he has left school. Not that any 
 of the good, excellent fathers and mothers ever intend to do 
 so, but that almost every action in society does so, and will 
 do so — ay, and has done so for many years. " What," said a 
 rich Athenian, who had heard wonderful accounts of the new 
 philosophers, "what will you charge to educate my son?" 
 The particular sage to whom the question was put named a 
 good round sum. "By Hercules!" returned the father, 
 swearing the popular oath of the time, " I could buy a slave 
 for the money ! " The philosopher turned round on the heel 
 of his sandal : " Do so," said he, " and you will have two." 
 
 It is quite possible that this truth, that his untaught son 
 and a slave were about on a par, was rather unpleasing to our 
 rich Athenian ; and it is one peculiarity of modern nations, 
 and especially our own, that governments have been lavish 
 of their money in support of education. People have seen 
 long enough ago that knowledge is power. They penetrated 
 the darkness of ages to bring forth the riches of the past. 
 They resuscitated the old poets and philosophers, and made 
 them, by their works, rule us from their graves ; and, although 
 
TEACHING. 47 
 
 a certain Church very strongly now-a-days objects to secular 
 education, its servants, the monks, set the ball rolling which 
 will never be stopped. When once a passion for knowledge 
 is excited, it never entirely dies out ; and, if the soil be a 
 generous one, the tree of knowledge continually shoots out 
 fresh roots and new branches. The moderns have accepted 
 the dictum of the old philosopher, and do not wish to have 
 two slaves. Ignorance, they are quite ready to own, is slavery ; 
 so much so, that, in slave-holding and breeding States in our 
 enlightened ally, America, they found it, it is said, necessary 
 to condemn their slaves to ignorance. It is there a sin against 
 the law to teach the black man ; but, as to the white man, 
 educate him by all means. The poorest white fellow, not 
 only in the States, but here, unless he be an exception to the 
 general rule, endeavours to get his son better taught than he 
 himself has been. 
 
 Knowledge is power. Grasp at it, snatch it, catch it in 
 driblets ; but have it by all means. Here is Burns reading 
 at the plough-tail, Fergusson drawing a map of the heavens 
 on a hill side, Gifford working his problems with his shoe- 
 maker's awl on a bit of leather, Clare learning to read by 
 scraps of ballads, and a dozen others, whom any one can 
 name, mounting up the hill of learning by all sorts of difficult 
 and out-of-the-way paths. 
 
 As all acknowledge the use of learning, the only thing 
 now-a-days to consider is, how to attain it ; and here comes 
 the question, What is a boy ? And a very important one it 
 is ; so much so, that a dignitary in the Church has written 
 an essay with the title. A boy in England, to wit, is a very 
 different thing from one in China. Here he is not tied down 
 
48 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 to follow his father's trade. He may do anything, and attain 
 almost any position, so that he has a long life, a good con- 
 stitution, untiring industry, and " good luck." If a lad of 
 sixteen, fresh from school, and well taught, were to make up 
 his mind that he would be Chancellor of the Exchequer or 
 Prime Minister before he died, there is little doubt but that 
 he could acquire that position, so that his purpose and inten- 
 tion were steadily carried out. At any rate, whatever prize 
 he aims at is within his reach ; and that is why Shelley said 
 that the Almighty had given men arms long enough to reach 
 the stars, if they would only put them out. The great faults 
 with youth are want of purpose, and frivolity. They spend 
 all their best years in playing at cross purposes, and their 
 age in regretting that they have done nothing. Education 
 should therefore fit a boy for after-life, expand his knowledge, 
 brace up his mind, root out laziness, and give aim and direc- 
 tion to his intellect, as well as a general fitness for employ- 
 ment, and a wide knowledge of the rudiments of sciences, 
 and the causes of things. 
 
 The choice of a school or a preceptor is the first difficulty 
 which meets us. Where shall the tradesman, the man of 
 business, or the working-man, all of whose hours are occupied, 
 find the right man who will thus instruct his son ? " Upon 
 the choice of a governor who shall direct your son," writes 
 Montaigne to Diana de Foix, "depends entirely the scheme; 
 and, if you desire your boy to turn out a man of abilities, 
 rather than a mere scholar, I would advise his friends to be 
 careful of choosing him a tutor who is a man of head-piece 
 rather than a perfect bookworm, though both judgment and 
 learning are requisite." In the present day, how is a man 
 
TEACHING. 49 
 
 to distinguish between the mere advertising quacks and the 
 real teachers ? 
 
 It is certain that the present age thinks in the main as 
 Montaigne did ; for training-schools both for masters and 
 mistresses have been and are now being established, it being 
 an important matter that the teacher should be taught how 
 to teach. And here we are simply going back to the days of 
 Elizabeth, wherein the masters were not only mere peda- 
 gogues, or boy-drivers, but men of approved knowledge. Un- 
 fortunately many of our old grammar-schools have decayed, 
 and private seminaries, colleges, and academies, or whatever 
 may be the fashionable name, have usurped their place. And 
 this is certain to any one who knows life, that of all scholastic 
 evils perhaps the private schools of the very rich are the very 
 worst. The boys learn worse than nothing there. They are 
 pampered and petted, their pride is nourished and fostered, 
 and carefully cultivated, whilst their manliness is destroyed, 
 and their freedom curtailed, lest their gentility should suffer. 
 Take, for instance, the schools of the rich at a fashionable 
 watering-place, where the boys dress for dinner, never dirt 
 their faces, have spotless linen and white kid gloves, and are 
 attracted by the advertisement that " sons of noblemen and 
 baronets" are to be their companions.* At the six o'clock 
 dinner the lads sit at the same table with their instructors, 
 and the poor little " fool of quality" is pestered by such ques- 
 tions as " How is Sir Samuel ?" and " How is my lady, your 
 
 * More than one instance could be adduced of the son of a poor 
 baronet being educated for nothing, simply that the lad should act 
 as a decoy-duck. 
 
 £ 
 
50 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 mother ?" from the master or mistress, simply for the sake of 
 pronouncing the title. 
 
 This snobbism fosters every kind of mean and dirty pride, 
 and, so far from doing good, does infinite harm in after-life. 
 Peers and baronets are very well in their places ; but all 
 boys should be equal ; and they are so in a public school, 
 where the cleverest, bravest, and hardiest boy wins. Sir 
 Bulwer Lytton, indeed, tells a story of a proud little monkey 
 walking into Eton or Harrow schoolyard, and replying to the 
 question, "Who are you?" with "Lord Dash, son of the 
 Marquis of Dontknowwho." — " Then," said the cock of the 
 school, a plain Bob Smith, " there are three kicks : one for 
 my lord and two for the marquis," and the little recipient 
 never forgot this lesson, the best he had in his life. Tom 
 Brown! s Schooldays, and other manly books, have done 
 something towards exposing the foolish pride of position 
 amongst boys. 
 
 A school is nothing more than a place of introduction to 
 the greater world. It is the landing-place just before we begin 
 to climb the stairs of life. What the boy has to learn is not 
 to be vainer and weaker, but to be better and stronger. The 
 custom of cramming with mere book-learning is folly. Why 
 should a sensible man be employed all day in pouring into 
 his pupil's ears, as through a funnel, that which he is sure to 
 forget ? Let the teacher every now and then take stock of 
 what the boy has learnt. The lad is not a better nor a wiser 
 lad for having blown early, and surmounted a quantity of 
 surface-learning or bare accomplishments. The mind should 
 be widened, the attention arrested, and by all manner of 
 means, a " receptivity " or capacity for receiving knowledge 
 
TEACHING. 51 
 
 should be engendered ; and this may be done, presuming 
 beforehand that the lad is not mentally disqualified, without 
 cruelty, and certainly with little corporal correction. It is 
 dreadful to think of the unfitness of some masters ; of the 
 amount of cruelty said to occur in schools, principally in 
 private ones, and which is now and then revealed in the 
 police-courts. The reason why public schools are more 
 exempt than others is, that therein punishment is open and 
 regulated. We hear of no private floggings ; nor does the 
 master who is offended by the boy's carelessness or laziness 
 punish him, but the principal, or some one deputed. It is 
 difficult also to do without corporal punishment ; in some 
 way or other chastisement must be given : the great question 
 with each individual boy is, Which kind is the most proper ? 
 But we may here observe that, if punishment exists, rewards 
 should exist also ; and that the former should never be so 
 administered as to make learning a terror. We often hear 
 Lady Jane Grey cited as a learned lady, more often than the 
 reason of her easy acquisition of that learning. She tells us 
 that Roger Ascham, her schoolmaster, made knowledge so 
 enticing and pleasant to her, that she was always eager to 
 escape from her parents and her companions to the society 
 of the old teacher ; and that thus she learnt Latin and Greek 
 purely for the sake of the pleasure she derived. Thus it was 
 that she was found — 
 
 " Musing with Plato when the horn was blown, 
 And every ear and every heart was won, 
 And all in green array were chasing down the sun!" 
 
 It were to be wished that that sweet method of teaching, 
 which made Ascham the prince of tutors, were discovered 
 
 E 2 
 
52 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 and fully developed throughout this all-noble realm of 
 England. 
 
 There are two things which, although taught, are taught 
 by far too scantily in modern days. One is submission and 
 reverence towards age ; the other follows closely upon it, an 
 humble opinion of oneself. In manufacturing and in new 
 countries, where man as a working machine is valuable, and 
 where the boy, amongst the working classes, earns his bread 
 long before his bones are fully grown, an appreciation of his 
 own value gives him conceit and self-pride — the two great 
 hindrances to knowledge. In America and our own colonies 
 the position of the boy to the man is yet more objectionable, 
 and the feeling spreads upwards from one class to another. 
 Nothing can be more sad than this. The boy misses teaching 
 and guiding at this most important period of his life ; the 
 man loses that respect and reverence which is his due, and 
 which will uphold him in his age. Thus, at two periods of 
 life, from due attention being omitted, much wretchedness is 
 occasioned to all. In Athens, in Sparta, and in early Rome, 
 a boy dared not sit down in his father's presence unless com- 
 manded, and at all times showed great reverence and respect. 
 Our own commandments are not less stringent, and wisely so 
 too. A boy who is a little man, and who assumes the airs, 
 pleasures, and ways of a grown person before he has reached 
 maturity, is like a spendthrift who raises money by post-obits. 
 Just at the time when he should be enjoying his youth, with 
 its expanding knowledge, enlarged powers, and greater action, 
 he is wearied, nauseated, and disgusted with life. A modest 
 opinion of his own powers will also accompany the deference 
 to age. 
 
TEACHING. 53 
 
 There are many other points which might also be in- 
 sisted on. A politeness towards, and correct estimation of 
 the opposite sex, personal cleanliness, chastity, proper pride 
 — a lofty feeling which will keep the boy from committing 
 any dishonesty and meanness — and not only a love of, but 
 a thorough knowledge of Truth, of its weight, use, and 
 power ; of the weakness, danger, and shiftiness of Falsehood 
 — these points are to be insisted on in modern education. 
 For it is to be observed that not only effeminacy and want 
 of manliness are (or rather were, till lately) on the increase, 
 but that the worship of gold is spreading far and wide ; and 
 that a man's worth and power with his fellows are not so 
 much looked at as the amount of money which he has amassed 
 through his position, or through the works of others. Now, 
 if England degenerates and goes to pieces, it will be through 
 a want of vigorous boys : for the decay of the tree is always 
 shown in the young fruit. Thirty years hence the destinies 
 of this nation and all her dependencies, if she then has any, 
 will be in the hands of those who are boys now ; and, when 
 all the talking and writing, and teaching of this day are over, 
 and we are quietly in our graves, those who are now little 
 schoolboys will bej±nmdering in the senate, or teaching from 
 the pulpit, the volume, or the journal. 
 
 Now-a-days there is a great fuss made about Latin and 
 Greek being dead and useless tongues, which they are not, 
 and some of our schoolmasters are for cramming the young 
 mind, not with Greek Alcaics and the philosophy of Plato, 
 but with the " fairy tales of science and the long results of 
 time," made as dry and unnutritious as a bone out of a 
 French stew. Science is all very well when properly taken ; 
 
54 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 but the dilettante and semi-scientific boy is generally so great 
 a bore, so very conceited, and so apt to turn out an infidel of 
 sixteen, that scientific instruction needs great care, especially 
 as the first alphabet of a science is easily learnt, and it is so 
 easy for a boy to gabble in confusing semi-scientific talk. On 
 this subject I may be excused if I reprint a few lines, which 
 some years ago I wrote for a scientific magazine.* 
 
 THE PROVINCE OF THE TEACHER. 
 
 Instil the love and reverence which you feel, 
 The sweet delight in earth or blue arched sky, 
 In picture, book ; in landscape, fair and wide, 
 And high-raised palaces, or ancient shrine, 
 With painted window, storied with delight : 
 In the high mountains and the boundless sea. 
 Teach him to reverence these ; moreover, name 
 The petals of each flowret, class each shell, 
 Mark well the wondrous fashion of God's work, — 
 Bird, animal, or insect. 
 
 His young heart 
 Will pulse and throb with a most holy awe 
 When he shall mark the infinite Wisdom shown 
 In each and all, an atom or a globe, 
 Proceeding from God's hand ; when.he shall know 
 That not a feather stirs beyond its place, 
 
 * I may add as a further excuse, that of them I may very well 
 quote Gray, when writing of his own Elegy : — "They have been so 
 applauded, it is quite a shame to repeat it : I mean not to be modest ; 
 but it is a shame for those who have said such superlative things 
 about them, that I cannot repeat them.' 1 '' — Letter to Dr. Wharton, 
 1750. Even in modest Gray we have here exhibited the author's 
 love of praise. 
 
TEACHING. 55 
 
 That not a beauty but still has a use — 
 That even in the roughest, hardest things, 
 Strange glories lie ; that in the wing of gnat, 
 The skin of snake, or eye of crawling toad, 
 Such clouds of glorious colour are contained, 
 That the skilled pencil and the cunning brain 
 Of man can scarcely picture : the rough shell, 
 Touched with Art's polish, brightly glows, and glads 
 Each eye that sees it ; and a shred of wood 
 Holds in its little space most wondrous forms. 
 
 * * * * When this glimpse 
 
 Thou'st shown him of this world we have and hold, 
 
 Bring forth those instruments by Science made 
 
 To show the upper and the lower worlds, 
 
 And mark the two infinites of each. 
 
 Peer through the telescope, world-systems show, 
 
 And tell what various knowledge testifies ; 
 
 Of star-globes floating in th' abyss of blue ; 
 
 Reason of worlds in worlds ; of suns that gem 
 
 The sky like gold-dust sprinkled on a robe, 
 
 But yet are suns. Each step you farther go 
 
 Unveil new wonders, till he shall fall down, 
 
 Knowing his infinite smallness, and gasp out 
 
 His humble prayer to Him who made them all ! 
 
 And now the microscope produce, and show 
 
 Design and glory in a filmy wing, 
 
 That plumes more gorgeous than the ostrich bears 
 
 Deck the poor moth ; the house-fly has a foot 
 
 Fitted with instrument so wisely made, 
 
 That man, till in the grey age of the world, 
 
 Found not full comprehension of the thing. 
 
 Show him how prodigal of work God is, 
 
 How every small ephemeris sets forth 
 
 Purpose and science, if born but to die, 
 
 As we in our weak knowledge still must deem. 
 
56 THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 Show him the myriads which live within 
 A drop of water ; that Intelligence 
 Creates and orders, and still cares for each ; 
 And then his heart will throb and bound again, 
 Knowing his greatness, and thus led to God 
 By steps hewn in the Infinite Unknown, 
 And dim Uncertain, he will wisely pray — 
 Reverence himself, and love his neighbour too. 
 
ON WHAT IS COMMONLY CALLED 
 LUCK IN LIFE. 
 
 ! H Y k it that sailors cling to port on a Friday, 
 and loose their ships and weigh anchor on 
 Sunday ? Why did the ancients build a temple 
 to Fortune, consult oracles, and venerate white 
 stones rather than black stones ? Why did our grandmothers 
 dislike the assemblage of nine rooks, turn back when they 
 met a dog crossing their path, and show an antipathy to 
 black cats ? Why does a Fijian, to propitiate his ugly wooden 
 god, offer him a bakolo, the dead body of his brother ? Why 
 was it improper to eat beans and the seeds of the lupin ? 
 What magic makes the third time never like the rest ? At 
 the wicked little German towns where small Grand-dukes 
 improve their revenues by licensing gaming-tables, you will 
 find old gamblers begging the youngest in the company, often 
 an English boy who has come to look about him, to take for 
 them the first throw of the dice. Why so ? Why is a fresh 
 hand more likely to throw the three sixes than an old one ? 
 
 Giacomo, in Venice or the Romagna, a man of many mur- 
 ders, but pious, will cross himself nine times before taking to 
 
58 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 the road and inserting his stiletto in the first traveller he 
 meets. A young English lady, or an old one, will examine 
 her coffee-cup, throw spilt salt over her left shoulder, and 
 shriek when knives are placed crossways on the dinner- 
 table. Paddy, in Connemara, will load his old gun with a 
 blessed bullet before taking aim, from behind a hedge, at a 
 bailiff. An old nurse in the midland counties will throw a 
 shoe after her daughter when she goes to service or to mar- 
 ket. Why do all these do all such funny things ? "Why did 
 Cassar, tumbling on his nose as he landed nineteen hundred 
 years ago on these shores, tell a lie to persuade his soldiers 
 that it was no bad omen but an intentional worshipping of 
 the gods ? Why do certain pious Christians travel to Loretto 
 or Rome, Mussulmans to Mecca, Hindoos to the Ganges ? 
 Why do Pierre and Wilhelm give a larger price for the odd 
 numbers, the 7, 13, 21, and others, in a lottery, than for the 
 even ? Why did good old Doctor Johnson touch the tops of 
 the posts as he went along Fleet Street, and preserve his 
 orange pips with a sacred devotion ? There is but one an- 
 swer to all these questions, and to as many more as would fill 
 this page. Because one and all believed in Fortune, Chance, 
 Luck, call it what you will — blind goddess, capricious jade, 
 or discerning deity : Fate, if you wish it, superior to Jupiter, 
 Queen of the Gods themselves, stronger far than wisdom, 
 skill, or strength. 
 
 What is luck, or fortune, or chance? A great portion of 
 every man's life is spent in solving this question. It is not 
 solved yet. It is a question whether the great preacher did 
 not believe in it. The race, he said, was not always to the 
 swift, nor the battle to the strong ; but time and chance hap- 
 
LUCK, GOOD AND BAD. 59 
 
 pened to all men. Caesar believed in it, and told the pilot in 
 the storm, " C<zsarem fiortas et fortunam ejus" — you carry- 
 Caesar and his luck. You might be wrecked with one but 
 not with the other. The Athenian Timotheus so credited it 
 that he especially exempted it from any share in his deeds ; 
 " and in this," said he, when he gave an account of his vic- 
 tories, " and in this Fortune had no share." He was never 
 fortunate afterwards. Napoleon would rather have had a 
 fortunate man than a clever general. Cromwell had his 
 lucky days, of which his birthday was one. Sylla would rather 
 have been called " lucky" than "great"— -felix non viagnus. 
 " It cannot be denied," said our wisest Englishman, " but 
 outward accidents conduce much to fortune." He instances 
 as outward accidents, "favour, opportunity, the death of 
 others, and occasion fitting virtue," which is, after all, only 
 another way of saying, " the right man in the right place ;" 
 and we should be far from denying it. There is such a luck 
 as this, but not a blind, foolish, ignorant luck. 
 
 Historians seem, however, to have determined to treat some 
 heroes as lucky — perhaps from a wish to detract from their 
 merit. Cromwell, we may remember, had his lucky day, 
 September third, upon which he won the battle of Dunbar, 
 and cried out that the Lord had given the Scots into his 
 hands, upon which he won another great battle, and upon 
 which he died. Quintus Curtius seems determined to make 
 out that Alexander the Great was very lucky ; he asserts that 
 his constant good luck never forsook him, " Nee deficit illi 
 perpehia in rebus dubiis felicitas? that he himself depended 
 very much on his constant run of luck, and referred to it after 
 he had marched into Cilicia and had looked at the passes he 
 
60 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 went through, acknowledging how easy it would have been 
 for his enemies to have overwhelmed all his army with big 
 stones.* Even Parmenio, his general, depended upon his 
 master's luck, felicitati tamen Regis sui conjisus, and in that 
 dependence did much more than he would otherwise have 
 done. Plutarch relates how lucky Sylla was, so much so, that 
 the surname of Fortunate was attached to him ; and Cicero 
 speaks of the luck of Fabius Maximus, Marcellus, Scipio, and 
 Marius as a settled thing. " It was not only their courage, 
 but their Fortune which induced the people to intrust them 
 with the command of their armies. For there can be little 
 doubt but that, besides their great abilities, there was a cer- 
 tain Fortune appointed to attend upon them, and to conduct 
 them to honour and renown, and to uncommon success in 
 the management of important affairs."f 
 
 It may be at least conceded that the fortunes of men depend 
 very much on their position. Had Napoleon been an Eng- 
 lishman or an Hottentot, or born in the reign of Louis XIV., 
 he would not have overturned the world, nor have left an 
 imperishable name. But occasion fitted virtue, that is, the 
 virtue of valour — the old Roman virtue. He was born in 
 troublous times — educated for the army — sent for when 
 wanted — seized the reins of empire, and drove furiously. 
 He bided his time ; he had patience and faith, saw what was 
 
 *- Contemplatus locorum situs, non alias magis dicitur admiratus 
 esse felicitatem suam : obrui potuisse saxis confitebatur, si fuissent, 
 qui in subeuntes propellerent. — Quint. Cztrt. L. III. C. 4. 
 
 *f* Fuit enim profecto quibusdaru summis viris qusedam ad ampli- 
 tudinem, et gloriam, et ad res magnas bene gerendas ADJUNCTA 
 Fortuna (Cic. pro Lege Manilla C. XVI.) 
 
LUCK, GOOD AND BAD. 61 
 
 to be done, and did it. He was two-sided, for and against, 
 and when he fought, had always won the battle before he 
 began it. He said that luck and fortune consisted in a 
 "little quarter of an hour," being just up in time and waiting: 
 others were musing, he was working, and that, he said, was 
 all the luck he had. So Caesar crossed the Rubicon and 
 took his enemies by surprise, and so Louis Napoleon crossed 
 the Ticino. There was no luck in all this ; to see an advan- 
 tage with an eagle eye, to mark it and follow it up is not luck. 
 In the Russian war we were not " lucky," because we hesi- 
 tated ; a gun-boat with a will behind it, we were told by no 
 mean authority, would at one time have settled the matter ; 
 we had, on the contrary, a fleet, but without a will. Certainly 
 divided counsels do no good to fortune. When, however, in 
 the Indian mutinies we were attacked, undermined, and be- 
 trayed, when the very worst had come about us, then each 
 man amongst us did wonders. We all worked with a will ; 
 a handful of men, poorly accoutred and provisioned, but well 
 led, won eight victories in succession, and the revolted Sepoys 
 again said that the Feringhees had the "devil's luck." Luck 
 there meant desperation, courage, skill in arms, anything you 
 will, or all things combined, and God's blessing chief of all, 
 which enabled us to preserve a mighty empire. The French 
 traders have a proverb about English " luck," and believe 
 that in commerce we are especially fortunate ; nay, some of 
 the pious amongst them go so far as to say that since we 
 renounced the pope, the devil has made us peculiarly "lucky" 
 — he being the prince of this world. But our hard-working, 
 long-sighted merchants know much better ; their theory of 
 chance is that the best ship takes merchandise the most 
 
62 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 safely and most quickly, and that the best seamanship saves 
 the ship from being wrecked much more than " luck " does. 
 In short, they sum up success and give a reason for it ; they 
 demand success by deserving it ; they do not believe in a 
 " fortuitous concurrence of atoms " any more than Lord 
 Palmerston did in the concurrence of opinion which turned 
 him out of office. The man of action seldom does. It is 
 only your lazy, dreaming fellow who lets go by the oppor- 
 tunities presented to him, who moans and grumbles, and 
 talks of ill luck and good luck. We may note for a certainty 
 that if any one does so, and we all do at times, talk of "luck," 
 that he thinks himself the unlucky, and somebody else the 
 fortunate fellow. 
 
 But the most serious thing in this matter is this — people 
 have formed this dependence upon a blind chance into an 
 article of belief ; and they will go so far as to call those irre- 
 ligious who refuse to believe in it. They perhaps may not 
 use the terms, but they intend what we say. All kinds of 
 thinkers and inquirers have been called bad names. Even 
 Sir Thomas Browne, who wrote against " Vulgar Errors," 
 and Chief Justice Hale, who afterwards saw his error, once 
 said that those who did not believe in witches could not 
 believe in God. So the /Egean mariner, who gets the priest 
 to bless his boat and to wish him luck, would be scandalized 
 at the Protestant infidel, who would tell him that the right 
 way to bless his boat was to build her properly, rig her 
 scientifically, study navigation, and keep a sharp look-out. 
 " It is no use," said the Puritan captain, " to put your trust 
 in Providence unless you also keep your powder dry." 
 
 " It is this vast question," says Buckle, in his History of 
 
LUCK, GOOD AND BAD. 63 
 
 Civilization, " which lies at the root of the whole subject ; it 
 is simply this : Are the actions of men, and therefore of 
 societies, governed by fixed laws, or are they the result either 
 of chance or of a supernatural interference ?" The doctrine 
 of chance is, he says, the opinion most natural to a perfectly 
 ignorant people. When a wandering tribe, without the least 
 tincture of civilization, lives entirely by hunting and fishing, 
 it may well suppose that the appearance of its necessary food 
 was the result of some accident which admitted of no explan- 
 ation. The irregularity of the supply, and the caprice, or 
 supposed caprice, which made this sometimes abundant and 
 sometimes scanty, would confirm either this opinion, or the 
 idea that the food was sent by some powerful but capricious 
 Being whom the tribe would try by prayers to pacify, and by 
 incantations and mysteries to cajole. This Being would be 
 Chance. But something else intervenes, and this gives a 
 second idea to the savages. They learn a little of agricul- 
 ture. They use a food, the very existence of which seems to 
 be the result of their own act. " What they sow, that like- 
 wise do they reap." They perceive a distinct plan and a 
 regular sequence in the relation which the corn they put into 
 the ground bears to the corn when arrived at maturity. 
 They look to the future not with uncertainty, but with con- 
 fidence. Hence for the first time in their minds begins to 
 dawn a faint conception of what are called, at a later period, 
 the " laws of Nature." Thus in the march of society the 
 rude doctrine of Chance is destroyed by the regularity of 
 Nature, and replaced by that of " necessary connection." 
 
 Thus far one of the boldest and most acute thinkers of the 
 day. But oh ! ye disciples of the rigid Calvinist, and ye fol- 
 
64 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 lowers of other easier and silkier preachers, what will you 
 say when, from these rude notions of savages, Mr. Buckle 
 deduced those two ideas which have torn the religious world 
 in pieces. " And it is, I think," he says, " highly probable 
 that out of these two doctrines of Chance and Necessity there, 
 have arisen the subequent dogmas of Free Will and Pre- 
 destination." He will not leave you long to quarrel with each 
 other. All may combine against Buckle ; for as all are 
 also zVzcluded in the articles of the Anglican Church, both 
 are preluded from our author's philosophy. Predestination 
 founded on a theological hypothesis, Free Will on a meta- 
 physical hypothesis, are both wrong. " Among the more 
 advanced European thinkers there is," he asserts, " a grow- 
 ing opinion that both doctrines are wrong ; at any rate, we 
 have not sufficient evidence of their truth." Here we are at 
 issue. Both are not wrong ; but neither is wholly right. 
 There is a middle course, and that religious men who may- 
 yet be fine thinkers may safely take. We do not agree with 
 Calvin, nor even with Ambrose, Dens qnos dignat vocat, quos 
 vnlt religiosos facit. If a man be predestined, ages before he 
 was born, to eternal damnation, " since," says Calvin, " God 
 predestines one part of mankind to everlasting happiness, 
 and another to endless misery," none of us can know whether 
 we be of one part or the other ; the future is a simple blind 
 chance, a toss up of a halfpenny — luck, that is all. But we 
 do not believe in this " luck." Our Saviour did not preach 
 it. He is the propitiation for the sins of the whole world. 
 He taught that " God willeth not the death of a sinner." 
 Hence he destroyed fatality, or that disposition of events 
 which we neither can control nor understand. A man's 
 
LUCK, GOOD AND BAD. 65 
 
 salvation depends upon himself. Honest John Bunyan has 
 even shown us a man forcing his way to heaven. " Set 
 down my name," saith the valiant man ; and although angels 
 barred the door, yet he laid about him with his good sword, 
 and entered in, and the same angels sang hosannas over 
 him, for " the kingdom of heaven suffered violence." He 
 for one did not lie down in the ditch and trust in his " luck." 
 
 To sum all up, we may well believe that the old proverbs 
 are true enough — "fortune favours the bold," "he who takes 
 it makes it," " the early riser catches the fish." Napoleon 
 was right also in his little quarter of an hour. " Ready, aye 
 ready," was the motto of the old Napiers. Chance has done 
 little or nothing ; it did not make Newton an astronomer, 
 nor Hugh Miller a geologist, nor did it make a Watt or a 
 Smeaton; nor a Stephenson, a Humphrey Davy, nor a Fara- 
 day. These men made themselves. Not that we would deny 
 that there is an unseen agency in all things. We may call 
 it by different names ; but the Founder of our faith told us 
 pretty well what it was — this mysterious doer — when He said 
 that not a sparrow fell to the ground without His knowledge ; 
 nay, that the hairs of our head were numbered. 
 
 To this Divine agency may be attributed many things 
 which the blind world calls chance or luck ; the reason why 
 A sails in a ship which is wrecked in sight of shore on an 
 iron-bound coast, and B, who was to have sailed, stayed at 
 home, and, by accident, was saved. It can solve also the 
 reason why the guilty are spared and the innocent slain, why 
 a wall falls on the head of a child and spares the murderer, 
 and many other strange things. 
 
 To it also must be attributed many of those bits of luck 
 
 F 
 
66 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 which ornament our dry histories, those episodes which give 
 brightness to otherwise dull books. Such a one as this, for 
 example. Caesar Borgia, Duke of Valentinois, having resolved 
 with his father, Alexander the Sixth, to poison Cardinal 
 Cometto, feasted the cardinal for that purpose ; but, having 
 prepared poisoned wine, the butler in mistake presented the 
 Pope and Borgia with the prepared glasses or goblets, so 
 that the murderers fell into their own traps, the one to die, 
 the other to survive, escaping by a strange and ghastly 
 effort, to perish by a worse fall. As the butler was purposely 
 kept ignorant of the contents of the bottles, there was some 
 "chance " in that. " Fortune," says Menander, " sometimes, 
 takes a surer aim than we do." Retribution comes upon the 
 very heels of the act ; but I am not sure that there is any 
 luck in that. 
 
 In fine, in those instances of great riches, great success, 
 extraordinary and sudden elevations, and startling changes 
 which we see but cannot account for, it would be well to 
 suspend our judgments before talking of fortune or luck, and 
 to think whether some deeper cause that we cannot see does 
 not exist. 
 
 Common instances of lucky men may be disregarded, since 
 these instances are generally exaggerated, by a wondering 
 narrator ; certainly some of us are more happily placed as 
 regards well-being and comfort than others, but, that being 
 conceded, the matter is settled. Some birds are eagles, 
 some sparrows ; and certainly lamplighters do not ordinarily 
 stand much chance of becoming peers of the realm ; but we 
 have only to probe the ordinary lucky man, to find that he 
 has risen by industry, patience, foresight, skill, determination, 
 
LUCK, GOOD AND BAD. 67 
 
 constant endeavour, or wisdom, or some other element of 
 success, and that luck had nothing to do with the matter. 
 
 Man is too fond of excusing himself, to go without the 
 "morning dram" of believing in ill luck. He is very illogical, 
 certainly, and, like illogical people generally, runs, when 
 driven out from one definition, to the one almost identical. 
 If he does not believe in luck he may at least swallow the 
 same compound under another name, and he calls that 
 "destiny." Lord Byron wrote a very pretty song, conveying 
 the idea in its refrain " that the day of my destiny is over, 
 the star of my hope has declined," the sentiment and expres- 
 sion of which were about equally true ; and Napoleon, when 
 he was at St. Helena, talked a great deal with Bourienne 
 about "destiny." He was the Man of Destiny — the picked, 
 the chosen. " People talk of my crimes," said he ; " but men 
 of my mark do not commit crimes. What I did was a neces- 
 sity : I was the child of destiny ! " 
 
 Now, we have outlived the Norwood gipsies, and only a 
 very few of us, in remote country places, believe in witches. 
 To make up for this advance, a great number of crackbrained 
 people — of lively intellect for the most part, certainly clever, 
 but decidedly irregulated — believe in spirit-rapping, table- 
 turning, and certain other inane mysteries. It is, perhaps, 
 "a comfort that they do so believe, for it is certainly a fact 
 that before they believed in spirits, very few of them could 
 conscientiously subscribe to the Apostles' Creed. So, like a 
 young lady who refuses a dozen eligible offers and takes up 
 at the last hour with a questionable partner, these people 
 who rejected the beauties of truth, grew attached to the ugly 
 eccentricities of a madman's creed, and are ready to suffer 
 
 F 2 
 
63 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 martyrdom for the faith of a jumping table. Whilst recog- 
 nising all these things, we must perhaps be comforted if we 
 find the old doctrine of destiny springing up all fresh and 
 green, and as lively as ever. Napoleon the First was the 
 child of destiny ; his nephew is guided by his " star," and 
 follows out the dictates of his fate ; and a learned Pole has 
 written an amusing book, trying to work out and foretell the 
 " destiny of Louis Napoleon." 
 
 This belief in destiny we must, therefore, put up with, but 
 we may, at least, try and explain it. As we have said, it is 
 no new thing. Our whole existence is to us a mystery. We 
 are surrounded by wonders. Think as long as we can, till 
 our hand grows palsied, our hair white, our eyes bleared, 
 and our skin wrinkled, we cannot solve them. We are happy, 
 therefore, to plunge into other mysteries, and to explain the 
 inexplicable by making a solution which is more mysterious. 
 It is no new thing with the human mind to do so. 
 
 " The actions of virtue are great," says Pliny, " but those 
 of fortune (fate or destiny) are greater." " Some people, 
 again," he tells us, " refer their successes to virtue and ability, 
 but it is all fate." Quintus Curtius, when relating Alexander's 
 actions, seems to place the majority of his successes down to 
 his destiny ; and Sirannez, the Persian, being asked how it 
 was that his designs, which were so well laid and admirably 
 executed, were so unlucky in their termination, did not mind 
 saying that it was of little use his struggling if destiny was 
 against him. Fata viam inveniunt. 
 
 " Good luck and ill luck are, in my opinion, two sovereign 
 powers ;" so writes a most original thinker. " It is ridiculous 
 that human prudence can act the same part as fortune will do." 
 
LUCK, GOOD AND BAD. 69 
 
 Nelson had his white days and his evil days. Marlborough, 
 who, by the way, was very careful in planning his battles, 
 talked more than once about his destiny ; but Wellington, 
 who took every care and never threw a chance away, did not 
 talk about it at all, went straight ahead and did his duty, 
 and found that the better way of working out his destiny. 
 Sylla, who was a very great general, expressly stated that in 
 many victories fortune or destiny had no part ; and in this 
 latest hour of time we presume that "destiny" can have little 
 to do with our successes in China, which are owing to the 
 bravery of our men, our compact discipline, our Armstrong 
 guns, and our measures, which have been long laid, and 
 are the result of a series of actions performed many years 
 ago. 
 
 The popular idea of destiny was brought very prominently 
 forward by Robert Owen, whose statement that "Man is the 
 creature of circumstances over which he has no control," set 
 the world in a ferment. But Owen preached no new doctrine. 
 Plautus had long ago forestalled him. A son says to his 
 father in one of his comedies, " Sir, blame me not. Things 
 happen to man, whether he wishes or not ; he is the creature 
 of Destiny." But the father answers — 
 
 " Son, you're mistaken, that's a vulgar error — 
 A wise man always cuts out his own fortune. 
 Nothing proves cross bnt from an ill contriver." 
 
 And Owen himself in his younger and purer days had thought 
 the same. He was a self-made man. He worked for him- 
 self and raised himself. He did not lie down and wait for 
 the coach of Destiny so that he might jump up behind ; he 
 
jo THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 went from place to place, from fortune to fortune, made money 
 and spent it ; created two or three fortunes ; helped Fulton, 
 Stephenson, and Lancaster, and was altogether the maker of 
 his own circumstances, if ever man was so. When Mullins, 
 the slayer of the old woman who trusted him, found that she 
 had little money to reward his crime, he immediately pre- 
 pared another chain of circumstances, which was cleverly 
 laid, and was not very far from succeeding ; but the victim 
 broke through the chain, and the traitorous projector was 
 caught by it ; a trap, let us remember, that he had made 
 himself. To say that he had no control over his actions be- 
 fore he committed the murder would be simply to pronounce 
 him guiltless, and to arraign an irresponsible Providence. 
 The most soft-hearted of our foolish philanthropists shrink 
 from doing this. 
 
 Let us now, for the sake of what we can learn therefrom, 
 compare Mullins with Napoleon. The condemned cell was 
 that great man's St. Helena — for Mullins was a great man 
 after the style of Fielding's hero, Jonathan Wild. They are 
 distinguished from other men. They dare more and do more. 
 They stand out above the dead level of other men's heads. 
 They are taller by their murders. Let us also suppose that 
 Mullins repeated Napoleon's words : " Men of my stamp do 
 not commit crimes ; it was my destiny !" Would not every- 
 body laugh ? Mullins was so far wiser. He utterly denied 
 the commission of the crime, and threw the blame upon some 
 one else. Napoleon had too many witnesses against him, 
 and so threw it upon destiny. 
 
 He who believes thoroughly in destiny — and there are those 
 amongst the Turks, and amongst ourselves, who do — is a very 
 
LUCK, GOOD AND BAD. 71 
 
 strong or a very weak man. He is not an unhappy one. In- 
 toxicated with his belief, he passes his life under the influence 
 of a mental drug. He persuades himself that he is an irre- 
 sponsible creature. He adopts that famous motto of the 
 Russells, "What shall be, will be," and floats down the stream 
 of Time, on to the great ocean of Eternity, quite careless 
 whom he may run down, or where he may be wrecked — ever 
 trusting in his destiny. To continue the simile of the stream, 
 a very old one, but very pertinent regarding life, we may say 
 that the only difference between those who give their credence 
 to destiny, and those who do not, is the belief in a rudder to 
 our human boat but not in a will to guide it. The desti- 
 narians and predestinarians seem to us to forget this rudder, 
 or to presume that in the grand affairs of life it must be use- 
 less. That they may quote many isolated texts in Scripture, 
 and especially the sayings of many great and famous men in 
 their favour, is quite true ; for it is to be observed that only 
 very good men and very bad men — the two extremes of the 
 social scale — often attribute their successes or reverses to the 
 over-ruling Power. " For this amongst the rest was I or- 
 dained," cries Richard the Third, with half a sneer, as he 
 sheathes his sword after a murder. " The Lord hath deli- 
 vered them into my hands," ejaculated Cromwell at the victory 
 of Dunbar. " I was inwardly moved to do as I did," said the 
 heroic Havelock. "In most wise submission to the will of 
 an over-ruling Providence," prays one of our bishops. " I 
 could not resist the temptation. As I went homewards I saw 
 a dagger in the air, and on the blade of the dagger the words 
 written, ' Slay the Avenger ;'" so writes Felton, the assassin 
 of Buckingham. But we have only to look over the confes- 
 
72 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 sions of any number of felons, and we shall find the same or 
 synonymous terms continually occurring. It was their lot, 
 their fate, their destiny — in fact it was to be. Such terms 
 occur over and over again. People do not very readily blame 
 themselves. They call in a third party, like the mysterious 
 sleeping partner of a money lender, who always finds the 
 money ; this third party is Fate or Destiny. 
 
 That men generally ascribe their bad luck to Fate or Pro- 
 vidence, but their successes to themselves, is a remark of Lord 
 Bacon's that is worth repeating ; and the more we see of 
 life, the more we shall perceive its truth. " Fortune," sneered 
 Rochefoucauld, " never appears so blind as in the esteem of 
 those to whom she is not kind." And La Fontaine very 
 prettily tells us how very frequently we blame Fortune ; that 
 she, indeed, answers for everything. 
 
 " II n' arrive rien dans le Monde, 
 Qu'il ne faille qu'elle en reponde. 
 Nous la faisons de tous ecots ; — 
 Elle est prise a. garand de toutes avantures. 
 Est un sot, etourdi, prend mal ses mesures ? 
 On pense etre quitte en accusant son sort ; 
 Bref, La Fortune a toujours tort."* 
 
 And again he says, more briefly — 
 
 " Le bien, nous le faisons ; le mal c'est la fortune, 
 On a toujours raison, le Destin toujours tort."f 
 
 Everybody will recognise this truth. Does not every 
 speculator, every rich tradesman, every man with a balance 
 
 # La Fontaine, Fable " De la Fortune et des jeunes Enfants." 
 *T Ibid. "De l'Injustice des Homines envers la Fortune." 
 
LUCK, GOOD AND BAD. 73 
 
 at his banker's, persuade himself that he alone has made his 
 own fortune ? The great general, the great philosopher, 
 equally plume themselves upon their own share in the work of 
 success. Prussians, Hessians, and brave Belgians, including 
 those hussars who ran away, all claimed the honour of beat- 
 ing Napoleon at Waterloo. On the celebrated field there is>, 
 as every one knows, the Belgian lion, in full fig, looking 
 boldly to the frontiers of France. We in England believe 
 that we beat the Corsican on that famous day, and we have 
 not, for nearly half a century, forgotten to talk about and 
 write about it. But how if the other side had gained ? Who 
 would have then borne the blame ? " Sir," cries the Radical ; 
 " talk about Wellington ! it was a soldiers' battle ; they won 
 it ! " But again, how if lost ? Every soldier, and every volun- 
 teer, knows, or should know, the utter nonsense of talking 
 about a soldiers' battle, and that it is chiefly owing to good 
 officers and generalship that the victory is won ; and so, if 
 we had lost, perhaps we should have laid all the blame at the 
 feet of Wellington, as the Carthaginians did with Hannibal 
 when the tide turned against him ; and we might have tried 
 him by court-martial, like Lord George Sackville, or shot 
 him as we did Byng, and laid the rest of the blame upon our 
 destiny. But success makes the great difference. The rich 
 shopkeeper prides himself upon founding a family, and 
 upon his achievements ; the proprietors of picture-papers 
 engrave his portrait, and call him a self-made man ; the 
 unsuccessful fellow sneaks out of life in the ward of a work- 
 house, laying all his failures to his "luck." Yet truly the 
 thousand little rills which helped to make the millionaire, 
 the hundred other men's fortunes diverted to his own, are at 
 
74 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 least circumstances quite as truly in the category of chance 
 as the bad debts, worse seasons, dishonest clerks, and frau- 
 dulent bankrupts, which have overwhelmed the poor fellow 
 in the workhouse. 
 
 We shall very, rarely find men who are strong-minded 
 enough to debit themselves with all their follies and failures. 
 " I could not do such a thing," says one ; " I was prevented, 
 unlucky, it was not my fate." It is no wonder that, with- 
 out Revelation, the most philosophic of all people built shrines 
 to Fortune, and held that Fate was superior to Jupiter. It 
 is no wonder that the Scandinavians believed in the god 
 Wish ; it would be of some comfort to our frivolous weak- 
 minded people now to have a goddess to direct them, and 
 an oracle of Delphi or Dordona to put them right when they 
 were wrong. But there can be little doubt that these oracles 
 would be just as obscure as their prototypes. The oracle of 
 Fate never tells one enough. It is just when we most need 
 her advice that she deserts us. Caesar passing the Rubicon, 
 Alexander about to subvert Grecian independence, Pyrrhus 
 ready to try his strength against the Romans, each and all 
 find that, in spite of their destiny, and the reply of the oracles, 
 they have to choose their own side, to commence the action, 
 to take the full responsibility of the deed. 
 
 The full deduction to be drawn from the belief in destiny 
 has long been perceived. " Scarcely a year has passed since 
 the death of Calvin and Luther, but they have been accused 
 of making the Almighty the origin of evil ;" so wrote Bayle, 
 who, carrying the accusation still further, accuses Jansenists 
 and Catholics of the same doctrine. But to this it may be 
 fairly answered that, however people may talk about fate and 
 
LUCK, GOOD AND BAD. 75 
 
 predestination, their own consciences, when they review their 
 actions, will tell them how untrue such an accusation is. We 
 own that we have " left undone those things which we ought 
 to have done, and that we have done those things which we 
 ought not to have done," and such a confession is a very full 
 answer to fatalism. Truth lies, as usual, in the middle of 
 matters. Certain external circumstances are made for us 
 upon our arrival in this world-^over these we have no control ; 
 but over our behaviour in these we have a very full control. 
 Our actions are not the effect of destiny ; they can be referred 
 only to ourselves. We may be drawn as conscripts, but our 
 behaviour, our gentleness, bravery, cowardice, brutality, our 
 performance or neglect of duty, depend upon ourselves. 
 " The Admiralty," wrote Nelson, when in expectation of the 
 command of the finest fleet in the world, " may order me a 
 cock-boat, but I will do my duty." So with destiny. It, like 
 luck, is after all but a scapegoat. 
 
 " We make the world we live in ; and we weave 
 About us webs of good or ill, which, leave 
 Their impress on our souls." 
 
 There is a religious point of view from which to regard 
 this question, which is by no means the worst. In 1699, when 
 all the world was given to gambling in the lotteries, a little 
 book upon the subject was issued by Matthew Gillyflower in 
 his book-stall in Westminster Hall, and sold also by Tim 
 Goodwin, Mathew Wotton, and B. Tooke, in Fleet Street. 
 It is a sensible, religious catchpenny : for of course the 
 lottery people bought it under the idea that it would teach 
 them to be lucky ; but it did no such thing. It gave them a 
 
76 THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 sound and sensible lecturing, and from it I may quote one ex- 
 cellent passage : for the book is rare, and the passage will be 
 quite as fresh as if it were original. " Were all disasters and 
 crosses looked upon as the ordinances of a wise Providence, 
 or as the consequences of some fault or indiscretion of our 
 own, men's mouths would immediately be stopped in all their 
 sufferings, and that delight of bemoaning our own hard cir- 
 cumstances, so commonly taken and so freely indulged in, 
 would be utterly suppressed and lost. Some heathens, in- 
 deed" (perhaps the author here alludes to Lucian), " gave the 
 gods hard words, but others scrupled in doing so ; and now, 
 to be sure, the impiety of complaining against Providence 
 directly would never be endured. So that the accusations" 
 (to evade this offensive impiety) " are levelled at destiny and 
 fortune. These are arraigned of all the hardships which 
 good and worthy men lie under, and esteemed the actors of 
 those things which it does not become God to do? 
 
 This is very shrewd and very wise, and I leave it to the 
 consideration of my gentle readers. 
 
ON SUCCESSFUL PEOPLE, AND OTHERS 
 WHO ARE NOT SUCCESSFUL. 
 
 UCCESS, let us say, by the bye, is a sufficiently 
 hideous affair. Men are deceived by its spurious 
 resemblance to merit. In the eyes of the multi- 
 tude, to " get on " has much the same profile as 
 to be really great. Success, that Menechmus, or constant 
 ungratified longing of talent, has one dupe — History. Juvenal 
 and Tacitus are the only ones who kick at it. In our own 
 days philosophy waits in the ante-chamber, dons the livery, 
 and is the very lackey of success. The problem to be 
 solved is how to get on ? If you gain, you have the brain. 
 You win at a lottery, and you are set down as a man of genius. 
 He who wins is always worshipped. Be born with a silver 
 spoon in your mouth, and that is all that is wanted — all the 
 rest follows. Be fortunate and you will be great. With five 
 or six grand exceptions, the glory of the age, the admiration 
 and praise of contemporaries, is mere judicial blindness. 
 Gilding goes for gold : where you come from matters nothing : 
 where you get to is all in all. The vulgar is a gray-headed 
 Narcissus, who falls in love with himself, and applauds his 
 
78 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 own shadow. If any man makes a good hit and succeeds, 
 in no matter what, he is rewarded by the multitude with 
 acclamation, and gifted at once with the enormous genius of 
 a Moses, an ^Eschylus, a Dante, or a Michael Angelo. Let a 
 cheat, with a pack on his back, take usury to wife, and from 
 her produce a family of seven or eight millions of francs — let 
 a preacher whine himself into a bishop, a steward so cheat 
 in his place that he becomes rich, a military blunderer gain a 
 battle, an ass write a successful book — to all these, men now- 
 a-days give the name of Genius. They confound with the 
 constellations of the blue vault of heaven the little glittering 
 stars which a splay-footed duck makes as it waddles about 
 in the soft mud of a fetid pool.* 
 
 This passage, eloquent and quaintly true, and bitter enough 
 we have turned into English from the pages of one of the 
 most successful writers — not of the most successful men — of 
 the day, Victor Hugo. At twenty he had achieved a Eu- 
 ropean name ; at twenty-five he was one of the standard 
 authors of France ; at thirty he was the idol of the saloons, 
 known wherever the fervent art and literature of France is 
 known. Before he was fifty he was adored by the crowd, 
 worshipped by the Republicans, and, save Lamartine, the 
 foremost man of France ; at sixty he is proscribed and an 
 exile ! Such a man surely can well give an opinion, and a 
 ripe and good one, of success. 
 
 It is worth while now, in the little pause which we shall 
 have before entering again on that rapid career which our 
 England has taken up, just to consider what success is. 
 
 * Les Miserables, vol. i. 
 
SUCCESS IN LIFE. 79 
 
 What Victor Hugo says is quite true in one respect. Modern 
 life seems given over to its worship ; perhaps all life ever was. 
 There is a silly meaningless proverb which foolish women 
 repeat, " As well be out of the world as out of the fashion," 
 which might be paralleled by a far truer one, " As well never 
 have lived, as to have lived unsuccessfully."' Most people 
 practically believe this ; and more, without acknowledgment, 
 act upon it. Success is so pleasant ; that is why we love it. 
 It tickles our vanity. We like to see and to honour a success- 
 ful man. Rothschild, who coined his millions, did not care 
 to meet with any one who was proverbially unlucky. " If I 
 were to give the best advice I could to a young man," he said, 
 " I would give him this : Always consort with successful men." 
 There is much of the wisdom of the serpent about this. The 
 Scotch — a wonderfully successful, but not a great nation — 
 have a like proverb, proving negatively what Rothschild says 
 affirmatively, " Never catch at a falling knife or a falling 
 friend." Both of these contain good advice to the man who 
 wants to get on, but it is of a low standard after all. Mr. 
 Smiles, who has written The Lives of the Stephensons, Self- 
 Help, and other popular books, is one of the many authors 
 who have bowed the knee to the Moloch of success. His 
 books are written to show how a man from obscurity can 
 raise himself to publicity : they have consequently a very 
 large sale. Poor Richard's A Imanack, by Benjamin Franklin, 
 taught the Americans the same lesson. That, of course, sold 
 by thousands, and made the Americans the successful nation 
 (we are not speaking satirically) that they are. The doctrine 
 of these prophets may be shortly stated : Poor Richard urges 
 constant exertion, constant labour, constant application. 
 
So THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 You are to rise early, and take advantage of the sluggard who 
 lies in bed — " Plough deep whilst sluggards sleep." You are 
 to be the early bird, so as to get the worm ; you are to love 
 money, for " a penny saved is a penny gained," and you are 
 to do all with one aim — self. Mr. Smiles tells us much the 
 same story. "The path of success," he adds, "is always that 
 of common sense." One must for ever work ; and he quotes 
 Lord Melbourne : — " The young should never hear any lan- 
 guage but this : You have your own way to make, and it 
 depends on your own exertions whether you starve or not." 
 This advice Lord Melbourne sent to Lord John Russell when 
 he had made an application for a place for one of Moore's 
 sons ; and very sound advice it was, but rather harsh from 
 a rich man to a very poor one. There is no doubt about it. 
 Judgment, or what Mr. Smiles calls so loosely "common 
 sense," industry, and talent will place a man above want, 
 nay, make him rich ; and this is all that such narrow 
 intellects seem able to grasp. But success has another side 
 of the medal. To succeed, originally meaning to get under 
 {sub and cedere), now means to get over any one ; and people 
 do this in a thousand ways. Certainly the most honest are 
 in this world the least successful. Of course it is easy to 
 talk of great magnanimity, wonderful talent, immense and 
 unimpeachable character ; but, from the occupiers of thrones, 
 or of the Presidential, or Papal chairs, to the head man 
 amongst a gang of bricklayers, let us tick off those who have 
 been thoroughly honest, and we shall find but few. Over 
 the water a President grew into a successful Emperor — but 
 how? A certain Pope bribed the Cardinals with asses laden 
 with money, yet he was successful. A cunning attorney sits 
 
SUCCESS IN LIFE. 81 
 
 upon a chair he cannot fill, and is leading his party and 
 country to destruction; and he has been successful. A queen 
 whose life has been full of the blackest stains is beloved and 
 popular, and is leading a great nation to a most remarkable 
 resuscitation; she and her mother, who was much worse than 
 she, are both successful, and more talked about than our 
 Queen, whose quiet, blameless life, has never been full of 
 triumphs, and whose triumphal arches have been those merely 
 of the laurels and the hollies twined by the slim fingers of 
 charity-school girls. Yet who is the Power in Europe that 
 dictates war or peace? Upon whose lip hangs the whole 
 question on the Continent of the ruin of many thousands ? 
 Who holds war, pestilence, and famine leashed in like hounds 
 — who, in the eyes of the world, is the most successful 
 monarch ? We are afraid that even history will not write 
 the name of our Queen. History, like one or two of the 
 other muses, is always too much taken up with noise and 
 tumult. 
 
 If we turn from kings to generals, we shall find the same 
 dull, interminable story : Socrates, before his judges, the 
 wisest, best of men, condemned to die by his own hand ; 
 Hannibal, unsupported in his need, over-praised in his suc- 
 cess ; the crowd howling for the blood of the martyr and the 
 sage; George of Cappadocia, a successful pork-dealer, created 
 a bishop, banishing Athanasius, and being elevated after- 
 wards into a patron saint ; the Romans, flying from Brutus 
 and listening to the specious Antony or the calculating 
 Augustus ; the palm of triumph, the outspread garments, and 
 the shouts of hosannah for the Christus Triumphans ; the 
 desertion and the craven denial of the victim in the Judgment 
 
 G 
 
82 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 Hall. The whole world seems ever to have worshipped 
 success, and to have trembled at, despised, or hated defeat. 
 
 No wonder, therefore, that it is now so much followed; but 
 we must be sure that we do not follow it too closely. There 
 are degrees in success, and various kinds of it. If we mode- 
 rate our desires, and place our wishes upon a decent compe- 
 tency or a modest fortune, there are few of us who will not 
 gain our wishes. If we determine to make our point, simply 
 that of doing our duty, we are sure of success. But the wor- 
 ship of a brilliant achievement and a loud-tongued fame, such 
 as Mr. Smiles recommends, is simply nonsense. No man 
 can be successful who is not good and happy. A person who 
 is elevated like King Hudson, a clown in a mayor's chain and 
 cloak, a miserly wretch in a position which demands expense 
 — in short, anybody manifestly out of place, will be a miser- 
 able and a mischievous man. With all his undoubted conceit 
 and endurance, with his keenness for praise and for being 
 talked about, we doubt whether there are many more miser- 
 able men in the world than President Abraham Lincoln. 
 The bitter, bitter tears which Louis XVI., that lock-making 
 king, shed because of his own unfitness, have been chronicled; 
 but he, knowing his incompetence, was born to the estate of 
 king ; the American President wriggled himself forward into 
 notoriety — and for what ? To break up a great republic : 
 to blunder into the slaughter perhaps of millions. 
 
 Success, being simply the attainment of an object of desire, 
 or an aim, good or bad as the case may be, is not greatness. 
 We may as well at once be sure of that. It arises from the 
 fitness of a man to his place. A man may be a capital poet, 
 but unable to sell figs ; a bankrupt may suggest the most 
 
SUCCESS IN LIFE. 83 
 
 economical way of managing the exchequer of a kingdom ; 
 a Cambridge student arrested for debt may invent a machine 
 which shall make the fortune of a province — and yet they all 
 are unsuccessful men. Mr. Gladstone eloquently lectured an 
 audience about great men, when he unveiled the statue of 
 Sir Hugh Myddelton, on Islington Green. But Sir Hugh 
 was an unsuccessful man, although' his work, the New River, 
 has brought health and cleanliness, and now brings fortune, 
 to thousands. The truth is, to value success properly, we 
 must look above it and beyond it. It is often made up of 
 the endeavours of many : all of us cannot win the race. 
 A thoughtful poet of our own times has told us to — 
 
 " Compute the chances, 
 And deem there's ne'er a one in dangerous times 
 Who wins the race of glory, but than him 
 A thousand men, more gloriously endow' d, 
 Have fallen upon the course ; a thousand others 
 Have had their fortunes founder'd by a chance, 
 "Whilst lighter barks push'd past them : to whom add 
 A smaller tally, of the singular few 
 Who, gifted with predominating powers, 
 Bear yet a temperate will and keep the peace. 
 The world knows nothing of its greatest men."* 
 
 There is consoling truth in this. Even our own patentees 
 and great inventors are not in all cases originators.f Ark- 
 wright bought the inventions of another ; Stephenson bor- 
 
 * Henry Taylor's Philip Van Artevdde. 
 
 t See a little-known work, called The Two Jameses, wherein the 
 title of W. James to many of the asserted originations of George 
 Stephenson seems to be fully made out. 
 
 G 2 
 
84 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 rowed and purloined ideas. We know no more of the men 
 who really invented our railway system, or our steam-engines, 
 than we do of the inventors of gunpowder and the mariner's 
 compass. 
 
 Success may be very pleasant to the men who win, but the 
 success of the charlatan must be indeed galling to the modest 
 and retiring but deserving man. An honest man has many 
 trials to submit to, and perhaps the very hardest which can 
 be mentioned is that of seeing a rogue ride by in a carriage, 
 whilst he is obliged to trudge it on foot ; or, in other words, 
 to mark the apparent and rapid success of dishonesty, while 
 he finds that honesty is after all not a very " paying " career. 
 But this is a trial which all good and true men have to sub- 
 mit to. and all good women as well : — Moses, when coming 
 down from the Mount he saw the Israelites dancing round 
 the golden calf ; Cassandra, when the Trojans would prefer 
 deceit to the truth ; Aristides, when he was banished ; Octa- 
 via, when she knew that Cleopatra's charms were reckoned 
 by her husband as superior to her own ; Sir Walter Raleigh, 
 when Mr. Attorney Coke was calling him " an ape of hell," 
 and other pretty names ; Milton, when the malignants per- 
 secuted him, old and blind as he was, his eyesight lost in 
 defending his country; Keats, when Pye's poems were thought 
 to be the best in England, and Wordsworth, Coleridge, and 
 he, reckoned as a set of drivelling lunatics. But the trial 
 taught them the worth of what they sighed for. Keats went 
 out of the world thoroughly believing that his whole life had 
 been a mistake. " Here lies one," said he, dictating his 
 epitaph, " whose name was writ in water." Chatterton 
 poisoned himself just at the very time when the feet of one 
 
SUCCESS IN LIFE. 8s 
 
 who would have relieved him were turned towards the miser- 
 able street in which he died. Thinking of these things, we 
 may well agree with one who urges that biography should 
 not alone consist of self-made men, or triumphant or success- 
 ful men. " The lives," says he, " of the barrister who was 
 not made Lord Chancellor, the curate who did not become 
 Bishop of London, the life of the soldier who died a plain 
 lieutenant, are lives that I should like to know a little more 
 about." 
 
 To sum up, all success can be worth having only when it 
 is achieved honestly, and without hurt to a man's conscience. 
 It certainly is not, and should never be, the be-all and end- 
 all of existence. No man need make himself miserable if he 
 has not made the mark in the world which he aimed at ; young 
 men aspire to shine, nor is such ambition blameworthy. The 
 way to gain moderate and honest success is to do just 
 what a man can do ; not attempting too much, and doing 
 well whatever he does without a thought of fame. As no 
 man is ever completely and thoroughly successful, so no man, 
 however mediocre his talents, or indolent his habits, but is 
 at some period of life crowned with the desired wreath. If 
 he be wise he will estimate such moments and such triumphs 
 at their true worth. After all, be he ever so energetic, or 
 clever, or quick, or strong, he will own that that which he 
 has achieved may be put down rather to a combination of 
 circumstances, than to his own merit. If he be a thoughtful 
 man, he will also know and feel that no man can be self- 
 made ; that the hints of others, the kindness of friends, the 
 wants of society, and the general thoughts floating about the 
 world at the time — these have been too often the wind 
 
86 THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 and the tide which have given one ship a favourable voyage 
 and the pre-eminence over others, not the great merit of her 
 commander. Such thoughts should be more favourable to 
 failures and to failing men. A play, a book, a great work, an 
 architect, or a general, may owe success simply to the bad 
 taste of the times ; and, again, non-success in any candidate 
 may arise from a conscience too clear and sensitive, a taste 
 too good and too nice, a judgment too discriminative, a 
 generosity too romantic and noble, or a modesty too retiring. 
 When such feelings have been hindrances to triumph, we 
 should do right not to crown the victor, but him who was 
 defeated. So we may end ; not perhaps by agreeing with 
 Victor Hugo, that success is " hideous," but at any rate by 
 asserting that, like many other things of this world which 
 people prize very much and continually struggle for, it is only 
 worth having when we have gained it honestly, and can use 
 it wisely. 
 
 Nor need we waste our pity on the man who, having nobly 
 tried, fails nobly too. In his own heart will be his triumph ; 
 and the world will be blind indeed if it does not reckon 
 amongst its great ones such martyrs as miss the palm but 
 not the pains of martyrdom, heroes without the laurels, and 
 conquerors without the jubilation of triumph. 
 
ON MALE AND FEMALE FLIRTS. 
 
 R. HUGH ELLIOT, some time minister at 
 Dresden, and a most brilliant and observant 
 man, has left us a picture of Lady Hamilton 
 which will interest all women, and men too, be- 
 cause Lady Hamilton's celebrated flirtation with Nelson will 
 always be historic ; and further, because the unhappy fate of 
 the heroine has often been related to sympathizing English 
 men and women. Had she not flirted with Nelson, we have 
 been assured that the battle of the Nile would never have 
 been fought, and the supremacy of the British fleet would 
 never at that time have been so established. 
 
 " Lady Hamilton," writes this acute observer of the woman 
 whom the greatest hero in England thought the most beauti- 
 ful creature in the world, "is bold, forward, coarse, assuming, 
 and vain ; her figure is colossal, but (except her feet, which 
 are hideous) well shaped. Her bones are large, and she is 
 exceedingly e7nbonpoint. . . . Lord Nelson is a little 
 man, without any dignity, who, I suppose, must resemble 
 what Suwarrow was in his youth, as he is like all the pictures 
 I have seen of him. Lady Hamilton takes entire possession 
 of him, and he is a most willing captive, the most submissive 
 
88 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 and devoted I have ever seen. Sir William is old and infirm, 
 all admiration of his wife, and never spoke to-day but to 
 applaud her." Here, then, we have a picture of a most ac- 
 complished flirt, who flirted herself into fortune and into fame, 
 and who would have done yet more, had fortune further aided 
 her. Mr. Elliot wrote, " Lady Hamilton will captivate the 
 Prince of Wales, whose mind is as vulgar as her own, and 
 will play a great part in England." The fickle goddess, how- 
 ever, to whom worldlings bend, deserted this celebrated 
 woman ; she had risen from the low position of a chamber- 
 maid and a painter's model to be the idol of our greatest sea- 
 man, and, after serving England more than is generally 
 acknowledged, at last, as a retribution for her wickedness, 
 she died in misery and want. 
 
 Now how did Lady Hamilton capture Nelson and lead him 
 into misery and sin ? How was she enabled to entice him 
 away from a wife whom he loved, and with whom, as he said, 
 he could find no fault ? Simply by flirtation ; a practice as 
 dangerous as it is universal, and one of the most harmful 
 in the world. Truly, if we look at it from the first incipient 
 symptoms to its varied and final results, half the misery of 
 the civilized world is to be put down to it ; yet almost every 
 young lady or gentleman, and many an old one, is willing to 
 indulge in it ; and not a few defend the practice, and assert 
 that they think it perfectly harmless. " Surely," they say, 
 " there can be no harm in a little imiocent flirtation !" 
 
 Now it is perhaps an invidious task to condemn so uni- 
 versal a practice ; but, without at once doing so, we may be 
 permitted to say that an innocent flirtation is very difficult to 
 be met with. That which is most innocent takes place be- 
 
FLIRTATION. 89 
 
 tween two young and unmarried people whose affections are 
 as yet fixed upon no particular object. A young gentleman 
 who is desirous of finding a partner for life, and who is, in 
 nine cases out of ten, asked to a party or a pic-nic, that he 
 may do so, very naturally, and just as harmlessly, looks 
 around him to find the prettiest and the most eligible girl. 
 His intentions, we may believe, although he perhaps does not 
 acknowledge this to himself, are honestly bent towards matri- 
 mony. If he is a young man of to-day, he has a tacit reser- 
 vation to keep single as long as he can. He does not go into 
 the marriage market as one goes into other markets, with 
 the immediate intention of at once securing his purchase or 
 his choice. He is a matrimonial fisherman, and intends, as 
 he well may, to indulge in the sport, and to play with his fish 
 before he finally lands it. But what is sport to him is perhaps 
 death to others. The silly fishes are quite ready to take the 
 bait, and perhaps one or two encumber his hook, whilst he 
 has no intention of drawing them up. If, to turn to our for- 
 mer simile, he institutes a preliminary huxtering, an examin- 
 ation of the market, a searching into a similarity of tastes 
 and pursuits, he is pretty sure to be called a flirt ; and yet 
 what is the poor man to do ? The young ladies in such a case 
 should be very careful of their hearts, for society, whilst 
 allowing them every latitude, does not permit them the liberty 
 of choice and proposition, except during leap year, a year of 
 which they never take advantage. 
 
 If a young lady tries to make herself agreeable to this 
 young man, if she talks earnestly or rattlingly, if she laughs, 
 dances, and giggles with him, and puts herself in the most 
 graceful attitudes, her female friends will at once charge her 
 
90 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 with design, and stamp her as a flirt. We, however, should 
 not so call her. What she has done is legitimate enough. 
 There would be no marriages whatever unless ladies in some 
 measure took the, initiative ; and marriage is and always will 
 be of so intense an interest, of so gigantic an importance to 
 woman, and to the world in general, that we can forgive any- 
 thing within the bounds of delicacy and fairness which a 
 young lady may do in order to get the articles of a partner- 
 ship for life fairly drawn up. Women must, from their good- 
 humour and kindly nature, also make themselves pleasing ; 
 they are the charms of society and of life ; without them man 
 would relapse into utter barbarity ; and for these reasons the . 
 innocent flirt — that is, if she does not exceed the bounds we 
 have marked — may be reckoned as quite harmless and as so 
 doing her duty, and that which, simply enough, her mother 
 and grandmother did before her. 
 
 Perhaps we should not follow the custom of the world in 
 applying the term thus loosely to those who carry on fairly the 
 preliminaries to the matrimonial warfare, and commence 
 their approaches as regularly as a general laying siege to a 
 town. Innocent flirtation, although a very dangerous pastime, 
 especially to women, is fair enough ; but as gamblers never 
 care about sitting down to eighteenpenny rubbers, or for play- 
 ing double dummy at whist for the love of it, with their friends 
 or their wives, so the true flirt, either male or female, does not 
 care about the pastime unless there is a little spice of wicked- 
 ness in it. If a young lady is engaged to a very estimable 
 but easy-going young fellow, of whose heart she is quite secure, 
 she will not be satisfied unless by a cunning flirtation she 
 raises up just the ghost of an antagonistic jealousy in it. She 
 
FLIRTATION. 91 
 
 will dance with a man who uses his legs and feet more grace- 
 fully than her lover ; she will sit next to another at a pic-nic, 
 ask him for a flower, or convey to him and to her faithful 
 Corydon how immensely she is charmed with the company 
 of another. She will delight to tease him, very often with the 
 express purpose of getting up a lover's quarrel, and of seeing 
 how far she can wound the heart which has laid itself at her 
 feet. When she does so, she becomes at once the flirt proper, 
 and flirtation no longer is innocent, but actually wicked. 
 
 What, then, is this practice ? Wicked flirtation, which is 
 always more or less dangerous and immoral, and which, as 
 our newspapers will show us, has so often such tragic and 
 disgraceful ends, is the exercise of our powers of fascination 
 and of pleasing, with the express purpose of conveying " to 
 the mind of a person of the opposite sex, the assurance that 
 his or her society is peculiarly agreeable to us." There are 
 a thousand ways of doing this, and every way is wrong. A 
 word, a squeeze of the hand, a gesture of admiration, or, at 
 times, one of impatience, will equally serve, and will send 
 back the blood to the heart of a silly girl with a flutter of im- 
 patient and tumultuous joy. Both sexes are equally to blame ; 
 for this kind of flirtation is a species of lying, and one can lie 
 with the eye or the hand as well as with the tongue. There 
 are other songs without words besides those of Mendelssohn. 
 Those songs are songs of the Syrens ; they are flatterers, 
 which lead those who listen to them to sad destruction. 
 
 The man who gives himself up to flirtation — unless, as a 
 single man, he does so to get married, or, as a married man, 
 he does it in a burlesque and open way, and advertises his 
 friends that he carries on the little game merely for the fun of 
 
92 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 the moment — is a very contemptible being. Although he care- 
 fully guards himself against making any promises, and loudly 
 proclaims himself as a non-marrying man, yet he has no right 
 to indulge in this soft dalliance of the will and intention. He 
 has no right to play and trifle with the feelings of a young 
 woman just to gratify his vanity — for vanity is, after all, at 
 the bottom of this, unless, indeed, we put it away for a worse 
 passion. The tenour of his behaviour to an honourable wo- 
 man can have but one construction ; nay, however he may 
 like flirting himself, he would probably be very unwilling to 
 have his daughter or his sister subjected to the same kind of 
 address. Besides, whilst a man is engaged in flirtation with 
 a girl, and perhaps — nay, most likely — raising hopes in her 
 bosom which he will never fulfil, nor she will ever forget, he 
 prevents her from receiving the attentions of an honourable 
 and good man, who would, in all probability, offer her his 
 hand. 
 
 The female flirt has this excuse, that* she does not so much 
 endanger the hearts or hurt the reputations of her partners 
 in the game as the male one. On the contrary, in carrying 
 war into the enemy's country, in overthrowing and damaging 
 him, and in revenging upon him the injuries he has done to 
 her sex, she may perhaps consider that she is doing a very 
 useful and praiseworthy thing. Certainly there may be that 
 way of looking at the matter ; but whether we consider it thus 
 lightly, or not, we shall find that women are injuring their 
 own sex and doing a very dangerous and foolish thing. 
 After all, a young single woman who flirts, merely confesses 
 that she cannot attach young fellows to her by fair means. 
 She wishes to attract more notice than falls to her share, and 
 
FLIRTATION. 93 
 
 being unable to do so in the ordinary way, she takes the 
 extraordinary. But she does so at great sacrifice and cost to 
 herself. A married flirt is not the most happy of mortals, 
 because her husband is very likely to suspect that as she 
 attached him she may attach others. Nor are the gentle- 
 men who are caught by flirts the fish most worth catching. 
 They are men without much delicacy or perception, and, 
 having required a great deal of attention to attach them, 
 may, and most likely will, demand much humouring and 
 cajoling during the course of their married life. 
 
 Of all kinds of flirts — the romantic, who looks into your eyes 
 and asks if you do not like Tennyson's poetry, and if the 
 moonlight is not very beautiful ; the manly, who rides to 
 cover, and talks about horses and dogs, who knows when the 
 St. Leger is run, and admires the stately woods and pretty 
 race-course of Goodwood ; the scientific, who begs you to 
 class a fly, or to pronounce upon a fossil ; the sentimental, 
 who believes that happiness does not exist in this life, and 
 who, whilst asserting that there is " no such thing as true 
 love," tries to make you a specimen of the true lover ; the 
 " gushing," who talks nonsense purposely, and says, " Well, 
 there now, 'tis my way, you know ; I am such a giddy thing !" 
 — of all these, together with the boating flirt, the dancing and 
 the musical flirt, who somehow makes love to you in the 
 pauses of the song ; of all kinds of flirts, we repeat, the mar- 
 ried flirt is the worst of all. There are many married flirts ; 
 they are indeed said to be on the increase ; and the ingenious 
 way in which they attract young fellows, and insinuate that 
 they are " blighted beings," or have made a " mistake in 
 marriage," is equally curious and reprehensible. It was in 
 
94 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 something of this way that Cleopatra entangled Antony, and 
 Lady Hamilton Lord Nelson. It was with fine scorn that 
 the former, placing all her selfish love in the foreground, 
 in the midst of her passion and wondrous power, stooped to 
 asked Antony after his wife — " How is the ?narried woman?" 
 So also Lady Hamilton taught Nelson first to pity, and then 
 almost to despise, the good wife whom he had wronged. 
 The married flirt is by far the worst of all ; and the only- 
 possible, but very inefficient excuse for her is, that she began 
 the practice when single and in a bad school. In France we 
 have, however, a large number of married flirts, from a cause 
 exactly contrary to this : because there the sexes are so 
 strictly separated before marriage that they cannot indulge 
 in the pastime until marriage has given them full liberty — 
 an indulgence of which they are not slow to avail themselves. 
 The proximate cause of flirtation is said to be a wish to 
 please, to be polite, and to make the party pass off well ; but 
 the primary one is, we fear, nothing but a selfish wish to shine 
 and to attract praise. It may be all very pleasant, but it is 
 certainly exceedingly wrong, and being wrong it is stupid and 
 unwise. It goes against true propriety in both sexes ; with a 
 woman it is unfeminine as well as injudicious ; with a man 
 it is unmanly. With only one class of people can it be 
 excused, and that class is a large one, formed of those light, 
 facile, agreeable persons, who have neither real heart nor feel- 
 ing, but who fancy they have plenty of both ; who are com- 
 pounded of a graceful desire to please and a continual and 
 selfish wish to be pleased, and who flutter about from one 
 person to another, saying tender nothings, and amusing them- 
 selves in a butterfly way, to the best of their ability, and to 
 
FLIRTATION. 95 
 
 the uttsr forgetfulness of anybody else. The only thing 
 that we should wish to do with these pleasant little parties is 
 that which Sam Weller did to the Fat Boy when he tried to 
 flirt with pretty Mary. " Oh Sam," said he, slowly, " shouldn't 
 I like to give her a kiss !" Upon which it is related that 
 Sam, with a long whistle, took him into a corner, and dis- 
 missed him with a quiet kick. 
 
 The subjects of flirtation can easily put a stop to the 
 practice if they choose ; for if they do not allow their vanity 
 to be played upon, then they will escape scot free. When a 
 young lady fixes her eyes upon a young gentleman, and 
 heaves a pensive sigh, the best way for him to do is to look 
 quite unconscious. Thus, when our antagonists determine 
 upon firing explosive shells and steel-pointed shot, John Bull 
 puts up his iron plates ; a little quiet scorn and impenetrable 
 dulness will disarm the most determined flirt in the world. 
 After all, although we condemn flirts, we do not approve of 
 prudes. What we want to arrive at in the society and 
 mixture of the sexes is natural, quiet, jovial, and cheering 
 conversation, secular or religious, without any unfair attempt 
 at the entanglement of the passions ; when this is attained, 
 we can fairly believe that a lover or a sweetheart will be most 
 calmly and wisely chosen, and with the very best chance of 
 making a fitting and faithful husband or wife. 
 
ON "GOING A-COURTING." 
 
 lALLING in love is an old fashion, and one that 
 will yet endure. Cobbett, a good sound English- 
 man, twitted Malthus, the anti-population writer, 
 with the fact that, do all he could, and all that 
 Government could, ay, all that twenty thousand governments 
 could, he could not prevent courting and falling in love. 
 " Between fifteen and twenty-two," said he, " all people will 
 fall in love." Shakspere pushes out this season to the age 
 of forty-five. Old Burton, writing on love-melancholy, gives 
 us a still further extension of the lease, and certainly " there 
 be old fools as well as young fools." But no one is absolutely 
 free from the universal passion. The Greek epigram on a 
 statue of Cupid, which Voltaire, amongst a hundred others, 
 has happily reproduced, is perfectly true : — 
 
 " Whoe'er thou art, thy master see ! 
 Who was, or is, or is to be." 
 
 Probably no one escapes from the passion. We find in trials 
 and in criminal history that the quaintest, quietest of men, 
 the most outwardly saintly, cold, stone-like beings, have had 
 their moments of intense love-madness. Luckily, love is as 
 
ON " GOING A-COURTINGP 97 
 
 lawful as eating, when properly indulged in. The grave judge 
 on the bench, the bishop in his lawn sleeves, the moralist in 
 his closet, and the recluse in his hermitage, alike feel its 
 effects. The grave, sententious Johnson yielded to love, and 
 had loved on to a mature age, how ardently and truly few can 
 say, a wife older than himself. He always kept the anniver- 
 sary of her death in seclusion, and loved her memory as he 
 loved her living. Sir Samuel E-omilly, one of the best and 
 greatest of modern lawyers — a great, good man, indeed — loved 
 so deeply that, on his wife's death, he could not endure the 
 loss, but slew himself. He who had so often pleaded merci- 
 fully for others, who had saved the lives of so many himself, 
 found others to plead for him ; and, although at that time 
 law was hard against suicide, it was given in evidence that 
 he was so inconsolable for the loss of his wife, so thoroughly 
 wounded and depressed, that his mind had lost its balance, 
 and that he was, in truth, mad. If any one ever killed 
 himself for love, Romilly did so. So also Caesar, Napoleon, 
 David, Solomon, and Socrates, the wisest and the greatest, 
 were slaves of the power, which, as we have said, few can 
 control. So much for its universality. 
 
 Its influence being admitted, its nature being known and 
 accredited, the diagnosis, in fact, of the disease being made, 
 and its prevalence and course determined, we may all of us 
 make up our minds not to -oppose it, but to control it. We 
 must all, being men and women, fall in love and go a-courting. 
 Granted ; but there is a method even in this : let us fall in 
 love wisely and well. 
 
 Now a man who could teach a nation how to do so would 
 deserve a statue of gold. He would deserve it more than any 
 
 H 
 
98 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 ruler, king, or conqueror that ever lived. He would do more 
 good than any inventor, philosopher, or lawgiver. No one 
 man can do so ; but he can do something towards it. He 
 will do much if he discourages the wild ideas men have of 
 chance and luck in marriage, the indolence and unwillingness 
 of many to entertain any thoughts of marriage when young ? 
 and the common foolish jests about it. In the first place, it 
 becomes us to get rid of the idea that love cannot be directed. 
 We believe that it can. It will not do to dam up the stream 
 till it overflows. It is a passion, and one of great force ; but 
 surely it is not inevitably a blind, foolish one. We have 
 been by far too much in the habit of thinking so ; whereas 
 our real method should be to draw a line between those who 
 admit of no passion, and those who allow passion to be 
 everything. 
 
 So much happiness depends upon courtship that it is a 
 really serious matter — the most important, save one, in life ; 
 and that one is marriage itself. In ninety cases out of a 
 hundred, people do not fall over head in love all of a sudden. 
 There is the commencement, the middle, and the end to that, 
 as there is to everything in life. Companionship, small atten- 
 tions, a thousand little niceties, precede the passion ; and it is 
 then that young people should be on the look-out. Cobbett, 
 with his plain English sense, gives us a list of eight qualities 
 in a wife which a man should look out for ; and in Great 
 Britain no man need look far for them. These are — I, Chas- 
 tity ; 2, Sobriety ; 3, Industry ; 4, Frugality ; 5, Cleanliness ; 
 6, Knowledge of Domestic Affairs ; 7, Good Temper ; and 
 8, Beauty. 
 
 These are all important qualities : the last may be, perhaps, 
 
ON " GOING A-COURTING." 99 
 
 a matter of opinion, for tastes differ ; but a man should not, if 
 he can help it, marry an ugly woman. Beauty is itself divine ; 
 and ugliness means something. We are all secretly of the 
 opinion of Plato, that a beautiful soul seeks a body equally 
 beautiful to inhabit. This might seem less harsh were we 
 fully to explain our opinions of beauty ; suffice it now, that 
 we do not mean merely pretty or handsome people, but 
 a certain cleanliness of build, and agreement or amiability 
 of features, which will be always pleasing. It does not do 
 for a young husband to be always meeting with girls who 
 are better looking than his wife. The first five qualities 
 are, of course, indispensable. By Sobriety not merely the 
 common acceptation is meant, but that quietude and wisdom 
 of behaviour, that soberness in all things, which Christianity 
 teaches. The fifth, Cleanliness, is a great quality. A girl 
 who is outwardly fine, but dirty in her person, is an abomi- 
 nation : happily, the true art of cleanliness in one's skin and 
 body is being every day better understood. Women are not 
 so fond of thorough ablution as they should be ; and it was 
 questioned the other day whether ten women in a hundred 
 wash themselves thoroughly all over a dozen times in the 
 year. Yet nothing can be more necessary ; and the great 
 lawgivers Moses and Mahomet made ablution a part of their 
 religious system. From the " body's cleanliness the mind 
 receives" a certain cleansing and support; hence our proverb 
 that "cleanliness is next to godliness ;" a proverb which, when 
 rightly understood, will be seen to have its due share of wis- 
 dom. The sixth quality, Knowledge of Domestic Affairs, is 
 as important as any of the rest. Alas ! many a home is 
 rendered poor, uncomfortable, miserable, and broken, because 
 
 H 2 
 
ioo THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 the wife does not know how to set about her part Of the busi- 
 ness properly. How can a man become attached to his fire- 
 side if he always finds it disorderly, his children ragged and 
 untidy, his wife slatternly ? How can a woman hope to win 
 a man, day after day, from pleasant companions or gay enter- 
 tainments, unless she can present counter attractions ? A 
 clever wife and a good manager will make any man's fortune; 
 anuntidy, thriftless one will spend, dissipate, and disperse the 
 largest. Now, unfortunately, young Englishwomen are not 
 so well taught in domesticity as they should be. Domestic 
 servants keep themselves in their own little sphere without 
 much general knowledge of women's duties ; and it is not at 
 all unusual for a young woman to marry without any proper 
 idea of cooking her husband's dinner or of ordering his house. 
 This is bad enough with the poorer classes, yet equally bad 
 with those above them. The highest lady should not be 
 above giving a full attention to her household : she will never 
 get hirelings or servants to do it so well. Indeed, amongst 
 the nobility and true aristocracy, an attention to the smallest 
 details is becoming more and more common. In the houses 
 of great nobles of old the lady's bower, answering to our 
 boudoir, overlooked the kitchen ; so that the wise woman 
 could keep her eye on the servants. 
 
 Woman chooses her sweetheart at least in five cases out of 
 ten. Some, indeed, hold that any woman can marry the man 
 she chooses if she so wills it. Therefore, what we have said 
 of the choice of wives applies just as much to those of hus- 
 bands. The same qualities are needed in both cases, and 
 should be insisted on. Presuming, therefore, the choice once 
 made, and the determination to marry seriously entertained — 
 
ON "GOING A-COURTING." 101 
 
 and there should be no courting without . this — the young 
 people will, of course, set about courting in their own peculiar 
 way. Eccentric as a nation, Britons are very eccentric in 
 their ways of making love. Dickens, who is fond of portray- 
 ing love scenes, and who writes of them sometimes very beau- 
 tifully, occasionally gives us the most humorous relations of 
 men and women who hardly talk of love, but go out and 
 marry quietly, and without fuss ; of people who behave, when 
 in love, more like lunatics than anything else. This method 
 may be funny, but it is very foolish. 
 
 The best advice is to do what you are about well, whether 
 it be love-making or fighting. All women like to be courted ; 
 and, when a man is in love, he should be as polite, as 
 attentive, and as loving as he can. Cobbett tells us how 
 an English yeoman loved and courted, and how he was 
 loved in return ; and a prettier episode does not exist in the 
 English language. Talk of private memoirs of courts : the 
 gossip of this cottage is worth it all. Cobbett, who was a 
 sergeant-major in a regiment of foot, fell in love with the 
 daughter of a sergeant of artillery, then in the same province 
 of New Brunswick. He had not passed more than an hour 
 in her company when, noting her modesty, her quietude, and 
 her sobriety, he said, " That is the girl for me." The next 
 morning he was up early . and almost before it was light passed 
 the sergeant's house. There she was on the snow, scrubbing out 
 a washing-tub. " That's the girl for me," again cried Cobbett, 
 although she was not more than fourteen, and he nearly twenty- 
 one. " From the day I first spoke to her," he writes, " I had 
 no more thought of her being the wife of any other man than 
 I had a thought of her becoming a chest of drawers." He 
 
102 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 paid every attention to her, and, young as she was, treated 
 her with all confidence. He spoke to her as his friend, his 
 second self. But in six months the artillery were ordered to 
 England and her father with them. Here was indeed a blow. 
 Cobbett knew what Woolwich was, and what temptations a 
 young and pretty girl would be sure to undergo. He therefore 
 took to her his whole fortune, one hundred and fifty guineas, 
 the savings of his pay and overwork, and wrote to tell her 
 if she did not find her place comfortable to take lodgings, 
 and put herself to school, and not to work too hard, for he 
 would be home in two years. But, as he says, "as the malig- 
 nity of the devil would have it, we were kept abroad two years 
 longer than our time, Mr. Pitt having knocked up a dust with 
 Spain about Nootka Sound. Oh, how I cursed Nootka 
 Sound, and poor bawling Pitt too !" But, at the end of four 
 years, Cobbett got his discharge. He found his little girl a 
 servant of all- work, at five pounds a year, in the house of a 
 Captain Brisac ; and, without saying a word about the matter, 
 she put into his hands the whole of the hundred and fifty 
 guineas unbroken ! 
 
 What a pretty tender picture is that ! — the young sergeant, 
 and the little girl of eighteen, who had kept for four years the 
 treasure untouched, waiting with patience her lover's return ! 
 What kindly, pure trust on both sides ! The historical 
 painters of our Royal Academy give us scenes from English 
 history of intrigue and bloodshed. Why can they not give 
 us a scene of true English courtship like that ? Cobbett, who 
 knew how to write sterling English better than many men of 
 his own days, and most men of ours, does not forget to en- 
 large upon the scene ; and dearly he loved his wife for her 
 
ON " GOING A-COURTING? 103 
 
 share of it ; but he does not forget to add, that with this love 
 there was mixed " self-gratulation on this indubitable proof 
 of the soundness of his own judgment." * 
 
 It is more than probable that eight girls out of ten would 
 be as prudent and as good, if their lovers would be as high- 
 minded. And it is as well to remember that courtship is the 
 real spring-time of life ; that nothing sordid or base should 
 approach — nothing mean enter the minds of the lovers. In 
 the ages of chivalry all kinds of " gentilesse and nobilitie " 
 were to form a part of the feeling of admiration and adoration 
 with which the lover approached his mistress. He is about 
 to pay her, and she him, the highest compliment a man, or 
 woman can pay. He circumscribes all his chances or his 
 hopes in one. To him she gives up her rights, her liberties, 
 her property, her very fate. All the expense of her education 
 and her maintenance, all the kindly care of her father and 
 the watchfulness of her mother for years, and through 
 years of sickness and of trial perhaps — all these have been 
 gone through for him, for he is dowered with the result. They 
 say that a common soldier will cost the Government two 
 hundred pounds in drilling, teaching, feeding, arming, and 
 clothing, before he can be placed as an effective in the 
 ranks. What have our wives each cost before being placed 
 as an effective in the ranks of matrimony ? 
 
 During courtship there should be no roughness, no rude 
 assertion of property, or, as it were, certain possession. " It 
 
 * Cobbett's Advice to Young Men, pp. 97, 98. This book may 
 be avoided from its title, but, if once opened, will not be easily laid 
 down, on account of its sound matter and racy English. 
 
104 THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 should consist," said Sterne, " in a number of quiet attentions 
 — not so pointed as to alarm, nor so vague as to be mis- 
 understood." # 
 
 There is one thing very certain, that the most enjoyable, 
 freshest, and most beautiful portion of life should call forth 
 the finest feelings. A man should be excused, nay, honoured, 
 if he believes that no one in the world can equal the woman 
 of his choice ; and the woman, on her part, should not doubt 
 that her sweetheart possesses due energy of mind and nobility 
 of character, that he is at least good, and, with the common 
 chance of us all a little in his favour, might be great. 
 
 So as the sun rises in the morning, chasing away the dark- 
 ness of night, and tinting all the little clouds with a roseate 
 hue, beautiful in its promise, noble in its strength, fit herald 
 of a bright and pure day — even so should the true morning 
 of life rise in each heart, and gild the coming day. Love, 
 desire, faith, esteem, and all the wondrous anticipations of 
 hope, should be on our side ; so that, if even after the sweet 
 pastime of courtship the day should be stormy and the gusts 
 of misfortune arise, a sweet remembrance of the morning 
 will cheer us through all. 
 
 * Letters, by Laurence Sterne. 
 
. 11 III 111 111 1 3 
 
 E3C3Z 
 
 LL~LL 
 
 RELATING CHIEFLY TO THE WIVES OF 
 MEN. 
 
 OMELY phrases sometimes carry in them a truth 
 which is passed over on account of its frequent 
 repetition, and thus they fail to effect the good 
 they are intended to do. For instance, there is 
 one with reference to woman, which asserts that she is man's 
 " better half ;" and this is said so often, half in satire and 
 half in jest, that few stoop to inquire whether woman really 
 be so. Yet she is in good truth his better half ; and the 
 phrase, met with in French or Latin, looks not only true 
 but poetical, and in its foreign dress is cherished and quoted. 
 She is not the wiser — in a worldly sense — certainly not the 
 stronger, nor the cleverer, notwithstanding what the pro- 
 moters of the Woman's Rights movements may say; but she 
 is the better. All must feel, indeed, that, if the whole sins of 
 the present world could be, and were, parcelled into two huge 
 heaps, those committed by the men would far exceed those 
 of the women. We doubt whether any reflective man will 
 deny this. On the other hand, the active virtues of man, his 
 benevolence and good deeds, might equal those of woman ; 
 but his passive virtues, his patience and his endurance, would 
 
106 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 be much smaller. On the whole, therefore, woman is the 
 much better half ; and there is no good man but owes an 
 immense deal to the virtues of the good women about him. 
 He owes too, a considerable deal of evil to their influence, 
 not only of the absolutely bad, for those a pure man shuns, 
 but the half-good and respectably selfish women of society — 
 these are they who undermine his honesty, his benevolence, 
 and his purity of mind. 
 
 The influence man receives from woman is of a very mixed 
 character. But, of all the influence which woman has over 
 man, that which is naturally most permanent, for good or 
 evil, arises from the marriage tie. How we, of the cold 
 North, have been able to emancipate woman from the de- 
 plorable depth into which polygamy would place her, it is not 
 easy to say. That it is a state absolutely countenanced — nay, 
 enjoined — in the Old Testament, it would be useless to deny. 
 But custom and fair usance are stronger than the Old Testa- 
 ment ; and the Jews, who readily adopt the laws of the 
 country under which they live, forbid polygamy to their 
 brethren in Christian lands, whilst they permit and practise 
 it where it exists, as with the Mahometan and Hindoo. 
 Under its influence the character of woman is terribly 
 dwarfed. She sinks to nothing where she would be, as she 
 should be, of half the importance of life at least. 
 
 To preserve her position, it will be necessary for all good 
 women to try and elevate the condition of their sisters. 
 With all of us, "the world is too much with us, day by day ; 
 and worldly success plays so large a part in the domestic 
 drama, that woman is everywhere perceptibly influenced by 
 it. Hence, to return to the closer consideration of the sub- 
 
MEN'S WIVES. 107 
 
 ject from our own point of view, the majority of men's wives 
 in the upper and middle classes fall far short of that which 
 is required of a good wife. They are the wives not made 
 by love, but by the chance of a good match. They are the 
 products of worldly prudence, not of a noble passion ; and, 
 although they may be very comfortable and very well clad, 
 though they may think themselves happy, and wear the very 
 look of health and beauty, they can never be to their hus- 
 bands what a wife of true and real tender love would be. The 
 consequence is that, after the first novelty has passed away, 
 the chain begins to rub and the collar to gall. "The girl who 
 has married for money," writes a clergyman, " has not, by 
 that rash and immoral act, blinded her eyes to other and 
 nobler attractions. She may still love wisdom though the 
 man of her choice maybe a fool; she will none the less desire 
 gentle chivalrous affection because he is purse-proud and 
 haughty; she may sigh for manly beauty all the more because 
 he is coarse and ugly ; she will not be able to get rid of her 
 own youth, and all it longs for, by watching his silver hair." 
 No; and, while there comes a curse upon her union — whilst 
 in the long, long evenings, in the cold spring mornings, and 
 in the still summer days she feels that all worth living for is 
 gone, while she is surrounded by all her body wants — her ex- 
 ample is corrupting others. The scorned lover who was 
 rejected because he was poor, goes away to curse woman's 
 fickleness, and to many some one whom he cannot love; and 
 the thoughtless girls by whom the glitter of fortune is taken 
 for the real gold of happiness, follow the venal example, and 
 flirt and jilt till they fancy that they have secured a good 
 match. 
 
108 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 Many women, after they have permanently attached a hus- 
 band of this sort, sit down, with all the heroism of martyrs, 
 to try to love the man they have accepted, but not chosen. 
 They find it a hard, almost an impossible task. Then comes 
 the moment so bitterly predicted by Milton, who no doubt 
 drew from his own feeling and experience, when he put into 
 the mouths of our first parents the prophecy that either man 
 should never find the true partner of his choice, or that, hav- 
 ing found her, she should be in possession of another. This 
 is far too often true, and cannot fail to be the source of a 
 misery almost too bitter to be long endured. 
 
 It says much for our British wives that their constancy has 
 passed into many proverbs. When a woman really loves 
 the man who marries her, the match is generally a happy 
 one ; but, even where it is not, the constancy of the wife's 
 affection is something to be wondered at and admired. No 
 after ill-usage, no neglect, or want of love, will remove the 
 affection once given. No doubt all women, when they fall in 
 love, do so with that which they conceive to be great and 
 noble in the character of the object. But they still love on 
 when all the glitter of novelty has fallen off, and when they 
 have been behind the scenes and found how bare and gloomy 
 was the framework of the scene they admired. All illusions 
 may be gone ; the hero may have sunk into the cowardly 
 braggart ; the saint into the hypocritical sinner ; the noble 
 aspirant into a man whose mouth alone utters but empty 
 words which his heart can never feel ; but still true love re- 
 mains, " nor alters where it alteration finds." The duration 
 of this passion, the constancy of this affection, surprises 
 many ; but, adds a writer, such persons — 
 
MEN'S WIVES. 109 
 
 ' ' Know not woman, the blest being 
 
 Who, like a pitying angel, gifts the mean 
 And sordid nature even with more love 
 Than falls to the lot of him who towers above 
 His fellow-men : like parasitic flowers, 
 That grow not on high temples, where the showers 
 And light of- heaven might nourish, but alone 
 Clothe the rent altar and the fallen stone." 
 There must be some great reason, some combination of feel- 
 ing for this. M. Ernest Feydeau, in a popular story of very 
 bad principles, seems to hit the right nail on the head. 
 " What woman," he asks, " would not love her husband, and 
 be ever true to him, without thinking of a lover, if her hus- 
 band would give her that which a lover gives her, not alone 
 attention, politenesses, and a cold friendship, but a little of 
 that balm which is the very essence of our existence — a little 
 love?"* Probably these very bad men, for whom women 
 will so generously ruin themselves, are, by their nature, soft 
 and flattering ; and, after cruelties and excesses, will, by soft 
 words and Belial tongues, bind to them yet more closely the 
 hearts of their victims. 
 
 The ideal wife of an Englishman has been often painted, 
 but the real far exceeds her. When Ulric von Hutten wrote 
 to Frederick, he painted such a portrait as must have made 
 that staunch advocate for the marriage of the clergy glow 
 with admiration. " Da mihi uxorein? he commences. " Get 
 me a wife, Frederick, after my own heart, such as you know 
 I should like — neat, young, fairly educated, modest, patient, 
 one with whom I may joke and play, and yet be serious ; to 
 whom I may babble and talk, mixing hearty fun and kisses 
 * Fanny, par M. E. Feydeau. Paris, 1863. 
 
no THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 together ; one whose presence will lighten my anxiety, and 
 soften the tumult of my cares." 
 
 It is not too much to say that the great majority of wives 
 equal this ideal. United to such a woman, a man becomes 
 better. He can never be the perfect man unless married. 
 With marriage he undertakes those duties of existence which 
 he is born to fulfil. The excitements of life and of business, the 
 selfishness of daily existence, diminish ; the generosities of the 
 heart expand ; the health of the mind becomes daily more 
 robust ; small repressions of selfishness, daily concessions, and 
 daily trials render him better ; the woman of his choice becomes 
 his equal, and in lifting her he lifts himself. He may not be 
 a genius, nor she very clever ; but, once truly married, the 
 real education of life begins. That is not education which 
 varnishes a man or a woman over with the pleasant and shin- 
 ing accomplishments which fit us for society, but that which 
 tends to improve the heart, to bring forward the reflective 
 qualities, and to form a firm and regular character ; that 
 which cultivates the reason, subdues the passions, restrains 
 them in their proper place, trains us to self-denial, makes us 
 able to bear trials, and to refer them, and all our sentiments 
 and feelings to their proper source ; which makes us look 
 beyond this world into the next. A man's wife, if properly 
 chosen, will aid in all this. The most brilliant and original 
 thinker, and the deepest philosopher we have — he who has 
 written books which educate the statesmen and the leaders 
 of the world — has told us, in his last preface, that he, having 
 lost his wife, has lost his chief inspiration. Looking back at 
 his works, he traces all that is noble, all that is advanced in 
 thought and grand in idea, and all that is true in expression, 
 
MEN'S WIVES. in 
 
 not to a poet or a teacher, but to his own wife ; in losing her, 
 he says he has lost much, but the world has lost more. So, 
 also, two men, very opposite in feelings, in genius, and in 
 character, and as opposite in their pursuits, declared at a 
 late period in their lives — lives spent in industry and hard 
 work, and in expression of what the world deemed their own 
 particular genius — " that they owed all to their wives." 
 These men were Sir Walter Scott and Daniel O'Connell. 
 "The very gods rejoice," says Menu the Sage, when the wife 
 is honoured. When the wife is injured, the whole family 
 decays ; when the contrary is the case it flourishes." This 
 may be taken as an eternal truth — as one of those truths not 
 to be put by, not to be argued down by casual exceptions. 
 It is just as true of nations as it is of men — of the whole 
 people as it is of individual families. So true it is, that it 
 may be regarded as a piece of very sound advice when we 
 counsel all men, married or single, to choose only such men 
 for their friends as are happy in their wedded lives. No man 
 can afford to know a broken family. Quarrelling, discord, 
 and connubial disagreements are catching. With unhappi- 
 ness at home, no man is safely to be trusted, no woman to be 
 sought in friendship. The fault may not be his or hers, but 
 it must be between them. A man and woman must prove 
 that they can be a good husband and wife before they can 
 be admitted to have proved that they are good citizens. 
 Such a verdict may seem harsh, but it is necessary and just. 
 Young people just married cannot possibly afford to know 
 unhappy couples ; and they, in their turn, may, with mutual 
 hypocrisy, rub on in the world, but in the end they feel that 
 the hypocrisy cannot be played out. They gradually with- 
 
112 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 draw from their friends and acquaintance, and nurse their 
 own miseries at home. 
 
 All good men feel, of course, that any distinctive separation 
 of the sexes, all those separate gatherings and marks which 
 would divide woman from man, and set her upon a separate 
 pedestal, are as foolish as they are really impracticable. You 
 will find no one who believes less in what certain philanthro- 
 pists call the emancipation of women, than a happy mother 
 and wife. She does not want to be emancipated ; and she is 
 quite unwilling that, instead of being the friend and ally of 
 man, she should be his opponent. She feels truly that the 
 woman's cause is man's. 
 
 " For woman is not undeveloped man, 
 But diverse. Could we make her as the man, 
 Sweet love were slain, whose dearest bond is this — 
 Not like to like, but like in difference." 
 
 The very virtues of woman, not less than her faults, fit her for 
 her attachment to man. There is no man so bad as not to 
 find some pitying woman who will admire and love him ; and 
 no man so wise but that he shall find some woman equal to 
 the full comprehension of him, ready to understand him and 
 to strengthen him. With such a woman he will grow more 
 tender, ductile, and appreciative ; the man will be more of 
 woman, she of man. Whether society, as it is at present 
 constituted, fits our young women to be the good wives they 
 should be is another question. In lower middle life, and 
 with the working classes, it is asserted that the women are 
 not sufficiently taught to fulfil their mission properly ; but, if 
 in large towns the exigencies of trade use up a large portion 
 
MEN'S WIVES. 113 
 
 of the female population, it is no wonder that they cannot be 
 at the same time good mill-hands, bookbinders, shopwomen, 
 and mothers, cooks, and housewives. We may well have 
 recourse to public cookery, and talk about working men's 
 dinners — thus drifting from an opposite point into the com- 
 ing socialism — when we absorb all the home energies of the 
 woman in gaining money sufficient for her daily bread. Yet 
 these revelations, nor those yet more dreadful ones which 
 come out daily in some of our law courts, are not sufficient 
 to make us overlook the fact that with us by far the larger 
 portion of marriages are happy ones, and that of men's wives 
 we still can write as the most eloquent divine who ever lived, 
 Jeremy Taylor, wrote, " A good wife is Heaven's last, best 
 gift to man — his angel and minister of graces innumerable 
 — his gem of many virtues — his casket of jewels. Her voice 
 is sweet music — her smiles his brightest day — her kiss the 
 guardian of his innocence — her arms the pale of his safety, 
 the balm of his health, the balsam of his life — her industry 
 his surest wealth — her economy his safest steward — her lips 
 his faithful counsellors — her bosom the softest pillow of his 
 cares — and her prayers the ablest advocate of Heaven's 
 blessings on his head." 
 
PRINCIPALLY CONCERNING WOMEN'S 
 HUSBANDS. 
 
 |T would not be holding the balance of the sexes 
 fairly, if, after saying all that can be said in favour 
 of men's wives, we did not say something on the 
 side of women's husbands. In these clever days 
 the husband is a rather neglected animal ; women are anxious 
 enough to secure a specimen of the creature, but he is very 
 soon " shelved " afterwards ; and women writers are now so 
 much occupied in contemplating the beauties of their own 
 more impulsive sex that they neglect to paint ideals of good 
 husbands. There has been also too much writing tending to 
 separate the sexes. It is plain that in actual life all the vir- 
 tues cannot be on one side, and all the faults on the other ; yet 
 some women are not ashamed to write and speak as if such 
 were really the case. The wife is taught to regard herself as 
 a woman with many wrongs, because her natural rights are 
 denied her. She is cockered up into a domestic martyr, and 
 is bred into an impatience of reproof which is very harmful 
 and very ungraceful. If we read Mr. Trollope's North 
 America^ we find that in New York this is producing some 
 
WOMEN'S HUSBANDS. 1 1 5 
 
 very sad results. Some of the men there are getting impa- 
 tient at the increasing demands of women for attention, for 
 place, and for consideration ; and, on merely selfish grounds, 
 it is hardly doubtful whether our own women in the upper 
 and middle classes do*not demand too much. It is evident 
 that, as society is constituted, man is the working, and woman, 
 generally, the ornamental portion of it, at least in those 
 classes to which Providence or society has given what we 
 call comfortable circumstances. Woman may do, and does 
 do, a great deal of unpleasant, tiresome work : she fritters 
 away her time upon occupations which require "frittering ;" 
 but, beyond that, she does not do the " paying " work. The 
 husband, or houseband, still produces the money. He is the 
 poor, plain, working bee ; and the queen bee too often sits in 
 regal state in her comfortable hive whilst he is toiling and 
 moiling abroad. 
 
 It results from the different occupations of the two sexes, 
 that the husband comes home too often worried, cross, and 
 anxious ; that he finds in his wife a woman to whom he 
 cannot tell his doubts and fears, his humiliations and ex- 
 perience. She, poor woman, with little sense of what the 
 world is, without any tact, may bore him to take her to fresh 
 amusements and excitements ; for, while he has been expend- 
 ing both brain and body, she has been quietly at home. A 
 certain want of tact, not unfrequently met with in wives, 
 often sets the household in a flame of anger and quarrelling, 
 which might be avoided by a little patience and care on the 
 part of the wife. 
 
 It is not in human nature for a man who has been hard at 
 work all day, to return to his home toiled and weary, of with 
 
 I 2 
 
1 1 6 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 his mind agitated after being filled with many things, and to 
 regard with complacency little matters which go awry, but 
 which at another time would not trouble him. The hard- 
 working man is too apt to regard as lazy those who work 
 less than himself, and he therefore looks upon the slightest 
 unreadiness or want of preparation in his wife as neglect. 
 Hence a woman, if she be wise, will be constantly prepared 
 for the return of her husband. He, after all, is the bread- 
 winner ; and all that he requires is an attention less by far 
 than we should ordinarily pay to a guest. In the good old 
 Scotch song, which thrills our heart every time it is sung, and 
 makes us remember, however sceptical we may have grown, 
 the true worth and divinity of love, the wife's greatest pleasure 
 is that of looking forward to the return of her husband. She 
 puts on her best clothes and her sweetest smile ; she clothes 
 her face with that fondness which only a wife's look can 
 express ; she makes her children look neat and pretty — "gi'es 
 little Kate her cotton gown and Jock his Sunday coat"— 
 because the husband is returning. There is not a prettier 
 picture throughout the whole range of literature. How her 
 love breathes forth — 
 
 ' ' Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue ; 
 His breath like caller air ; 
 His very foot has music in't 
 As he comes up the stair." 
 
 And the love which thus colours with its radiant tints the 
 common things of this life, which makes poverty beautiful, 
 and the cottage richer than the palace, will be sure to teach 
 the heart which possesses it how to manage the husband.- 
 In'" managing a man" — an important lesson, which some 
 
WOMEN'S HUSBANDS. 1 1 7 
 
 women are very anxious to impress upon others — immense 
 tact and delicacy are wanted, but are very seldom found. 
 Wives should remember that they had better, very much 
 better, never try to manage, than try and not succeed. And 
 yet all men like to be managed, and require management. 
 No one can pretend to be the be-all and end-all in a house. 
 It is from his wife that the husband should learn the true 
 value of things — his own dignity, his position, and even his 
 secondary position by her side as manageress. But, if she 
 be wise, she will not make this too apparent. Directly the 
 voice gets too loud, the tone too commanding, and the man- 
 ner too fussy, the unhappy man begins to suspect that he is 
 being "managed," and in nine cases out of ten sinks into 
 utter imbecility, or breaks away like an obstinate pig. Both 
 these symptoms are bad, and perhaps the first is the worst. 
 No true woman can love and reverence a man who is morally 
 and intellectually lower than herself, and who has drivelled 
 down into a mere assenting puppet. On the other hand, the 
 pig-headed husband is very troublesome. He requires the 
 greatest care ; for whatever his wife says he will refuse to do ; 
 nay, although it may be the very essence of wisdom, he will 
 refuse it because he knows the behest proceeds from his wife. 
 He is like a jibbing horse, which you have to turn one way 
 because you want him to start forward on the other ; or he 
 more closely resembles the C2lebrated Irish pig, which was so 
 obstinate that his master was obliged to persuade him that he 
 was being driven to Dublin, when his back was towards that 
 city, and he was going to Athlone ! 
 
 One part of management in husbands lies in a judicious 
 mixture of good humour, attention, flatter}-, and compliments. 
 
n8 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 All men, as well as women, are more or less vain ; the rare 
 exceptions of men who do not care to be tickled by an occa- 
 sional well-turned compliment only prove the rule. But, 
 in the case of a husband, we must remember that this love 
 of being occasionally flattered by his wife is absolutely a 
 necessary and natural virtue. No one needs to be ashamed 
 of it. We are glad enough to own, to remember, to treasure 
 up every little word of approval that fell from the lips of the 
 woman we courted. Why should we forget the dear sounds 
 now she is our wife ? If we love her, she may be sure that 
 any little compliment — an offered flower, a birthday gift, 
 a song when we are weary, a smile when we are sad, a look 
 which no eye but our own will see — will be treasured up, and 
 will cheer us when she is not there. Judiciously used, this 
 conduct is of the greatest effect in managing the husband. A 
 little vanity does not, moreover, in such cases as these, prove 
 a man to be either a bad man or a fool. " All clever men," 
 says a great observer, "are more or less affected with vanity. 
 It may be blatant and offensive, it may be excessive, but not 
 unamusing, or it may show itself just as a large souftcon, but 
 it is never entirely absent." The same writer goes on to say 
 that this vanity should by no means be injudiciously flattered 
 into too large a size. A wife will probably admire the hus- 
 band for what he is really worth ; and the vanity of a really 
 clever man probably only amounts to putting a little too large 
 a price on his merits, not to a mistake as to what those merits 
 are. The wife and husband will therefore think alike ; but, 
 if she be wise, she will only go to a certain point in adminis- 
 tering the domestic lumps of sugar. "A clever husband," 
 says the writer we have quoted, " is like a good despot — all 
 
WOMEN'S HUSBANDS. 119 
 
 the better for a little constitutional opposition." Or the same 
 advice may be thus put, as it often is, by a wise and cautious 
 mother-in-law : " My dear," she would say, " you must never 
 let your husband have matters all his own way." 
 
 A woman who abdicates all her authority, who is not queen 
 over her kitchen, her chamber, and her drawing-room or best 
 parlour, does a very dangerous and foolish thing, and will 
 soon dwarf down into a mere assenting dummy. Now old 
 Burleigh, the wise counsellor of Queen Elizabeth, has, in his 
 advice to his son, left it upon record that " thou shalt find 
 there is nothing so irksome in life as a female fool." A wife 
 who is the mere echo of her husband's opinions ; who waits 
 for his advice upon all matters ; who is lazy, indolent, and 
 silly in her household ; fussy, troublesome, and always out of 
 the way or in the way when she is travelling ; who has no 
 opinje^sjDf^erjDwn, no temper of her own ; who boasts that 
 " she bears everything like a lamb ;" and who bears the 
 breakage of her best china and the desecration of her white 
 curtains with tobacco-smoke with equal serenity — such a 
 woman may be very affectionate and very good, but she is 
 somewhat of a " she-fool." Her husband will too often first 
 begin to despise and then to neglect her. She will follow so 
 closely on the heels of her husband's ideas and her husband's 
 opinions that she will annoy him like an echo. Her genuine 
 love will be construed into something like cunning flattery ; 
 her very devotion will be mistaken ; her sweet nature become 
 tiresome and irksome, from want of variety ; and, from being 
 the mistress of the house, she will sink into the mere slave of 
 the husband. A wife should therefore learn to think, to walk 
 alone, to bear her full share of the troubles and dignities of 
 
120 . THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 | married life, never to become a cypher in her own house, but 
 • to rise to the level of her husband, and to take her full share 
 { of the matrimonial throne. The husband, if a wise man, will 
 I never act without consulting his wife ; nor will she do any- 
 thing of importance without the aid and advice of her hus- 
 band. 
 
 There is, however — and in these days of rapid fortune- 
 making we see it constantly — a certain class of men who rise 
 in the world without the slightest improvement in their man- 
 ners, taste, or sense. Such men are shrewd men of business, 
 or perhaps have been borne to the haven of fortune by a lucky 
 tide ; and yet these very men possess wives who, although 
 they are of a lower sphere, rise at once with their position, 
 and in manner, grace, and address are perfect ladies, whilst 
 their husbands are still the same rude, uncultivated boors. 
 These wives must be wise enough to console themselves for 
 their trials ; for indeed such things are a very serious trial 
 both to human endurance and to human vanity. They 
 must remember that they married when equals with their 
 husbands in their lowliness, and that their husbands have 
 made the fortune which they pour at their feet. They will 
 recollect also that their husbands must have industry, and a 
 great many other sterling good qualities, if they lack a little 
 polish ; and, lastly, that they are in reality no worse off than 
 many other women in high life who are married to boors, to 
 eccentric persons, or, alas ! too often to those who, with many 
 admirable virtues, may blot them all by the indulgence in a 
 bosom sin or an hereditary vice. 
 
 The last paragraph will lead us naturally enough to the 
 faults of husbands. Now, although we are inclined to think 
 
WOMEN'S HUSBANDS. 121 
 
 that these are greatly exaggerated, and that married men are, 
 on the whole, very good — excellent'inen and citizens, brave 
 men, battling with the world and Hm- difficulties, and carrying 
 forward the cumbrous machine in its path of progress and 
 civilization — although we think that, as a class, their merits 
 are actually not fully appreciated, and that the bachelors (sly 
 fellows !) get very much the best of it — still, we must admit 
 that there is a very large class of thoroughly bad husbands, 
 and that this class may be divided into the foolish, the care- 
 less, and the vicious sub-classes, each of which would require 
 at least a volume to be devoted to their treatment and cas- 
 tigation. Nay, more than a volume. Archdeacon Paley 
 notes that St. John, apologizing for the brevity and incom- 
 pleteness of Gospel directions, states that, if all the necessary 
 books were written, the world would not contain them. So we 
 may say of the faults of foolish husbands ; we will, therefore, 
 say no more about them, but return to the part which the 
 wives of such men ought to play. 
 
 In the first place, as a true woman, a wife will be as tender 
 of those faults as she can be. She will not talk to her neigh- 
 bours about them, nor magnify them, nor dwell upon them. 
 She, alas ! will never be without her share of blame ; for the 
 world, rightly or wrongly, often dowers the wife with the faults 
 of the husband, and, seeing no possibility of interfering and 
 assigning to each his or her share, suspects both. Moreover, 
 in many cases she will have to blame herself chiefly. We 
 take it that the great majority of women marry the men that 
 they choose. If they do not do so, they should do so. They 
 may have been unwise and vain enough to have been pleased 
 and tickled by the flattery of a fool. When they have married 
 
122 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 him, they find him, as Dr. Gregory wrote to his daughters, 
 " the most intractable of husbands ; led by his passions and 
 caprices, and incapable of hearing the voice of reason." A 
 woman's vanity may be hurt when she finds that she has a 
 husband for whom she has to blush and tremble every time 
 he opens his lips. She may be annoyed at his clownish 
 jealousy, his mulish obstinacy, his incapability of being 
 managed, led, or driven ; but she must reflect that there was 
 a time when a little wisdom and reflection on her own part 
 would have prevented her from delivering her heart and her 
 person to so unworthy a creature. 
 
 Women who have wicked husbands are much more to be 
 pitied. In early life the wives themselves are innocent ; and, 
 from the nature of things, their innocence is based upon igno- 
 rance. Here the value of the almost intuitive wisdom and 
 perception of the gentler sex comes into full play. During 
 courtship, when this perception is in its full power and vigour, 
 it should be freely exercised. Scandal and common report, 
 in themselves to be avoided, are useful in this. 
 
 Women should choose men of character and of unspotted 
 name. It is a very old and true remark — but one may as well 
 repeat what is old and trite when that which is new would 
 be but feeble repetition at the best — that a good son gene- 
 rally makes a good husband ; a wise companion in a walk 
 may turn out a judicious companion through life. The wild 
 attempt to reform a rake, or to marry a man of a " gay" life, 
 in the hope that he will sow " his wild oats," is always dan- 
 gerous, and should never be attempted. A woman who has 
 a sense of religion herself should never attach herself to a 
 man who has none. The choice of a husband is really of the 
 
WOMEN'S HUSBANDS. 123 
 
 greatest consequence to human happiness, and should never 
 be made without the greatest care and circumspection. No 
 sudden caprice, no effect of coquetry, no sally of passion, 
 should be dignified by the name of love. " Marriage," says 
 the Apostle, " is honourable in all ;" but the kind of marriage 
 which is so is that which is based upon genuine love, not 
 upon fancy or caprice ; which is founded on the inclination 
 of nature, on honourable views, cemented by a similarity of 
 tastes, and strengthened by the true sympathy of souls. 
 
ON THE DISAPPOINTMENTS OF LIFE. 
 
 ALF the misery of human life consists in our 
 making a wrong estimate of it, and in being dis- 
 appointed when we find out our fault. We do 
 not often begin it at the right end. We put a 
 much higher figure in the sum than it will bear, and we cry like 
 a schoolboy when the addition is wrong. We take such very 
 pleasant opinions of ourselves, our friends, and our surround- 
 ings, that we should never be surprised if our sons turned out 
 generals, and our daughters married dukes ; but we are greatly 
 grieved when, as is always the case, the former are mere 
 work-a-day people, and the latter marry mere common-place 
 people. Our illusions commence in the cradle, and end only 
 in the grave. We have all great expectations. Our ducks 
 are ever to be geese, our geese swans ; and we cannot bear 
 the truth when it comes upon us. Hence our disappoint- 
 ments ; hence Solomon cried out that all was vanity, that he 
 had tried everything, each pleasure, each beauty, and found 
 it very empty. People, he writes, should be taught by my 
 example : they cannot go beyond me — " What can he do that 
 comes after the king?" 
 
 It is very doubtful whether, to an untried or a young man, 
 
DISAPPOINTMENTS. 125 
 
 the warnings of Solomon, or the outpourings of that griefful 
 prophet whose name now passes for a lamentation, have done 
 much good. Hope balances caution, and "springs eternal in 
 the human breast." The old man fails, but the young con- 
 stantly fancies he shall succeed. " Solomon," he cries, " did 
 not know everything ;" but in a few years his own disappoint- 
 ments tell him how true the king's words are, and he cherishes 
 the experience he has bought. But experience does not serve 
 him in every case ; it has been said that it is simply like the 
 stern-lights of a ship, which lighten the path she has passed 
 over, but not that which she is about to traverse. To know 
 one's self is the hardest lesson we can learn. Few of us ever 
 realize our true position ; few see that they are like Bunyan's 
 hero in the midst of Vanity Fair, and that all about them 
 are snares, illusions, painted shows, real troubles, and true 
 miseries, many trials and few enjoyments. 
 
 Perhaps the bitterest feelings in our life are those which we 
 experience, when boys and girls, at the failures of our friend- 
 ships and our loves. We have heard of false friends ; we have 
 read of deceit in books ; but we know nothing about it, and 
 we hardly believe what we hear. Our friend is to be true as 
 steel. He is always to like us, and we him. He is a second 
 Damon, we a Pythias. We remember the fond old stories of 
 celebrated friendships ; how one shared his fortune, another 
 gave his life. Our friend is just of that sort ; he is noble, 
 true, grand, heroic. Of course he is wonderfully generous. 
 We talk of him ; he will praise us. The whole people around, 
 who laugh at the sudden warmth, we regard as old fogies, 
 who do not understand life half as well as we do. But by- 
 and-by our friend vanishes ; the image which we thought 
 
126 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 was gold we find made of mere clay. We grow melancholy ; 
 we are fond of reading Byron's poetry ; the sun is not nearly 
 so bright nor the sky so blue as it used to be. We sing, with 
 the noble poet — 
 
 " My days are in the yellow leaf 
 
 The flowers and the fruit are gone ; 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief 
 Are mine alone !" 
 
 We cease to believe in friendship ; we quote old saws, and 
 fancy ourselves cruelly used. We think ourselves philoso- 
 phic martyrs, when the simple truth is, that we are disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 The major part of the misery in marriage arises from the 
 false estimate which we make of married happiness. A young 
 man, who is a pure and good one, when he starts in life is 
 very apt to fancy all women angels. He loves and venerates 
 his mother ; he believes her better, purer far, than his father, 
 because his school-days have taught him practically what 
 men are ; but he does not yet know what women are. His 
 sisters are angels too, and the wife he is about to marry, the 
 best, the purest woman in the world, also an angel, of course. 
 Marriage soon opens his eyes. It would be out of the course 
 of nature for everybody to secure an angel ; and the young 
 husband finds that he has married a woman of the ordinary 
 pattern — not a whit better on the whole than man ; perhaps 
 rather worse, because weaker. The high-flown sentiment is 
 all gone, the romantic ideas fade down to the light of common 
 day. " The bloom of young desire, the purple light of love," 
 as Milton writes in one of the most beautiful lines ever penned, 
 
DISAPPOINTMENTS. 127 
 
 too often pass away as well, and a future of misery is opened 
 up on the basis of disappointment. After all, the difficulty to 
 be got over is this — how is mankind to be taught to take a 
 just estimate of things ? Is it possible to put old heads upon 
 young shoulders? Is not youth a perpetual state of intoxi- 
 cation ? Is not everything better and brighter far then than 
 in middle life ? These are the questions to be solved, and 
 once solved we shall be happy ; we shall have learnt the 
 great lesson, that whatever is, is ordained by a great and 
 wise Power, and that we are therewith to be content. 
 
 A kindly consideration for others is the best method in the 
 world to adopt, to ease off our own troubles ; and this con- 
 sideration is to be cultivated very easily. There is not one of 
 those who will take up this book who is perfectly happy, and 
 not one who does not fancy that he or she might be very 
 much better off. Perhaps ten out of every dozen have been 
 disappointed in life. They are not precisely what they should 
 be. The wise poor man, in spite of his wisdom, envies the 
 rich fool ; and the fool — if he has any appreciation — envies 
 the wisdom of the other. One is too tall, the other is too 
 short ; ill-health plagues a third, and a bad wife a fourth ; and 
 so on. Yet there is not one of the sorrows or troubles that 
 we have but might be reasoned away. The short man cannot 
 add a cubit to his stature ; but he may think, after all, that 
 many grea heroes have been short, and that it is the mind, 
 not the form, that makes the man. Napoleon the Great, who 
 had high-heeled boots, and was, to be sure, hardly a giant in 
 stature, once looked at a picture of Alexander, .by David. 
 " Ah ! " said he, taking snuff, with a pleased air, " Alexander 
 was shorter than I." The hero last mentioned is he who 
 
128 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 cried because he had no more worlds to conquer, and who 
 never thought of conquering himself. But if Alexander were 
 disappointed about another world, his courtiers were much 
 more so because they were not Alexanders. But the world 
 would not have cared for a surplus of them ; one was enough. 
 Conquerors are very pleasant fellows, no doubt, and are dis- 
 appointed and sulky because they cannot gain more battles ; 
 but we poor frogs in the world are quite satisfied with one 
 King Stork. 
 
 If we look at a disappointment as a lesson, we soon take 
 the sting out of it. A spider will teach us that. He is watch- 
 ing for a fly, and away the nimble fellow flies. The spider 
 upon this runs round his net to see whether there be any 
 holes, and to mend them. When doing so, he comes upon an 
 old body of one of his victims, and he commences again on 
 it, with a pious ejaculation of " Better luck next time." So 
 one of the greatest and wisest missionaries whom we have 
 ever had, tried, when a boy, to climb a tree. He fell down, 
 and broke his leg. Seriously lamed, he went on crutches 
 for six months, and at the end of that time quietly set about 
 climbing the tree again, and succeeded. He had, in truth, a 
 reserve fund of good-humour and sound sense, saw where he 
 failed, and conquered it. His disappointment, was worth 
 twenty dozen successes to him, and to the world too. It is a 
 good rule, also, never to make too sure of anything, and never 
 to put too high a price on it. Everything is worth doing well : 
 everything, presuming you like it, is worth having. The girl 
 you fall in love with may be silly and ill-favoured ; but what 
 of that ? she is your love. " 'Tis a poor fancy of mine own 
 to like that which none other man will have," says the fool 
 
DISAPPOINTMENTS. 129 
 
 Touchstone; but he speaks like a wise man. He is wiser 
 than the melancholy Jacques in the same play, who calls all 
 people fools, and mopes about preaching wise saws. If our 
 young men were as wise, there would not be half the ill- 
 assorted marriages in the world, and there would be fewer 
 single women. If they only chose by sense or fancy, or be- 
 cause they saw some good quality in a girl — if they were not 
 all captivated by the face alone, every Jill would have her 
 Jack, and pair oft" happily, like the lovers in a comedy. But 
 it is not so. We cannot live without illusions : we cannot, 
 therefore, subsist without disappointments. They, too, follow 
 each other as the night the day, the shade the sunshine ; they 
 are as inseparable as life and death. 
 
 The difference of our conditions alone places a variety in 
 these illusions ; perhaps the lowest of us have the brightest, 
 just as Cinderella, sitting amongst the coals, dreamt of the 
 ball and the beautiful prince as well as her sisters. " Bare 
 and grim to tears," says Emerson, " is the lot of the children 
 I saw yesterday ; yet not the less they hung it round with 
 frippery romance, like the children of the happiest fortune, 
 and would talk of ' the dear cottage where so many joyful 
 hours had flown.' Well, this thatching of hovels is the custom 
 of the country. Women, more than all, are the element and 
 kingdom of illusion." Happy is it that they are so. These 
 fancies and illusions bring forth the inevitable disappoint- 
 ments, but they carry life on with a swing. If every hovel- 
 born child had sat down at his door-step, and taken true stock 
 of himself, and had said, "lama poor miserable child, weak 
 in health, without knowledge, with little help, and cannot do 
 much," we should have wanted many a hero. We should 
 
 K 
 
130 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 have had no Stephenson, no Faraday, no Arkwright, and no 
 Watt. Our railways would have been unbuilt, and the At- 
 lantic Ocean would have been unbridged by steam. But hope, 
 as phrenologists tell us, lies above caution, and has dangerous 
 and active neighbours — wit, imagination, language, ideality — 
 so the poor cottage is hung round with fancies, and the man 
 exists to help his fellows. He may fail ; but others take up 
 his tangled thread, and unravel it, and carry on the great 
 business of life. 
 
 The constantly cheerful man, who survives his blighted 
 hopes and disappointments, who takes them just for what 
 they are, lessons, and perhaps blessings in disguise, is the true 
 hero. He is like a strong swimmer ; the waves dash over 
 him, but he is never submerged. We cannot help applaud- 
 ing and admiring such a man ; and the world, good-natured 
 and wise in its verdict, cheers him when he gains the goal. 
 There may be brutality in the sport, but there can be no 
 question as to the merit, when the smaller prize-fighter, who 
 receives again and again his adversary's knock-down blow, 
 again gets up and is ready for the fray. Old General Blucher 
 was not a lucky general. He was beaten almost every time 
 he ventured to battle ; but in an incredible space of time he 
 had gathered together his routed army, and was as formidable 
 as before. The Germans liked the bold old fellow, and called 
 and still call him Marshal Forwards. He had his disappoint- 
 ments, no doubt, but turned them, like the oyster does the 
 speck of sand which annoys it, to a pearl. To our minds the 
 best of all these heroes is Robert Hall, the preacher, who, after 
 falling on the ground in paroxysms of pain, would rise with a 
 smile, and say, "I suffered much, but I did not cry out, did I? 
 
DISAPPOINTMENTS. 13 1 
 
 did I cry out?" Beautiful is this heroism. Nature, base 
 enough under some aspects, rises into grandeur in such an 
 example, and shoots upwards to an Alpine height of pure air 
 and cloudless sunshine ; the bold, noble, and kindly nature 
 of the man, struggling against pain, and asking, in an apolo- 
 getic tone, "Did I cry out?" whilst his lips were white with 
 anguish, and his tongue, bitten through in the paroxysm, was 
 red with blood ! 
 
 There is a companion picture of ineffaceable grandeur to 
 this in Plato's Phcedo, where Socrates, who has been un- 
 chained simply that he may prepare for death, sits upon his 
 bed, and, rubbing his leg gently where the iron had galled 
 it, begins, not a complaint against fate, or his judges, or the 
 misery of present death, but a grateful little reflection. "What 
 an unaccountable thing, my friends, that seems to be which 
 men call pleasure ; and how wonderful it is related to that 
 which appears to be its contrary — pain, in that they will not 
 both be present to a man at the same time ; yet if any one 
 pursues and attains the one, he is almost always compelled 
 to receive the other, as if they were both united together 
 from one head." Surely true philosophy, if we may call so 
 serene a state of mind by that hackneyed word, never reached, 
 unaided, a purer height ! 
 
 There is one thing certain, which contains a poor comfort, 
 but a strong one — a poor one, because it reduces us all to the 
 same level — it is this : we may be sure that not one of us is 
 without disappointment. The footman is as badly off as his 
 master, and the master as the footman. The courtier is dis- 
 appointed of his place, and the minister of his ambition. 
 Cardinal Wolsey lectures his secretary Cromwell, and tells 
 
 K 2 
 
132 THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 him of his disappointed ambition ; but Cromwell had his 
 troubles as well. Henry the Eighth, the king who broke 
 them both, might have put up the same prayer ; and the 
 Pope, who was a thorn in Harry's side, no doubt had a peck 
 of disappointments of his own. Nature not only abhors a 
 vacuum, but she utterly repudiates an entirely successful 
 man. There probably never lived one yet to whom the morn- 
 ing did not bring some disaster, the evening some repulse.. 
 John Hunter, the greatest, most successful surgeon, the genius, 
 the wonder, the admired of all, upon whose words they whose 
 lives had been spent in science hung, said as he went to his 
 last lecture, " If I quarrel with any one to-night, it will kill 
 me." An obstinate surgeon of the old school denied one of 
 his assertions, and called him a liar. It was enough. Hunter 
 was carried into the next room, and died. He had for years 
 suffered from a diseased heart, and was quite conscious of his 
 fate. That was his disappointment. Happy are they who, 
 in this world of trial, meet their disappointments in their 
 youth, not in their old age ; then let them come and welcome, 
 not too thick, to render us morose, but like spring mornings, 
 frosty but kindly, the cold of which will kill the vermin, but 
 will let the plant live ; and let us rely upon it, that the best 
 men (and women too) are those who have been early disap- 
 pointed. 
 
ON RELIGION IN THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 HEN Sir Thomas Browne's Religio Medici had 
 rendered that kind of writing popular, several 
 ready pens rushed into the arena to speak about 
 religion, and to lay down the rule of life which 
 should be drawn from it. We know that glorious John Dryden 
 gave us an excellent poem on the Religion of a Layman, 
 although at some time after (1645 and 1682), and that 
 Alexander Ross attacks both Sir Thomas Browne and his 
 annotator, in his Medicus Medicatus j or, the Physicians 
 Religion cured by a lenitive and gentle Potion. There was, 
 moreover, the Religio Stoici, the Religio Mililis, the Religion 
 of a Prince, Religio Jurisprudetitis, and Religio Bibliopola, 
 as if lawyers, booksellers, soldiers, and phybicians had each 
 a little rule of conscience of their own, differing from every- 
 body else's. 
 
 But the title which pleases me most of all of these offsprings 
 of Sir Thomas Browne, is that which is prefixed to a small 
 volume of Archbishop Synge's works, which has since been 
 once or twice reprinted, A Gentleman^ Religion. The work 
 itself is a good one, containing the principles of religion, and 
 the doctrines of Christianity, both as to faith and practice ; 
 
134- THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 and the charity of the Churchman is very wide.. In this it 
 differs much from one of the latest books of the kind, Religio 
 Clerici, or a Churchman's Religion, wherein the author desires 
 his epitaph to consist of the following triplet : — 
 
 " He loved established rules of serving God, 
 Preached from a pulpit rather than a tub, 
 And gave no guinea to a Bible Club."* 
 
 I am afraid that the Churchman who wrote that was all too 
 truculent for those who would live a Gentle Life. They would 
 rather adopt, as an exponent of their feelings, the impressive 
 commencement of Religio Medici : — 
 
 " For my religion, though there be several circumstances 
 that might persuade the world that I have none at all — as the 
 general scandal of my profession, the natural course of my 
 studies, the indifferency of my behaviour and discourse in 
 matters of religion, neither violently defending one, nor with 
 that common ardour and contention opposing another — yet, 
 in despight hereof, I dare, without usurpation, assume the 
 honourable stile of a Christian. Not that I merely owe this 
 title to the Font, my education, or clime wherein I was born, 
 as being bred up either to confirm those principles my parents 
 instilled into my understanding, or by a general consent pro- 
 ceed in the religion of my country ; but having, in my riper 
 years and confirmed judgment, seen and examined all, I find 
 myself obliged, by the principles of grace and the law of mine 
 own reason, to embrace no other name but this. Neither 
 
 * Quoted by Simon Wilkin, F.L.S., in his edition of Browne's 
 Religio Medici. 
 
RELIGION OF THE " GENTLE LIFE. n 135 
 
 herein doth my zeal so far make me forget the general charity 
 I owe to humanity, as rather to hate than pity Turks, infidels, 
 and Jews ; rather contenting myself to enjoy that happy stile, 
 than maligning those who refuse so glorious a title."* 
 
 Sir Thomas tells us also that he is of the " Reformed New 
 Cast Religion," whereof he hates nothing but the name, and 
 of the Church of England. Can a man, indeed, belong to a 
 better church than that of Jeremy Taylor, George Herbert, 
 Izaak Walton, S. T. Coleridge, Arnold, and Whateley ? 
 
 Nevertheless, there are in our church a great many captains, 
 and of late there have grown up in its bosom certain bold 
 young soldiers, whose earnestness and zeal lead others captive, 
 who are determined to fight against sin and the devil after 
 the manner of modern athletes, and who train themselves, 
 not, indeed, by vigils and fastings, but in a manner to do 
 credit to their name of muscular Christians. 
 
 Nor is the spirit of these men unknown in America, where, 
 suiting the word to the occasion, some hardy zealots call 
 themselves war Christians, a name certainly unsuited to the 
 Gentle Life. But the war spirit, every now and then, crops 
 out very fiercely. 
 
 On one of the last Sundays in December, 1862, in the 
 midst of a dispirited city, and with a perplexed senate and a 
 beaten army as that city's safeguards, Mr. Henry Ward 
 Beecher asserted in the Puritan Church in New York, that 
 " generals were of no use ; that God fought against the North 
 for upholding the slaves ; that the time was come when 
 wickedness was to be 'rooted out ;' and, finally, that it was not 
 
 * Religio Medici, pp. 1, 2. 8th Edition, 1682. 
 
i 3 6 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 only the province of the preacher to condemn vice, but that 
 he should ' pluck it out by the root,' should ' slay' wickedness, 
 and that slavery and alcohol should be put down by the arm 
 of flesh and the sword of the preacher." 
 
 Here, then, is a peculiar and forcible religion in full play ; 
 here is indeed a Christian militant. It results from the little 
 attention and earnestness which we give to our different 
 churches, that we are at present split up into so many 
 parties. We have High, Low, and Broad Church. We have 
 " Unionites" and " Recordites." We have Wesleyans of the 
 New Connexion, Bryanites (1815), Fly Sheetites or Reformers, 
 dingers to the Conference, Wesleyan Methodist Association 
 (1834), and Wesleyan Methodist Reformers (1849). Of course 
 it would serve no purpose but to fill the page to repeat here 
 the thousand and one sects into which the anti-Church Pro- 
 testants are driven. Each sect, however small, is already 
 again divided, or carries in its body the seeds of a division. 
 High above all of us, in her assumption, towers the Church 
 of Rome, with her extreme boast of perfect unity. Her gar- 
 ment is like the coat of Christ : the great ones of the earth will 
 cast lots for it, but it shall not be rent. Yet, within this 
 charmed and iron ring, or golden circle, how many hot and 
 passionate hearts beat out their little time with not one feeling 
 in common ! Like globules of quicksilver for a moment dis- 
 persed, the Protestant sects are each little perfect globes, 
 which, if touched rudely, or shaken by danger, again forget 
 their differences and run together. Their facility for combi- 
 nation proves them to be of the same element. But in the 
 Roman Church wide rents show that, although the whole 
 coat may have been of one piece, it is no longer to be drawn 
 
RELIGION OF THE "GENTLE LIFE." 137 
 
 together. Do the Jansenists and the Jesuits regard each 
 other in the very same light ? Do preaching friars agree 
 with the Molinists or Ouietists ? Are there not Conception- 
 ists and Anti-Conceptionists ? These very orders would be- 
 come unorderly, if allowed freedom to work out their ideas ; 
 and, indeed, that very freedom which is denied them gives a 
 liveliness and activity to Protestantism which the other forms 
 of faith hardly possess. We are, in fact, all the better for our 
 "muscular Christians," and our quiet "Evangelicals." It is 
 just as well that the army of the good and the earnest should 
 range themselves under their different captains and colonels, 
 and take up different war-cries. There is room enough for all 
 to act, for the squadron of Paul and the regiment of Apollos, 
 if they only act in the true spirit of their faith. 
 
 Talking about these matters to a lady lately, and letting 
 fall the words "High Church," the speaker was solemnly re- 
 proved. " We will not call names," she said, indignantly : 
 "do not say High Church; say i the Church.'" But Low 
 Church equally claims to be the Church ; and the Roman 
 Church asserts, with some show of reason and authority, that 
 she alone is "the" Church — she is the "milk-white hind, un- 
 spotted and unchanged," nor will she be content to be less 
 than the greatest ; so that the term Church is like the univer- 
 sal centre, everywhere and nowhere. We must be content 
 to do our duty, regardless of the names of those with whom 
 we associate. Men wrangle about religion, dispute about it, 
 call names, worry their neighbours, and burn them ; fight for 
 religion, and lay down their lives for it ; indeed, do everything 
 but live up to it : very few of us even try to do that. 
 
 Excessive meekness and an effeminate mildness having 
 
1 38 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 been assumed by many members of Christian Churches, 
 others felt that to be called pious was a reproach, and that 
 the name of a " Christian young man " was too often pro- 
 nounced with a sneer. Goodness, or the doing of good, a 
 very manly thing, became something to be ashamed of when 
 perpetually connected with those who were not only pious 
 but silly ; with clergymen who dared not follow the progress 
 of the age, and who associated with men of insufferable con- 
 ceit, and no little degree of ignorance. Our first novelist had 
 also, with that persuasive power which belongs to genius, 
 cast deserved ridicule over the pretenders to goodness. 
 The shepherd Mr. Stiggins, Mr. Chadband, and other greasy 
 and knavish professors of religion, who quietly sat in the 
 chief places, and took not only the greetings of the market- 
 place, but the money of the frequenters of the market, were 
 drawn to the life. We need not say that these portraits dis- 
 gusted all true and thinking men with the lower class of 
 " Evangelicals." Every one felt that the religion of the day 
 was not the religion of St. Paul. 
 
 True religion, like many other personifications and exist- 
 ing entities, has had great reason to be ashamed of her 
 friends. Her enemies can do very little to harm her ; but 
 her friends do, alas ! very much. Those who chose to gather 
 round her, to assume that they were her guardians, and that 
 the Eible was their especial domain, disgusted the really effi- 
 cient servants of her cause. Such men as Sydney Smith and 
 Thomas Hood — two excellent and charitable men, thoroughly 
 religious at heart — were voted to be worldly, profane, and 
 wicked, because they, in their consciences, nauseated the 
 cant of religious professors, and held such Mawworms up to 
 
RELIGION OF THE " GENTLE LIFE? 139 
 
 merited ridicule. "If," wrote Sydney Smith, himself a 
 prayerful and hard-working Church of England curate, "if 
 the choice rested with us, we should say, give us back our 
 wolves again, restore our Danish invaders ; curse us with 
 any evil but the evil of a canting, deluded, and Methodisti- 
 cal populace." Again he says, and so truly that every one 
 ought to learn the sentence by heart, " That man who places 
 religion on a false basis is the greatest enemy to religion ;" 
 "and," he adds, "the Methodists do this." This was written 
 in the Edinburgh Review, in 1808 ; we have all changed 
 since then, and the whole aspect of religious people has 
 changed too. But religion has still her perilous friends, who 
 would stifle her with the closeness of their embraces. There 
 are many really good people, whose faith seems to lead them 
 to most extraordinary and perverse ends. Thus a bishop in 
 our Church, with reference to Colenso, and in spite of the 
 shoals of articles and pamphlets which were written and 
 printed to confute him, does not hesitate to assert that the 
 whole press of England is sceptical and infidel ! What 
 would he say, if, judging from the example of Bishop Colenso, 
 the reverend Essayists and Reviewers, and their many cleri- 
 cal readers and defenders, we were to turn round on him, and 
 say, "The whole of the clergy are sceptical." One asser- 
 tion would be equally true with the other, and equally un- 
 charitable ; and one cannot but grieve when the Church 
 determines to be at war with the Press. 
 
 Another sad cause of disagreement between the Church 
 and the world is the undue opposition which professors in 
 the former give to innocent amusements. They have been 
 very unwise in this. It is, they say, not only wicked to read 
 
140 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 improper novels, but all novel reading is improper — even 
 when, like those of Miss Austin, Miss Yonge, and Sir Walter 
 Scott, they soften the heart and improve the understanding. 
 " It is not only," said a wise clergyman, " the abuse of 
 pleasure which they attack, but the interspersion of pleasure, 
 however much it is guarded by good sense and moderation. 
 It is not only wicked to hear the licentious plays of Congreve, 
 but wicked to hear Henry the Fifth, or The School for 
 Scandal. It is not only dissipation to run to all the parties 
 in London and Edinburgh, but dancing is not fit for a being 
 who is preparing himself for eternity. Ennui, wretchedness, 
 melancholy, groans and sighs, are the offerings which these 
 unhappy men make to the Deity, who has covered the earth 
 with gay colours, and scented it with rich perfumes, and has 
 shown us, by the plan and order of His works, that He has 
 given to man something better than a bare existence ; nay, 
 has scattered over His creation a thousand superfluous joys, 
 which are totally unnecessary to the bare support of life." 
 
 The peculiar ascetic assertions of such religionists have, 
 naturally, had exactly the opposite effect to that which 
 they intended. Luckily, the world has not been slow to 
 recognise the good and sterling virtues of these men, their 
 honest determination, alms-giving, and general purity. Con- 
 sequently it has not, as in the days of Charles II., gone over 
 to the extreme opposite, but contented itself with establishing 
 a new denomination of Christians, to which the prefix of 
 " muscular " has been added. Some persons content them- 
 selves with a general denial of their belonging to any parti- 
 cular sect ; they being, like those officers who are ready to 
 serve in any arm or branch of the service, "unattached." But 
 
RELIGION OF THE " GENTLE LIFE? 141 
 
 the term "unattached Christian" has not been nearly so 
 popular, perhaps because not so original or so quaint, as that 
 of " muscular Christian." Of course, the muscularity is not 
 that of the body, but of the mind. The muscular Christian 
 is one who has a great deal of mental courage, and who has 
 enough manliness, as well as sufficient force and strength of 
 character, to stand alone. He does not care for either the 
 brimstone or the treacle party of Church or Dissent. He is 
 not afraid of taking a walk on a Sunday, or of going to a 
 play. He enjoys, but not abuses, the good things of this life. 
 He is not afraid of, nor ashamed to be seen in the company 
 of a secularist or a deist. He has sufficient knowledge of 
 books to argue with and to tackle such people. Nor, on the 
 other hand, does he avoid the very severely good people. 
 Being all things to all men, he can see the beauty of holiness, 
 and after his walk can lend a hand to teaching, and take up 
 a class in a Sunday-school. He puts a cheerful colour upon 
 life, and is rather disposed to make light of its troubles and 
 trials, and to overlook the all - wonderful providences, the 
 curious turns, and the mixed and incomprehensible ordain- 
 ings of the Almighty Power. This muscular-minded person 
 is, par excellence, an optimist, and by nature and disposition 
 a genial man, full of life, action, and energy. 
 
 There is little doubt that this particular school of modern 
 theology has a very entrancing aspect to the cheerful, the 
 vigorous, and the young. Like Mr. Eiglow's " Editor," the 
 leaders of this school have, in their works, been very desirous 
 of providing — 
 
 " Somthin' combinm' morril truth 
 With phrazes such 'es strikes." 
 
142 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 " The device to which their teachers commonly resort," says 
 a modern essayist, " is the introduction into their books of a 
 superabundance of amusement and adventures, and the en- 
 dowment of their heroes with every conceivable attribute of 
 physical perfection." Hence we have athletic and courageous 
 clergymen, who hunt, fish, and play cricket, and who can 
 floor an adversary, not only by argument, but, if neces- 
 sary, with their fists. They convert poachers and infidels ; 
 marry rich ladies who delight in being schoolmistresses ; 
 eschew the term " religious," but talk about being " thoroughly 
 earnest, God - fearing men." They pray ; but, like Mr. 
 Carlyle's Puritan soldier, " withal they keep their powder 
 dry." To labour is with them the chief prayer ; they are 
 active, and will be up and doing ; and are pictured as such 
 pious athletes, that the poor, timid, trembling Christian is 
 rather troubled and annoyed at their confident, noisy bearing. 
 They resemble, in confidence at least, that grand, valiant sol- 
 dier in the Pilgrirts Progress, who advances to the strait 
 and wicket gate of heaven, and crying out to the keeper, 
 " Put me down, sir," draws his sword, and lays about him, 
 and cuts his way into eternal bliss. There is something of 
 satire in Mason's notes to this passage, and in Bunyan's own 
 reference to the quotation, " Sometimes the kingdom of 
 heaven suffers violence." Certainly, if it doth, the muscular 
 Christian is just the person to support the creed. 
 
 But delightful as muscular Christianity is to rising boys and 
 young men, we doubt whether any of its adherents — except 
 its chief exponents — find that they can think with it after they 
 are of mature age. A clever reviewer, some years ago, in a 
 very thoughtful article, said, "No man reads Byron after 
 
RELIGION OF THE " GENTLE LIFE." 143 
 
 twenty-five." So we may say no man is a muscular Christian 
 after he is forty. By that time he will find that force is not the 
 chief thing in religion, that swagger and boldness are out of 
 place ; but that sweet endurance and patience last for ever. 
 It is impossible to look upon Fenelon, Masillon, Pascal 
 (during the latter part of his life), or Jeremy Taylor, as mus- 
 cular Christians, any more than one would look upon Mr. 
 Bright as a sound politician. Holy George Herbert, and good, 
 calm Izaak Walton, are much nearer the ideal of the true 
 Christian than any hot-gospeller rousing his audience with 
 fanatic zeal ; or than George Fox, leaving his shoes in the field 
 and marching barefoot through the streets, shouting, "Woe to 
 the bloody city of Lichfield !" The only muscular Christian 
 that we can look upon with thorough liking — although we must 
 confess that the sub-section has its merits, will do and has done 
 good — is that bold Quaker who, although he would not fire a 
 gun, yet stood at the port-hole, and pushed the French board- 
 ing party one by one into the sea, quietly exclaiming, " Friend, 
 thou hast no business here ;" but he was an exception. The 
 contemplation of this new division of our Church will do us 
 at least this good : it will show us that faith has its different 
 phases and aspects, and that it is as foolish to wish for all 
 religionists to think exactly alike, as to wish their faces to be 
 of the same colour. 
 
lys&iii 
 
 
 J^y 
 
 lJM 
 
 
 2 
 
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 ^ftl 
 
 WL 
 
 S)^ 
 
 ON GETTING ON IN THE WORLD AND 
 GROWING RICH. 
 
 HE present age is one of luxury. Riches increase 
 upon every hand, and as the industry of our people 
 is immense, it follows that the comforts of every 
 class increase also. With these a general pro- 
 priety of behaviour, and less grossness, are every day appa- 
 rent ; no doubt owing to the multitude and excellence of our 
 teachers, and of our public journals. So that the rich and 
 most selfish man has grown quite respectable, and finds it to 
 his interest to subscribe to " charities," and to protect the 
 poor through the machinery of the law or of benevolent socie- 
 ties. In short, riches — golden riches — of to-day have become 
 quite meritorious a.nd virtuous ; and Christianity, grown to 
 be the fashion of the day, trips in and out of the booths at 
 Vanity Fair, decorated, as Bunyan quaintly has it, " in her 
 silver slippers." Who would not follow her? How good it 
 is to be rich and virtuous too ! how excellent to keep all the 
 comforts here, and feel satisfied that Dives need fear nothing 
 hereafter ! how admirable thus to make the best of both ; 
 and, in the midst of busy luxury, Dorcas societies, parish 
 
GOLDEN RICHES. 145 
 
 meetings, boards for improving the condition of the poor, 
 letters from polite secretaries of charitable institutions, and 
 votes of thanks from local boards, to let life glide calmly on, 
 undisturbed by that stern voice which has told us, " Ye can 
 not serve God and Mammon ! " 
 
 It is well if we sometimes think of that voice ; for there is 
 nowadays, as there was always, a strong leaning towards 
 getting rich — not, of course, for the money, but for what it 
 brings with it. It is the unuttered, but wholly believed in, 
 creed of thousands, that golden riches are the only good. To 
 be poor is to be miserable. To be rich is at once to be happy. 
 So runs the whole belief of the worldling. " A penny saved 
 is twopence gained." " Rise early, and get the best of the 
 sluggard : the early bird picks up the worm." 
 
 Now the early bird does not always get the worm ; and 
 when he does, the worm must have been up and out first. 
 But what we wish to show is, that riches are not the only 
 good things in the world, and that golden riches are the worst 
 of them all. Industry is a very good thing, and benefits the 
 world ; but industiy, for merely selfish ends, is considerably 
 worse than laziness for the same. Although we have free will 
 regarding ourselves, Providence does not allow our free will 
 to do too much harm, but, on the contrary, often turns the 
 hoard of the miser to the relief of the poor, and the activity 
 of the tyrant and the rogue to the benefit of the country or 
 parish in which he may live. People who make money be- 
 lieve that money is all-powerful. It is no such thing. It is 
 just as base now as when Timon cursed it, and threw it away 
 to the bandit and the losel. If nations may be " very poor 
 and yet be very blessed," men can be the same. When the 
 
 L 
 
146 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 Romans were great and good, they called riches the baggage 
 {impedimenta) of virtue : when they grew weak and degraded, 
 they clung to their gold, with which they had to buy away the 
 barbarians who invaded them. To continually praise Eng- 
 land and the English for their riches is therefore false logic : 
 one of the earliest signs of the decadence of nations is the 
 superabundance of material wealth. 
 
 Again, it is a trite and well-worn remark, that gold will not 
 buy everything. It is doubtful whether money does not bring 
 as many pains as it does pleasures. To the conscientious it 
 always does ; and he who would blind conscience is a fool. 
 Izaak Walton tells us that there are as many troubles on the 
 other side of riches as on this, and that the cares, which are 
 the keys of riches, hang heavily at the rich man's girdle. 
 Certainly there is no good thing appertaining to man which 
 the moderately poor cannot enjoy just as well as the rich. 
 Health, appetite, youth while it lasts, good looks, cheerful- 
 ness, and lastly, wisdom, dwell equally with the poor as the 
 rich. If a rich man wishes to be healthy, says Sir William 
 Temple, he must live like a poor one. But the poor now can 
 be far more luxurious than the rich could years ago. " The 
 world must be encompassed," said a wit, "that a washer- 
 woman may have her tea ;" that is, ships go to the East and 
 the West Indies for her tea and sugar. The great employers 
 of the doctors are the unwise rich, who, by overfeeding, in- 
 duce many complaints. The people who are ridiculed, 
 sneered, and laughed at, and those who bring the English 
 name into contempt, are, as the late Sir Robert Peel said, the 
 " vulgar rich." Poverty carries always with it something of 
 pity and respect ; but the rich are the butt of the wits, the 
 
GOLDEN RICHES. 147 
 
 jest of the free public, the scorn of those who are nobler in 
 birth and higher in the state, the prey of the idler who lives 
 upon his wits and their want of wit. All others have sym- 
 pathy and pity, but the rich have few true friends. 
 
 It is easy to scoff at them : we will let them alone. We 
 only wish to show that, although golden riches invariably 
 puff a man up, they are not the only riches of this world. The 
 rich people seldom produce the great men — so seldom, that 
 we may say never. From Bacon to Adam Smith, from 
 Columbus to Brunei and Stephenson, from Shakspeare to 
 Wordsworth and Coleridge, we may claim all the talent as 
 springing from the ranks of the poor. Exceptions only 
 prove the rule. Providence seldom gives brains and money 
 together ; rather, it does not give that activity which alone 
 makes any set of brains worth having. On the other hand, 
 the poor wise man — a fellow in the great College of Poverty — 
 knows things perforce, and, having hope, enjoys life to the 
 utmost. Nothing to do, and nothing to wear — with a ward- 
 robe like a warehouse, and an arrear of unperformed duties 
 — is the common complaint of the very rich. The poor man 
 works out his life in a round of necessity, and, clothed in his 
 Sunday coat, thinks himself -a match for a Brummel or a 
 D'Orsay. " Do you remember, Bridget," writes Charles 
 Lamb, with a tender retrospect to his poverty, " when you 
 and I laughed at the play from the shilling gallery ? There 
 are no good plays now to laugh at from the boxes." The 
 reason was, that the ease of getting there had palled the 
 enjoyment. That which we pay for we think nice. The ap- 
 prentice, with his cheap spring onions and radishes, bought 
 with a hardly spared penny, enjoys them more than the club 
 
 L 2 
 
148 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 lounger does his lobster salad and champagne. In all this 
 there is at work the great principle of compensation. Rich 
 King Hudson and his wife, feasting in their big house at 
 Albert Gate with dukes and duchesses, placed on the highest 
 pinnacle of advancement, toasted as the very type of English 
 industry, the prime favourite of the world's goddess, Success, 
 looked back with regret to the days when they ate sausages 
 for supper in the little parlour behind their paltry shop in the 
 city of York. 
 
 By an ordination of the same Divinity which has told us, 
 " If riches increase, set not your heart upon them," our tastes 
 and abilities invariably narrow as those riches increase. 
 A man's heart contracts rather than expands as he grows 
 older ; and dreams of liberality and extensive charity, formed 
 in his early youth, die out. Here in England, some little time 
 ago, was a man of a colossal fortune, who was continually 
 haunted with an idea of being poor, who did house jobs and 
 pottered in his garden, dreading the workhouse, and whom 
 his friends humoured by paying him a dole weekly as if he 
 was in receipt of parish relief. 
 
 Happiness lies chiefly in anticipation, not in fruition. We 
 reach the goal to find the race not worth winning. We catch 
 eagerly at the branch laden with fruit, and find it bears but 
 apples of the Dead Sea, which fill our mouths with bitter dust 
 and ashes. We start in life full of generous aspirations and 
 wonderful delusions — all men are good and sincere, all friends 
 are true : at middle age we win place, honour, respect, riches. 
 We have made the best of this life, at any rate ; and what is 
 the consequence ? We have put on the spectacles of success, 
 and we suspect every one who approaches us. We look into 
 
GOLDEN RICHES. 149 
 
 men's motives, and find that every plausible fellow is ready 
 to make an attack upon our purse. We look closely into 
 matters, unless we be as dull as Dogberry, and find that our 
 wife has married us for our position, our friends come round 
 us for our office, our gown and sheriff's chain are invited out 
 to feasts, the very boys in the street look with more interest 
 at our footmen and our gilded coach than they do at us. 
 Even our house in the square is known, and the next house to 
 it— nay, the square itself — lets better because the gentleman, 
 " a rich City man, sir, keeps two chariots, a brougham, and 
 at least three footmen." But strip off these lendings, and 
 what are we ? Clothe us again in rags, and the greasy-coated 
 idler who leads the debates at some public-house will have 
 more true deference paid to him, and exercise more weight 
 on men's minds, than we. 
 
 The poor man, again, is the wisest — not on account of his 
 brain, or the measure of his head, but because he alone buys 
 knowledge by feeling — and wisdom, as we all know, in spite 
 of the sneers of the world, is beyond all price. " Experience," 
 writes Carlyle, " doth take dreadfully high wages ; but she 
 teacheth like none other." No, nor does the poor man learn 
 like any other. To the rich the world proffers perpetual illu- 
 sions. The philosopher alone can separate himself from his 
 place. But the rich man is like him who, walking in the mar- 
 ket with the cast-off coat of a nobleman to which the tinsel 
 star was still sewn, felt elated and proud — a great man truly, 
 because all bowed and raised their hats. Reaching home, he 
 strutted before his glass with a lordlike air, and caught sight 
 of the star. " Aha ! " cried he, blushing red with shame, 
 " what a fool the world is to bow to an old coat ! " But he 
 
150 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 forgot that he was a greater fool to be elated by the applause. 
 Those who have made themselves rich may know all this too 
 soon to forget it ; but those who are born in the enchanted 
 grove never see through the illusion, but live in an Armida's 
 palace, and die in the honest belief that they are the great 
 and good. " These uniforms," said Wellington, in the Penin- 
 sula, " are great illusions : strip them off, and many a pretty 
 fellow would be a coward ; when in them, he passes muster 
 with the rest." Riches are a perpetual gay uniform. Great- 
 ness and place, and the constant and unfelt adulation of the 
 world, blind any man. Louis the Fourteenth was certainly 
 not a fool ; yet he said to a preacher, " Ah ! it's all very true ; 
 I am a sinner, no doubt, since you say so ; but le bon Dieu 
 will think twice before he casts out such a great prince as I." 
 And, saddest of all, the Grand Monarqite thought what he 
 said. Now a poor man, or a moderately rich man, would 
 never have been so blind as to say this. 
 
 Hamlet touches upon the right key when he asks, why 
 should the " poor be nattered ? " and Chaucer, as wise as he, 
 says — 
 
 " Povertie also, when a man is low, 
 
 Makyth him God and eke himself to know. 
 
 Povertie a spectakel is, as thinketh me, 
 
 Through which he may his veray (true) friends see." 
 
 Whereas, golden riches always blind the best men, and cor- 
 rupt ordinary people past endurance. 
 
 When a man sets his heart upon filling his purse, he is too 
 apt to look down upon those below him, and to measure the 
 poor in purse as poor in intellect too. The great, selfish old 
 capitalist, from whom monarchs borrowed millions, could not 
 
GOLDEN RICHES. 1 5 1 
 
 endure an unlucky man. " He never did any good for him- 
 self ; how can he do any good for me ? If he were wise, he 
 could make money for himself." Such was the current of 
 his reasoning ; yet there is little doubt that many a man can 
 be a good servant, content on little, helping forward the 
 fortune of the house for which he may work, and yet do but 
 little for himself. To make money, one must have a peculiar 
 constitution. To grow rich in a difficult position requires a 
 stern, selfish, and somewhat grasping nature. Your turn must 
 be served first, your will carried out, others' interests daily put 
 by — sacrificed to yours ; and indeed, little by little, self must 
 predominate before the ordinary man can accumulate wealth. 
 It is a very serious question whether the play be worth the 
 candle. Rich men think not. The world is a hard task- 
 master, and many a man breaks his health and ruins his 
 conscience in making money, who afterwards daily repents 
 of his folly. If Newton, dying, could talk of his great disco- 
 veries, and his arduous life-work, as the mere vagaries of a 
 child who had been gathering pebbles on the shore, here and 
 there admiring one prettier than the rest, with what feeling 
 shall the simply rich vulgar man speak of all his sad toil and 
 weary work, his scraping here and pinching there, till at last 
 Death comes to close his curtain, whispering, as he does 
 it, " Man heapeth up riches, and knoweth not who shall 
 gather them?" 
 
 Finally, it is as well to remember that there are a great 
 many other riches besides those of mere gold, and that these 
 seldom meet in any one man, but are singly sufficient to make 
 any man estimable, useful to his fellow-creatures, and happy 
 in himself. There are riches of intellect in various depart- 
 
152 THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 ments, and no man with an intellectual hobby can be called 
 poor. 
 
 Neither artists nor authors are very rich in purse ; but 
 perhaps no set of men, with all their want, anxiety, and jea- 
 lousy, enjoy life more. The scholar, who merely collects 
 books to read, and not to use, is a rich man : a good " tall 
 copy" of a rare work will fill him with extreme pleasure. 
 Other men are rich in health, in constant cheerfulness, in a 
 mercurial temperament which floats them over troubles and 
 trials enough to sink a ship-load of ordinary men. Others 
 are rich in disposition, family, and friends. There are some 
 men so amiable that everybody likes them ; some so cheer- 
 ful that they carry a very atmosphere of jollity about them. 
 Such men are really the truly rich ; for, to pass through life 
 innocently and happily, to be wisely and contentedly poor, to 
 bear the trials we all must bear quietly and well, to do what 
 little good we can, without the awful responsibility of misap- 
 plied wealth, is a far happier fate than being grand, elevated, 
 and overladen with golden riches. 
 
THE GREAT QUESTION OF "SLANG" IN 
 WRITING AND CONVERSATION. 
 
 N American writer, who wishes to be considered 
 more witty than the rest of his countrymen, 
 startles us with the declaration that there are 
 four hundred and ninety-seven languages on the 
 earth besides " ogling, or the language of the eyes." If we are 
 reduced to . count that unwritten and unspoken language, 
 why should we omit others ? There is that of the fingers, of 
 the forehead, the language of the shoulders, or shrug language, 
 and various motions and expressive signs of the limbs, includ- 
 ing that of peculiar significance among certain savages, 
 which consists in slightly moving the patella, or knee-cap. 
 There is that which is given by a grunt, and there are also 
 the innumerable languages of animals. The dog language, not 
 meaning the bad Latin which is vented and invented by doc- 
 tors, but that of barks, whines, snuffles, and squeaks which 
 dogs exchange. Do we not all remember that story of the 
 Irish doctor, a philokunist or dog lover, as well as a philanthro- 
 pist, who, meeting with one of these animals with a broken leg, 
 
154 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 took it home, and, setting the limb, cured it ? The dog was 
 grateful enough, and went away, expressively blinking his 
 eyes and wagging his tail. The very nest month brought 
 another dog with a broken leg ; nay, the next week, another 
 dog in distress — all to be cured by the doctor. How did he 
 manage to let his fellow-sufferers know of the art of surgery ? 
 Do dogs talk one with another ? Do horses, as Swift ob- 
 served, hold conversations over their oats, and interchange 
 opinions on their hay? Mr. Darwin has proved that ants — 
 yes, even British ants — are not so averse to slavery as British 
 people, and that tribes of slave-holding Formica make war 
 upon other and weaker tribes, and bear away captives, 
 who are taught to nurse the young and hatch the ftuftce, to 
 cleanse and build the cells, and to close the doors whilst the 
 stronger tyrant walks abroad for food or war. Our old brag, 
 that on our sacred shore there never treads a slave, is after all 
 an empty boast whilst these exist : but who shall exterminate 
 these myriads? Do they talk and hold councils of war? 
 Shall we go to the ant, not only to learn industry, but to 
 acquire knowledge for our domestic institutions ? How shall 
 we learn their tongue ? 
 
 Slang is a great question nowadays, when a female novelist 
 calls delirium tremens " Del. Trem.," and gets praise for her 
 facility in using mannish phrases and cant terms by one's Pet 
 Review ; and it may be worth while gossiping about the use 
 of that fanciful verbiage which is spoken everywhere, which 
 dwells upon the tip of every tongue, and which in town and 
 country is equally understood and used. Everybody speaks 
 it, high and low life indulge in it, yet its name is a vulgar one, 
 nothing less than " slang." 
 
VER Y COMMON PARLANCE. i $$ 
 
 Now what is slang? We will endeavour to answer the 
 question, aided by a list of Cant, Slang, and Vulgar Words. 
 Vulgar, from vulgtcs, common ; cant, here not meaning 
 hypocrisy, but from the same derivative as our canto, chant, 
 incantation, the Latin cantare, to sing ; something sung over, 
 a senseless repetition, in fact, or something repeated without 
 a strictly assigned meaning. Now it may be affirmed that 
 all newly imported words come at first under that designation. 
 Lord Macaulay, writing nearly twenty-five years ago, speaks 
 of "the new cant term, Conservative ; " so it was then new and 
 cant, in comparison to the words "Tory" and "Whig." But 
 they in their turn were cant. 
 
 When the meal-tub plot was imagined by the wretch Dan- 
 gerfield, those who believed in it were termed Tories, from 
 an Irish word meaning robbers ; and those who did not be- 
 lieve in it were called " Whigs," Scottice, sour milk or whey, 
 a name applied to pale-faced malcontents. The names may 
 now be said to be almost extinct, as the parties are. So 
 again Radicals, a cant word from the reformers wishing for 
 a radical cure in the constitution, d radice, from the very root 
 of the matter. It would be an interesting but a somewhat 
 difficult matter to point out all the "cant" words used 
 amongst politicians : many of the party cries have been cant, 
 but have since been adopted in the language. 
 
 Cant and slang, therefore, the common parlance of the 
 English, so puzzling and difficult to the foreigner, are by no 
 means to be limited to the vulgar or untaught portion of the 
 community. The learned, who are supposed to speak the 
 purest English, deal very widely in cant. Thus we have 
 Oxford and Cambridge cant, and Church and Law cant ; that 
 
156 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 is to say, words which are universally accepted in the colleges 
 and law offices, but are not used elsewhere. To "cut," avoid 
 an unpleasant acquaintance ; to be " plucked," turned back 
 in an examination ; to keep a " scout," a male servant ; to 
 have " battles," rations (at Cambridge " commons," hence 
 " short commons ") ; to wear a " mortar board," college cap ; 
 to be "japanned," clothed in black, i.e., ordained as a clergy- 
 man — are all more or less common Oxford talk. A "trotter" 
 is a tailor's traveller ; a " torpid," a slow boat ; a " tuft," a 
 gentleman-commoner, a rich student ; a " don," one of the 
 heads of colleges ; a " coach," a tutor who " crams," or in- 
 structs those who are to be examined : all these words are 
 portions of Oxford slang. Other words will occur to any one 
 who has graduated at the University. A "quiz," a prying old 
 fellow, and the now universal " row," a disturbance, are both 
 Oxford words ; and even the vulgar " dicky," a shirt-front, 
 sprung from there ; the students being also celebrated for 
 first calling their fathers the " governors," and afterwards the 
 " relieving officers," varied occasionally by such phrases as 
 " the man who drops the tin," or money, and the " old party." 
 From the College to the Church the step is but short ; and 
 although it is said, and with truth, that the most distin- 
 guished of our clergy are the conservators and teachers of 
 pure English through the land, still it must be confessed 
 that a considerable quantity of slang or symbolical language 
 is used by them and by their adherents and audiences. A 
 popular clergyman is said to have the " gift " {i.e., of elo- 
 quence), to be much "followed," and largely "owned;" his 
 admirers " sit under him," and are his " seals," or they are 
 the " faithful " and the " accepted ; " whilst opponents are 
 
VER Y COMMON PARLANCE. 1 5 7 
 
 " tainted," and of the " outward world." A wicked village is 
 " a very dark place." When a preacher speaks at a meeting 
 he " improves the occasion." The various parties in the 
 Church are "high and dry," or "low and slow," or the "broad " 
 Church. Dissenters and very "low" Church are called 
 " Evangelicals," or more shortly, " Gellies." 
 
 The cant of the Church, of religious people, and of the bar 
 — and one should again remind one's readers that the word 
 is used in a very different sense from that which signifies 
 hypocrisy, with which we have nothing to do — is very 
 different, and considerably less varied, than the shopkeepers' 
 slang, which is perhaps the most odious and senseless of all. 
 To be a "pushing" tradesman, to do a "roaring" trade, to 
 sell at an " alarming sacrifice," to be in a particular " line," 
 and to " dress your window " with tickets at " awfully low 
 prices," are all phrases with which every one who passes 
 through a London street or a country town is familiar. Yet 
 each phrase is slang. Words are used out of their natural mean- 
 ings, and twisted into strange positions. What can one mean 
 by saying he is in the public "line," or the grocery "line," or 
 the pawnbrokering " line ? " Why should credit be termed 
 " tick," assistants " counter-jumpers," or a dishonest trades- 
 man be said to " let his creditors into the hole ? " The only 
 answer we can suggest is the great fondness for symbolism 
 which exists amongst all people. We cannot speak in a 
 straightforward way. We must deflect and turn off either to 
 the right or the left. In this symbolism pride has a great 
 part. Tradesmen are no longer simple shopkeepers. A 
 shop is now a " magazine," or an " emporium ;" a hair-cutter 
 keeps a " saloon ;" a draper has a " depot ;" and the very dust- 
 
158 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 man who takes away our cinders is no longer a simple dusty- 
 Bob, but a " contractor." So again a common public-house 
 is a " tavern," a larger one mounts up to " an hotel." Perhaps, 
 and here we are touching upon delicate ground, this can no- 
 where be better exemplified than in the common " smock," 
 a female garment of which we have no more right to appear 
 unconscious, or to ignore, than the male garment the " shirt." 
 Shakspeare uses it in a very pretty song — 
 
 "And lady-smocks, all silver white, 
 Do paint the meadows with delight " — 
 
 and the name of the flower yet lingers in the country ; nor 
 does any lady think it improper to talk about a smock-frock. 
 But a false modesty turned the noun into the verb which is 
 used for a change of linen ; then that being generally used was 
 avoided, and the French synonym used, and that again has 
 been abandoned for some further subterfuge. Why ? Does 
 any one pretend to say that in treating a thing plainly, and 
 (where necessary) "calling a spade a spade," there is any- 
 thing wrong ? If so, we had better go to America, where 
 they talk of the " stands " of the tables, not daring to say 
 " legs ;" and a young lady will be highly offended if you dare 
 to ask her to take a leg of a fowl or a breast of a turkey. There 
 the latter is called " bosom ;" and a mock modesty, which to 
 us seems highly improper, has altered some round dozen of 
 good sound English words, which our best and purest girls 
 use without so much as thinking upon them. There, indeed, 
 the matter lies. " A nice man," said Swift, " is a man of 
 nasty ideas ;" and too much delicacy betrays a pruriency of 
 thought. Of old it was not so. Our Bible and our Church 
 
 - '.\.>> 
 
VER Y COMMON PARLANCE. 1 59 
 
 Service, and our old preachers and divines, call things by 
 their true names. 
 
 Symbolism is seen perhaps to its greatest extent in regard 
 to that most pleasant visitant and true friend, money. Col- 
 lectively or in the piece, this " is insulted by no less than one 
 hundred and thirty slang words," many of them of great 
 antiquity, others of more modern growth ; indeed, it may be 
 said that its names are growing and increasing day by day. 
 It is the circulating medium, the ready, the rhino ; the need- 
 ful, sine qua non, mopusses, stuff, yellow boys, ochre, queen's 
 pictures, and palm oil. It bears also the names of the beans, 
 brads, brass, blunt, dust, dibbs, and coppers. It, or parts of 
 it, are called browns, bits, flags, joeys, benders, fadges, 
 fiddlers, sprats, testers, tizzies, tanners, twelvers, and hogs ; 
 going further, we have quids, canaries, bulls, half-bulls, 
 caroons, and cart-wheels ; and even then, as many of our 
 readers will perceive, we have not exhausted half the " en- 
 dearing appellations " which are applied to the corrupter of 
 men. Not only among the poor, but among the rich, these 
 slang expressions are extant. The man who believes that 
 poetry is all nonsense, that fancy is dead, and that symbolism 
 is very stupid nonsense, yet talks about his " cool " hundred, 
 or his friend being worth a "plum" (,£100,000), giving a 
 " monkey" (^500) for a horse, wagering a "pony" (,£50), or 
 not being satisfied till he has amassed a " marigold " 
 (,£1,000,000). We may conclude this paragraph by noticing 
 that many of the terms used now for money are derived from 
 the figures on the Saxon or early coinage, such as a bull, a 
 hog, &c, and that a great number of such terms may be 
 found in the pages of Shakspeare and our elder dramatists. 
 
160 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 In Ben Jonson especially we have some very curious slang 
 words, which are in vogue to this day ; and this brings 
 us to the antiquity and the wonderful prevalence of these 
 words. 
 
 As to the prevalence, we may here remark that anything 
 which is thought a happy expression travels fast and spreads 
 widely. Take, for instance, that eommon exclamation, " Who's 
 your hatter?" or those equally improperly formed and misused 
 noun and adjective, " stunner " and " stunning." It is not 
 very many years ago since the words were confined to the 
 lowest society. Mr. Punch introduced them to the drawing- 
 rooms by a caricature, wherein a little boy asks his mamma 
 whether his toy be not a " stunner ;" and now very pretty 
 and genteel lips have doubtlessly used it for fun, The stage 
 and the newspaper also circulate common words, which get 
 welded, as it were, into the language. " What an idea ! " 
 and "How provoking !" both used now by every one, were 
 once vulgar and slang expressions. " How's your mother?" 
 " Don't you wish you may get it?" and " over the left," are 
 growing more common and less objectionable. Why should 
 it be vulgar to ask after one's mother ? Why should it be 
 thought witty and humorsome to request people to " go 
 to Bath," or urge the necessity of travelling to " Putney ?" 
 In slang, as in everything, even in the deepest depths there 
 is a deeper still. Deepest of all, perhaps, is the slang of the 
 prize-ring. Knocking a man down is there " grassing him ;' 
 to blacken his eyes, to " shut up his shutters ;" his teeth are 
 " ivories," his nose a " smeller," his eyes " peepers," and his 
 mouth a " kisser ;" the poor fellow's chest or stomach is his 
 " bread-basket," his jaws a "potato-trap ;" and if he gets such 
 
VERY COMMON PARLANCE. 161 
 
 a blow upon his head as knocks him senseless, his adversary 
 is declared to have made " such a stunning investment on his 
 nob as made him kiss his mother earth." Here, as we have 
 before noticed, is symbolism carried to its greatest extent ; 
 it becomes tiring, nauseous, and vulgar ; but it says much for 
 the sense of propriety and the discernment of the Times, that 
 in a report of a very celebrated fight, which it could not well 
 omit, the interest of the public being so great, by leaving out 
 every particle of slang, it produced such a vivid and lifelike 
 sketch of the fight, with all its endurance and all its brutality, 
 as was never before written. 
 
 The antiquity of this curious kind of language is now all 
 that we have space to refer to ; and we shall have to show 
 that, after all, slang is not the production solely of the igno- 
 rant, and that there is a considerable under-stratum of sound 
 learning at the bottom of it. The word " bore," a trouble- 
 some, tiresome fellow, is common enough : Shakspeare uses 
 it— 
 
 " At this instant he bores me with some trick." 
 
 This may be derived from the Greek baros, a burden. Prince 
 Albert, in one of his recent speeches, uses the word. " Bosh " 
 is Persian, and signifies therein, we are told, what we now 
 understand by it, nonsense. Boxes, gifts, Christmas boxes, 
 may be Arabic backsheesh, gifts, &c. Easterns pronounce 
 this word through the nose, very much as a Jew would pro- 
 nounce our word "boxes." Another derivation of the word 
 is from the satchel and money-box, which mendicant friars 
 carried about with them at the Christmas season. " Pal," a 
 brother, is gipsy ; a " cur," a mean fellow, may be from ischur, 
 
 M 
 
1 62 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 a thievish fellow, Hindostanee ; " pannem, 
 ftanis, Latin ; to " patter " is from pater noster, in reference 
 to the priests' repetition of the prayer ; and a " hocus-pocus " 
 trick is derived, they say, from hoc est corpus, words used at the 
 elevation of the Host. Doubtless many of the poor scholars 
 of the age of Elizabeth and James added their stock of 
 learned words to the common parlance. Danish, Saxon, and 
 Welsh language is also found in the mouths of those who 
 never heard the names of those nations, and lingers especially 
 amongst our provincial countrymen. Many of the words 
 of America, which create a diversion here, are simply old 
 English provincial words. We might indeed say all, as we 
 doubt whether the Americans have originated any. One 
 kind of common parlance we may all notice and all avoid, 
 and that is the misuse of words, and the great exaggeration 
 in the use of adjectives, which may safely be called " a young 
 lady's slang." She calls her gown a " sweet thing," when it 
 has not a particle of sweetness about it ; a pie is " beautiful," 
 and a piece of beef "lovely." In each of these common 
 phrases the adjective is, as the young ladies would say, 
 " frightfully " misused. People who are rich — and, by the 
 way, in idle gossip riches are always exaggerated — have 
 " heaps " of money, or, as young men say, " lots of tin." If 
 two young ladies walk a mile, they have been an "immense" 
 distance, and are "enormously" tired. This fault has not 
 been confined to our age. Dr. Johnson once addressed a 
 gentlewoman thus : — " Madam," said he, " you do not under- 
 stand the use of words. You say, with a smile, that you are 
 enormously vexed and immensely chagrined ; so far as I can 
 see, there is nothing enormous or immense about the matter." 
 
VERY COMMON PARLANCE. 163 
 
 The reproof was a just one, and is needed as much now as 
 then ; if a little more common sense were used, we should 
 have considerably less vulgarity in our common parlance ; 
 certainly he who endeavours to lead the Gentle Life will not 
 allow his tongue to catch up every idle trick of expression, and 
 thus introduce into the drawing-room that which came from 
 the gutter. Slang lames thought and clogs it with unmean- 
 ing repetition ; if we think of what we are speaking, that 
 mind must be but a poor one which does not furnish its 
 owner with language far better and more expressive than 
 slang-. 
 
 M 2 
 
THE SERVANTS WITHIN OUR GATES. 
 
 HE pro verb* about "little miseries being the worst 
 in life," is very true. Not one of us is there but 
 would exchange all his little troubles for some 
 heavy one, and so have it over at once. As a 
 continuation in small good works, continued calmness, sweet 
 temper, charitable thoughts, excellent conversation, and 
 benevolent feelings, is more meritorious than doing a grand 
 thing off-hand, so to bear little troubles is ever so much the 
 harder. " Light cares cry out : the heavier are dumb." The 
 Marquis of Anglesea with the most heroic indifference had his 
 leg cut off upon that wooden table they still show you at Water- 
 loo. He said not a word, he moved not a muscle ; but we 
 doubt whether he would have borne a scalded foot, or the in- 
 fliction of a tight boot on a bad corn, for six weeks, equally 
 well. It was all very well for Curtius to jump, horse and all, 
 poor creature, down the gulf in Rome, galloping to his death, 
 brilliantly, gloriously armed, fresh, handsome, and bold, and 
 with the eyes of all Rome, of all the fair matrons and the 
 pretty girls upon him ; it was fine and brilliant and bold, and 
 will live for ever in story ; but to live for forty years, like 
 
OUR SERVANTS. 165 
 
 St. Simeon Stylites, on the top of a narrow pillar, drenched 
 with dews, baked with hot sunshine, full of agues, pinches, 
 and sores, with one's bones rotten and joints stiff, with rheums 
 and colds, or the thousand other ills to which flesh is heir — 
 and the flesh of saints as well as of sinners — that, we think, 
 •would be the trial. Or let us take the life of some self-deny- 
 ing cloistered nun, or, throwing aside saints in this common 
 life, the lives of some dear good wives and mothers, to whom 
 no day rises without its trial, no evening closes without its 
 disappointment, upon whom the "eating cares" of the world 
 fall as heavily as an iron chain, and with whom little troubles 
 make up the amount of life ; these, we think, would prove to 
 us that the off-hand hero is not always the truest hero, and 
 that, to use a homely simile, it is much more meritorious to 
 gain a game at cards by good careful play than with a hand- 
 ful of trumps. 
 
 The sharpness of our little miseries is by no means dimi- 
 nished because they are found to be home-made. They are, 
 like boots and small clothes, all the more clumsy for that. 
 Probably no troubles fit a man so badly as his home-made 
 ones. He can get over others, but he cannot endure these ; 
 business may plague him, bills may become due, neighbours 
 may prove enemies, scandals may fly abroad, and evil ru- 
 mours vex him ; but the man will be unhurt if he can lay his 
 head on his pillow at home in peace and in love. It does 
 not take away, but rather adds to the grievances of woman's 
 lot, that her troubles are at home, and will keep so, and that 
 she can by no means run away from them ; she cannot leave 
 them in that counting-house, or in such a street, or such a 
 place. There they are, in her parlour, or down in her 
 
1 66 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 kitchen ; and one of those domestic plagues, pests, worries, 
 or perpetual annoyances, is — servants. 
 
 Now, in the division of labour with which this world (or 
 the Director of this world) has determined to carry existence 
 on, the two principal ones of master and servant have never 
 altered. There will always, we may henceforth judge, be 
 those who do the work, and those who direct or look on. 
 Both classes think their task very hard ; both incessantly 
 complain ; the trouble of the one is answered by the trouble 
 of the other, and except to a superior Being, who can fully 
 understand the misery of both, the choice would indeed be 
 a hard one, which of the situations in life to choose. Of 
 course, a proud man would seize at once upon being the 
 master of twelve legions, or something grand ; but I am not 
 writing for proud men only, but for people who know the 
 conditions of life and the duties and responsibilities which 
 attach to each. 
 
 At present we have arrived at a crisis in the history of 
 servitude. We are always fancying that we have come to a 
 crisis, but this appears really to be one. The spread of edu- 
 cation has given an extra value to service, and has, moreover, 
 made the servers know their own value. Other agents, in 
 which the actual class chiefly benefited had little to do, have 
 improved their condition. These are easy locomotion, giving 
 them a chance of changing from place to place, and a system 
 of emigration which very surely and very happily removes a 
 certain number every year to places where they can easily 
 better their condition. Hence we are told there is a lack of 
 good servants ; we are also told that masters and mistresses 
 pay more and are worse served, and that when they do get 
 
OUR SERVANTS. 167 
 
 a good servant, they cannot keep him or her. Lastly, the 
 ideal servant, the Cabel Balderstone, the one who would do 
 everything, and never think of being paid, the saint who wor- 
 shipped the family and was ever true to his trust ; the phe- 
 nomenon who had merged his whole life's aim, all hope of 
 progress and reward, into the one aim of devotion to the 
 family ; the genuine humble friend who, when a lawsuit 
 ruined the master, brought him in a canvas bag his whole 
 life's savings, and poured them in his lap, saying, " Have I 
 eaten the bread of the house, and shall I withhold my mite 
 when in distress?" — this saint, this friend, this paragon, is 
 wholly extinct ! 
 
 And a very good thing too. Admitting that such have 
 existed, as they may have rarely,* perhaps the sooner we 
 get rid of them the better. Such heart-whole devotion is 
 pretty in novels ; but in actual life it will not, as they say of 
 certain cheap prints, "wash." It is not right that one class 
 should so utterly forget itself for another. Such is not service, 
 but slavery ; and whether that be paid in rations of sweet 
 potatoes and hoe-cake, or in romantic love, we abhor it. Both 
 men and women have their rights, and one of the most sacred 
 is doing the best for themselves. This nation has thrived so 
 
 * We must remember that we have excellent pictures of servants 
 in the good old times, drawn by Fielding (favourably), by Richard- 
 son (not always favourably), by Congreve, Wycherly, and Farquhar. 
 We can go farther back ; perhaps High Life below Stairs, although 
 wonderfully true to nature, is a little overcharged, although Mr. 
 Leech reproduces its leading features as still existing ; but the ser- 
 vants of Brome (himself Ben Jonson's servant), Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, and Shakerley Marmion are surely true. 
 
168 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 well upon self-dependence that we cannot deny it to a class. 
 There is much to be said upon the side of the servants. 
 First, we deny that they are not so good as they were. Any 
 one who knows the old novelists and the old comedies, may 
 remember that in those pictures of life which descend to such 
 relations, there are many more rogues amongst the servitors 
 than good people. The good servant always was and will 
 be an exception, just as the good man. It is the ordinary 
 servant that we have to deal with, and from him or her we 
 must not expect extraordinary devotion. There is a very old 
 proverb, that "service is no inheritance;" if it were so, 
 matters would be different. If every faithful and good ser- 
 vant were sure of being kept in the family, and of being com- 
 fortably pensioned when too old to work, then we might look 
 for extra devotion and good service. But it is not so. In 
 ordinary society the state of those who keep servants is not 
 secure. They may shine to-day and be ruined to-morrow. 
 Living for appearances, many cannot afford to be just, much 
 less generous. The servant is debarred from a hope of a 
 pension or a future reward. The time comes when she is too 
 old to work, and she has only the workhouse to look forward 
 to, with the reflection that half of the continuous labour which 
 she has exercised in service would in any petty trade have 
 rendered her independent. The romance of the thing, there- 
 fore, perishes at once. 
 
 We have then to rely upon interest, self-interest, which 
 keeps society together, and each in his place ; and here the 
 servant is very badly off. If all the wages received were put 
 by in a savings-bank, or in an insurance company, the servant 
 could not become rich then. In a dozen years perhaps ,£100 
 
OUR SERVANTS. 169 
 
 would be accumulated, to be at the mercy of any cunning 
 speculator. But the young and untaught of a class brought 
 up to continual labour cannot look so far. They must have 
 some enjoyment. They are taught to be neat, and fond of 
 dress. They naturally wish for some relaxation ; they want 
 to go out. It is idle to ask them to enjoy themselves " at 
 home." You might as well ask Lord John Russell and Lord 
 Palmerston to enjoy a game in the House of Commons after 
 the session, or the shopman to amuse himself behind the 
 counter, or the merchant in his counting-house, or Jack 
 aboard ship. Now, home or the kitchen is the servant's work- 
 shop, and they naturally wish to escape from it. It is quite 
 natural to do so ; it is the master's or the mistress's place to 
 point out the best way for servants to enjoy their holiday. 
 Their work is perpetual. It may not be very hard ; not 
 nearly so hard as millinery or shopkeeping, and besides not 
 being so hard, it is more varied and healthy ; but it is con- 
 tinuous ; and there's the plague of it. Some hour or so of 
 recreation in each day, which she can fairly call her own, 
 every servant should have. 
 
 I am not at all sure whether he who would be a gentleman, 
 and would lead the Gentle Life truly, can approve of those 
 caricatures of servants which the famous Mr. Leech has made, 
 and which so many of us laugh at in Punch. I am by no 
 means sure whether or not they are not terribly hard-hearted. 
 I think they are very much so. Why should we prime our- 
 selves upon our own fine conversation, and our own pronun- 
 ciation especially ? It is, of course, very foolish of servants 
 to try and use hard words, of which they don't know the 
 meaning ; but are all of us free from the same fault ? Johnson 
 
ijo THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 defined the cause of laughter to be an acute sense of supe- 
 riority of the laugher over the laughed at, made suddenly- 
 apparent. That is a cruel definition of laughter : one would 
 rather not share such mirth. Then again, there is that 
 stupid method of laughing at servants, which has obtained 
 on the stage and in cheap novels, or, for the matter of that, 
 dear novels written by fine ladies, which consists wholly of 
 making them misplace their h's. Do none of us ever do 
 so ? Here is a learned dean who declares that it is right 
 to say, " a humble ; " Coleridge writes, " an high," and very 
 capital scholars do not know whether to say a hospital or an 
 hospital ; in short, so difficult a letter, if it be a letter, is this 
 H, that even makers of great dictionaries have blundered 
 over it, and why should not Mary and Jane and John ? 
 Whole counties do so, not the cockneys, they perhaps least 
 of all ; lords and ladies do so, and many nervous scholars, 
 who have all their lives been spending their time in the best 
 society. Of course they do not blunder at their books ; we 
 never place a false aspirate in spelling, but a slight tremor 
 will make a nervous lady trip. Nor does it strike one as at 
 all funny to hear a footman or a chambermaid repeat through 
 a whole play, " Ho, 'ow my 'art beats ; 'ow 'eavy hit his ;" 
 although it may make us smile at the ingenuity of the joke, 
 when we are told that a travelling bagman spelt " saloon " 
 with a hess and a ha, a hell, two double hoes and a hen. 
 No ! the world of knowledge is so wide, and we are so igno- 
 rant on many points, that we should not laugh at the defi- 
 ciencies of the untaught servant. 
 
 Taken young from their parents, badly or hastily brought 
 up, familiar with want, and sometimes with sin, in their 
 
OUR SERVANTS. 171 
 
 homes, female servants are often put to trials which would 
 trouble female saints. Yet few masters or mistresses instruct 
 them kindly ; but they most especially should do so. The 
 benevolent Sydney Smith, whose fun was the brighter for 
 being based upon benevolence, had a curious and original 
 way with his servants. He took them young, and instructed 
 them in every particular. " I am very strict with my little 
 maid," he once said to Mrs. Marcet, who was spending some 
 time with him. "Would you like to hear her repeat her 
 crimes ? She has them by heart, and repeats them every 
 day. Come here, Bunch — (a familiar nickname) — come here, 
 and repeat your crimes to Mrs. Marcet ;" and Bunch, a clean, 
 squat, fair, tidy little girl, about ten or twelve years of age, 
 quite as a matter of course, and as grave as a judge, and 
 without the least hesitation, and with a loud voice, began 
 to repeat — " Plate-snatching, gravy-spilling, door-slamming, 
 blue-bottle-ny-catching, and curtsey-bobbing." " Explain to 
 Mrs. Marcet what blue-bottle-fly-catching is." " Standing 
 with my mouth open, and not attending, sir." "And curtsey- 
 bobbing ?" " Curtseying to the centre of the earth, please, 
 sir." " Good girl ; now you may go ;" and away trotted Bunch. 
 This humorous passage proves that Bunch was one of the 
 family ; and there is no doubt but that when she left, she was 
 thoroughly instructed, and a remarkably good servant. But 
 in most families too much pride and too great a distance 
 between employer and employed make the life of both very 
 unhappy. Solitary confinement, with work at stated hours, 
 seems to many preferable to the eternal round of work which 
 some servants have. 
 
 In Miss Thackeray's excellent novel, the Story of Eliza- 
 
172 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 beth, there is a somewhat new point in such books. The 
 authoress — indulging in calmer reflections than the majority 
 of young ladies do — seems to feel that she is by no means sure 
 that happiness and great peace, and love and success, consti- 
 tute the higher life.* Perhaps, by the same rule, the low and 
 despised situation of a servant may be of more true value to 
 a soul than that of a prince, or of a fine gentleman of the 
 present day, who belongs to the four-in-hand club, and who 
 looks — which is rather rare, one must confess — as well as one 
 of those ideal gentlemen, those guardsmen drawn of the 
 purest aristocratic element which we see in the pages of Mr. 
 Punch, and which, to be sure, a young fellow may be excused 
 in dressing after. 
 
 If to be great amongst us, we must willingly or from posi- 
 tion serve the rest ; if constant self-denial within sight of as 
 constant indulgence, and many luxuries and riches — if these 
 and other trials and humiliations constitute the harder and 
 the higher life, then servants lead this life, and we should aid 
 them and honour them because they do. They rise before 
 others in the house, and sometimes, nay often, go to bed later. 
 
 * Take this sketch of the disappointed lover of the heroine : — "He 
 works very hard, he earns very little — he is one of the best men I 
 ever knew. * * I was wondering if Elizabeth, who chose her 
 husband because she loved him, and for no better reason, might 
 not have been as wise if she could have appreciated the gifts better 
 than happiness ; these well-stored granaries, these vineyards, 
 these fig-trees, which Antony held in his hand to offer. Self-denial 
 and holy living are better than ease and prosperity. But for that 
 reason some people turn wilfully away from the mercies of Heaven, 
 and call the angels devils, and its gracious bounties temptations." 
 P. 286. 
 
OUR SERVANTS. 173 
 
 They have not the impulse to do this, which the tradesman 
 or the man of business has. They have the plain hard work, 
 without the sugar-sweet reward. No wonder that to them 
 life is barren enough. The picture of that miserable " little 
 Marchioness," which Dickens gave in his Humphrey's Clock, 
 was not all ideal. Many poor little souls have to undergo 
 cruelty and starvation and-hard treatment, as our police trials 
 show, which make the heart sick to think of. The benefits 
 of life are not all on the side of those who serve, as some 
 mistresses would persuade you, nor are all the troubles and 
 trials on the side of the latter. It may be taken as a general 
 rule, that a bad mistress makes a bad servant, and that the 
 reverse holds good. Kindliness, attention, Christian sym- 
 pathy, all pay very much better than many people are aware. 
 The character of men or women is perhaps better known by 
 the treatment of those below them than by anything else, 
 for to them they rarely condescend to play the hypocrite. A 
 neat, happy-looking servant — one who has leisure to attend to 
 herself, who has necessary indulgences, and who is able to 
 get through her work well — tells far more in favour of a house 
 than a grand hulking footman, without a smile on his face. 
 People should be judged by the happiness they create in 
 those around them, especially by the good which they do to 
 those who minister to their home comforts at all times and at 
 all seasons. 
 
 After all, servants are very much as individual masters and 
 mistresses render them. It is absurd to expect more of them 
 than you do of yourself. Let us perform our part of the con- 
 tract, and we shall soon find that they perform theirs. In the 
 meantime, in this social contract, we think that the master 
 
174 THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 ought to be lectured as well as the employed. The " duty 
 towards thy neighbour" includes both. It may seem patri- 
 archal and "green," and romantic and utterly foolish, to refer 
 in modern days to so old a statute ; but the relation of master 
 and servant is patriarchal. Wages have improved in amount, 
 but are not equivalently so large as they used to be. These 
 should be raised ; for a good servant is worth many bad ones, 
 and will save double the extra amount paid. If certificates 
 of conduct were given, a certain provision for old age insti- 
 tuted, and Miss Coutts's admirable plan of education in com- 
 mon things further carried out, we should hear no more of 
 bad servants. Mistresses should keep on their own territory, 
 be more trustful, and treat their servitors more like humble 
 friends than a totally distinct creation. They should respect 
 the feelings of those below them, and look to doing their own 
 duty; for in a few years the difference will entirely cease, 
 and it will not then much matter whether one has been a cook 
 or a counsellor; but it will much matter whether we have 
 done " our duty in that position in which it has pleased God 
 to call us." 
 
ON BEING SOBERLY SAD. 
 
 NE of the most entrancing and intoxicating 
 pleasures which mankind are apt to indulge in, 
 is a grave melancholy, which begins about middle 
 life, and increases as years increase. A truly 
 merry and cheerful old man or woman is very rarely met 
 with, and, when met with, is as admirable as rare. The little 
 epitaph which Shakspeare's Nurse, in Romeo and Juliet, 
 pronounces upon her husband, is one which few of us deserve, 
 but which, when deserved, cannot fail to mark a man who 
 has led a useful, and, most likely, a blameless life : — 
 
 " God rest his soul ! — he was a merry man." 
 
 As the old nurse laughs, the long-passed summer days come 
 back, when the nurse and husband smiled at the gambols of 
 the child. That man cannot be a very bad man to whom 
 infantine tricks and gambols afford merriment, and to whom 
 the yet young heart presents memories of his own young days. 
 The melancholy and morose man to whom a child's laugh is 
 an annoyance ; who loves to sit in quiet, and to nurse his 
 own wrongs ; who broods upon his misery and his failures, 
 and girds at other men, from whose merit he detracts, cannot 
 
i 7 6 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 afford half the satisfaction that he does who wears this strange 
 net-work of life about him lightly, who cheers his fellow-pas- 
 sengers on the same road, and who merits the name of a 
 merry fellow. 
 
 There is a legend as old as any in the Christian Church, 
 which has given a certain character to gloom and has made 
 it more dignified and princely than it really is. It is that the 
 Saviour was never seen to smile, but oftentimes to weep. 
 But this, if true, does not concern us. With His Infinite 
 Purpose like a robe about Him, and the whole sorrows of 
 mankind resting like a crown of thorns upon His brow, it is 
 not likely that He should, as Shakspeare puts it, " Laugh 
 mortal." But that He smiled at the gambols of a child, and 
 shared the joy of the good, is surely as certain as that He sat 
 at a wedding feast, and turned water into wine, and entered the 
 house of joy as well as that of mourning. Man is a laugh- 
 ing animal ; in this he is superior, if in nothing else ; and to 
 be ashamed of laughter, to hold back merriment and mirth, 
 to wear a simulated gloom and morose seriousness, may suit 
 the ascetic, but is unworthy of the good, brave man, who 
 loves sunshine, and the lark's song, and the open breezy day, 
 and dares to enjoy the happy thoughts which his Creator has 
 given him. 
 
 There is a certain kind of sorrow which is as selfish and 
 mean as it is useless and unavailing. The brave, good man 
 may determine to take things as they come, but he tries to 
 make them come right. His religion bids him to believe that 
 " true piety is cheerful as the day," and that too much melan- 
 choly is as bad or worse than too much lightness. He be- 
 lieves that an undue indulgence in such a passion has in it 
 
SOBER SADNESS. 177 
 
 more of laziness and self-gratification. It seems to agree 
 with our piteous nature to mourn over our losses, and to 
 talk fondly, and with disconsolateness, about those who have 
 gone before us ; but even too much solicitude about the dead 
 is against the feeling of trust and faith which Christianity 
 should teach. It may seem very romantic to be nursing a 
 sentimental affection for a relic or a grave, and there are 
 many losses which can never be made up ; but, ordinarily, 
 they should mourn most who have done least for the departed, 
 and whose consciences reproach them for the lapses they 
 have made. We should not look mournfully over the past ; 
 it is, as Byron wrote and thought, it is past — we can never 
 recall it. Do what we will, we cannot get back the angry 
 word which has been spoken, the selfish deed, the unjust 
 reproach, the wrong that we have done, or the pain that we 
 have inflicted. It is well to remember these things with 
 something like shame, but not with a permanent melancholy, 
 which, more than anything, indisposes us for action. 
 
 We may observe that the most self-indulgent and lazy 
 people are generally the most inclined to take sad and miser- 
 able views of life. The hypochondriac who nurses his spleen 
 never looks forward cheerfully, but lounges in his invalid 
 chair, and croaks like a raven, foreboding woe. "Ah," says 
 he, " you will never succeed ; these things always fail." As 
 with nations, so with people. From Sir John Mandeville 
 downwards, Eastern travellers will tell you of the dreamy 
 melancholy of the Arab and Egyptian, and of the sleepy 
 gloom of the Bedouin, who believes not in joy. The Muezzin 
 howl their prayers with heart-rending accents. " The me- 
 lancholy faces," says the author of Nile Notes, an entrancing 
 
 N 
 
178 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 book of travel,* " symbolize the sad magnificence of their 
 race." But here we are at issue. The faces of the Easterns 
 seem to us to show too often cruel, melancholy, sad hearts, 
 and belong to people ready enough to spring upon a traveller 
 to rob and to oppress him, but not ready to trust themselves. 
 The Thug of India, whose prayer is a homicide, and whose 
 offering is the body of a victim, is melancholy ; the Cossack 
 ruffian soldier is as sad as the oppressed Pole ; the Indian is 
 melancholy indeed, and now more so than ever, for he has 
 no hunting-grounds, and his future is darkening ; the Fijian, 
 waiting to smash in the skull of a victim, and to prepare a 
 bakalo for his gods, is gloomy as fear and death ; the Bush- 
 man of South Africa, and the native negro, with his horrent 
 rites of bloody worship, are melancholy too. 
 
 Times of perturbation, of trial, and of cessation from the 
 ordinary routine of joy-giving labour and common occupa- 
 tion, are followed by much natural melancholy. Excitement 
 produces its re-action. Sadly profound is the melancholy of 
 a Frenchman upon whom old age has come suddenly. It is 
 as deep and as selfish as that of a sick ape. The gloomiest 
 of all times, surpassing those of Vienna's black death, or of 
 the plague year in London, was that of the French Revolution, 
 when all people shouted in mad excitement the " Ca ira," 
 and danced the Carmagnole ; and yet they effected a ghastly 
 fun, and made up sewing-parties of finely dressed ladies at 
 
 * By an American, Mr. G. W. Curtis, whose works are not so 
 well known in this country as they should be. Nile Notes has been 
 twice reprinted here ; the local colouring, the power and dreamy 
 languor of the book, entitle Mr. Curtis to a very high rank amongst 
 American writers. 
 
SOBER SADNESS. 179 
 
 the Place of the Guillotine, whilst they went onwards in an 
 intoxication as mad as it was sad. 
 
 A life of great excitement will, after the effervescence has 
 passed off, leave a sad residuum. Of this, a very notable 
 instance was Byron, as he has told us in his strangely con- 
 ceited diary. " Experience," he says, " comes to reproach us 
 with the past, to disgust us with the present, to alarm us with 
 the future." Was there ever a more melancholy sentence 
 penned? What a cheerful look-out on life must his have 
 been ! Once, after a party, his wife remarked upon his high 
 spirits. " And yet, Bell," said he, " I have been miscalled 
 melancholy. You see how falsely!" "No, Byron," she 
 answered, " it is not so ; at heart you are the most melan- 
 choly of mankind ; and often when apparently gayest." The 
 answer flattered his lordship's conceit, but it was true. He 
 was unhappy about his lame foot, his short figure, his fatness. 
 He weighed fourteen stone seven pounds, as he records with 
 much misery ; he was melancholy because everybody did not 
 worship him. " One success," said he, " makes a man mise- 
 rable for life," and again, " Last season I was the lion of every 
 party ; but this, ye gods ! what am I ?" That is, people did 
 not take enough notice of him. A little Christian humility 
 in his lordship, who was fond of talking about a philosophic 
 faith, would have cured all this. 
 
 But we must remember that, in talking of those who in- 
 dulge in this kind of sadness, we by no means mean mise- 
 rable people. On the contrary, the melancholy temperament 
 carries its consolation with it. Like the man in the comedy, 
 it " likes to be made a martyr of." Children in the sulks 
 have a certain pleasure in talking. Women who quarrel and 
 
 N 2 
 
180 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 flounce out of the room are delighted in flouncing, and in 
 persuading themselves that they think, or really in thinking, 
 how ill-used they are. Addison tells us that he had read 
 somewhere that the " women of Greece were seized with a 
 pleasurable melancholy in which they put an end to their 
 own lives ;" and the self-elected ascetics of our own day, and 
 those of past ages, scourged themselves not without a secret 
 satisfaction. The melancholy of the eastern Jews after their 
 black fast, and the ill-temper of monks and nuns after their 
 Fridays and "Wednesdays, is very observable ; it is the re- 
 compense which a proud nature takes out of the world for its 
 selfish sacrifice. Melancholia is the black bile which the 
 Greeks presumed overran and pervaded the bodies of such 
 persons ; and fasting does undoubtedly produce this. But, 
 so far from its being pleasing to the Almighty, we have direct 
 testimony against it. " When ye fast, be not as the hypo- 
 crites" — do not, in effect, pull long faces, wear uncombed hair, 
 unshaven beards, and dirty linen ; do not appear to men to fast, 
 but anoint yourselves, look cheerful, be brave and manly. 
 
 Burton, in his Anatoiny of Melancholy, has, in a prefatory 
 dialogue, alternately shown the beauty and the hatefulness of 
 melancholy. But he commences with its joys, and he tells 
 us that, to a musing man, nothing is so delicious. " When I 
 go musing all alone," he writes — 
 
 ' ' Pleasing myself with phantasies sweet, 
 Methinks the time runs very fleet. 
 All my joys to this are folly; 
 Naught so sweet as melancholy." 
 
 But in the next stanza he paints its sorrows and disagree- 
 ments. It is a growing vice. It attacks us at. first in a gentle 
 
SOBER SADNESS. 1S1 
 
 way, and may be repelled ; but, if we welcome it, we are lost. 
 It comes to us as an infant, but it quickly grows to a giant. 
 It is conceited and full of self-pity. Every melancholy man 
 thinks enough of himself. Saturn, lordliest and proudest of 
 the stars, is lord also of melancholy. Stately and melancholy 
 is the proud peacock ; profoundly so is the aged lion or de- 
 crepit old hound ; dignified is the melancholy owl ; and 
 vindictive and proud the tomb-haunting jackal and hyena, 
 most melancholy of animals. The melancholy man loves 
 solitude and quiet musing. But he, says the proverb, " who 
 would be always alone, must be a god, or a beast." A man 
 loves the company of his fellows : " It is not good that man 
 should be alone." 
 
 Throughout Burton's book melancholy is treated as a 
 disease ; this " feral malady," he calls it ; " this beastly sick- 
 ness." But in his time England was still " merry England," 
 and solidity and gravity of countenance were not so much in 
 fashion. All classes danced and sung, and laughed as much 
 as they could. Harry the Eighth and Queen Bess were both 
 very merry in their way, and loved a joke as well as their 
 subjects. Puritanism and asceticism began to grow under 
 James I., a pedantic, weak-minded, melancholy king, dis- 
 posed to this sadness from birth, or probably, in his, and 
 other like cases, from before birth. But Shakspeare, who 
 flourished in his reign, was, and is, the very pattern and 
 specimen of cheerfulness. " And," he says, of a character 
 which critics say is drawn from himself, a more free, open, 
 and jolly man — 
 
 " Within the limits of becoming mirth, 
 I never spent an hour's talk withal." 
 
1 82 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 And all around him was an atmosphere of cheerfulness. It 
 is impossible to think of Jonson, Raleigh, Bacon, Beaumont 
 and Fletcher, Fuller, Spenser, and others as melancholy men. 
 Nay, even the divines are jovial ; the English martyrs are 
 not downhearted. Cranmer cheers his brother martyrs, and 
 Latimer walks with a face shining with cheerfulness to the 
 stake, upholds his fellows' spirits, and seasons all his sermons 
 with pleasant anecdotes. 
 
 The troubles which followed in the reign of Charles — 
 again a mournful sovereign, as Vandyke's portraits will show 
 us — made the best of men sad enough. The younger Falkland, 
 walking about just before his death, wringing his hands and 
 lamenting the war, was but a type of the rest of the nation. 
 Puritanism was up and on its metal ; melancholy grew re- 
 spectable, because the royalists chose too often to be ranting, 
 roaring, defiant, and drunken. But it is wrong to suppose 
 that the master-spirits of the day were dejected or depressed. 
 It would be hard to find more kindly, strong, provident, and 
 cheerful letters than those of Oliver Cromwell, all through the 
 war. He was ever looking after the comforts of his men, 
 thinking of his children and of the country. So, again, was 
 Hampden, down to the time when he was shot through the 
 spine on Chalgrove field ; so, too, was Milton, who, when 
 blind, old, and poor, showed a royal cheerfulness, and, as he 
 writes, never " bated one jot of heart or hope, but steered 
 right onwards," upheld by the consciousness of having done 
 his duty in defending the dear land of his birth against her 
 assailants ; a feat in which he lost his eyesight, but of which 
 he says, proudly, "whereof all Europe rings from side to side." 
 
 The face of him who was called the Merry Monarch 
 
SOBER SADNESS. 1S3 
 
 always seems to us to have been a very melancholy, saturnine 
 one. His death was perhaps as sad as any recorded ; his 
 court, noisy, vicious, and bankrupt, was something like its 
 misguided monarch ; and he had too many sins at his back, 
 and too many follies to reproach himself with, to be very 
 cheerful. Noisy and exuberant his courtiers were, but surely 
 not the king, with his sulks and bad humours, and savage 
 repartees. The merriness, also, which overflooded the nation 
 was of a bad sort. It resembled the eccentric fun of a fast 
 man in our days. It was fast ; it led the nation and almost 
 all its component individuals to the verge of a bankruptcy 
 both of honour and of money. The " universal joy " which 
 inaugurated the reign, and of which Hume and other Tory 
 historians speak, had but a poor foundation, and since its 
 consequent collapse and ruin a deeper melancholy has set in 
 upon the nation, and it is very doubtful whether we shall ever 
 be " Merry England " again. Many causes go to hinder it ; 
 not only our foggy climate, not only the smoke of London — 
 
 " Clothed in native gloom, 
 The sadness of a drunkard o'er a tomb " 
 
 — but the trials and struggles of life, which increase as life 
 goes on, the intense haste in which we all work ,the sharpness 
 of competition, the enormous area of our manufactures and 
 trade, the consequent continual employment of thought in 
 every branch of art or method of getting a livelihood ; the 
 intensity of our religious convictions, which will not be 
 satisfied with empty show : these all go to render life much 
 more sad and melancholy than, probably, the great Creator 
 ever intended it should be ; for, judging from analogy, joy 
 
1 34 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 and merriment should spread themselves throughout crea- 
 tion, and, at the very utmost, old age should resolve itself into 
 a sober sadness. Thus it should be to him who leads the 
 Gentle Life. We look forward' in the future to the joys of 
 Paradise ; to a complete freedom from sorrow, and an exist- 
 ence of the purest joy. The life of this world is one of 
 probation, but not necessarily of gloom or melancholy. It 
 is the period of trial to fit us for those joys which the world 
 cannot give nor take away. 
 
 Lordly man may at least pride himself, as he surely will 
 do, for he is perverse, and magnifies his sorrows, in having a 
 pre-eminence in sadness. Paley has devoted a chapter of his 
 manly and admirable work to prove that the world holds 
 " myriads of happy beings " besides man, that insects " are 
 full of joy and exultation. A bee," he writes, " among the 
 flowers is one of the most cheerful objects which can be looked 
 on ; all enjoyment, so busy and so pleased. Even plants are 
 covered with aphides, constantly sucking their juices, and 
 constantly in a state of gratification." So also the flowing 
 waters of rivers and the stagnant waters of the pond ; the 
 damp of the cellar and the ambient air around us — all teem 
 with enjoying life. "What a sum collectively of gratification 
 and pleasure have we here in view ! " says Paley, and surely 
 he summed up with a smile on his face ; and Wordsworth, 
 elsewhere sombre enough, in the most splendid ode ever 
 written by mortal pen, saw splendour in the grass and glory 
 in the flower ; and that " land and sea gave themselves up 
 to jollity ;" and this was to his, one of the most reflective 
 minds that we have ever had, enough not to breed an unhap- 
 piness, but to inspire " perpetual benedictions." 
 
SOBER SADNESS. 185 
 
 Milton has balanced merriness and melancholy so beauti- 
 fully, that we can only thereby see, not which way he inclined, 
 but that he had experienced both ; and he called sadness, 
 let us remember, " II Penseroso," the thoughtful. Cheerful- 
 ness of old, astrologers dubbed Jovial, its subject being born 
 under Jupiter, a kingly planet which gives a kingly spirit. 
 
 We may be assured that the ordinary Christian may be 
 excused from mourning over the vices and follies of the age. 
 What he has to do is his best, letting his neighbours alone, 
 looking charitably on their vices, and being blind to their 
 faults. It is well to remember that the two great churches of 
 England and of Rome are cheerful in their ordinances and 
 behests, and season their fasts with due and necessary feasts. 
 It is a poor heart which never rejoices, and a merry one which 
 goes all day like a strong watch with a good balance and a 
 sound mainspring. Cheerfulness has, after all, honour in this 
 world ; we all love a bold face and a light spirit ; and our 
 admiration and sympathy are rightly accorded to that captain 
 who, in the storm and battle of life, still keeps a stout heart, 
 a cheerful word, and a bright look-out, and who disdains to 
 be as mournful and full of gloomy despondency as Job, with- 
 out one-thousandth part of that patriarch's afflictions. 
 
ON BEING MERRY AND WISE. 
 
 |ARON MUFFLING relates of the Duke of Wel- 
 lington, that that great general remained at the 
 Duchess of Richmond's ball till about three o'clock 
 on the morning of the 16th of June, 1815, "show- 
 ing himself very cheerful." The Baron, who is a very good 
 authority on the subject, having previously proved that every 
 plan was laid in the Duke's mind, and Quatre Bras and 
 Waterloo fully detailed, we may comprehend the value of 
 the sentence. It was the bold trusting heart of the hero that 
 made him cheerful. He showed himself cheerful, too, at 
 Waterloo.' He was never very jocose ; but on that memo- 
 rable 1 8th of June he showed a symptom of it. He rode 
 along the line and cheered men by his look and his face, 
 and they too cheered him, and so we Englishmen ever have 
 done, being bold and of good cheer when in the face of 
 danger. But, when the danger was over — when the 21,000 
 brave men of his own and the Prussian army lay stiffening 
 in death — the Duke, who was so cheerful in the midst of his 
 danger, covered his face with his hands and wept. He asked 
 for that friend, and he was slain ; for this, and a bullet had 
 pierced his heart. The men who had devoted themselves to 
 
MERRY AND WISE. 187 
 
 death for their leader and their country had been blown to 
 pieces, or pierced with lances, or hacked with sabres, and lay, 
 like Ponsonby covered with thirteen wounds, upon the ground. 
 Well might the Duke weep, iron though he was. " There is 
 nothing," he writes, " nothing in the world so dreadful as a 
 battle lost, unless it be such a battle won. Nothing can 
 compensate for the dreadful cruelty, carnage, and misery of 
 the scene, save the reflection on the public good which may 
 arise from it." 
 
 Forty years' peace succeeded the great battle. Forty years 
 of prosperity, during which he himself went honoured to his 
 tomb, rewarded the constant brave look and tongue which 
 answered his men, when he saw the whole side of a square 
 blown in, with "Hard work, gentlemen ! They are pounding 
 away ! We must see who can pound the longest." It is not 
 too much to say that the constant cheerfulness of the Duke of 
 Wellington was one great element of success in the greatest 
 battle ever fought, one of the fifteen decisive battles in the 
 world, great in the number engaged, greater in the slaughter, 
 greatest in the results. But all commanders ought to be 
 cheerful. Gloomy looks do not do in the army. A set of 
 filibusters or pirates may wear looks and brows as black as 
 the sticking-plaster boots that their representatives are dressed 
 in at the minor theatres ; but a soldier or a sailor should be, 
 and as a rule is, the most cheerful of fellows, doing his duty 
 in the trench or the storm, dying when the bullet comes, but 
 living like a hero the while. Look, for instance, at the whole- 
 hearted cheerfulness of Raleigh, when with his small English 
 ships he cast himself against the navies of Spain ; or at 
 Xenophon, conducting back from an inhospitable and hostile 
 
1 83 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 country, and through unknown paths, his ten thousand 
 Greeks ; or Caesar, riding up and down the banks of the 
 Rubicon, sad enough belike when alone, but at the head of 
 his men cheerful, joyous, well dressed, rather foppish, in fact, 
 his face shining with good humour as with oil. Again, Nel- 
 son in the worst of dangers was as cheerful as the day. He 
 had even a rough but quiet humour in him, just as he carried 
 his coxswain behind him to bundle the swords of the Spanish 
 and French captains under his arm. He could clap his tele- 
 scope to his blind eye, and say, " Gentlemen, 1 cannot make 
 out the signal," when the signal was adverse to his wishes, 
 and then go in and win, in spite of recall. Fancy the dry 
 laughs which many an old sea-dog has had over that cheerful 
 incident. How the story lights up the dark page of history ! 
 Then there was Henry of Navarre, lion in war, winner of 
 hearts, bravest of the brave, who rode down the ranks at Ivry 
 when Papist and Protestant were face to face, when more than 
 his own life and kingdom were at stake, and all the horrors 
 of religious war were loosened and unbound ready to ravage 
 poor unhappy France. That beaming hopeful countenance 
 won the battle, and is a parallel to the brave looks of our 
 own great Queen Elizabeth when she cheered her Englishmen 
 at Tilbury. 
 
 But we are not all soldiers or sailors, although, too, our 
 Christian profession hath adopted the title of soldiers in the 
 battle of life. It is all very well to cite great commanders who, 
 in the presence of danger, excited by hope, with the eyes of 
 twenty thousand men upon them, are cheerful and happy ; 
 but what is that to the solitary author, the poor artist, the 
 governess, the milliner, the shoemaker, the factory-girl, 
 
MERRY AND WISE. 189 
 
 they of the thousand persons in profession or trade who 
 are given to murmur, and who think life so hard and 
 gloomy and wretched, that they cannot go through it 
 with a smile on their faces and despair in their hearts ? 
 What are examples and citations to them? "Hecuba!" 
 cries out poor, melancholy, morbid Hamlet striking on a 
 vein of thought, " what's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba ?" 
 Much. 
 
 We all have trials ; but it is certain that good temper and 
 cheerfulness will make us bear them more easily than any- 
 thing else. " Temper," said one of our bishops, " is nine- 
 tenths of Christianity." We do not live now in the Middle 
 Ages. We cannot think that the sect of Flagellants who 
 whipped themselves till the blood ran into their shoes, and 
 pulled uncommonly long faces, were the best masters of 
 philosophy. " True godliness is cheerful as the day," wrote 
 Cowper, himself melancholy-mad enough ; and we are to re- 
 member that the precept of the Founder of our faith, that when 
 we fast we are to anoint our countenances and not to seem 
 to fast, enjoins a certain liveliness of face. Sydney Smith, 
 when a poor curate at Foster-le-Clay, a dreary, desolate place 
 wrote, " I am resolved to like it, and to reconcile myself to it, 
 which is more manly than to fancy myself above it, and to 
 send up complaints by the post of being thrown away, or 
 being desolate, and such-like trash." And he acted up to 
 this, said his prayers, made his jokes, did his duty, and, upon 
 fine mornings, used to draw up the blinds of his parlour, open 
 the window, and " glorify the room," as he called the opera- 
 tion, with sunshine. But all the sunshine without was nothing 
 to the sunshine within the heart. It was that which made 
 
190 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 him go through life so bravely and so well ; it is that, too, 
 which renders his life a lesson to us all. 
 
 We must also remember that the career of a poor curate is 
 not the most brilliant in the world. That of an apprentice 
 boy has more fun in it ; that of a milliner's girl has more 
 merriment and fewer depressing circumstances. To hear 
 always the same mistrust of Providence, to see poverty, 
 to observe all kinds of trial, to witness death-bed scenes 
 — this is not the most enlivening course of existence, even if 
 a clergyman be a man of mark and of station. But there 
 was one whose station was not honoured, nay, even by some 
 despised, and who had sorer trials than Sydney Smith. His 
 name is well known in literature ; and his writings and his 
 example still teach us in religion. This was Robert Hall, a 
 professor of a sombre creed in a sombre flat country, as flat 
 and " deadly-lively," as they say, as need be. To add to 
 difficulties and troubles, the minister was plagued with about 
 as painful an illness as falls to the lot of humanity to bear. 
 He had fought with infidelity and doubt ; he had refused 
 promotion, because he would do his duty where it had pleased 
 God to olace him : next he had to show how well he could 
 bear pain. In all his trials he had been cheerful, forcible 
 natural, and straightforward. In this deep one he preserved 
 the same character. Forced to throw himself down and writhe 
 upon the floor in his paroxysms of pain, he rose up, livid 
 with exhaustion, and with the sweat of anguish on his brow, 
 without a murmur. 
 
 In the whole library of brave anecdote there is no tale of 
 heroism which, to us, beats this. It very nearly equals that 
 of poor, feeble Latimer, cheering up his fellow-martyr as 
 
MERRY AND WISE. 191 
 
 he walked to the stake, " Be of good cheer, brother Ridley : 
 we shall this day light such a fire in England as by God's 
 grace shall not be readily put out." The very play upon the 
 torture is brave, yet pathetic. Wonderful too was the bold- 
 ness and cheerfulness of another martyr, Rowland Taylor, 
 who, stripped to his shirt, was forced to walk towards the 
 stake, who answered the jeers of his persecutors and the 
 tears of his friends with the same noble constant smile, and, 
 meeting two of his very old parishioners who wept, stopped 
 and cheered them as he went, adding, that he went on his 
 way rejoicing. 
 
 Heroes and martyrs are perhaps too high examples, for 
 they may have, or rather poor, common, every-day humanity 
 will think they have, a kind of high-pressure sustainment. 
 Let us look to our own prosaic days ; let us mark the constant 
 cheerfulness and manliness of Dr. Maginn, or that much higher 
 heroic bearing of Tom Hood. We suppose that everybody 
 knows that Hood's life was not of that brilliant, sparkling, 
 fizzing, banging, astonishing kind which writers such as Sir 
 Edward Bulwer Lytton, and some others, depict as the gene- 
 ral life of literary men. He did not, like Byron, "jump up 
 one morning, and find himself famous." All the libraries 
 were not asking for his novel, though a better was not written; 
 countesses and dairy-women did not beg his autograph. His 
 was a life of constant hard work, constant trial or disappoint- 
 ment, and constant illness, enlivened only by a home affection 
 and a cheerfulness as constant as his pain. When slowly, 
 slowly dying, he made cheerful- fun as often almost as he said 
 his prayers. He was heard, after, perhaps, being almost 
 dead, to laugh gently to himself in the still night, when his 
 
192 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 wife or children, who were the watchers, thought him asleep. 
 Many of the hard lessons of fate he seasoned, as old Latimer 
 did his sermons, with a pun, and he excused himself from 
 sending more "copy" for his magazine by a sketch, the 
 " Editor's Apologies," a rough pen-and-ink drawing of physic- 
 bottles and leeches. Yet Hood had not only his own woes 
 to bear, but felt for others. No one had a more tender heart 
 — few men a more Catholic and Christian sympathy for the 
 poor — than the writer of the Song of the Shirt. 
 
 What such men as these have done, every one else surely 
 can do. Cheerfulness is a Christian duty ; moroseness, dull- 
 ness, gloominess, as false, and wrong, and cruel as they are 
 unchristian. We are too far advanced now in the light of 
 truth to go back into the Gothic and conventual gloom of the 
 Middle Ages, any more than we could go back to the exercises 
 of the Flagellants and the nonsense of the pras- Adamites. All 
 whole-hearted peoples have been lively and bustling, noisy 
 almost in their progress, pushing, energetic, broad in shoulder, 
 strong in lung, loud in voice, of free brave colour, bold look 
 and bright eyes. They are the cheerful people in the world — 
 
 " Active doers, noble livers — strong to labour, sure to conquer ;" 
 
 and soon pass in the way of progress the more quiet and 
 gloomy of their fellows. That some of this cheerfulness may 
 be simply animal is true, and that a man may be a dullard 
 and yet sit and " grin like a Cheshire cat ;" but we are not 
 speaking of grinning. Laughter is all very well ; is a healthy, 
 joyous, natural impulse ; the true mark of superiority between 
 man and beast, for no inferior animal laughs ; but we are not 
 writing of laughter, but of that continued even tone of spirits, 
 
MERRY AND WISE. 193 
 
 which lies in the middle zone between frantic merriment and 
 excessive despondency. Cheerfulness arises from various 
 causes : from health ; but it is not dependent upon health ; — 
 from good fortune ; but it does not arise solely from that ; — 
 from honour, and position, and a tickled pride and vanity ; 
 but, as we have seen, it is quite independent of these. The 
 truth is, it is a brave habit of the mind ; a prime proof of 
 wisdom ; capable of being acquired, and of the very greatest 
 value. 
 
 A cheerful man is pre-eminently a useful man. He does 
 not "cramp his mind, nor take half views of men and things." 
 He knows that there is much misery, but that misery is not 
 the rule of life. He sees that in every state people may 
 be cheerful ; the lambs skip, birds sing and fly joyously, 
 puppies play, kittens are full of joyance, the whole air full of 
 careering and rejoicing insects, that everywhere the good 
 outbalances the bad, and that every evil that there is has its 
 compensating balm. Then the brave man, as our German 
 cousins say, possesses the world, whereas the melancholy 
 man does not even possess his own share of it. Exercise, or 
 continued employment of some kind, will make a man cheer- 
 ful ; but sitting at home, brooding and thinking, or doing little, 
 will bring gloom. The reaction of this feeling is wonderful. 
 It arises from a sense of duty done, and it also enables us to 
 do our duty. Cheerful people live long in our memory. We 
 remember joy more readily than sorrow, and always look 
 back with tenderness on the brave and cheerful. Autolycus 
 repeats the burden of an old song with the truth that "a 
 merry heart goes all the day, but your sad ones tires a mile 
 a !" and what he says any one may notice, not only in our- 
 
 O 
 
i 9 4 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 selves, but in the inferior animals also. A sulky dog, and a 
 bad-tempered horse, wear themselves out with half the labour 
 that kindly creatures do. An unkindly cow will not give 
 down her milk, and a sour sheep will not fatten ; nay, even 
 certain fowls and geese, to those who observe, will evidence 
 temper — good or bad. 
 
 We can all cultivate our tempers, and one of the employ- 
 ments of some poor mortals is to cultivate, cherish, and 
 bring to perfection, a thoroughly bad one ; but we may be 
 certain that to do so is a very gross error and sin, which, like 
 all others, brings its own punishment, though, unfortunately, 
 it does not punish itself only. If he "to whom God is pleasant 
 is pleasant to God," the reverse also holds good ; and certainly 
 the major proposition is true with regard to man. Addison 
 says of cheerfulness, that it lightens sickness, poverty, afflic- 
 tion ; converts ignorance into an amiable simplicity, and 
 renders deformity itself agreeable ; and he says no more than 
 the truth. "Give us, therefore, oh ! give us" — let us cry with 
 Carlyle — "the man who sings at his work ! Be his occupation 
 what it may, he is equal to any of those who follow the same 
 pursuit in silent sullenness. He will do more in the same 
 time ; he will do it better ; he will persevere longer. One is 
 scarcely sensible of fatigue whilst he marches to music. The 
 very stars are said to make harmony as they revolve in their 
 appointed skies." 
 
 " Wondrous is the strength of cheerfulness ! altogether 
 past calculation the powers of its endurance. Efforts, to 
 be permanently useful, must be uniformly joyous — a spirit 
 all sunshine — graceful from very gladness — beautiful because 
 bright." Such a spirit is within everybody's reach. Let us 
 
MERRY AND WISE. 
 
 195 
 
 get but out into the light of things. The morbid man cries 
 out that there is always enough wrong in the world to make 
 a man miserable. Conceded ; but wrong is ever being 
 righted ; there is always enough that is good and right to 
 make us joyful. There is ever sunshine somewhere ; and the 
 brave man will go on his way rejoicing, content to look for- 
 ward if under a cloud, not bating one jot of heart or hope if 
 for a moment cast down ; honouring his occupation, whatever 
 it may be ; rendering even rags respectable by the way he 
 wears them ; and not only being happy himself, but causing 
 the happiness of others. 
 
 O 2 
 
'JfiSkM; 
 
 
 REGARDING THE COMPANY WE KEEP. 
 
 HE Honourable Robert Boyle, who was* at once a 
 philosopher and a^Christian — two characters in 
 his time not always found together — has left us 
 some quaint Reflections, which in these days of 
 essay writing and reading should be more known than they 
 are. Of a clear, simple, and withal witty mind, the philo- 
 sopher saw resemblances where others missed them, and 
 appears to have quietly reflected and meditated, and to have 
 put down what he thought in a pious, homely way. Of course 
 he, like other authors, is open to ridicule. When he reflects 
 upon " giving meat to his dog," or upon his horse stumbling 
 in " a very fair way," or " upon his being let blood ; " " upon 
 the syrups and other sweet things sent him by the doctor," 
 or "upon seeing a child picking plums out of a piece of cake 
 sent him by his mother ;" or "upon Lady D. R.'s fine closet," 
 the quaintness of the titles carries us away from the good 
 thoughts which we find in the writer. But in spite of Dean 
 Swift's pungent ridicule in his Meditations on a Broomstick, 
 after the manner of Boyle, there is really more in the philo- 
 sopher's little book than in half the flashy compositions of 
 our ready writers, or of certain essayists of to-day. With 
 
COMPANIONSHIP. 197 
 
 Boyle you do get thought ; with the others only a reflection 
 of a thought ; which, by the way, seldom occurs. It is always 
 very simple, perhaps, to reflect upon a child picking plums 
 out of a cake, and it is now simple common-place to draw a 
 simile from a " lark stooping to a snare, and being caught in a 
 day net." But we must remember that the human mind, like 
 virgin soil, presents in every man who comes into the world 
 an unsown field. What our great-grandfathers thought is no 
 matter to us ; we have all to go through the same process 
 over again. 
 
 The ingenuous and kindly philosopher, inventing the ma- 
 chinery of a little fishing party, and the incidents which occur 
 to it, tells us that after a storm, when others drew from their 
 pockets watches to find the time of day, the boatman took 
 out from his a dial with a compass, and setting it in the right 
 position, saw the shadow of the gnomon fall upon the hour. 
 Our watchmakers have long since banished these ingenious 
 toys. One of the company tried the magnet of the compass, 
 by causing it to follow his hand with a steel key — a sight which 
 Boyle rightly says " no familiarity can keep from being a 
 wonder," whilst another endeavoured to make the excited 
 needle follow a piece of gold, or be attracted by a diamond. 
 Of course such experiments (as they were meant to do) failed, 
 and then Boyle " reflects " how easily we are drawn by one 
 company and not by another ; how we stick and adhere to 
 the society of one man but not another ; how we love Wilson 
 we know not why, and shun Jackson, who may be the better 
 man, we know not wherefore. 
 
 Perhaps it would be well if we all looked a little more to 
 our companionships. There are many men who appear to 
 
1 98 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 have a magnetic influence over us, and who associate with 
 us, but who certainly ought to be kicked out of our society ; 
 but the plague of it is, that few of us are strong enough to 
 begin the practice. Because we are unwise in not requiring 
 not only pleasant, but good men to associate with, men 
 themselves have grown careless of good, and, so that they 
 put in a respectable outside appearance, think that they are 
 fit to be the companions of a prince. 
 
 That " a man is known by the company he keeps" is a trite 
 phrase enough ; it is so true, that it has become a truism ; 
 and half its force is lost because of its familiarity. Most 
 men are not only known by the company they keep, but they 
 become part of that company. Tennyson makes Ulysses say 
 that he is part of all that he has seen ; but • it is not so with 
 Ulysses only, but with every man. The mind easily receives 
 impressions ; and it is difficult to be with the silly and foolish 
 without becoming silly and foolish too. 
 
 When we come to consider the matter, we shall not wonder 
 at this, but only find it a natural consequence. One clever 
 man in an evening party of dummies, who can only wonder 
 and laugh, soon becomes exhausted. One wise man's speech 
 to a multitude of fools would produce no effect. Wisdom 
 " cries out in the streets, and no man regards her." So a 
 good and thoughtful man amidst a number of practical jokers 
 needs assistance, and the banding together of those who are 
 like him. He is not strong enough to make head singly 
 against a flood of folly. In company it is natural, .we sup- 
 pose, for "the rabble of the baser sort," that is, of the lowest 
 kind of intellects, to be the most noisy. In any company 
 such are always the most prominent — 
 
CO MP A NIONSHIP. 1 99 
 
 " Full of vagaries, quick, litigious, loud — 
 Was never good man yet who loved a crowd." 
 
 They become, therefore, the most applauded. "To make 
 companies as they should be, they must grow very different 
 from what they are," writes Boyle. What was true of his day 
 is just as true of ours. The most foolish are the most bold ; 
 and this, we think, often arises from the timidity of the good 
 men, who dare not smite and expose folly in an assembly, 
 and who lack the wit and capacity, if they do not want the 
 inclination. 
 
 Folly is of course not proof all over : it lacks covering some- 
 where. It differs from Achilles, who was vulnerable only in 
 his heel, since its head is by far the weakest part of it. A 
 good, grave, sensible man has often abashed a fool, and in 
 so doing has done some little to reform him. It is no such 
 little thing for a man of known piety and intellectual weight 
 to dare to own his allegiance to conscience and his God 
 amidst a crowd of scoffers. It is more when a man, like 
 Dr. Johnson, chances to live amongst a debased generation, 
 but is among them, not of them, and shows people that he 
 can use the world without abusing it, that he can be a man 
 of religion without being a fanatic. Just when a flood of 
 scientific infidelity is poured over the land, and his lighter 
 and unstable companions are swept away, such a man will 
 stand fast. 
 
 " But did you never doubt ?" cries one. " Doubt !" he will 
 answer, " I was always doubting, and I am open to doubt 
 now. I never professed a dogmatic faith ; let Truth and 
 Error grapple, and who ever knew Truth worsted in a fair 
 fight ?" A man who will do this is of great benefit to his day 
 
200 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 and times. He continues a perpetual witness for the good and 
 the true. He shows that a calm happy life is no impracticable 
 thing, but something real and tangible, and worth living 
 out. It says something for this class of men — and here we 
 follow out a thought of Boyle's — that the great Author of our 
 faith and Exemplar of our piety did not choose "an anchorite 
 or monastic life, but a sociable and affable way of conversing 
 with mortals, not refusing invitations even from publicans or 
 to weddings ; and by such winning condescensions gained 
 the hearts, and thereby a power to reform the hearts of 
 multitudes." 
 
 Men choose their companions from different motives, 
 and generally with, of course, very different results. Pride, 
 avarice, and selfishness of various degrees, are the moving 
 power of some, but not of the generality. With young men, 
 no doubt, a liking, or a generous admiration for each other, 
 will spring up, and thus companionship grows. It is better 
 to be the companion of a few than of many, and to follow the 
 advice given by Thackeray in his Miscellanies — to associate 
 with those who are really more clever, or wiser, or better 
 placed than one's self. That is, it is better to reverence than 
 despise your friend. A little man will only choose smaller 
 men than himself— we are, of course, speaking mentally. It 
 is an easy matter to be a whale among minnows ; the dif- 
 ficulty is, to keep your proper place in your proper sphere ; 
 unfortunately, this wish to shine, and to be the star of a small 
 company, is so prevalent with young people, that, say what 
 you will, the majority will do it the next day ; yet what do we 
 not miss because weak men will indulge their weakness, and 
 not try to lift themselves above the foolish companions of the 
 
COMPANIONSHIP. 201 
 
 hour ? What have we not gained because Boswell lifted him- 
 self to the level of Johnson ; and Plato, Critias, and Timaeus 
 worshipped and cherished the company of Socrates ? 
 
 In associating with persons for the sake of their rank or 
 position, we must expect (and if we do not, we always get) dis- 
 appointment. It is the old fable of the pot of brass and the 
 pot of earthenware which floated down the stream together ; 
 the poorer material always suffers. People who are above 
 you in station take pretty good care to let you know that they 
 are so ; or they make you suffer by an insolent neglect, or if 
 they do not, their friends and servants do so. The poor man 
 of letters, who spends a month at a rich friend's house in the 
 country, may gain in health, but he suffers in pride ; the poor 
 artist or musician, who depends upon his brain and the 
 exercise of his art and intellect for his daily food, will soon 
 be reminded that " he who lives to please, must please to 
 live." Perhaps, to a man of independent mind, nothing can 
 be more hurtful than constantly hanging on the will of another. 
 Yet we shall do so if we choose our companions of a rank too 
 much above us, and we shall find that, after all, the scheme 
 never pays. There are few more melancholy scenes than 
 those written by satirists upon the poor little frogs of this 
 world, which will try to blow themselves up as big as bulls. 
 The fictitious flatulence must be very uncomfortable long 
 before it is fatal. The man who dresses after a much richer 
 man, the swindler who gives himself out to be what he is not, 
 and the foolish commoner who brags of his intimacy with men 
 of position and title, are much alike. They all find at last 
 that it does not pay. Poor "Beau Brummel" and poor " Pea- 
 green Hain," who spent their whole fortunes in cutting a dash, 
 
202 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 and in associating with spendthrifts of ancestral estates, 
 equally found out what fools they had been. Of what use 
 were their fine friends and gay companions ? Of what com- 
 fort the notoriety of a shop-window caricature, and of the 
 cynical applause of the tailors whilst they fattened on their 
 extravagance ? The poor frogs burst, and expired despised 
 and deserted. 
 
 Rich and poor companions seldom, therefore, do well to- 
 gether. The poor man must have an enormous, and, indeed, 
 almost superhuman strength of mind, not to be corrupted by 
 the longer purse. If the poorer friend do not degenerate into 
 a " toady" or a "sneak," he must be a rare fellow, and whether 
 he do so or not, the world will be ready enough to assert it. 
 It is not every man who can play Horatio to Hamlet. The 
 man who has no revenue but his good name had better keep 
 away from the companionship of rich men, and let them alone, 
 to console themselves with their useless gold, and with those 
 easy friends who will swallow their bad jokes, and applaud 
 that habitual dulness which seems almost inseparable from a 
 long purse. 
 
 Of course, the old writers have said an immense number of 
 weighty things about companions, but they illustrate rather 
 than define what they should be. We are told that a good 
 companion is worth his weight in gold ; and a great many 
 fine phrases are lavished in his praise. We are told to set a 
 guard upon our lips when we are in company, which is just 
 what we do not want to do. We are told also " to treat a 
 friend as if he might be an enemy, and an enemy as if he 
 might be a friend " — which is exceedingly cunning, but is both 
 impossible and unpleasant, for neither company nor friends 
 
COMPANIONSHIP. 203 
 
 would be worth having at the rate. Diogenes and his tub, a 
 good railing, cursing character ; or Timon, with his abuse of 
 all the world — such even would be preferable to the fore- 
 casting, timid, cunning fellow, who, like the Laodiceans in 
 Scripture, is always neither hot nor cold. What we — that is, 
 all humanity, from the chattering cockney to the morose and 
 reticent Southern Russ, who hears, sees, and says nothing — 
 what we want in a companion is one who will be good, and 
 cheerful, and pleasant, and who will bear us company on 
 equal terms in our world's journey. Little indeed will he be 
 worth if we have continually to guard against him, although 
 Lavater's hint is true enough — " The freer you feel yourself," 
 says he, " in the presence of another, the more free is 
 he." Of course he is, and men and women should not, with 
 their habitual companions, be clothed for ever in suits of 
 buckram. 
 
 The most agreeable of all companions is a good, honest, 
 simple person, with a clear head and heart, and a mind like 
 a freshly polished crystal, easily seen through ; a fellow who 
 will laugh innocently with us, and enjoy simple things, who 
 is man of the world enough not to expect too much, but not 
 of the world enough to be cunning. 
 
 This companion should move in a sphere different from our 
 own, so that we should have a diversity of tastes ; he should, 
 at the same time, sympathize with us, so that our conversa- 
 tion should please each other ; he should be a believer in what 
 is noble and good, and of an obliging, easy, even temper. With 
 such a man we should not finti time hang on hand ; and for 
 such, who would not exchange the company of the brilliant 
 wit, the inspired talker, the flashing genius, who, for a time 
 
204 THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 fizzes away like a firework and then subsides, as dull and 
 empty as the exploded case ? 
 
 Perhaps women suffer more than men from bad com- 
 panions, but both are hugely hurt by them. St. Augustine, 
 who, from his wild and rackety youth, and from a manhood 
 spent in vain philosophy and pleasure, knew what company 
 was, and, like Falstaff, had many a time " heard the chimes 
 at midnight," to the great grief of his mother, has a good 
 simile with regard to bad company, which we may all profit 
 by. " Bad company," he wrote, " is like a nail driven into 
 a post, which, after the first or second blow, may be drawn 
 out with very little difficulty ; but, being once driven up to the 
 head the pincers cannot take hold to draw it out, which can 
 only be done by the destruction of the wood." Of course it 
 is useless to define bad company. Men and women, girls or 
 boys, feel instinctively when they have fallen in with danger- 
 ous associates ; if they choose to remain amongst them they 
 are lost. So in the high tides barks of light draught will 
 float over Goodwin quicksands ; in summer, at low tide, the 
 venturous boys and young people will play cricket thereon ; 
 but neither can remain long in the neighbourhood. The 
 time comes when the sands are covered with but a thin sur- 
 face of water, and beneath is the shifting, loose, wet earth, 
 more dangerous and treacherous than spring-tide ice ; and 
 then it is that to touch is to be drawn in, and to be drawn 
 in is death. So is it with bad company ! 
 

 ■mi — tr-rr-mr n m is h n - i e 
 
 FRIENDSHIP IN GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 INCE Cicero wrote his celebrated treatise, De 
 Amicitia, there has been more nonsense uttered 
 and written about friendship than about anything 
 else, except the passion of love. In Latin the 
 word seems to be derived from amor, love; amicitia being 
 friendship, a diminutive, a smaller kind of love, not so 
 entrancing, nor so alluring, so satisfying, so deep, so burn- 
 ing, but perhaps more lasting. " Friendship is love without 
 wings" — a French proverb, very pretty, very true in one 
 sense, but not in another ; for one friendship that lasts, 
 we may quote a thousand instances of love which has 
 been more lasting. The reason why many people have 
 written so much nonsense about love and friendship is this : 
 very few are capable of entertaining either. True friendship 
 and true love are both so rare, that people are forced to draw 
 from the ideal rather than the real. 
 
 " If Queensbury to strip there's no compelling, 
 'Tis from a handmaid we must take a Helen." 
 
 Perhaps the handmaid may, after all, have been the better 
 figure ; perhaps, too, the ideal may be more pretty than the 
 
206 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 real. Both in friendship and love there must be truth ; but 
 truth is rare, very rare ; hence also these two qualities are 
 rare also. It is from authors, from fable, and from fiction, 
 that we draw our chief instances of both ; and it must be 
 granted that the writers have said very pretty things about 
 them. According to Cicero, friendship is the only thing 
 concerning the usefulness of which all mankind are agreed. 
 It is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies, says 
 Aristotle. 
 
 * c Friendship, when once determined, never swerves ; 
 Weighs ere it trusts, but weighs not ere it serves." 
 
 This is the dictum and definition of Hannah More. This is 
 from Theophrastus : — " In prosperity true friends only come 
 by invitation ; but in adversity they visit us when uninvited." 
 " Friendship," writes the witty and elegant La Fontaine, " is 
 the shadow of the evening, which strengthens with the setting 
 sun of life." Perhaps it is not very complimentary to com- 
 pare it to a shadow, but then we see the simile has run 
 away with the author. But the same author says what 
 we have already said : " Rare is true love, true friendship 
 is still rarer." " When two friends part," says Feltham, 
 " they should lock up one another's secrets, and change the 
 keys." " A good man is the best friend, therefore soonest 
 to be chosen, longest to be retained, and indeed never to 
 be parted with, unless he cease to be that for which he was 
 chosen." "He that does a base thing for a friend burns the 
 golden thread which ties their hearts together," writes Jeremy 
 Taylor, a wise writer, whom we wish the young folks would 
 study. But Addison hits off the definition clearly. " Friend- 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 207 
 
 ship," says he, " is a strong habitual inclination in two per- 
 sons to promote the good and happiness of each other." 
 
 How many people are capable of continually entertaining 
 this inclination it is hard to say, as self-interest so greatly 
 biases all of us. Friendship, too, continually demands sacri- 
 fices. If you have a friend, you should often visit him ; the 
 road grows up if you seldom travel it ; the minds change, 
 the habits differ ; the opinions once entertained have become 
 varied, the sweet solace of life has gone. There is nothing 
 much more melancholy in this world than having to visit an 
 old friend, one whose purse, mind — ay, very soul — were your 
 own ten years ago, and then to mark what a different creature 
 he is. Absence may have made the heart grow fonder, but 
 it is all changed by the presence. The house has grown too 
 small or too large for the inhabitant. Faults which you have 
 ceased to remember or have overlooked, weaknesses which you 
 had pardoned, illiberalities which you had shared, follies which 
 you had forgotten, stare you in the face, and friendship has 
 fled. That is indeed a strong friendship which will last 
 through removal, trouble, and for years. Different people 
 give different impressions of the world. The successful friend 
 who has perhaps gone into a new country comes back with 
 his heart expanded, his feelings in full blow, his sentiments 
 enlarged, his love for his fellows unnipped ; whilst he who 
 stayed at home in the old country has had his feelings nar- 
 rowed by misfortune, his ideas warped from their generous 
 proportions, his heart shrivelled up in the fire of adversity. 
 Our faces and our feelings are but reflections of the great 
 picture of the world as we see it ; how shall these former 
 friends meet again as friends ? 
 
208 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 " Friendship," writes Emerson, in his sceptical style, "like 
 the immortality of the soul, is too good to be believed. We 
 doubt that we bestow on our hero the virtues in which he 
 shines, and afterwards worship the form to which we have 
 ascribed his divine habitation." Yes, that too is true of the 
 friendships of the young. We are at that early time of life 
 in love with our idea. We forsake the real or overlook it. 
 We borrow from books, from pictures, from history. We 
 invent "characters" for men just as ideal as those characters 
 which Hume and Smollett, Robertson, Macaulay, or Froude, 
 invented of the kings and generals of whom they wrote. 
 We label our ideal " a friend," just as they ticketed theirs 
 William III., Henry VIII., or the Great Protector. What 
 could they possibly know of the men they describe so patly ? 
 About as little as we know of our friend. He is what we 
 wish, then, so long as we do not want him. Like the drop- 
 scene of a theatre, he is beautiful at a distance, but hollow 
 within. Gilt, glorified, and wooden, like the joss of a man- 
 darin, we may worship, and bend to, and praise him when 
 all goes well in the world : but like the same joss, he is found 
 wanting, broken, discarded, whipped. We thought him a 
 friend, of course ; we were deceived, we were hurt ; we shall 
 never get over it ; we weep, grow calm, smile, and — take 
 another. 
 
 Most men's friendships are the reflection of their own sel- 
 fishness ; those of women are of selfishness and weakness 
 mixed, that is, vanity. We are friendly with those whose 
 pursuits are the same, whose ideas are of an equal compass, 
 whose state of feeling upon politics, religion, or morality, is 
 much as ours. It is doubtful whether two men of a totally 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 209 
 
 different faith, or of diverse fortunes, can be friendly. It is 
 well enough to talk of our humble friends, but they are too 
 often like poor relations. We accept their services, and 
 think that a mere " thank you," a nod, a beck, or a smile, is 
 sufficient recompense. 
 
 In true friendship there must be a certain equality. It is 
 a new kind of brotherhood, a closer tie, an affinity of mind, 
 which different degrees of worldly riches almost always 
 dissolve and destroy. 
 
 The stories which we read of celebrated friendships, of 
 Pirithous and Theseus, of Damon and Pythias, of David and 
 Jonathan, and of some half-dozen others, are almost all ad- 
 duced from the heroic and simple period of the world. We are 
 too cunning, too sophisticated, to grow such nowadays. Then 
 a friend was of that noble kind which sticketh closer than a 
 brother. Such friendship exalted our opinion of mankind, and 
 made us expect more from humanity than perhaps it can well 
 afford. They have been perhaps also the cause of that con- 
 tinued hunger after the one great Friend which is everybody's 
 ideal, but which so few meet. We all desire such a friend ; 
 we all dress the future second self, the alter ego, in bright 
 ideals ; and, when we meet with one who would perhaps fill 
 our requirements, we are disappointed at the sombre colours 
 in which he is clad. This is especially so with the young. 
 Who does not remember his early schoolboy friendships, and 
 the early nipping frost which cut them off one by one ! Boys 
 when together often have an ideal passion, an unquiet ad- 
 miration and desire of each other, which is the precursor of 
 love. A hasty word, a quarrel, or a blow, ruins all this. 
 Friendships may be planted in youth — may grow up, indeed — 
 
 P 
 
210 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 but they cannot be matured. Boys are scarcely wise enough 
 to choose their friends. As the Apostle says of making 
 bishops, we must " lay hold of no man suddenly" to make a 
 friend. He must be weighed, tried, watched, and looked to. 
 We do not take a beam for a house, or build an arch of a 
 bridge, without testing the materials ; yet good friends are 
 much more rare than good bridges and houses. 
 
 The worldly acceptation of a friend is by far too narrow. 
 It is all wrong. It is the friendship where no kindness is. 
 Like most common-sense views of a matter, it is but common 
 sense — very common, indeed ; good for law, for business, for 
 the every-day matters of life, but of no service to the mind 
 or the soul. The man who accepts a bill, gives you dinners, 
 pushes you forward in life, answers for you in a court of law, 
 and aids you in many ways, may yet not be your friend. In- 
 terest governs us so much, that these kind offices are hardly 
 to be put down to anything but itself. The poor and the 
 unknown have few, if any, friends ; but these officious grubs 
 haunt the chambers of the great, and run after the notorious, 
 and are happy to have their names also before the world. 
 The friendship of the city man who uses you and is of use to 
 you is of little account. A rich man can always have plenty 
 of these ; a poor man comes off without one. 
 
 But in our ideal friendship — that of soul answering to soul, 
 that which arises from esteem, love, knowledge, and which is 
 or should be founded upon a rock — we expect too much ; and 
 hence the numerous disappointments of life, and the impossi- 
 bility of making a friend when young. We want a knowledge 
 of humanity. We must not expect an angel, or a perfect 
 man. We must give and take, listen to our friend's prosiness, 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 2ii 
 
 iind him oftentimes wrong or foolish, and yet stick by him. 
 One blemish must not force us to discard him ; one quarrel 
 must not break the tie. It is well for the young to choose 
 friends older than themselves ; for the foolish to consort 
 with the wise. We all should be careful to pick out those 
 who are superior in something at least ; it is but a short friend- 
 ship which we can have with those who are in everything 
 our inferiors. Contempt destroys the feeling ; we cannot be 
 friendly with one whom we despise. 
 
 Of all feelings of this sort perhaps the friendships of school- 
 girls are the most deep, but at the same time the most evan- 
 escent. Certain philosophers doubt whether two women can 
 well be friends ; and unless, like the two old lasses of Llan- 
 gollen, they determine to live single and to despise the world, 
 they can hardly be termed friends. Young ladies love each 
 other very tenderly ; are romantic, pure, true, full of a fine 
 sentiment and heroism ; will plunge into water or go through 
 fire together ; and all this without hope of any meaner re- 
 ward, and merely for the sake of pure friendship. Theirs is 
 a sublimed passion ; but, like all essences and sublimates, it 
 is of extreme delicacy. An enchanter's wand makes that 
 which neither wind, water, nor fire would destroy, melt away ; 
 and this enchanter is Love. Like twin cherries growing on 
 one stem, two sister school-girls will love each other very 
 finely, very purely, almost as purely as brother will sister : — 
 
 " There's no alloy 
 Of earth that creeps into the perfectest gold 
 Of other loves — no gratitude to claim ; 
 You never gave her life, not even the drop 
 That keeps life — never tended her, instructed, 
 
 P 2 
 
212 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 Enrich' d her — so your love can claim no right 
 O'er hers save pure love's claim — that's what I call 
 Freedom from earthliness."* 
 
 We do not find this purest of friendship in any other rela- 
 tionship ; men and women were made for each other, and the 
 stronger passion drives the weaker out. Few female friend- 
 ships subsist after marriage. Women then see the world "with 
 larger, other eyes" than erst they used, and the old beliefs die 
 out. This is a constant complaint with sentimental women 
 writers ; with those who judge from impulse and feeling rather 
 than from knowledge, and who, like the gloomy Italian philo- 
 sopher, "find fault with God," because they do not understand 
 His wisdom. Friendship is a beautiful thing, too beautiful, as 
 Mrs. Kenwigs in Nicholas Nickleby says of her young family, 
 too pure and beautiful to die ; and yet it is dying every day ! 
 We grow old, and have the mask taken from our own faces, 
 the veil from our eyes ; and how then shall we dream of the 
 ethereal friendship which two girls dream of? 
 
 Bachelors and old maids can be friends, but each to each, 
 bachelor to bachelor, and spinster to spinster ; but it is doubt- 
 ful whether a man and woman can be really so to each other. 
 Sexuality and the world forbid it. There are very fine essays to 
 be read upon this, for and against. A woman will be devoted 
 to a man, will serve him with a devotion, a generosity, none 
 else will or can exhibit ; but it is doubtful whether this feel- 
 ing does not extend too far, and overrun itself into the 
 boundaries of love. Thus we have run ourselves round, and 
 come to love again ; and, after all, in the new Revelation of 
 
 * Robert Browning — The Blot on the ''Scutcheon. 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 213 
 
 Christianity, there can be no friendship so true, so pure, so 
 complete, as that which exists in married life. In that 
 perfect union which exists between husband and wife the 
 strongest and most sincere friendship exists also. " Let me 
 not," writes Shakspeare, "to the marriage of true souls admit 
 impediment." No impediment, in fact, is strong enough to 
 withstand it, when the minds are indeed true. The spectacle 
 of two married people, of old John Anderson and his gude 
 wife, who have weathered the storms of the world and of life 
 together, who have climbed life's hill hand in hand, and who go 
 down to the grave to sleep together at the foot, is always affect- 
 ing, always beautiful, and it is often seen. There is no alloy 
 there. Awake to each other's faults and weaknesses, patient 
 of shortcomings, yet alive to the truth and love and goodness 
 in each, ready to sacrifice all, even life itself, each for each, 
 trusting that love shall endure even after death, two beings 
 thus united enlarge our own hearts when we witness their 
 devotion, and force us to believe in that modern Phoenix, 
 that wonder of wonders— a true friend. 
 
ON THE GOOD OPINION OF 
 
 OURSELVES WHICH THE WORLD 
 
 CALLS "CONCEIT." 
 
 HE word CONCEIT has been so warped from its 
 original meaning, that neither William Shak- 
 speare nor Edmund Spenser, nor indeed John 
 Bunyan, with his Sftii'itual Conceits, would 
 scarcely know its present meaning. But we know it very 
 well ; and, if any of us were called " conceited," we should 
 protest against that particular use of the participle. Like 
 Audrey, we should thank the gods that we are not "poetical," 
 the latter word being, in Shakspeare's time, synonymous with 
 conceited. Nor should we quite understand Master Euphues, 
 with his thousand "sweet conceits," as chronicled by William 
 Lyly. And yet the word is a good word, and has simply been 
 vulgarized, like many other good words. How they become 
 so it is not very easy to say. People use them wrongly, mis- 
 understand them, pick them up hap-hazard, and the poor 
 words suffer. 
 
 Conceit now means self-opinion. A conceited man is an 
 opinionative fellow, who places an inadequately large value 
 upon himself. He is one whom we should like to buy at our 
 
 
CONCEIT. 215 
 
 price and sell at his own. We are all more or less conceited, 
 and therein, perhaps, we are right. No man knows so much 
 ill of us as we do of ourselves ; but, on the contrary, no 
 one knows so much good. Did not Napoleon I., when he 
 was a poor sub-lieutenant, know that within him lay capaci- 
 ties enough to shake a world ? He has asserted that he 
 did. Did not Napoleon III., pacing up King Street, St. 
 James's, as a Special Constable, or musing in the Fortress of 
 Ham, know very well what he could do ? Read his early 
 works upon the Extinction of Poverty, and then see whether 
 you will subscribe to the opinion of Count D'Orsay, that 
 " young Napoleon was a very conceited young man." We 
 all know that the Austrian generals, whom the first young 
 Napoleon beat, thought him a very conceited officer ; so, no 
 doubt, the old soldiers of Philip spoke of the young Alexan- 
 der. Self-opinion is the natural cover and protection of the 
 young, and it may, we think, co-exist with a truly humble 
 mind and heart too. We do not hear that Lord Nelson was 
 a disagreeably conceited midshipman because he vowed he 
 would one day have a despatch to himself. Nor was Mr. 
 Disraeli promising too much when he said, after his failure, 
 that " the House of Commons would one day listen to him." 
 In these instances we see the brave and the noble mind con- 
 soling itself for temporary defeat : who can blame it ? The 
 work is hard enough ; therefore harden yourself like that old 
 boxer, who, in the midst of the battle, was heard mentally 
 patting his own back, crying, " Go it, William ! — at him 
 again ! — never say 'die !'" or like the heroic Mark Tapley, 
 who, nearly at his last gasp, and unable to articulate, motioned 
 for a slate, to write "jolly" on it. To our enemies alone 
 
2i6 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 such invincible pluck must be obnoxious. Our friends should 
 admire it. If the ballad-singer, in telling of Witherington's 
 bravery, cries out that he must sing of him — 
 
 " For Witherington needs must I wayle, 
 As one in doleful dumpes ; 
 For when hys leggs were smitten off, 
 He fought upon his stumpes," 
 
 we are not doleful at all ; and no doubt the brave Yorkshire 
 squire was jolly to the last. But his opponents must have 
 thought him exceedingly opinionative. In fact, Napoleon is 
 said to have imputed nothing less than gross conceit to our 
 soldiers. " They fight well," said he ; but "they do not know 
 when they are beaten. A very good quality, too ; shared, 
 we believe, by the Spartans and the Swiss, but deficient in 
 some younger nations, who have more pretence than the 
 old ones. 
 
 Not only individuals, but nations and societies, have plenty 
 of conceit. To an American all the world seemed bound up 
 in his Boston or Philadelphia ; the world was listening to the 
 debates of his senate ; each senator or newspaper editor was 
 "a remarkable man, sir ;" he could whip John Bull, and John 
 could whip all the world. As, since that, he has been 
 " whipped into a cocked hat " by his own relations, we hope 
 some of the conceit has been taken out of him. Every nation 
 places its own meridian at its capital city : the Russian at 
 St. Petersburg, the Frenchman at Paris, the Spaniard at Ma- 
 drid. To each nation its chief town is the centre of the world. 
 To us, London is the chief place, England the paradise of the 
 world. Our own grumblers correct this conceit, but they still 
 grumble and believe. We love our poets for their nationality ; 
 
CONCEIT. 217 
 
 they call England the corner-stone of the world. Shakspeare 
 is never tired of speaking of it. "This little world," says he — 
 
 " This perfect gem, set in the silver sea." 
 
 " Come the world in arms," he sings again, and we shall shock 
 them. How old Camden chirrups and sings in the praise of 
 his beloved Britannia. How Browne and Fletcher (Phineas) 
 give you to know that they are proud of being Englishmen ; 
 even the morose Mr. William Cowper loves England with all 
 her faults, and John Keats — what a world of difference be- 
 tween those two men, and yet true poets both !— would have 
 been glad to have died, as he had lived, within her bounds : 
 
 " Happy is England, I could be content 
 To see no other verdure than her shores." 
 
 How Fielding lets you see that the chief blessing which 
 Heaven can well bestow upon a man is to make him an Eng- 
 lishman ! We have a dozen roaring songs to the same tune. 
 We have a flag that has braved a thousand years ; and our 
 
 Constitution, sir, is the very . But you know what Dr. 
 
 Johnson and Sir James Mackintosh have said of the B. C. 
 Our own cocks crow loud enough, and (this by the way) we 
 believe them. It is well known, however, that the Irishman's 
 green isle is the first " gem of the sea," as Moore said, when 
 he pilfered the idea from Shakspeare, and applied it to Ireland 
 instead of England. All but Frenchmen think so. To them 
 La belle France is the chief attraction, and Paris the nucleus 
 of the world. The court, the camp, the academy of the world 
 is Paris ; and, as the Emperor said lately, gravely and with 
 some truth, " when France is satisfied the world is at peace." 
 
2i 8 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 This is all very true, cries a scrubby lazarone ; but "just see 
 Naples and die!" "Ah, Tuscany," says another native of 
 Italy, " how fine is thy land, how beautiful thy women, how 
 brilliant thy skies ! Tuscan is the language of the gods, 
 French of commerce, English of horses." 
 
 If we travel to China, we shall find the same conceit at 
 work. All other people besides the native of the beloved 
 land of tea and porcelain are but "outer barbarians ;" nor, as 
 we have proved, does he differ from the rest. The Esqui- 
 maux learns to regard his smoky hut, snow landscape, and 
 fur dress as dearer and better than our palaces, parks, and 
 crinoline. Put before him lamb and asparagus, with white- 
 bait, turtle soup, and cold punch, and he will turn up his nose 
 and prefer half-putrid oil. Who will condemn him ? Who 
 will not rather praise and admire that Infinite Wisdom which 
 gives to man such a variety of taste and opinion, and thus 
 places happiness within the reach of all ? 
 
 But, while conceit has, with nations and individuals, its 
 benefits, it must be confessed that its evil almost balances its 
 good. We must, indeed, observingly distil out the soul of 
 goodness in it to reconcile us to it at all. Conceit is a very 
 odious quality. It loses a man more friends and gains him 
 more enemies than any other foible, perhaps vice, in the world. 
 It makes him harsh to his inferiors, and disrespectful to his 
 betters. It causes him to live at right angles with the world. 
 It makes him believe that he alone is in the right ; it warps 
 his opinions upon all things, makes him viciously sceptical, 
 and often robs him of the most glorious inheritance of 
 FAITH, whilst it distorts his HOPE, and totally destroys his 
 Charity. A fool, we are told, "is wise in his own conceit." 
 
 
CONCEIT. 21 9 
 
 Some of those Pharisees who would not lift one foot above the 
 other, and others who wore caps like mortars, which shut out 
 the view from everything else except their own persons, were 
 wise in their own conceit. The Doctors who sought to en- 
 tangle our Saviour, and the Scribes who delighted to confuse, 
 weigh, dispute, and doubt, were all by education full of 
 conceit, self-opinion, inflation. They were blown up like 
 bladders, and, in their silly pride, as likely to burst. 
 
 Of all kinds of pride, save that of the spirit, which is the 
 most dangerous of all, and which, if we once welcome it, 
 never leaves us, perhaps that of the intellect has ruined more 
 nations and men than any other. As a nation, the English 
 are exceedingly free from it ; they have produced great men 
 of whom they are not proud, and they have reached a very 
 high level in all learning and science, and yet permit them- 
 selves to be set down by the Germans in scholarship, and the 
 French in wit. They are very wise in doing so — wiser than 
 the learned, thoughtful Hindoo, who looks down with silent 
 wonder on his rude conquerors, wiser than the effete Chinese, 
 who have mastered the whole of the maxims of Koong-foo-tse 
 or Confucius. It was very much the same of old. The 
 Greeks, and more especially the Romans, were, as nations, 
 much more modest and lowly in their opinion of intellect 
 than the Assyrians, or other nations who have perished all 
 but in name, and who achieved not a hundredth part of that 
 which Greece and Rome did. 
 
 The Egyptians, who believed that they could try conclu- 
 sions with an Almighty Power, were conceited : they refused 
 to be taught. The perfect state of unteachableness into 
 which a conceited man will fall is one of the most amusing 
 
220 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 but sad spectacles to the philosopher which can well occur. 
 It is amusing, because the person so affected shows such an 
 amount of ingenuity in attributing everything to himself. It 
 is sad, because, when a man is thoroughly in love with him- 
 self, there is little hope for him. He hardens his head against 
 all the experience which trial can teach him ; he is shut up, 
 like the enchanted prince, in a tower of brass, and none can 
 reach him. If he be fortunate, he will have laid the train, 
 and achieved the crowning glory of that fortune himself : the 
 most glorious fortune which can befall him is below his 
 deserts. He may command a fleet or an army, be first in the 
 kingdom or the parish, and you will find a self-complacent 
 smile on his features, which, to an observer, registers the 
 opinion that all was well deserved — everything the reward of 
 his own superlative merit. With misfortunes it is much the 
 same. The Fates take a pleasure in blaming him. The 
 Heavens are against him. Providence prepares some especial 
 surprise and torment for him. Thus, maddened in his own 
 conceit, whether he is happy or miserable, rich or poor, he in 
 his egotism separates himself from the rest of the world, and 
 enjoys in his own esteem an equal pre-eminence either in 
 good or bad fortune. Well may the old Scotch nobleman 
 poet have written his caveat against self-opinion : — 
 
 " This self-conceit is a most dangerous shelf, 
 
 Where many have made shipwreck unawares : 
 He who doth trust too much unto himself 
 Can never fail to fall in many snares." 
 
 The bump of self-esteem lies, the phrenologists tell us, at 
 the very crown of the head. The faculties which, crowding 
 
 
CONCEIT. 22r 
 
 on the brain, fit us for social life, are thus, as it were, tied in a 
 knot, and concentrated in the top and summit of that subli- 
 mated self, a single man. We may, in due submission to the 
 All-knower, agree that this could not be otherwise. Man, 
 being man, must be conceited. He must surround his self- 
 esteem with continuity, approbativeness, firmness, and in- 
 habitiveness, to live. Humility is the opposite pole ; but yet 
 a man, all humility, is as a cringing dog, who fawns to every 
 one, and forgets the one Master. Conceit — to many repre- 
 senting but a mean passion — is to the knower a great power. 
 Well applied, it leads to self-respect, reliance, nobleness, in- 
 dependence, dignity ; certainly to self-satisfaction and com- 
 placency. It is the very heart, centre, and chief element of 
 content. It gifts a man with a self-elevating, ruling instinct, 
 and makes him walk like the Scot of old, of whom Walpole 
 wrote — 
 
 " Firm and erect bold Caledonia stood: 
 Old was her mutton, and her claret good." 
 
 It is the well-fed man who wants and will want for nothing ; 
 the cunning, bold, self-conscious man, who assumes the proud 
 motto — 
 
 "Thou shalt want ere I want," 
 
 who is the conceited man ; he hath " pride in his port and fire 
 in his eye ;" but, if he be of a noble nature, he will carry all 
 through, and be good and true. 
 
 What the world very often mistakes for conceit is a self- 
 consciousness, a recognition of the inward power, which is, in 
 truth, very different from it. In our common acceptation of 
 the word, a conceited man is an empty fellow, who bases his 
 
222 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 opinion of himself upon no true grounds. Very often, great 
 but untried men will take upon themselves the achievement 
 of that which the world deems an impossibility. But, if the 
 man has that within him which will carry him through, he is 
 not to be blamed. It is the ignorant fellow and puffed-up 
 fool who exhibits the richest crop of conceit. 
 
 The perversion in this quality in a many-sided man — and 
 we may be sure that the man who has it will grow perverted, 
 unless he watches well — leads to egotism, the love and re- 
 spect of self, to pride, hauteur, coldness ; to superciliousness, 
 neglect of others, and to tyranny. Now a man can be a 
 tyrant in four bare walls of one room as well as in an empire. 
 We need not fling at people in high places ; we must look to 
 ourselves. The conceited man, who determines that all shall 
 yield to him, tyrannizes over the wills of others, and lets 
 nobody enjoy his own opinion. He alone is right. Thus he 
 shuts out from himself all communion, and the sweet sharing 
 of knowledge and information which the true philosopher 
 has. Humility, a prime virtue, has this consolation, that, 
 bending to be taught, it is often comforted and consoled. It 
 finds also that the greatest minds have had the least conceit ; 
 that Shakspeare has bent down from the imperial height of 
 his intellect to be taught by a clown, to be informed by 
 a milkmaid ; that Socrates, in his celebrated voyage in 
 search of knowledge, with his perpetual questions concern- 
 ing the causes of things, found that knowledge in a work- 
 man's shop which he could not find amongst the schools 
 of the professors, or under the portico of the philosophers ; 
 that Newton, from whom the secret workings of the spheres 
 were not hidden, had so little self-conceit, that he compared 
 
CONCEIT. 223 
 
 himself to a child who, playing on the sea-shore, had picked 
 up a shell here and a stone there, and thought them very- 
 pretty, but knew of them no more. 
 
 The true man, therefore, will not quite banish, nor sneer 
 away, this quality in youth. Mean as it may appear, it has 
 its uses. A little hard work in the world will rub down its 
 salient points. The bullet of steel, with star points upon it, 
 is worn smooth and polished when it has passed through the 
 gizzard of the ostrich ; the most conceited young prig, curate 
 or clerk, who ever lived, will find his level when brought^© 
 the rude experiences of the world. The great object should 
 be for us all to preserve sufficient manliness before man, and 
 to acquire a sufficient lowliness before God. Thus, as in all 
 times, matters are well balanced. We must steer cleverly 
 through the shoals and quicksands, cultivate a proper lowli- 
 ness, but yet an humble pride, if we seek, as all should seek, 
 to be proper and true men. 
 
ON SPEAKING WITHIN BOUNDS. 
 
 ]ORD BACON, one of the wisest of men, perhaps 
 even the wisest of all uninspired, not excepting 
 Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, and Shakspeare, be- 
 gins his Essays with one on " Truth." The 
 book is, for its, size, the best, fullest, most compact, and 
 deepest ever written. Bacon puts as much in a sentence 
 as we can put nowadays into a chapter, more than many 
 can put in a volume ; and in this particular essay, every word 
 of which is golden, tells us that many men "love lies for 
 their own sake ;" others love them for the " vain opinions, 
 nattering hopes, false valuations, and the like." Few of us 
 really love truth ; many have doubted whether it exists at all. 
 " What is truth ?" said jesting Pilate, and would not tarry for 
 an answer. With! so many vain shows about us, it is hard to 
 answer the question. An unthinking man answers that truth 
 is truth; but he does not solve thereby, he only repeats. 
 There are so many old truths now proved to have been lies, 
 that we are doubtful as to others. Shakspeare makes his 
 hero passionately exclaim — 
 
 
EX A GGERA TION. 225 
 
 " Doubt that the stars are fire, 
 Doubt that the sun doth move, 
 Doubt truth to be a liar, 
 But never doubt I love." 
 
 Well, we know now that the sun does not move, and that the 
 stars are not fire ; that the voices of the learned, who held up 
 these things as immutable truths, were unconsciously lying 
 after all ; what next, and next ? We know that history is full 
 of falsehoods ; that the best abused men of one age will have 
 their characters cleared by the next ; that the hero is often 
 no hero, and the unsuccessful man often the one who was 
 the best, truest, and the greatest. Lord Bacon himself has 
 had his character blackened, and then re-whitened ; Cromwell 
 was no tyrant, but a patient and sorrowful great man, longing 
 to lay aside his state and to be with God. William Penn, on 
 the other hand, is now tainted, and Washington suspected. 
 What an immense amount of falsehood, party feeling, igno- 
 rance, and exaggeration must have been poured forth to render 
 us so mistaken, to blacken the hero, and to paint the sinner 
 in the pure hues of a saint ! 
 
 But if we are not all wise enough to find out what abstract 
 truth is, we can certainly see what is false, and avoid it 
 Samuel Daniel, in writing his History of England, said that he 
 determined, if he did not arrive at truth, to get as near Truth's 
 likeness as he could. We try to do this ; but as Johnson said 
 of certain sceptics, truth will not always find food enough for 
 our vanity ; and so we betake ourselves to error. " Truth is 
 a cow," said the doctor, " that will yield such people no more 
 milk, and therefore they have gone to milk the bull." They 
 love spice and exaggeration ; they like to make things seem 
 
 Q 
 
226 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 greater than they are. They add a bit on that side, and chip 
 off a bit on the other. If a thing is merely bad, they say that 
 it is " very bad ;" that they " never saw worse ;" they multiply 
 and subtract at will. This weakness or wickedness has grown 
 so common that hardly any one is capable of giving a plain 
 unvarnished relation of any occurrence ; and in the witness- 
 box the barrister is continually forced to bring back the witness 
 to the truth, the whole truth, and "nothing but the truth," of 
 his narration. 
 
 The habit of senseless exaggeration is frequently contracted 
 in youth, and very often built upon good, or at least harmless 
 motives. We all, when children, love the marvellous ; and 
 our exaggerated relation of any event frequently causes 
 laughter, and calls forth approbation. It is no wonder that 
 in that sweet season of excitement we see more than sober 
 men and women ; we gild over our realities with all the 
 brilliant illusions of youth. -We have the eye of the poet — 
 and poetry is but a feeling of perpetual youth — not that of 
 the prosy realist, of whom it may be said — 
 
 " A primrose by the river's brim 
 
 A yellow primrose was to him ; 
 
 And it was nothing more ! " 
 
 Some amount of exaggeration, then, may be allowed to youth. 
 The sage of sixty, if he indeed be a sage, will give considerable 
 margin and verge to the effervescence of sixteen, or even 
 of twenty-six. But the wise and the good of every age will 
 check the habit in themselves. Once acquired, it will increase 
 day by day, until the speaker will hardly know when he tells 
 the truth or not j and what he does himself he will be sure to 
 
EXAGGERATION. 227 
 
 suspect others of; and, losing the love and relish for the true, 
 will lapse into a state as pitiable as it is despicable. 
 
 There are one or two excuses for these white liars, if we 
 may so term them, which the world is not slow to take ; for, 
 although ill-natured upon many things, the world is often very 
 kindly disposed to vices which it practises. One excuse is 
 put forward by many, that exaggeration is simply humorous. 
 It is so "funny" to deceive a man ! it is so clever to make 
 him believe one thing when the fact lies the reverse way ! 
 We can only say that we cannot see the " fun." It is a vul- 
 gar, stupid, and oftentimes a very cruel trick. So far from 
 showing cleverness, it does just the reverse. Fun we all like, 
 and plenty of it. We hold that, with all of us, it is a duty to 
 be merry, and cheerful, and gamesome. We believe that 
 gloom and despondency are often very great sins, proudly 
 and wickedly indulged .in, to the comfort of the gloomy man, 
 and discomfort of the world. The truest heroism is often 
 concealed under a smiling face ; and all the very best men in 
 the world have been of a light spirit. But then they kept 
 " within the limits of becoming mirth ;" and a perversion of 
 the truth lies out of that sacred boundary. The other 
 excuse is, that truth is not always agreeable, and that it 
 is as well " to make things pleasant." Those who say this 
 should remember that truth, pleasant or unpleasant, will 
 turn up at last. It may be at the bottom of the well; but 
 it will be drawn up with the last bucket, perhaps with the 
 first. Surrounded by his million of armed men, and with his 
 trebly-trebled ranks of flatterers round him, believing that all 
 the world trembled at his nod, ready to credit any flattering 
 lie, Xerxes yet came to know what truth was ; and since his 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 time great kings and potentates have been taught the bitter 
 lesson. If things are unpleasant it is best to know them at 
 once. No sailor would think of concealing from the captain 
 that the ship had sprung a leak. No officer would hesitate 
 to tell a general that his outposts had been driven in, and 
 that the foe were pouring on him. 
 
 Curiously the greatest artists in humorous exaggeration are 
 also the greatest adepts at making things pleasant. In 
 America, we believe, arose the practice of filling the news- 
 papers with an enormous exaggeration — a sort of sensation 
 lie — which editors mistook for wit. The characteristics of the 
 two peoples, the English and their descendants, are curiously 
 preserved even to this day. When our newspaper press was 
 in its infancy there was a publisher — for as yet the editor did 
 not exist — who, when he found that the news ran short, filled 
 up his columns by reprinting the Bible. Thus the readers 
 might read of the judgment of Solomon, and the trial of 
 Charles the First ; of the war in Scotland, and the exploits of 
 the Maccabees ; of the battles of Worcester or Dunbar, and the 
 Jewish fighting in the ist or 2nd Book of Kings. The method 
 was by no means a bad one, and no doubt carried good into 
 many people's houses ; but our American cousins did not care 
 for such matters, and drew on their own resources. The 
 " big gooseberries " and the " showers of frogs " paragraphs 
 grew into those attempts — curious enough in the descendants 
 of the Puritans — at exaggerated wit which at first tickled us 
 all. The man who was so tall that he shaved himself at 
 his first-floor window, grew to be the one who was obliged 
 to get up a ladder to do so, and so forth. The man who 
 could run faster than a racehorse grew to him who could race 
 
EX A GGERA TION. 229 
 
 with a flash of "greased lightning," and outrun his own shadow. 
 Some people laughed, and others were puzzled, but the 
 paper was filled. Now any one who knows what true wit is 
 will at once see that this is not wit, and besides being useless, 
 it is in effect vicious. It produces a general decay of truth 
 and a boastful habit of exaggeration, for which the nation 
 has grown famous, and at which its best friends are truly 
 grieved. Perhaps no Englishman who has not lived amongst 
 the Americans can know the truth about them. They have 
 asserted so long that they are the finest and best nation in 
 the world, and they have come out so poorly under trial, that, 
 what with a remembrance of the old story and the presence 
 of the new, the English thinker is completely puzzled. But 
 even their own newspaper writers — an ignorant and very 
 mischievous class — began to find out the beauty of truth in 
 the midst of their trials and defeats ; but the habit of years 
 is not to be overcome in a day, and it returns immediately 
 when success peeps up. Nay, with them, who peppered the 
 highest was surest to please, and the two generals who showed 
 that they were soldiers and gentlemen, by fighting soberly 
 and well, and not falsifying their reports after an action or a 
 repulse, were looked upon with but small favour, whilst 
 braggarts were preferred and promoted. So general was the 
 falsification, that the best men in the Northern States no 
 longer credited a Government despatch or a general's 
 "order," and the very means which the North took to give 
 it strength has been, like mistaken medicine, the chief source 
 of its weakness. 
 
 All this has arisen from the continued indulgence in mental 
 dram-drinking exaggeration. How true nowadays is the 
 
23o THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 character which Dickens gave of the people when he visited 
 them, and, mourned over the follies of their mob ! " I would 
 paint the American eagle as a bat for its blindness, as a 
 bantam for its brag, as an ostrich from the fact that it sticks 
 its head in the mud, and fancies that nobody sees it ;" and, 
 he adds, his English good-nature and fairness coming into 
 play, " as a Phoenix for the power which it has of rising from 
 its own ashes." Let us hope that the latter part of the sen- 
 tence will be true. The first certainly is ; and the sad state 
 into which the great nation has fallen has arisen from the 
 spread of that vile disease, a love of exaggeration. 
 
 We should remember that every lapse from, and abandon- 
 ment of truth is a crime. We may add, as men of the world, 
 quoting Napoleon's paradox, ' ; It is worse than a crime, it is 
 a blunder." " Truth," wrote Chaucer, in the infancy of our 
 literature — 
 
 " Trouthe is the liiest thing that man may kepe." 
 
 And Sam Slick, our colonial son, says very truly, "Above all 
 things speak the truth ; it must be your bond through life." 
 Such advice is of universal application. The little struggling 
 tradesman who tries to sell his wares by a lie will, in the end, 
 be found out. He may make a fortune. It would be absurd to 
 say that lies are not sometimes very potent and very success- 
 ful ; but, lucky or not, he will be the worse man for his lies, 
 less able to appreciate that which is good, noble, and pure. 
 He will be essentially a poor man, a poor creature, a wrig- 
 gling worm, found out and despised by all that are true. It 
 is to English truth and English honour that England owes 
 her present position. It was English character, and strict 
 
EXAGGERATION. 231 
 
 truth, without exaggeration, that made the rebels in India 
 tremble at threats which they knew would be kept, and fall 
 down before a mere handful of true men who kept their troth 
 and did not brag. But the exaggerative, dishonest tradesman, 
 who, in every one of his numerous advertisements which daily 
 circulate, puts forth a lie, will, as he accumulates a dirty 
 fortune, bring distrust and discredit on the English name. 
 There is no excuse for a lie. Let us put an instance. A 
 jeweller exhibits a coarse jewel, worth, let us say, ^1000, and 
 attracts attention by placing a ticket on it for ^10,000 ! He 
 may have a perfect right to do so ; but he is a fool for his 
 pains. He imputes dishonesty to himself, for no one would 
 presume that if, by some chance, an ignorant man were to 
 offer him the ,£10,000, he would not take it, and therefore rob 
 the buyer. And, moreover, though he takes in the foolish, 
 the judicious laugh and avoid his shop, because, judging from 
 one example, they have a right to suppose that every article 
 is as wickedly exaggerated in price as the big jewel. Moralists 
 would do much good if they would try to show the folly, as 
 well as the wickedness, of a vice, or perhaps to prove that 
 folly and vice are identical. It may perhaps be impossible, 
 as it would be unwise, to show that vice is always unsuccess- 
 ful : it attains its object, certainly : but its curse lies in its 
 success. Every vice in the world has commenced in the 
 dereliction of truth ; and the highest pinnacle of vice is that 
 which renders us most untrue to ourselves. When once this 
 ball is set rolling, its accumulations are intensely rapid. The 
 man who is careless of truth, who loves exaggeration, empty 
 boasting, self-praise, and the thousand foolish colours in which 
 lies are dressed, will, sooner or later, forget the very form of 
 
232 
 
 THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 the beautiful and true, and will let his notion of right and 
 wrong form dim and hazy outlines, forgetting altogether that 
 truth alone is beautiful, and the highest form of beauty is that 
 of truth itself. One little hair's-breadth above or below that 
 direct aim, and a man has begun his downward course. 
 
GOOD HUMOUR AND BAD TEMPER. 
 
 | OR a very long time by this world's verdict the 
 good-natured man and the good-natured woman 
 have been held at a discount. Thus, the good- 
 natured man in a comedy always comes off second 
 best. Some stern, cogging, selfish, cunning fellow bears away 
 the prize. Nor is the hero of a novel often a by any means 
 good-natured man, especially if the character be drawn by a 
 woman. Her ideal generally is a commanding, stern, unbend- 
 ing person ; one with dark whiskers and flashing eyes, who 
 gives his commands peremptorily and will be obeyed. He is a 
 small Agamemnon, a king of men. The secret here is, that 
 women love power, and their hero must always be exhibited 
 as possessing what they admire. The quick, energetic man of 
 action, he who is dreaded and feared, the man who impresses 
 other people — such a man is the ideal of woman, and is too 
 often the successful man in this world. Women worship 
 success ! It is their grand desideratum, and they are very 
 nearly, if not quite, right in so acting. At any rate, they have 
 the wisdom of this world about them when they do so. A 
 woman, it is very plain, cannot, being the weaker vessel, and 
 owning it in her heart of hearts, afford to be allied to a man 
 
234 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 of weak, vacillating disposition. When two young people 
 marry, want of determination in the husband often points to a 
 quiet, unobtrusive, and unsuccessful career, a struggle through 
 life, and at the end of life the trouble, not always borne 
 philosophically, of seeing the children struggle again. Hence 
 the bold and energetic man, not only on account of his energy, 
 is more successful in love matters, but he is more loved of 
 woman. When the tyrant in one of Dryden's wild plays used 
 to shout out in reference to a disobedient princess — 
 
 "I'll woo her as the lion woos his bride," 
 
 all the women applauded ; with them force embodied and 
 foreshadowed grandeur and success. We may remember, 
 too, that whether the early history of Rome be a fable or not, 
 the Sabine women soon forgave the husbands who tore them 
 away from their fathers and brothers, and themselves inter- 
 ceded and made peace between the contending nations. Force, 
 decision, sternness — these are worshipped by the world, 
 especially by the female half of it ; these are the elements of 
 Success, and these are often very contrary to Good Nature. 
 
 The man with a temper, that is, simply, the man with a 
 bad temper — for we never apply the noun by itself to the man 
 with a good one — generally manages to get his way both in 
 the world and at home. This is merely saying, in other 
 words, that the world is urged on and governed more by fear 
 than by love ; and we really think this to be the case. Let a 
 good-natured man and a man with an ill-temper order a pair 
 of boots of a shoemaker to whom they are equally good 
 customers, and it is ten to one that the ill-tempered man gets 
 the better pair of boots (if there be any difference) and is also 
 
TEMPER. 235 
 
 first served. If there be any question with a butcher, as to 
 whether the good-natured customer or the man with a temper 
 has the left leg of mutton, or the finer sirloin of beef, we may 
 depend that the ill-tempered fellow will carry off the better 
 joint ; this is not because the butcher does not fully appre- 
 ciate the good-natured man, but he is fully aware also that 
 the lean and hungry Cassius with a bad temper is much more 
 likely to notice any little failing. 
 
 Thus the man with a temper makes his way in the world. 
 He is not disturbed by his children, he is feared by his wife ; he 
 has the best place in a party ; he is never slighted or passed 
 over ; never asked to sit bodkin in a carriage, nor to make 
 himself useful with the children, simply because people know 
 very well that he will not do it, and he therefore reaps the re- 
 ward of his selfishness, or of what he very likely terms a proper 
 pride. The calmness with which the man with a temper will 
 look upon all his successes is remarkable. He at last demands 
 everything as a matter of course. He pleads, nay, people 
 even plead for him, his own ungovernable weakness, as a 
 reason that it should be indulged. Custom has allowed it ; 
 you must not disturb Mr. Blank or Mrs. Dash, because they 
 have " such a temper." The waiters at clubs, the riders in 
 the omnibus, the shopmen in the shops, all yield to the 
 vigorous, cross-grained, selfish man or woman. They take 
 the best places in this world, and they never seem to meet 
 with the master of the feast who puts them down that the 
 more honourable man may take their place. Custom, too, is 
 kindly to them ; it blinds them to their own habits and defects 
 as it does all of us, so that they frequently accuse others 
 of ill-temper. Walking with a person of this sort at an 
 
236 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 Exhibition, we were not a little amused to see him push 
 everybody rudely enough away so as to get the best places, 
 and at the same time continually call the attention of his 
 friends to ill-grained people who did the same as he. " If I 
 had the management of the police," said he, with the greatest 
 coolness, " I'd have all such fellows turned out." Where, 
 then, would he have been ? 
 
 Some authors of note have not only satirically, but in good, 
 sound earnest, dilated upon the benefits of a bad temper ; but 
 in doing so they are really very mischievous. No one needs 
 to have bad temper instilled into his nature — we have all 
 quite enough of that ; and temper causes so many sufferings 
 both to its possessor and to its victims, that it had much 
 better be written down than up, even when condemned in so 
 soft a satire that people mistake the application. 
 
 It is a mistake to suppose that its exhibition is a proof of 
 strength of character. A man of the gentlest disposition in 
 the world may be also of the strongest character. A giant 
 does not prove his strength by constantly hitting out, nor 
 does a huge horse, which can pull any weight, prove its value 
 by continually kicking and curveting. To suppose that a 
 morose fellow is a man of strong character, is to follow the 
 error of Lord Byron, who has taught that the exhibition of 
 passion proves strength ; whereas it is the continual repression 
 of all passion that proves it. A good rider holds in his horse, 
 checks him, and guides him ; a bad rider lets him have his 
 own way. The heathen knew better than we do about this. 
 The example of Alexander, who, in his rage, killed his friend, 
 and who cried for a larger share of conquest, was to them a 
 common theme for boys to practise on, to laugh at, and avoid ; 
 
TEMPER. 237 
 
 and we ought to be wiser than they. Many centuries of the 
 most cheerful religion that the world has ever known, many 
 biddings to do our duty, to cast away fear, to rejoice always, 
 and sing and make melody in our hearts, should have made 
 us understand the value of good-humour and the folly of bad 
 temper. 
 
 "Too many," said John Angell James, "have no idea of 
 the subjection of their temper to the influence of religion, and 
 yet what is changed if the temper be not ? If a man be as 
 passionate, malicious, sullen, resentful, moody, or morose after 
 his conversion, as before it, what is he converted from or to?" 
 What indeed ? Certainly a good deal of bad temper may be 
 the result of disease ; but if so, let us treat it as disease. We 
 should remember, too, that we may stroke and pet, and feed, 
 and foster a malignant temper till it assumes gigantic propor- 
 tions, and a sensitive tenderness which is wonderful. 
 
 " Some fretful tempers wince at every touch. 
 You always do too little or too much : 
 He shakes with cold ; you stir the fire and strive 
 To make a blaze ; that's roasting him alive. 
 Serve him with venison, and he chooses fish ; 
 With sole, that's just the sort he would not wish. 
 E'en his own efforts double his distress ; 
 He likes yours little, and his own still less. 
 Thus, always teasing others, always teased, 
 His only pleasure is to be — displeased." 
 
 Let us first consider its origin. Bad temper we may 
 suppose to be the effect of habitual indulgence in a mild kind 
 of anger ; and, as we all know, anger is one of the deadly 
 sins. A man who indulges in it, or a woman either, is no 
 
233 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 more a good or a virtuous being than a common drunkard or 
 glutton. One takes a pleasure in eating or drinking, another 
 in keeping up a sore place, and irritating himself, and wound- 
 ing others. If accompanied, as it may often be and is, with 
 a moderately good heart and conscience, the sufferings and 
 reproaches of the person with a temper are dreadful. No 
 amount of apology, no self-reproaches will, however, make 
 up for an insulting word or a vulgar rude action, and men 
 and women with tempers often are victims their whole lives 
 through to these little words. If they are very selfish, after a 
 time they look upon themselves as victims ; they excuse their 
 frantic folly merely as a foible. Mr. Leech, in Punch, has 
 satirized this pretty smartly. A young married couple have 
 had a tiff; the drawing-room is thoroughly upset, and looks 
 like the saloon of the Great Eastern after the storm ; tables 
 are overset, chairs and looking-glasses broken — the whole 
 place is a wreck. But the storm is over ; the wife sits in in- 
 dignant tears, and the husband is repentant. " Forgive me, 
 Maria," he gasps, " I confess that I am a little warm." The 
 figure he cuts is contemptible enough, and, of course, the 
 caricature is a caricature : it is exaggerated ; but, in everyday 
 life, men will make fools of themselves for the merest trifle ; 
 a button off a shirt, a bed ill-made, a dinner not very well 
 cooked, a guest not arrived, a plate broken — upon these 
 trifles, for which, perhaps, no one is strictly to blame, how 
 many pleasant days and hours are lost, how many words 
 spoken which are never forgiven, how many an angry, sullen 
 look and secret stab are dealt, and how many a wound is 
 given which rankles for years afterwards ! The good-natured 
 man is free from this ; he may be a fool, but he escapes such 
 
TEMPER. 239 
 
 condign and severe punishment. He, too, is a hero in his 
 quiet way ; and a woman who preserves her temper is a 
 heroine. Pope's great ideal was one who could keep her 
 temper — who was 
 
 " Mistress of herself, though China fall." 
 
 And the self-possession such a woman must possess will be 
 indeed its own great reward, and a rare gift. 
 
 Temper is also a most hurtful indulgence. Hippocrates 
 says that the most dangerous of maladies are those which dis- 
 figure the countenance, and this temper always does. It is 
 often indulged in at dinner-time, and then or at any other 
 meal checks the digestion. A man with a temper can no more 
 enjoy his life than he can his dinner. He may get the best 
 place, but he does not make the best meal. To a good- 
 natured man, life, and dinner, and tea, and supper, even an 
 ugly wife and troublesome children, sharp fortune, checks 
 and troubles, are all coloured over with a gorgeous colour, a 
 prime glory, which results from an humble and a grateful 
 heart. It is from these enthusiastic fellows that you hear 
 what they fully believe, bless them ! — that all countries are 
 beautiful, all dinners grand, all pictures superb, all mountains 
 high, all women beautiful. When such a one has come back 
 from his country trip, after a hard year's work, he has always 
 found the cosiest of nooks, the cheapest houses, the best of 
 landladies, the finest views, and the best of dinners. But 
 with the other the case is indeed altered. He has always 
 been robbed ; he has positively seen nothing ; his landlady 
 was a harpy, his bed-room was unhealthy, and the mutton 
 was so tough that he could not get his teeth through it. 
 
240 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 Perhaps neither view is quite true ; we shall be safest in the 
 middle course ; the view was passable, the landlady an ordi- 
 nary landlady, and the mutton good English mutton, that is 
 all. But oh, for the glorious spectacles worn by the good- 
 natured man ! — oh, for those wondrous glasses, finer than the 
 Claude Lorraine glass, which throw a sunlit view over every- 
 thing, and make the heart glad with little things, and thank- 
 ful for small mercies ! Such glasses had honest Izaak Wal- 
 ton, who, coming in from a fishing expedition on the river 
 Lea, bursts out into such grateful talk as this : — " Let us, as 
 we walk home under the cool shade of this honeysuckle 
 hedge, mention some of the thoughts and joys that have pos- 
 sessed my soul since we two met. And that our present 
 happiness may appear the greater, and we more thankful for 
 it, I beg you to consider with me, how many do at this very 
 time lie under the torment of the gout or the toothache, and 
 this we have been free from ; and let me tell you, that every 
 misery I miss is a new blessing." He goes on to talk of the 
 sun in his glory, the fields, the meadows, the streams which 
 they have seen, the birds which they have heard ; he asks 
 what would the blind and deaf give to see and hear what they 
 have seen. He tells his "honest scholar," that though all these 
 be so common, yet they are blessings, and that a humble, 
 cheerful man is happy, and possesses himself with a quietness 
 which " makes his very dreams pleasing, both to God and to 
 himself," and he winds up this sweet little prose hymn of 
 praise, sweeter than ever yet was a nightingale's song, or the 
 finest air in the finest opera in the world, by bidding his 
 scholar not be unthankful, because such cheerfulness and 
 thanks were " a sacrifice so pleasing to Him who made the 
 
TEMPER. 241 
 
 sun and us, and still protects us and gives us flowers, and 
 showers, and stomach (appetite), and meat, and content, and 
 leisure to go a-fishing."* 
 
 Now what kind of sermon would the man with a temper 
 preach on a fishing party ? " Umph ! " he would say, " no 
 fish — too hot — blazing sun — line in a knot — wretchedly slow 
 — a worm at one end, a fool at the other." But who would 
 have been the wiser man, who would have enjoyed life more, 
 who would have lived most pleasantly, who would have been 
 the fool, who the philosopher ? Such as the latter — the ill- 
 tempered man — was that poor hypochondriac who, in his 
 declining, and in ill-health, poor fellow ! hence his excuse — 
 went the grand tour. Sterne met him at Rome. Of course 
 he had seen nothing ; from Dan to Beersheba all was barren. 
 He was especially disappointed with the Vatican and the 
 Venus de Medicis. " He abused her ladyship," writes Sterne, 
 " worse than a common fish-fag." " I will tell it," cried Smell- 
 fungus, as Sterne ludicrously calls him, " I will tell it to the 
 world." " You had better," said Sterne, with epigrammatic 
 good sense, " tell it to your physician." 
 
 The only real excuse for the man with a temper, who is 
 by no means the hero some folks wish him to be, is bad 
 health ; and if temper, as we once knew it to be by a judi- 
 cious mother, were healed in childhood with small doses of 
 jalap, perhaps we should see less of it. But it is certain that, 
 if sickness be an excuse, bad temper increases it. If there 
 be one advice more constantly given than another, and one 
 in which all doctors, who agree in nothing else, do agree in, 
 
 * Walton's Angler, p. 248, Major's Edition. 
 
 R 
 
242 THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 it is in this — " Keep up you spirits." The effect of morose- 
 ness and temper upon health is fearful. When a man with a 
 temper is ill, he looks upon himself as a martyr ; he has been 
 personally insulted and injured ; why should he be poorly, of 
 all men in the world ? Why should not Jones, Brown, and 
 Robinson have the gout instead of Smith ? The poor wretch 
 who, in his sick-room, is "a caution," and who tyrannizes over 
 his nurse and wife with fourfold vigour, who worries the doctor 
 and won't take his physic, and who gasps like a sick monkey 
 — only the monkey is more wise than 'a sick man — punishes 
 himself dreadfully. " Most Frenchmen," said Buffon, " might 
 live to be older, but they die of conceit and chagrin." Many 
 unquiet spirits unquietly kill themselves. Like an ill-bred 
 vicious horse — and low natures in animals are often the 
 most cross-grained — the person with a temper knocks him- 
 self up before his work is half done, and when he leaves the 
 world he has outraged and not half enjoyed, his death is felt 
 as a relief ; whilst good-natured relations forgive all his fail- 
 ings, and that "head, and front of his offendings" — his fierce, 
 vigorous, selfish temper. 
 

 ON HIGH LIFE. 
 
 |NE of the common mistakes of mankind is, that 
 happiness depends upon position ; or, to put it in 
 plainer words, that a person in high life is 
 happier than one in a lower station ; that riches, 
 place, honour, observance, and high station convey happi- 
 ness ; whereas these are in good truth so many lets and 
 hinderances, and, when looked at wisely, are hardly to be 
 desired, and certainly only to be enjoyed by a few. From 
 the above-stated mistaken view of matters, there is amongst 
 the middle classes a perpetual desire to know some of the 
 secrets of high life ; and certain authors and authoresses, 
 taking advantage of this feeling, are very ready to foist rub- 
 bishing books, with catch titles, upon the public, which 
 imply that they know all the secrets of the exalted in station, 
 that they can sketch the manners of the Upper Ten Thousand, 
 or tell us all about the morals of May Fair. When there is 
 a grand party, the illustrated newspapers make capital out of 
 this passion by giving sketches, all more or less false and un- 
 true, of the ball-room and the company ; and photographers 
 daily issue portraits of great people, princes and princesses, 
 dukes, countesses, and earls ; so that if we cannot get into 
 
 R 2 
 
244 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 the boudoirs of these ladies of fashion, and see them as they 
 are, we are at least gratified by pictures of their dresses, their 
 furniture, and the manner in which they stand or sit. These 
 portraits, by the way, too often smirking or insignificant, and 
 sometimes positively ugly and vulgar, should at least teach 
 us something. We may be contented, we of the middle and 
 working classes, with our own features ; for lords and ladies, 
 with grand possessions and territorial titles, are at least no 
 better looking than we are, and do not seem to be generally 
 gifted with noble foreheads and poetic-looking faces. Some 
 good people are disappointed with the looks of those whom 
 they admire at a distance, and feel rather unhappy that their 
 great ideals are no bigger nor handsomer than they. They 
 are ready to call out, like the man in Peter Pindar's song — 
 
 " What's that, the King? What, that man there ! 
 Why, I see'd a man at Bartlemy fair 
 More like a king than that man there J" 
 
 And human nature generally demands that in the aspect of 
 the great man there should be something great. Hence we 
 have ideals and idealism ; heroes and hero-worship. As we 
 get farther away from the fine old times, they loom still vaster 
 and larger in the fog of time, and at last common men grow 
 into demi-gods. " Ah," sighs the young poet, " ah, for those 
 glorious times when every man was loyal and true-hearted ! 
 ah, for the times when the baron had open hall, and the cot- 
 tager feasted with him !" The Frenchman has an ideal time 
 like this, somewhere, perhaps, about the days of the Chevalier 
 Bayard ; and the German looks back to his dear old Father- 
 land in a dawn of poetic glory and universal brotherhood. The 
 
HIGH LIFE. 245 
 
 Roman does the same, and Macaulay, in his Lays of Ancient 
 Rome, has with wonderful spirit versified the popular belief — 
 
 " Then none was for a party ; 
 
 Then all were for the State ; 
 Then the great man helped the poor, 
 
 And the poor man loved the great ; 
 Then lands were fairly portioned ; 
 
 Then spoils were fairly sold : 
 The Romans were like brothers, 
 
 In the brave days of old." 
 
 Nay, even in valour and bravery, people think that each dege- 
 nerate age waxes weaker. " We wax hot in faction, but in 
 battle we wax cold," says the same author, " wherefore men 
 fight not as they fought in the brave days of old." We wonder 
 what those praisers of times past would have said to the 
 charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava, and to the heroic 
 and obstinate fighting of the Federals and Confederates, the 
 obstinacy and bravery (not to say the brutality) of which 
 have never been surpassed. 
 
 In the " brave days of old," however, high life was high 
 life, and the nobles, separated from and truly distinguished 
 from the people, often gave a glory and a colour to their 
 assumption of superiority. The satire of Mr. Dickens upon 
 the knights is wonderfully true, but it has excellent exceptions. 
 " After having led his leather-jerkined followers to the death, 
 being himself clothed in steel of proof," says that author, " the 
 knight returned pleasantly to breakfast ;" but it is plain that 
 the spirit of knighthood was very different. No one can doubt 
 the true, gentle breeding of Sir Philip Sydney, of Bayard, 
 (Du Terail,) of that Lord Audley who opened the battle of 
 
246 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 Crecy, walking to the van, and giving the first blow with 
 his two-handed sword, after courageously saluting his op- 
 ponents ; and who, when exhausted, torn, and bleeding, and 
 rescued from the melee to be rewarded by the king with an 
 estate, gave it with open hand, and at once, to the squires 
 who had fought with him, and had lifted him up when he fell. 
 There are hundreds of instances like this to be picked out of 
 history. Many young lieutenants in the Crimean war, when 
 they saw wounded men lying under the enemy's fire, rushed 
 out and saved them at the peril of their lives ; they showed 
 that heroism is not yet extinct in high life. 
 
 But the common curiosity to inquire after the behaviour of 
 people in the ranks above us, is based upon a supposition 
 which we believe erroneous. People fancy that high station, 
 and place, and riches give a higher tone to the thought, 
 behaviour, and the morals, or at least the minor morals of 
 life. Hence they eagerly read anything which tells about 
 lords and ladies, because they believe that lords and ladies 
 are better than they are. When a certain society of wits 
 and gentlemen were debating about "the true nobleman's 
 look," Pope, who had every opportunity of frequenting 
 cultivated society, and who knew and consorted with great 
 people, said, " The nobleman's look ? Yes, I know what you 
 mean very well : that look which a nobleman should have, 
 rather than what they have now. The Duke of Buckingham 
 (Sheffield or Villiers) was a genteel man, and had a great deal 
 the look you speak of. But Wycherley was a genteel man, 
 and had the nobleman-look quite as much as the Duke of 
 Buckingham." " He instanced it too," says Spence, in his 
 Anecdotes of Books and Men, m "Lord Peterborough, Lord 
 
HIGH LIFE. 247 
 
 Bolingbroke, Lord Hinchinbroke, the Duke of Bolton, and 
 two or three more." But the few instances which Pope gave 
 show that few men in his time, and in that cultivated and 
 Augustan age, in which breeding was cultivated more than 
 it is now, had the true look. It was, " what they should have 
 rather than what they have now." Hence, when Fielding and 
 other great artists drew pictures of lords and ladies, the 
 public were dissatisfied. The great people did not reach the 
 ideal. Sir Walter Scott, whose ideas were essentially ro- 
 mantic and dramatic, painted his high-born heroes up to his 
 own standard. His noblemen are all noblemen in the true 
 sense, his ladies highly ideal and great. Yet we may be sure 
 that tie was not very true to Nature any more than were 
 Sir Anthony Vandyke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Sir Thomas 
 Lawrence, who, in the portraits of all those who sat to them, 
 put a grace, a dignity, and a grandeur, which were too fre- 
 quently absent in the sitter, and which makes us think that 
 our present race of nobility must have degenerated. The 
 " high life," after all, lay in the pencils of the artists, and that 
 flattering power was perhaps the great secret of their success ; 
 for all the Court rushed to have their portraits painted by 
 artists who could transmit their features to posterity in so 
 noble a manner. The very hands which Vandyke paints, 
 and which he is fond of exhibiting in a peculiar turn, are the 
 hands of well-bred great people, and not those of ordinary 
 folk. So the Court painter of Louis XIV. had caught a 
 knack of representing that monarch as if he were something 
 higher than a mortal ; something almost too great and ma- 
 jestic to tread upon this earth. There was also in those 
 times (although, as we have seen, Pope speaks of them as 
 
248 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 not being a very large crop of true noblemen), a certain 
 careful air and deportment, which rendered the noblemen some- 
 what grander persons than the common men. They showed 
 an habitual attention to the nice conduct of their person. 
 " A hump-backed or deformed man," says Hazlitt, " does not 
 necessarily look like a clown or a mechanic ; on the contrary, 
 from his care in the adjustment of his appearance, and his 
 desire to remedy his defects, he, for the most part, acquires 
 something of the look of a gentleman. The common nick- 
 name of ' My Lord,' applied to such persons, has allusion to 
 this — to their circumspect deportment and tacit resistance to 
 vulgar prejudice." 
 
 But, luckily, to enable those who are not admitted into 
 the charmed circle to judge for themselves, we have many 
 painters of men and manners whose pencils are as faithful as 
 a photograph ; just as faithful, indeed, since they sometimes 
 increase the dark shadows, and magnify, if almost impercep- 
 tibly, the prominent features of those they portray. Thus we 
 may judge pretty accurately that in high life there are people 
 innately vulgar, and overbearing and proud, when we read the 
 Hon. Mrs. Norton's Lost and Saved, and are called upon to 
 study the character of the Marchioness of Updown. Through- 
 out the novel this portrait, while it creates amusement, causes 
 disgust. The woman is tyrannical, foolish, and imperious ; 
 she renders herself ridiculous to her family, and hateful to her- 
 self ; she is encroaching and proud, one of those persons 
 who take all the good things in life as if they fell naturally to 
 their share, and would leave the dross to others. Mrs. Nor- 
 ton, who has seen high life in all its varieties, if indeed there 
 be any, paints with an unsparingly vigorous pencil its vices 
 
HIGH LIFE. 249 
 
 and its follies. That was to be expected ; but that which 
 annoys and irritates us is, that she gives us such an insight 
 into its vulgarisms. Of course those who are philosophic 
 enough to study life, know that the mobility have their vul- 
 garisms as well as the ?/zobility; but many of the middle 
 classes were very much hurt at the author's bold portrayal of 
 a marchioness who behaved not a whit better than the in- 
 flated wife of a costermonger ; who would push, and struggle, 
 and squeeze to get the first plaee, and who would elbow any 
 one else down stairs if she could. But this is actually done 
 in high life. At an entertainment given by the Prince and 
 Princess of Wales, to which, of course, only the very cream 
 of the cream of society was admitted, there was such a 
 pushing and struggling to see the Princess, who was then but 
 lately married, that, as she passed through the reception- 
 rooms, a bust of the Princess Royal was thrown from its 
 pedestal and damaged, and the pedestal upset; — the ladies, in 
 their eagerness to view the Princess, coolly took advantage 
 of the overthrown pillar by standing on it. This was per- 
 haps very indicative of an impatient loyalty, but was more 
 so of a vulgar curiosity, and certainly was damaging to the 
 furniture. 
 
 It is possible that such an anecdote may displease many 
 who believe in the great virtues and innate breeding of the 
 Upper Ten Thousand. We can only assert that we heard it 
 from the very best authority. When Thackeray wrote Vanity 
 Fair, he drew a baronet of an ancient line as drinking with 
 a charwoman in his own house, carrying the boxes of his 
 governess and taking sixpence for the job, and as otherwise 
 behaving as a low miserly hunks. The sharp vices of the 
 
250 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 little governess, the characters of the struggling demi monde of 
 the book, were all admitted ; but the critics and the public 
 found much fault with the baronet. It will be always so. 
 People were delighted with his puppets, wrote Thackeray ; 
 the famous little Becky Puppet has been pronounced un- 
 commonly lively on the wires ; and pleased to remark the 
 richly dressed figure of the Wicked Nobleman, on which no 
 expense has been spared, and which Old Nick will fetch away 
 at the end of the performance. But he does not speak of 
 the baronet as a puppet. It was a portrait from real life, and 
 therefore gave offence, it being a rule amongst readers and 
 critics that an author may draw a nobleman as wicked as he 
 pleases, but he must not draw a baronet vulgar. 
 
 The moral of all this is, that all life is much alike. A club 
 of gentlemen gossipping at the bow window of a St. James's 
 Street club, and a club of tradesmen in a public-house, will 
 talk very much alike. They will refer to the current topics 
 of the day, repeat the scandal of the town, and sometimes, 
 very good-naturedly, slander their companions. Indeed, the 
 tradesmen's club will have sometimes the higher talk ; they 
 will endeavour to manage the nation, and run into politics, 
 censuring the behaviour of the ministry, and taking cognizance 
 of the state of Poland and the designs of France, whilst politics 
 would be reckoned trite, and tabooed at a west-end coterie. 
 So the glimpses we get of high life from the books which are 
 more truthful than novels, the memoirs of great persons, pub- 
 lished from time to time, show us that humanity is every- 
 where the same, and that Jack is very little, if any, worse 
 than his betters. In the Memoirs of the Duke of Bucking- 
 ham, and in other family records recently made public, what . 
 
HIGH LIFE. 251 
 
 pictures of dirty pride and true vulgarity we get ! Such 
 books are very humiliating, because we all want a much 
 higher ideal than we have ; we all look for something better 
 than we are ; but, if we are wise, this humiliation will not last 
 long, and will give place to the reflection that poor living and 
 high thinking can go very well together, and that it does not 
 need a thousand a-year, or even absence from trade, to make 
 a gentleman, We need not all imitate the grand manner of 
 some high people, but we can adopt the polish, suavity, and 
 politeness, one towards another, which, with few exceptions, 
 they all have. Beyond that, in seeking to do our duty, and 
 to hold ourselves uprightly, we shall do all that is necessary ; 
 and we need not crane our necks after great people, but re- 
 flect that the middle station is the best and the happiest, and 
 that, after all — 
 
 " Worth makes the man ; the want of it the fellow ; 
 The rest is all but leather and prunella!" 
 
 that is, external dress, hangings and lendings, and not the 
 true man himself. 
 
ON THAT VERY COMMON SIN 
 CALLED INDOLENCE OR LAZINESS. 
 
 UTTING a very pertinent question to his corres- 
 pondent, Zimmerman asks, " Which is the real 
 hereditary sin of humanity? Do you imagine 
 that I shall say pride, or luxury, or ambition? 
 No ! I shall say indolence. He who conquers that, can 
 conquer all." How perfectly true this is we are not all ready 
 to acknowledge ; and, with due respect to a man who was a 
 strange but a deep thinker, we doubt whether the sin attaches 
 to Nature. She is surely, in this respect, far above suspicion. 
 " Nature," writes Goethe, " knows no pause, and attaches a 
 curse upon all inaction." The botanist, the geologist, the 
 chemist, alike attest this great truth. Sitting down upon 
 the sea-shore, and watching the rise and fall, and the ebb 
 and flow of the waves ; marking the little ripples left in the 
 sand to be moved and washed away at the next tide ; deeply 
 regarding the water-worn rocks or the chalk cliffs, which 
 have been driven, as it were, inland by the ceaseless work of 
 the sea ; looking at the ever-springing grass, the scirrous and 
 cumulative clouds which pass away and " leave not a rack 
 
 
INDOLENCE. 253 
 
 behind ;" listening to the continual chirp of the cricket, the 
 "thin, high-elbowed things" which thread the grass, or watch- 
 ing the sea-gull lifting itself above the breaking waves, and 
 then darting on its prey — we may well say that Nature knows 
 no pause. She builds up or she destroys, but she moves ever 
 forward ; it is with her as with her little trickling servant, the 
 brook, of which our greatest living poet has written, that — 
 
 " Men may come, and men may go, 
 But I go on for ever." 
 
 But when here, man does come and go ; and although, in 
 the aggregate, he is a busy creature, working for ever with 
 brain and hand, still in the individual he is much given to 
 indolence. Civilization, which has placed everything in the 
 hands of certain people, has freed them from the necessity of 
 working, and they have become do-nothing classes in the 
 worst sense. Nowadays many people are proud of doing 
 nothing, and inflate themselves with the wicked vanity, hold- 
 ing a prescriptive right of being indolent. There has grown 
 up amongst us — the strange efflorescence of our grand en- 
 deavours and our ceaseless workers — a party which brags 
 and vaunts that it does not earn its own living — that it does 
 nothing, lives at the expense of others, and is yet superior to 
 others. This class is certainly not the highest in the truest 
 sense, for amongst the highest we find ceaseless workers ; 
 and of them are they which best know the true value of time. 
 That of which we speak is a rich and, so to name it, an igno- 
 rant class, which alike despises the trader, the merchant, the 
 poor professor, and the poor thinker or writer, through whose 
 united efforts they are kept in well-being. Peace, safety, 
 
254 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 and good government have produced these men ; a sort of 
 people who are like the fat and lazy grub, living comfortably 
 inside the hazel-nut which it preys upon and destroys. But 
 of all pride — and all of it is more or less without foundation 
 and foolish altogether — that which builds itself upon a right 
 to be idle and to do nothing is the most foolish and the 
 most baseless. A man may be proud of a handsome face or 
 of a very clever head, with some reason ; for, although he did 
 not make the one, and God gave him the other, still he is the 
 fortunate recipient of that which almost all men and women 
 admire. It has, too, grown into a custom to be proud of 
 being the descendant of an old family, and of possessing a 
 name and estate which have descended from a remote 
 ancestry. There is not much sense in this kind of pride ; but 
 custom excuses it; and although the wise man will very 
 properly disdain to exercise it, yet it may lead to an honourable 
 and not useless life. People admire high birth and noble 
 lineage ; and although nothing 
 
 " Can ennoble slaves, or fools, or cowards, 
 Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards," 
 
 the reverence men pay to old families has something good 
 and wise in it. We are paying back to their posterity the 
 gratitude we owe to great men ; and this posterity may in- 
 dulge in a venial pride in their own ancestors. If the nation 
 has cause to be proud of a Marlborough, a Wellington, or 
 a Nelson, we may excuse their descendants in sharing that 
 feeling, even in a greater degree. But the man who is merely 
 rich and lazy, and who has inherited sufficient money to keep 
 him from the necessity of labour, has surely no good and 
 
 
INDOLENCE. 255 
 
 sufficient reason to be proud. His position, if wisely looked 
 at, is not a happy one. It is true that he may be said to be 
 independent, so far as a man can be. His progenitors have 
 worked for him, and their accumulated labours, when in- 
 vested in the funds or in an estate, put him out of the rank 
 of those to whom glorious necessity forms the impetus of 
 work. But, at the best, this state is without honour, and is 
 somewhat contemptible. The indolent man is of little use in 
 a state. He is born to consume, and not to produce. The 
 poorest haymaker, hedger and ditcher, or cobbler, whose 
 labour pays for his daily existence, is a more useful, and 
 therefore a more noble man with regard to the common- 
 wealth. Indolence is, after all, a mental rest. Leisure^which 
 is very good when indulged in after hard work, is poison to 
 the soul and body too. " I look upon indolence as a sort of 
 suicide," said Lord Chesterfield, writing to his son ; " for by 
 it the man is efficiently destroyed, although the appetite of 
 the brute may survive." Too often, if not always, the brute 
 appetite does survive. A man who has no immediate neces- 
 sity for work sinks from one state of quiescence into another. 
 From the mere custom of inactivity, all labour becomes at 
 first distasteful, and afterwards hateful. The muscles, being 
 unused, grow weak and flabby ; the body after some struggles 
 relinquishes the desire to work, and the mind shares the lazi- 
 ness of its lower companion. "At the very best," said Steele, 
 in the Spectator, "indolence is an intermediate state between 
 pleasure and pain, and very much unbecoming any part of 
 our life after we are once out of our nurse's arms." 
 
 But indolence certainly does not become us, even when in 
 our nurse's arms. Nor does it when we grow up to be great, 
 
256 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 lazy, hulking boys — perhaps the most ungraceful and distaste- 
 ful of all animals, as they themselves feel, poor fellows — and 
 yet all boys are lazy, and schoolboys encourage each other 
 in this love of stupid indulgence and ease. That astute pre- 
 late, the Bishop of Oxford, speaking at a local examination, 
 said, " Every one of us has in his constitution, more or less, 
 a love of ease, a love of idleness and of laziness. This works 
 differently with different people, but it comes to the same 
 point at last. It is a kind of attempt to draw the shoulder 
 from the collar, when the collar pinches, and it becomes up- 
 hill work. Some boys draw the shoulder back, just when it 
 comes to the point that will make their characters better and 
 brighter. They are fond of doing what they can do easily, 
 but they are thrown back if any difficulty arises." 
 
 If nature abhors a vacuum, to adopt the axiom of the 
 natural philosopher, so surely does she also abhor anything 
 like indolence. A healthy child is of course often at rest, 
 but never indolent. It is always at work in its own way ; it 
 will be ever ready to do something, to work at one thing or 
 another. The very mischief of a young child is merely mis- 
 directed industry. A child is never so happy as when it is 
 busy. The embryo soul puts out feelers into the strange 
 world in which it is placed, and tries, step by step, and 
 moment after moment, to fit itself to work. It is for ever 
 imitative : its very voice, and the motion of its tongue, are to 
 be learnt ; and gradually, and by much practice, are these 
 mysteries to be acquired and understood. Continual motion 
 and activity, when in health, are necessary to keep its body 
 and growing muscles in health. A child is seldom a heavy 
 sleeper ; it will awake with the sun ; and the chief thing which 
 
INDOLENCE. 257 
 
 it dislikes is to go to bed. It shuns sleep as grown people 
 endeavour to avoid Sleep's image and elder brother, Death. 
 It will still be acting, still playing, still bargaining at mimic 
 life, until it gets wearisome to its nurses, and the bad habits 
 of the world and society constrain it to become a slug-a-bed. 
 Waking with the sun in the morning, ready to be out and 
 about, to commence the day with refreshed strength and a 
 re-invigorated appetite, it is too often chid into indolence, 
 and taught to be lazy, until from repeated lessons it gains a 
 bad habit, and " custom lies upon it with a weight, heavy as 
 frost, and deep almost as life." 
 
 Yet, if there be one thing which can conquer the ills of life, 
 which will make all things pleasant and all difficulties easy, it 
 is Industry, the great opponent and conqueror of that rust of 
 the mind of which we have been speaking. " There is no art 
 or science which is too difficult for industry to attain to ; it is 
 the very gift of tongues," said Lord Clarendon, " and makes 
 a man understood and valued in all countries." It is the 
 philosopher's stone, and turns all metals and even stones 
 into gold, and suffers no want to break into his dwelling. As 
 indolence makes all things difficult, and gives a man pain 
 even to walk to his door and loll in his carriage, so industry 
 makes all things easy. " He who rises late," writes old Fuller, 
 as wisely as quaintly, " must trot all day, and shall scarcely 
 overtake his business at night." Laziness, on the other hand, 
 travels so slowly that Poverty soon overtakes her. This law 
 is universal. It may seem very pleasant to be enabled to 
 indulge in idle whim- whams, to fold the arms, to loll and to 
 do nothing ; but the man who does so does it at his own cost 
 and peril, and soon sorely rues it. His body cannot be so 
 
 s 
 
258 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 healthy, his mind must stagnate, his soul become corrupt. 
 Idleness, as the old French epitaph on a vicious great man 
 noted, is nothing but the mother of all the Vices, and a very 
 prolific mother too. The rough Abernethy's advice to a lazy 
 rich man, full of gout and idle humours, unhappy and with- 
 out appetite, troubled with over-indulgence, and pampered 
 with soft beds and rich food, was to " live upon sixpence a 
 day and earn it ;" a golden sentence, a Spartan maxim which 
 would save half the ill-temper, the quarrels, the bickerings 
 and wranglings of the poor rich people, and would rub the 
 rust off many a fine mind, which is now ugly and disfigured 
 from want of use. 
 
 Of course there have been many great men who were very 
 indolent, and who were lazy in body, however active they 
 may have been in mind : but this is certain — their greatness 
 was born with them, not achieved ; whereas a man may have 
 a very mediocre talent, and by continued industiy may so 
 improve it that it will become more conspicuous than the 
 over-rusted but great brain. But more than this, very many 
 great men have been the most devoted opposers of sloth and 
 indolence. Sir Thomas More, in his Utopia, represents the 
 inhabitants of his model island as attending lectures before 
 breakfast. More himself rose at four ; Bishop Burnet at five, 
 or in winter at six. Bishop Home got up early and wrote 
 his Comme?itaries on the Psalms, and his other learned and 
 critical works, fresh as the morning to his task. The theory 
 of Napoleon, although his practice deviated and varied from 
 it — alas ! where does it not ? — was early rising ; and every 
 one knows the habits of Wellington, his simple, hard bed, his 
 frugal meals, and his early hours. Sir Walter Scott used to 
 
INDOLENCE. 259 
 
 write, not only his novels, which were the business of his life, 
 but letters, and would attend to other matters, before his 
 clients came, so that people wondered where he could find 
 time to do so much. John Wesley, as is often quoted, con- 
 sidered that five hours' sleep was enough for him or any man. 
 This is somewhat scant measure ; the old English proverb, 
 so often in the mouth of George III., was " six hours for a 
 man, seven for a woman, and eight for a fool." It is not at 
 all improbable but that the wear and tear, the constant activity 
 and worry of modern life, make most of us inclined to take 
 the fool's share ; but certainly for more than that there can 
 be no excuse. A volume might be filled with the stories of 
 deeds achieved by men who were early risers, or those who 
 eschewed indolence, and achieved greatness thereby ; of Tur- 
 ner the painter, journeying to Hampstead Heath to catch the 
 first glorious rays of a summer morning, and to transfer them 
 to undying pictures ; Milton, recommending " the field in 
 summer, and in winter the study, as oft as the first bird rouses, 
 or not much tardier, to read good authors — preserving the 
 body's health with hardiness, to render lightsome, clear, and 
 not lumpish obedience to the mind, to the cause of religion, 
 to our country's liberty." 
 
 These are grand motives for early rising and an enmity to 
 indolence ; and the truth is, that the sober, energetic, and 
 industrious man is he who feels grand motives, and can raise 
 his soul to a celestial height. We shall not have learned 
 Priestleys, Franklins, Hales, or men with the learning of a 
 Bacon or a Selden, if our young men are allowed to lapse 
 into that elegant indolence which is one of the worst affecta- 
 tions of this age, and which may become the reality of the 
 
 s 2 
 
260 THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 next. It is a very nice thing to become an elegant do-nothing, 
 a modern " swell," after the picture of Mr. Punch, or the 
 artists in the books of fashion ; but the elegant, careless, 
 insouciant dandy of twenty-five too often grows into a very 
 useless, vicious, do-nothing man at thirty or thirty-five. 
 There is no time to be lost ; he who would make his mark 
 in the world must be up and doing. Our young men should 
 look to this ; luxury has produced indolence, and that in its 
 turn has bred doubt and unhappiness. " Too many of our 
 young men," said Channing of America, " grow up in a school 
 of despair." Of despair, because of idleness and folly ; they 
 believe nothing, because they do nothing ; whereas the great 
 worker, who has achieved what the world wonders at, has a 
 credulous brain, and believes in miracles. A Divine benedic- 
 tion attends on true work ; its spirit is indeed the little fairy 
 which turns everything into gold ; and that man or woman 
 who instils into his or her children habits of industry, who 
 teaches them self-dependence, " to scorn delights, and live 
 laborious days," does much better than they who, after work- 
 ing painfully themselves, leave to their children a fortune 
 which will corrupt by inducing an indolence that will surely 
 prove a curse. 
 
 
ON " WANTING TO BE SOMEBODY." 
 
 OBERT DODSLEY, once a footman (the Muse 
 being in livery), and afterwards a very successful 
 bookseller and publisher, made a collection of 
 sayings in " proverbial philosophy," which ante- 
 dated Mr. Farquhar Tupper by at least a century, and which 
 is as certainly equal in poetic fervour and merit to the ejacu- 
 lations of that author. When, therefore, any one wishes to 
 find what common-place minds think upon any matter, it 
 will be well to consult Dodsley's Economy of Huma?i Life, 
 or Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy. These authors will be 
 sure to give one that which is very obvious, and which upon 
 the first blush may, to many persons, seem actually true and 
 genuine ; moreover, as they both write with one element of 
 grandeur very prominently put forward, they seem to some 
 grand. That element is simplicity, without which grandeur 
 can hardly exist ; and no one will doubt the simplicity of 
 Dodsley on such a subject as ambition, which he calls emula- 
 tion. He tells every one, in fact, to indulge in the passion. 
 " If thy soul thirsteth for honour, if thy ear hath any pleasure 
 in the voice of praise, raise thyself from the dust whereof 
 
262 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 thou art made, and exalt thy aim to something that is praise- 
 worthy." " Endeavour to be first in thy calling, whatever it 
 may be ; neither let any one go before thee in well-doing ; 
 nevertheless, do not envy the merits of another, but improve 
 thy own talents." 
 
 The mixture of Scripture phrases with his own homely 
 words has proved too much for the " Muse in livery." How can 
 a man raise himself from the dust of which he is made, and to 
 which he shall return ? And yet such a glitter of Scripture 
 words makes the book seem good to some simple people ; and 
 when he tells us, with a curious compound of Eastern and 
 sporting imagery, that an ambitious man " panteth after fame, 
 and rejoiceth as a racer to run his course," one cannot but 
 smile at the honest footman. Ambition is not so simple a 
 thing as he makes it, and men who " pant " after fame are 
 neither very wise nor very happy men. Nor is it so very 
 necessary for us all to endeavour to be the first in our calling, 
 whatever that may be. Such a behest is too general and 
 wide. We may, in the first place, hate our calling, and have 
 a vicious one, and it will be better then to change it ; and as 
 to being first, we know that in a long road some needs must 
 follow, and that, if we push others out of the way to get first 
 ourselves, we shall not be doing a good thing, and certainly 
 one very 7 perilous to our souls. Ambition is really of so com- 
 plicated a nature, it is so common to man, so beneficent in 
 some results, and so disastrous in others, that it is not to 
 be treated with a few broken sentences or lame verses, but 
 requires deep thought and consideration. Shakspeare con- 
 siders ambition as so nearly approaching a vice that it needs 
 at least extenuating circumstances to make it a virtue ; and 
 
AMBITION. 263 
 
 the knightly Hotspur, who is so in love with the passion that 
 he thinks it were an easy leap — 
 
 " To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon," 
 
 or to attempt the wildest and most impossible things, in 
 order to be known to posterity and to live in history, is but a 
 hot-brained enthusiast, a good knight, a fire-eater, too fond 
 of glory and too full of fight to be wise or calm. Wolsey, 
 after his fall, is made to repeat that historic saying, which we 
 all remember, " Had I served my God as I served my king, 
 He would not now have deserted me," and to warn his secre- 
 tary against ambition : — 
 
 ; ' Cromwell, I charge thee fling away ambition : 
 By that sin fell the angels. How can man, then, 
 The image of his Maker, hope to win by it ? " 
 
 The greatest poet whom the world has ever produced cer- 
 tainly flung it away himself. He threw his works upon the 
 public, careless even of their being printed, retired to his 
 country house, having left the copies of his best plays kicking 
 about at the theatre, or to be burnt as waste paper, after his 
 death at Stratford, by a careless son-in-law. Yet a nobler 
 ambition than to achieve the place of the first dramatic poet 
 could fill no man's breast. Shakspeare has been the teacher, 
 guide, philosopher, and friend of all men for three hundred 
 years ; and men have shown their gratitude by just now be- 
 ginning to take measures for setting up a statue to him. 
 
 The wisest of men have taken care to uproot this feeling, 
 this selfish passion of ambition, this love of distinction, from 
 their breasts. Swift, always wise and trenchant in his 
 
264 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 satire, ridicules our " stars and garters," by showing the Lillipu- 
 tians jumping over red and blue silk thread for the purpose 
 of being decorated. Yet what a tumult and a struggle must 
 the possession of the decoration of a ribbon cause to certain 
 noblemen ! What intrigues and counter-intrigues — what 
 mining and counter-mining amongst many, till at last two 
 are picked out, and after that, one only gets the vacant garter, 
 and the other retires disgusted and sulky to his princely park, 
 eaten up with the canker-worm of disappointed ambition ! 
 Lucky will he be if he has not soiled his own purity in the 
 struggle. They who run races often get thrown down in the 
 hurry, and rolled in the dust, and, says Swift, " Ambition 
 often puts men upon doing the meanest offices ; so climbing 
 is performed in the same posture as creeping? 
 
 Moderation and contentment have been from time out of 
 mind recommended and descanted upon as antidotes to am- 
 bition ; and we all of us need these antidotes, because, with 
 very few exceptions, we are all of us extremely subject to the 
 passion. The man who carries letters would choose to be 
 post-office clerk ; the man before the mast, a coxswain ; the 
 coxswain, a first lieutenant. In the army there is the same 
 feeling, and with equal strength, and in statecraft everybody 
 knows that there are so many applicants for certain places 
 that the minister is puzzled how to bestow his favours. When 
 Richelieu gave away a place, he said that he had made " one 
 man ungrateful and had offended fifty." The fifty were 
 the needy and ambitious nobodies who wanted to be some- 
 body, and went away disappointed. " Fain would they 
 climb," and without any fear of falling. What was true 
 then is equally so now. Abraham Lincoln, a man of much 
 
AMBITION. 265 
 
 quaint word-wisdom, if unfortunate in his actions, being 
 applied to by a dozen generals wanting commands, and a 
 hundred captains asking for companies, " Truly," said the 
 puzzled President, " I have more pegs than I have holes to 
 put them in." And we may be sure that no minister or king 
 ever found a want of such pegs readily shaped and rounded. 
 Rochefoucauld, who always put an ill-natured construction 
 upon all human feelings and actions, and so despised man 
 that he certainly could see no good in him, finds no virtue in 
 moderation. " It cannot have the credit," he says, " of con- 
 quering and subduing ambition, because they (the two motive 
 powers) are never found together. Moderation is the languor 
 and indolence of the soul, as ambition is its activity and 
 ardour." This is not wholly true, or at any rate it is so far 
 false as this, that any soul, however moderate in its desires, 
 can be whipped, pricked, and stirred up into being ambitious; 
 and when once the fiend is raised, there will always be a great 
 trouble to lay it again, for ambition is one of those pas- 
 sions that swell and grow with success ; it commences with 
 the lowest rung of the ladder, and is never satisfied till it 
 reaches the highest. Had Alexander found out another 
 world to conquer, he would have looked up to the stars after 
 winning it, and have prayed to be allowed to mount, merely 
 for the insane purpose of worrying the quiet, and perhaps 
 gelid, inhabitants. 
 
 If moderation and ambition do not dwell together in the same 
 breast at the first, they cannot do so afterwards ; for, unless 
 curbed with the strongest will, and held down with the most 
 determined restraint, ambition will not let any other passion 
 dwell with it. A young cuckoo, hatched in the nest of a 
 
266 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 hedge-sparrow, by mere force of nature, grows bigger and 
 bigger, till, by its increased size, and by being the most for- 
 ward and the most hungry, it obtains most of the food 
 brought by its anxious and deceived stepmother, and gra- 
 dually elbows the smaller and weaker birds out of the nest. 
 One can see the starved and callow fledglings lying on the 
 ground beneath their parent's nest. So it is with ambition. 
 It will make a bad and lazy man industrious and virtuous. 
 It will transform a spendthrift into a miser; it will inspire men 
 with supernatural activity and quickness, and at the same 
 time it will make a generous good man a grasping and hard- 
 hearted tyrant. " It is," writes Jeremy Taylor, " the most 
 troublesome and vexatious passion that can afflict the sons of 
 men. It is full of distractions ; it teems with stratagems, and 
 is swelled with expectations as with a tympany. It sleeps 
 sometimes as a wind in a storm, still and quiet for a minute, 
 that it may burst out into an impetuous blast till the cordage 
 of his heart-strings crack. It makes the present certainly 
 miserable, unsatisfied, troublesome, and discontented, for the 
 uncertain acquisition of an honour which nothing can secure; 
 and besides a thousand possibilities of miscarrying, it relies 
 upon no greater certainty than our life; and when we are 
 dead all the world sees who was the fool ! " 
 
 All the world sees who was the fool ! — that's a shrewd 
 remark. Thackeray has applied the thought in a different 
 way ; and although there is little comparison between the 
 author of Vanity Fair and the finest pulpit orator that 
 England has produced, it will be well to trace the thought 
 which in botli is parallel. When the bones of Napoleon the 
 Great were brought to Paris, Thackeray was there, and the 
 
AMBITION, 267 
 
 pageant of the removal of the remains of one of the most 
 ambitious men whom the world has seen inspired the 
 English satirist to write one of the best of his ballads. He 
 draws a picture of ambition, and says of the soldier, " Go to ! 
 I hate him and his trade," and relates that to pluck Napoleon 
 down, and to keep him up, " died many million human souls" 
 (that is, men) ; that he conquered many cities and captured 
 many guns ; and — 
 
 " Though more than half the world was his, 
 He died without a rood his own, 
 And borrow' d from his enemies 
 Six feet of ground to lie upon. 
 
 " He fought a thousand glorious wars, 
 
 And more than half the world was his ; 
 And somewhere now in yonder stars 
 Can tell, mayhap, what glory is." 
 
 "All the world sees who was the fool!" — it is the old story. 
 Restless ambition, vaulting over obstacle after obstacle, over- 
 leaps itself and falls on the other side. We need not draw 
 lessons from kings and conquerors : every one of us has his 
 little ambitious aim, his desire to distinguish himself and to 
 make himself the chief man. It matters not much whether 
 we endeavour to be Pitt in Parliament, or an orator in a 
 public-house, the same love of praise, the unquiet wish to be 
 talked about, to be first, inflates the breast of both. Yet 
 ambition is generally thought to be a high and glorious 
 passion ; it is one which all women love, because all women 
 share it ; but its gorgeous trappings merely disguise it. " If 
 we strip it," says Burton, " we shall find that it consists of 
 
268 THE .GENTLE LIFE 
 
 the mean materials of envy, pride, and covetousness." The 
 desire of fame may be the last infirmity of noble minds, but 
 it is an infirmity nevertheless. 
 
 Lord Bacon, in an essay on ambition, seems to have written 
 only for kings, advising them when to use ambitious men ; for 
 such men, he says, "will be good servants," active, ardent, full 
 of work, and stirring. But when they have arrived at a certain 
 point, then they are dangerous, and should be put away. " A 
 soldier without ambition," he adds, "is like one without spurs." 
 In fact, the "pomp and circumstance of glorious war" are the 
 very food this selfish passion is most fond of. What woman 
 cares for the hundreds who have been smitten down by camp 
 fever, who have been bent double by ague, cramped with 
 cold, broken and diminished in war ; who are legless, arm- 
 less, handless, lying in the bloody trench, or trodden into the 
 crimson mud, when she reads her son's name in the Gazette ? 
 What man, except a few piteous souls, thinks of the misery 
 which shall descend like an inheritance after a glorious battle? 
 The heart stirs, the eye flashes, the pulse quickens, and a 
 thousand men are broken and scattered, and a thousand 
 others are exulting victims, and the ambition of some one or 
 some dozen has a sweet incense burnt upon its altar ! 
 
 Or, in a lower case, a man may have an ambition to be rich, 
 great, and much talked of, and by the sacrifice of his own 
 peace of mind he gains the empty decoration of a name, or 
 adds field to field, to look back with regret upon the hot and 
 weary path he trod, and the sweet home-pleasures, refreshing 
 both to body and soul, from which he turned away in his 
 hurry, or passed by with contempt. After all, a man had 
 better be content with his position, acknowledging that a 
 
AMBITION. 269 
 
 greater than he is has placed him there, and such content 
 will give a man a great deal of wisdom. It is indeed only- 
 he who is happy in his own condition that the wise and 
 politic Montaigne, that Polonius of literature, would have to 
 speak with sovereigns. Such a man to whom the poet need 
 hardly say — 
 
 " Quod sis, esse velis, nihilque malis, 
 Summum nee metuas diem, nee optes." * 
 
 Such a man u would on the one hand not scruple to touch 
 his sovereign's heart to the quick for fear of losing his pre- 
 ferment,"f and on the other would have no base craving for 
 elevation above his fellows, or for rank and riches, which so 
 surely corrupts the heart and hinders us from living the Gentle 
 Life. 
 
 Of all ambition perhaps that of the author or of the painter 
 is the most harmless ; but even that, when achieved, is but 
 dust and ashes in the mouth of him who has won it. " Ah, 
 young man," said an author, whose works are great as well 
 as good, and who should be satisfied and happy, " they tell 
 me that I have achieved a great name, and that my books 
 are known wherever the English tongue is spoken ; so be it. 
 I would give all the fame to be young again, and to have 
 
 * Mart. Ep. lib. x., Ep. 47, v. 12. " De iis qua? necessaria sunt 
 ad vitam beatam." Ed. 1720. Montaigne, to suit his purpose, 
 quotes the first line only, with verbs in the third person. 
 
 *t* " D'autant que, d'une parte, il n'auroit point de crainte de toucher 
 vifvement et profondement le cceur du maistre, pour ne perdre par 
 le cours de son advancement." — Essais de Montaigne, liv. in. chap. 13, 
 Firmin Didofs Edition of the year Ten (1802). 
 
270 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 sound health." Perhaps this weakness and nervous restlessness 
 were only the effects of the very hard work which produced 
 the great name, and with it the restlessness, the saddened 
 eye, the weary look, and the distaste for life. The peasant, 
 who earns enough to eat and drink, and to bring up his family 
 safely, whose mind is too dull to be tortured by envy, is by 
 some quoted as the happy man ; but even in his breast 
 ambition burns, and he alone, who, feeling the desire, can yet 
 repress it, is worthy of the name. 
 
 There is one variety of this passion which Dr. Young calls 
 "the universal passion, love of fame," which is alone excus- 
 able. Bacon well defines what this is. "Honour," he writes, 
 " has three things in it : the vantage-ground to do good, the 
 approach to kings and principal persons, and the raising of 
 a man's own fortune. He that hath the best of these inten- 
 tions when he aspireth is an honest man." 
 
 Honest, indeed ! but a rare one. The second and third 
 are the chief springs in the hearts of most of us. Even the 
 first is not to be lightly entertained ; for, in endeavouring to 
 gain the vantage-ground of doing good, men often bend from 
 the straight path and do evil. We should be content to do 
 good where we find ourselves called to do it, in our homes 
 and at our way-sides. We may depend that, did we listen to 
 these calls upon us, we should find opportunities enough of 
 doing good and serving God ; and it is wiser to follow these 
 quiet and hidden impulses, than to look for any grand and 
 prominent exhibition of our benevolence. Public benefactors 
 reap too often their own poor reward of a still wider pub- 
 licity ; a newspaper advertisement is sounded before them 
 instead of a trumpet. 
 
 
AMBITION. 271 
 
 To be known widely as a doer of good is an honest ambi- 
 tion, but it is a dangerous one ; perhaps the most dangerous 
 of all. How many a poor man's head has been turned by 
 ilatterers, who are ready to tell him that he has the virtues of 
 a saint ! And how many a pure impulse to do good by 
 stealth, and which at "first blushed to find it fame," has 
 degenerated into the hungry craving of being talked about, 
 which too often fills the hearts of the professed philan 
 thropists ! 
 
CONCERNING CERTAIN ILLUSIONS. 
 
 [HEREFORE "trust to thy heart, and what the 
 world calls illusions." That is a curious sentence 
 of Longfellow's, and deserves reading again. He 
 is an earnest man, and he does not mean to cheat 
 us ; he has done good work in the world by his poems and 
 writings ; he has backed up many, and lifted the hearts of 
 many, by pure thought ; he means what he says. Yet, what 
 is altogether lighter than vanity ?-= — The human heart, answers 
 the religionist. What is altogether deceitful upon the scales ? 
 — The human heart. What is a Vanity Fair, a mob, a 
 hubbub and babel of noises, to be avoided, shunned, hated ? — 
 The world. And, lastly, what are our thoughts and struggles, 
 vain ideas, and wishes? — Vain, empty illusions, shadows, and 
 lies. And yet this man, with the inspiration which God gives 
 every true poet — yet he, who is rarely gifted amongst a young 
 and impulsive people — tells us to trust to our hearts, and what 
 the world calls illusiojis. And he is right. 
 
 Now there are of course various sorts of illusions. The world 
 is itself illusive. None of us are exactly what we seem ; and 
 many of those things that we have the firmest faith in really 
 do not exist. When the first philosopher declared that the 
 
ILLUSIONS. 273 
 
 world was round, and not a plane as flat and circular as a 
 dinner-plate or a halfpenny, people laughed at him, and 
 would have shut him up in a lunatic asylum. They said 
 he had an " illusion ;" but it was they who had it. He was 
 so bold as to start the idea that we had people under us, and 
 that the sun went to light them, and that they walked with 
 their feet to our feet. So they do, we know well now; but the 
 Pope and cardinals would not have it, and so they met in 
 solemn conclave, and ordered the philosopher's book to be 
 burnt; and they would have burnt him, too, in their hardly 
 logical way of saving souls, only he recanted, and, sorely 
 against his will, said that it was all an " illusion." But the 
 Pope and his advisers had an illusion too, which was, that 
 dressing up men, who did not believe in their faith, in gar- 
 ments on which flames and devils were represented — such a 
 garment they called a san be?iito — and then burning them, 
 was really something done for the glory of God. They called 
 it with admirable satire an auto da fe (an "act of faith"), and 
 they really did believe — for many of the inquisitors were mis- 
 taken but tender men — that they did good by this; but surely 
 now they have outgrown this illusion. How many of these 
 have we yet to outgrow ; how far are we off the true and liberal 
 Christianity which is the ideal of the saint and sage ; how 
 ready are we still to persecute those who happen, by mere 
 circumstances attending their birth and education, to differ 
 from us ! 
 
 The inner world of man, no less than the external world, 
 is full of illusions. They arise from distorted vision, from a 
 disorder of the senses, or from an error of judgment upon data 
 correctly derived from their evidence. Under the influence 
 
 T 
 
q;4 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 pf a predominant train of thought, an absorbing emotion, a 
 person ready charged with an uncontrolled imagination will 
 see, as Shakspeare has it — 
 
 " More devils than vast Hell can hold." 
 
 Half, if not all, of the ghost stories, which are equally dan- 
 gerous and absorbing to youth, arise from illusion — there 
 they have their foundation ; but believers in them obstinately 
 refuse to believe anything but that which their over-charged 
 and predisposed imagination leads them to. Some of us 
 walk about this world of ours— as if it were not of itself full 
 enough of mystery — as ready to swallow anything wonderful 
 or horrible, as the country clown whom a conjurer will get 
 upon his stage to play tricks with. Fooled by a redundant 
 imagination, delighted to be tricked by her potency, we dream 
 away, flattered by the idea that a supernatural messenger is 
 sent to us, and to us alone. We all have our family ghosts 
 in whom we more than half believe ; each one of us has a 
 mother or a wise aunt, or some female relation, who, at one 
 period of her life, had a dream, difficult to be interpreted, and 
 foreboding good or evil to a child of the house. 
 
 We are so grand, we men, " noble animals, great in our 
 deaths and splendid even in our ashes," that we cannot yield 
 to a common fate without some overstrained and bombast 
 conceit that the elements themselves give warning. Casca, 
 in "Julius Caesar," rehearses some few of the prodigies which 
 predicted Caesar's death: — 
 
 " A common slave (you know him well by sight) 
 Held up his left hand, which did flame, and burn 
 Like twenty torches join'd ; and yet his hand, 
 
ILLUSIONS. 275 
 
 Not sensible of fire, remained unscorched. * * # 
 And, yesterday, the bird of night did sit, 
 Even at noon-day, upon the market-place, 
 Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies 
 Do so conjointly meet, let not men say, 
 ' These are their reasons — they are natural ; 
 For, I believe, they are portentous things." 
 
 A great many others besides our good Casca believe in 
 these portents and signs, and their dignity would be much 
 hurt if they were persuaded that the world would go on just 
 the same if they and their family were utterly extinct, and 
 that no eclipse would happen to portend that calamity. In 
 Ireland, in certain great families, a Banshee, or a Be?i-shee i 
 for they differ who spell it, sits and wails all night when the 
 head of the family is about to stretch his feet towards the dim 
 portals of the dead ; and in England we have many families 
 who, by some unknown means, retain a ghost which walks 
 up and down a terrace, as it did in that fanciful habitation 
 of Sir Leicester Dedlock. Our northern friends, not to be 
 behind us, have amongst them prophetic shepherds, who, on 
 the cold, misty mountain top, at eventide, shade their shaggy 
 eyebrows with their hands, and, peering into the twilight, see 
 funerals pass by, and the decease of some neighbour por- 
 tended by all the paraphernalia of death. 
 
 With us all these portents "live no longer in the faith 
 of Reason ;" we assert, in Casca's v/ords, that " they are 
 natural ;" but we offend the credulous when we do so. " Illu- 
 sions of the senses," says an acute writer, " are common in 
 our appreciation of form, distance, colour, and motion ; and 
 also from a lack of comprehension of the physical powers of 
 
276 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 Nature, in the production of images of distinct objects. A 
 stick in the water appears bent or broken ; the square tower 
 at the distance looks round ; distant objects appear to move 
 when we are in motion ; the heavenly bodies appear to revolve 
 round the earth." And yet we know that all these appear- 
 ances are mere illusions. At the top of a mountain in Ire- 
 land, with our back to the sun, we, two travellers, were looking 
 at the smiling landscape gilded by the sunshine ; suddenly a 
 white cloud descended between us and the valley, and there 
 upon it were our two shadows, distorted, gigantic, threatening 
 or supplicatory, as we chose to move and make them. Here 
 was an exactly similar apparition to the Spectre of the 
 Brocken. The untaught German taxed his wits to make the 
 thing a ghost ; but the philosopher took off his hat and 
 bowed to it, and the shadow returned the salute ; and so 
 with the Fata Morgana, and the Mirage. We now know 
 that these things had no supernatural origin, but are simply 
 due to the ordinary laws of atmospheric influence and light ; 
 so all our modern illusions are easily rectified by the judg- 
 ment, and are fleeting and transitory in the minds of the 
 sane. 
 
 But, beyond these, there are the illusions of which we first 
 spoke, from which we would not willingly be awakened. The 
 sick man in Horace, who fancied that he was always sitting 
 at a play, and laughed and joked, or was amazed and wept 
 as they do in a theatre, rightly complained to his friends that 
 they had killed him, not cured him, when they roused him 
 from his state of hallucination. There are some illusions so 
 beautiful, so healthful, and so pleasant, that we would that no 
 harshness of this world's ways, no bitter experience, no sad 
 
ILLUSIONS. 277 
 
 reality, could awaken us from them. It is these, we fancy, 
 that the poet tells us to trust to ; such are the illusions — so 
 called by the world — to which we are always to give our faith. 
 It will be well if we do so. Faith in man or woman is a 
 comfortable creed ; but you will scarcely find a man of thirty, 
 or a woman either, who retains it. They will tell you bitterly 
 " they have been so deceived !" One old gentleman we know, 
 deceived, and ever again to be deceived, who is a prey to 
 false friends, who lends his money without surety and gets 
 robbed, who fell in love and was jilted, who has done much 
 good and has been repaid with much evil. This man is much 
 to be envied. He can, indeed, " trust in his heart and what 
 the world calls illusions." To him the earth is yet green and 
 fresh, the world smiling and good-humoured, friends are fast 
 and loving, woman a very well-spring of innocent and un- 
 bought love. The world thinks him an old simpleton ; but 
 he is wiser than the world. He is not to be scared by sad 
 proverbs, nor frightened by dark sayings. An enviable man, 
 he sits, in the evening of life, loving and trusting his fellow- 
 men, and, from the mere freshness of his character, having 
 many gathered round him whom he can still love and trust. 
 
 With another sort of philosophers all around is mere illu- 
 sion, and the mind of man shall in no way be separated from 
 it ; from the beginning to the end it is all the same. Our 
 organization, they would have us believe, creates most of our 
 pleasure and our pain. Life is in itself an ecstasy. " Life is 
 as sweet as nitrous oxide ; and the fisherman, dripping all 
 day over a cold pond, the switchman at the railway intersec- 
 tion, the farmer in the field, the negro in the rice-swamp, the 
 fop in the street, the hunter in the woods, the barrister with 
 
27S THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 the jury, the belle at the ball — all ascribe a certain pleasure to 
 their employment which they themselves give to it. Health 
 and appetite impart the sweetness to sugar, bread, and meat." 
 So Fancy plays with us ; but, while she tricks us, she blesses 
 us. The mere prosaic man, who strips the tinsel from every- 
 thing, who sneers at a bridal and gladdens at a funeral ; who 
 tests every coin and every pleasure, and tells you that it has 
 not the true ring ; who checks capering Fancy and stops her 
 caracoling by the whip of reality, is not to be envied. "In 
 the life of the dreariest alderman, Fancy enters into all 
 details, and colours them with a rosy hue," says Emerson. 
 "He imitates the air and action of people whom he admires, 
 and is raised in his own eyes. . . In London, in Paris, in 
 Boston, in San Francisco, the masquerade is at its height. 
 Nobody drops his domino. The chapter of fascinations is 
 very long. Great is paint ; nay, God is the painter ; and we 
 rightly accuse the critic who destroys too many illusions." 
 
 Happy are they with whom this domino is never com- 
 pletely dropped ! Happy, thrice happy, they who believe, and 
 still maintain that belief, like champion knights, against all 
 comers, in honour, chastity, friendship, goodness, virtue, 
 gratitude. It is a long odds that the men who do not 
 believe in these virtues have none themselves ; for we speak 
 from our hearts, and we tell of others that which we think 
 of ourselves. The French, a mournful, sad, and unhappy 
 nation — even at the bottom of all their external grin and 
 gaiety — have a sad word, a participle, disillusionize, disil- 
 lusioned ; and by it they mean one who has worn out all his 
 youthful ideals, who has been behind the scenes, and has seen 
 the bare walls of the theatre, without the light and the paint, 
 
ILLUSIONS. 279 
 
 and has watched the ugly actors and gaunt actresses by day- 
 light. The taste of life is very bitter in the mouth of such a 
 man ; his joys are Dead Sea apples — dust and ashes in the 
 mouths of those who bite them. No flowers spring up about 
 his path ; he is very melancholy and suspicious, very hard and 
 incredulous ; he has faith neither in the honesty of man nor 
 in the purity of woman. He is desillusionne — by far too wise 
 to be taken in with painted toys. Every one acts with self- 
 interest ! his doctor, his friend, or his valet, will be sorry for his 
 death, merely from the amount of money interest that they 
 have in his life. Bare and grim unto tears, even if he had 
 any, is the life of such a man. With him, sadder than Lethe 
 or the Styx, the river of time runs between stony banks, and, 
 often a calm suicide, it bears him to the Morgue. Happier 
 by far is he who, with whitened hair and wrinkled brow, sits 
 crowned with the flowers of illusion ; and who, with the ear 
 of age, still remains a charmed listener to the songs which 
 pleased his youth, trusting "his heart and what the world 
 calls illusions." 
 
ON DECISION OF CHARACTER. 
 
 | T becomes a man, " who is a man," to have his 
 own opinions. Perhaps he had better entertain 
 crotchety and crooked opinions than none at all. 
 He must not be swayed about by everybody's 
 word. " Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel," was the 
 verdict of the patriarch of old ; and its truth and wisdom are 
 as certain and as applicable now as when it was pronounced 
 five thousand years ago'. We still have the melancholy spec- 
 tacle of talents wasted, opportunities of rising in the world 
 thrown away, and the fairest prospects blighted, from this 
 one fatal defect, this vulnerable point, which, like the heel of 
 Achilles, renders the perfection of the rest of the organization 
 of no avail. Again and again do we see persons, whose cha- 
 racters seem adapted for posts of eminence, whose talents and 
 energy, and attractive qualities, are alike fitted to win confi- 
 dence and love, fail in the hour of trial, and sink into obscu- 
 rity or disgrace, from the weak vacillation of purpose which 
 spoils the best conceived plans, and disappoints the sanguine 
 expectations which their known capabilities have justly ex- 
 cited. It needs few words to prove the danger and ruinous 
 consequences of a defect which the most common observation 
 
 
DECISION. 281 
 
 or the slightest reflection will show to be as fatal to self- 
 respect as to the position held towards others ; since the man 
 who cannot depend on his own stability of purpose loses at 
 once confidence in himself and the deference and reliance of 
 those who are naturally dependent upon him. 
 
 In what, then, does true decision of character consist ? 
 It is a power of deliberately planning a course of action, or 
 of forming an unbiassed opinion, and then consistently and 
 firmly carrying out such purposes and taking an unflinching 
 stand on the side adopted, unless some new and unexpected 
 combination of circumstances renders the one inexpedient, 
 or a previously unknown argument makes the other unwise 
 and untenable. It is therefore a union of calm judgment 
 with moral courage when found in perfection, though it is 
 perfectly possible to be decided and unshaken in actions, or 
 opinions, adopted without due consideration and impartiality. 
 But in such cases there can hardly be the calm satisfaction 
 and repose which the consciousness of an honest exercise of 
 judgment will ever give amidst the changing aspect and 
 varying tide of human affairs. That satisfaction is entirely 
 and completely denied, and in its place appears a dogged 
 determination to hold out against every kind of reason, 
 whether legitimate or otherwise, for change. 
 
 This brings us to one of the most plausible and common 
 imitations of real decision ; namely, obstinacy. " It is no 
 use ; what I have said I will keep to," is the self-satisfied 
 remark of an obstinate man ; feeling comfortably convinced 
 that he is proving himself to be a most decided personage. 
 Now it may be remarked, first, that the very fear of being 
 induced to alter, and hence resisting all argument, is a 
 
282 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 tacit acknowledgment of weakness. It is not decision, but 
 simple stupidity, to persist when any new or hitherto uncon- 
 sidered reason for changing presents itself. There may be a 
 confession of rashness, or hasty and superficial judgment, in 
 such an alteration of conduct or ideas on any particular sub- 
 ject ; but there is not necessarily any proof of indecision. 
 Take a judge, a barrister, or a physician, by way of example. 
 They have each formed a decision on the premises submitted 
 to them ; and, so far as their means of judging go, we will take 
 for granted it is a wise and correct one. But suppose fresh 
 facts, or hitherto concealed or half-developed symptoms, are 
 placed before them, and they adhere to the verdict, or opinion, 
 or treatment first given, it is obstinacy and conceit, not firm- 
 ness and decision of temperament. Apply the same rule to 
 ordinary cases, which common sense will at once lay down 
 for these professional men, and it will serve at once to dis- 
 tinguish the true from the false. Again, a hasty and rash- 
 tempered man will often cover his errors to himself, and as 
 far as possible to his friends, in flattering them by the courtesy 
 title of decision ; the real truth being that he has not decided 
 at all, but has been carried on by impulse or by the force of 
 circumstances, till it is, or he thinks it is, too late to retreat, 
 and then he complacently remarks, " I don't take long to 
 make up my mind ; I am not given to much hesitation." 
 
 A very large class of self-deceivers is that of the indolent, 
 easy-going portion of mankind. These shape their course, or 
 take up their opinions, in the way which is the most obvious, 
 and gives the least trouble ; and, having once done so, they do 
 not care to use the mental or moral exertion necessary to make 
 a change in either thinking or acting. " It is far better to go 
 
 
DECISION. 283 
 
 on in the same course," say they, " to do as they or their 
 parents have always been accustomed to do ; they see no 
 good in changing ; they like taking up a thing, and keeping 
 to it." Now we freely admit there may be less danger, as 
 there is certainly less offence, in their doctrine and practice 
 than the other classes', who sail under false colours ; but we 
 do contend that these persons should not lay claim to any 
 decision of character, any more than the mule who follows in 
 the beaten track deserves the praise of acute discernment of 
 the right road. They may certainly be innocent of any sins 
 of commission against this quality, but most certainly they 
 have at best only the very negative praise that their peculiar 
 temperament, and not any exertion or deliberate conviction of 
 their own, has kept them from falling into actual error, while 
 it prevents their possessing the positive virtue we are consi- 
 dering. Should temptation at any time assail them, they will 
 be unprepared to resist it ; and, at the best, they do not possess 
 that real firmness and consistency which, as we set out by 
 saying, true decision exhibits, and which obtains and justifies 
 the confidence and respect of all with whom they are brought 
 in contact. 
 
 We will now turn to openly and confessedly undecided 
 people, of whom it may truly be said there is more hope than 
 of the self-satisfied ones of whom we have been speaking. 
 These people may be divided into two or three classes. The 
 first and most hopeless are those who appear totally unable 
 to form any opinions of their own, and are therefore depend- 
 ent upon those of others. They have consequently no fixed 
 line of conduct, nor consistent and clear ideas on the various 
 points which, whether trivial or important, come into each 
 
284 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 day's experience. Such individuals will refer each trifling 
 difficulty, each doubtful question, to every fresh person with 
 whom they come in contact, and are influenced in turn by 
 each. No sooner have they heard and approved of one 
 opinion, and, apparently, determine to act upon it, than they 
 turn to the next person they happen to meet for their advice, 
 and, as very naturally may happen, a different counsel being 
 given, they are thrown on a precisely different track till a third 
 adviser may again alter their course. Now, if "in the multi- 
 tude of counsellors there is safety," it must certainly imply 
 these counsellors in full conclave, not singly and in succession. 
 There is nothing more dangerous than this dependence on 
 every fresh opinion, and receiving the impression of each, 
 just as water reflects every successive object which passes 
 over its clear surface, and retains no lasting form from any. 
 Or, to use a yet more correct image, they resemble dissolving 
 views, each of which, in turn, appears clear and vivid, as if 
 really and indelibly painted on the canvas, and then gradually 
 loses its identity, and gives place to a scene entirely opposite. 
 The natural results of this dangerous practice are complete de- 
 struction of self-dependence and respect, and a fatal inconsis- 
 tency and changeableness of purpose and conduct. " I fully 
 intended to have done so and so," such persons say, " as you 
 advised; but I met Mr. or Mrs. Such a One, and they thought I 
 had decidedly better take other steps in the matter." Now it 
 is quite possible to be open to just argument and retain proper 
 decision of character ; but, to accomplish this, there should 
 be great care and discrimination in choosing those who have 
 the privilege of giving advice. In small and comparatively 
 unimportant matters it is better, as a rule, to act upon indi- 
 
DECISION. 285 
 
 vidual judgment, without reference to others, always keeping 
 the ears open for any suggestions which may accidentally be 
 thrown out, which may wisely direct general conduct ; and, in 
 more serious and weighty affairs, to consult only some one or 
 two friends, who, from known good judgment or especial ex- 
 perience, are capable of giving sound and trustworthy counsel ; 
 and, when their opinion has been heard and fairly discussed, 
 then the affair should be finally settled, and the course of con- 
 duct decided on should be perseveringly and unwaveringly 
 carried out. 
 
 There is also another class, chiefly among the fair sex, who 
 are incapable of making up their minds, even with the help of 
 others ; who change and change, and repent again, and re- 
 turn to their first resolution, and then regret that they have 
 done so, when too late. They hesitate between a walk or 
 a drive, between going in one direction or another, and fifty 
 other things equally immaterial ; and always end the matter 
 by doing what they fancy, at any rate, is the least agreeable 
 and eligible of the two. Of course this disposition, shown in 
 these trifles, will be shown in more important matters ; and a 
 most distressing and unfortunate disposition it is, both for 
 themselves and those around them. Now, the only remedy 
 for such a turn of mind is resolutely to keep to the first de- 
 cision, whatever it may be, without dwelling on its advantages 
 and disadvantages, and allowing any useless regrets after the 
 thing is done ; and, even if a mistake is often made at the out- 
 set, from want of the habit of ready and unwavering judg- 
 ment, it will be far less mischievous than weak and wretched 
 indecision ; and in time the faculty of knowing the real tastes 
 or inclinations, without hesitations and regrets, will be culti- 
 
286 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 vated in the mind. A strong effort, with some self-denial, is 
 necessary to conquer this prevalent and besetting sin ; but 
 the comfort and peace of mind it will produce is well worth 
 the exertion it requires. 
 
 One class more remains for our notice — those whose strong, 
 yet varying impulses give the same results, and produce the 
 same mischief, as more strictly called indecision of character. 
 Such persons are generally excitable, and easily acted on by 
 present inducements and the actual circumstances of the 
 moment. They feel for the time an eager and intense desire 
 to act in some particular way, or accomplish some especial 
 object, and take measures accordingly, perhaps commit them- 
 selves to some course of action ; the circumstances in which 
 they find themselves change, the excitement passes, the incli- 
 nation vanishes, and, if possible, they throw themselves into 
 a precisely contrary line of proceeding, ending in the same 
 result. Thus they are never to be relied on, nor consistent 
 in what they do, whether bad or good, wise or imprudent ; 
 and the difficulties in which they find themselves, and the 
 miserable expedients necessary to get out of them, are 
 endless and discreditable. Such persons can only find 
 safety in so far controlling themselves as to delay acting 
 while the impulse and the inducement for it lasts. We know 
 how difficult this is, how strong are the feelings, how im- 
 patient of control are the desires of such temperaments ; but 
 it is absolutely essential to their well-being and safety. Let 
 them habitually recall the many instances when they have 
 completely changed their wishes, and bitterly repented the 
 measures taken to accomplish them, the mortifications in- 
 cident on the confession of change, the injustice to others 
 
DECISION, 287 
 
 which their thoughtless impetuosity has too often inflicted, 
 and so fix the past in their minds as to read a lesson for the 
 present and future. Even the strict principles of right and 
 wrong will not always avail in such cases ; at the best they 
 can but induce such persons to bear the consequences of 
 their impetuous proceedings when the motive and desire 
 for them have entirely altered. Nothing but a strict absti- 
 nence from decided action during the period of feverish excite- 
 ment can save them from the worst results which can befall 
 the most wavering and undecided in character, or avail to 
 attain the contrary virtue, in what we have defined as its real 
 purity and excellence — a calm judgment, carried out in a 
 consistent and firm course of action. 
 
CONCERNING THE LOTTERY OF 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 LTHOUGH the Registrar - General's returns 
 prove beyond a doubt that the British is yet a 
 marrying nation, still, we presume, there is no 
 doubt that, amongst our upper ten thousand, 
 and the next twenty thousand layers of society, marriage is 
 becoming " unpopular," and is gradually growing to be re- 
 garded as an institution to be avoided rather than encouraged. 
 Many causes are- alleged for this result. Some blame the 
 young women, some the young men ; many scold the " mam- 
 mas," and more put down the fault to that general scapegoat, 
 " Society." But, whatever be the immediate cause, one com- 
 plaint runs as a corollary to all assigned causes, and that is 
 the uncertainty of married happiness, the repeated assertion 
 that no one can predict " what a woman will turn out ;" or, 
 to quote a proverb, " Marriage is a lottery." 
 
 How the proverb arose we can hardly tell ; but it is a sin- 
 gular one to be prevalent with an acute, a far-seeing, and 
 painstaking people. It might have grown up during those 
 times in which severe fathers ordered their sons to marry 
 
MARRIAGE. 289 
 
 this woman, and their daughters that man; when individual 
 choice was never consulted, but the extension of estates and 
 the establishing of families were. It may be a lottery amongst 
 the wife-eating Fans, and those tribes of Africa and Asia 
 where the king is obliged to marry half a hundred women to 
 strengthen his position, and to surround himself with an army 
 of male relations who will defend his throne. It would be 
 odd, indeed, if the fifty chances were to turn up all prizes. 
 But where, as in England and her offshoots, and some few 
 other European countries, men and women are free to choose, 
 and have time, caution, and opportunity to do so, the proverb 
 is a scandal. It is, of course, utterly untrue. Men would be 
 ashamed to say that buying a farm, a horse, a ship, a knife, 
 or hiring a servant, was all a " lottery." Our merchants would 
 not be as rich nor our people as powerful as they are if they 
 made trade a lottery. The truth is, they have made it a cer- 
 tainty. So far as human means will allow, what they under- 
 take to do, they do. They plant a firm foot, and keep their 
 word ; they compass sea and land ; like Antonio with the 
 Jew, they stake their very life and reputation, and they win the 
 stake. Who breaks, pays. There is no such thing as 
 mere chance about English trade. Having abolished all 
 kinds of lottery in money matters and declared it illegal, 
 it will be as well if we try to uproot the old vulgar error 
 about luck and ill-luck in marriage. The truth is, there is 
 little of either about it. Any man and woman can be happy- 
 enough, if they determine so to be ; but they must do so with 
 a will. There must always be two parties to a quarrel ; and 
 if man and wife set themselves to be calm, quiet, and patient 
 under trouble, they will find their lives glide away without 
 
 U 
 
290 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 those bitter quarrels, which never do good, and which always 
 rankle. 
 
 The same determination should make all men look upon 
 marriage as a necessity. It is a Divine institution ; and the 
 wish that St. Paul expressed that other Christians were like 
 him, unmarried, was intended only for the apostolic mission- 
 aries of his time, not for the laity, nor priesthood of more 
 peaceful times. A married life is the only one possible, if we 
 look to the requirements of health and virtue. There is no 
 mincing the matter ; a single life means, with nine-tenths of 
 the men, a life of sin and selfish indulgence, hurtful to them- 
 selves, and noxious to the State. With the women it means 
 one of hope deferred, disappointed love, or single misery, 
 bitterly and satirically termed " blessedness." The univers- 
 ality of the passion of love proves its legitimacy — it should be 
 legitimately indulged. Common nature and common sense 
 alike require it ; and, as all women should be wives, and all 
 men husbands, it follows that it would be true philosophy 
 for the State to endeavour to form good wives and good 
 husbands. 
 
 It is a question whether either sex sets about this properly. 
 Love is regarded too much as a matter of chance ; and it is 
 more than probable that few men think of marrying until 
 they fall in love. Hence it depends very much on uncertain- 
 ties. It is rare for a boy of nineteen or twenty to seriously 
 educate himself for a married life, and to separate himself 
 from the indulgences of single men ; and it is unfortunately 
 not rare for both single and married men to indulge in a 
 stupid kind of joking as to the expenses and inconveniences 
 of married life and the cost of children. The best answer to 
 
MARRIAGE. 291 
 
 these men would be to ask them to prove their postulates. 
 Marriage is not an expensive condition of life ; on the con- 
 trary, presuming a man to be fitted for it, he will be astonished 
 at the economy which may be practised. Besides this, as 
 every married man knows, the saving, care, caution, foresight, 
 and determination which are consequent upon the wedded 
 state, far more than counterbalance the duplication of dress, 
 board, and lodging, which all must look for. 
 
 The; men who make fortunes, found families, direct great 
 matters, and are chief in the city and council, are married 
 men. It is a common confession amongst such that they 
 never saved a penny while they were single. This is not 
 only the case with the poor, but with the rich as well ; with 
 the low as well as the high. The great minister Pitt, it is 
 well known, was a single man. He had fallen in love, but he 
 could not marry because he was too poor. At that time he 
 owed ,£30,000. The lady of his choice was the Honourable 
 Eleanor Eden, daughter of Lord Auckland ; but, although the 
 pair were in love, Pitt deeply so, and he " the leader of the 
 wealthiest aristocracy in the world," at the height of his power 
 and glory, the match was broken off. But how did he owe 
 so much ? He was a single man, living alone, with a minis- 
 terial salary, and wardenship of the Cinque Ports, amounting 
 to £10,000 a year. How could he have been so deeply in 
 debt ? Simply through being single, and the roguery of his 
 servants. The quantity of butcher's meat charged in the 
 bill, when his affairs were examined, was nine hundredweight 
 per week ! The consumption of poultry, fish, and tea was in 
 proportion. The charge for servants in board-wages, wages, 
 liveries, and bills at Holvvood and in London, exceeded 
 
 U 2 
 
292 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 £2300 a year. Had Pitt been a married man, he would 
 probably not have had to pay one-fifth of the sum ; nor would 
 the nation have had to pay ,£40,000 of his debts, after he had 
 been more than once assisted by his friends. 
 
 Women differ from men in this respect. They all, very 
 properly, look forward to marriage ; nay, the great majority, 
 even in our factitious state of society, are utterly dependent 
 upon it. To them a fine face is as good as a fortune. Women 
 cannot afford to be ugly — men can ; but there is this great 
 fault with women, that they do not educate themselves for 
 the future position one whit more assiduously than the men 
 do. A thoroughly accomplished wife is a very hard matter 
 to obtain, although the majority of girls are looking forward 
 to be married at an early age, and are in despair of being left 
 old maids when they are twenty-one. One would therefore 
 think that they would prepare for the state. 
 
 We have schools for cooks and for housemaids (and much 
 wanted too), but we have no school for wives. " I chose 
 mine," says the Vicar of Wakefield, "as she chose her 
 wedding gown, not on account of the fineness of the stuff, 
 but because it would last the longest." It would seem that 
 men and women nowadays are not so wise either as to 
 gowns or wives as the Vicar. Many young women enter 
 into the holy state without being at all fitted for it. Marriage 
 is no lottery with them if they tear up the only chance of a 
 prize. A woman who marries a poor man, without being 
 fit for a wife, without knowing cookery and perfectly under- 
 standing domestic economy, perpetrates a gross swindle, and 
 accelerates, nay, causes, her own unhappiness. " Marriage 
 is the best state for man in general," says Dr. Johnson, " and 
 
MARRIAGE. 293 
 
 every man is a worse man in proportion as he is unfit for the 
 married state." 
 
 If this be, and it is, true of man, what shall we say of a 
 woman who is unfit ? There can be no question about it. 
 Woman was created to be a wife and a mother ; but she was 
 not created to be a compositor, or an author, or anything 
 else in the exclusively male "line," where endurance and 
 heavier brain and muscles must be brought into play. The 
 nonsense talked nowadays about the amelioration of women 
 is prodigious. Woman can ameliorate and emancipate her- 
 self; she was never better off; but at the same time she 
 cannot stand alone. With man she is all-powerful ; without 
 him she is nothing. She should fit herself for the duties of 
 union, not of disunion. Professional women are generally very 
 unhappy. As a class — though this admits of some very brilliant 
 exceptions, such as Angelica Kauffman, the Hon. Mrs. Damer, 
 the Hon. Mrs. Norton, the Countess of Blessington, &c. — 
 as authoresses, artists, lecturers, writers, or what not, they 
 are ungainly and ungraceful ; and, if unmarried in middle life, 
 look about as unhappy as the dog in the fable might have 
 looked after snapping at the shadow and dropping the sub- 
 stance. When married, their knowledge of fine art, and 
 ignorance of home duties, render the poor husband extremely 
 unhappy ; and if by a rare chance they do unite external 
 talent to internal management, they find the task too much 
 for their strength, and die early. The accomplished woman 
 in these days of general education is, however, a grand mis- 
 take. Trying to know all things, she knows nothing, and 
 is generally as helpless as that poor little English fratdein in 
 Hood's Up the Rhine, who, when her father lay ill, rehearsed 
 
294 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 the articles of her capacity, and found they were of no use. 
 She could make purses, pen-wipers, work in beads, coloured 
 worsted, and silks ; smatter Italian, French, and a little 
 German ; play a fantasia, or embroider a waistcoat ; make 
 cherry-stone chains, and egg-shell baskets ; nay, at a pinch, 
 being good at rock ornament, she might have plastered her 
 father with red wafers ; but she could not make a bed, mix a 
 caudle, prepare a poultice, nor nurse a sick man. . Swift was 
 not far wrong when he said that the reason so many mar- 
 riages were unhappy was, that so many young ladies spent 
 their time before marriage "in making nets, and not in 
 making cages." 
 
 Another source of unhappiness is folly in choice. This 
 should never be a mere matter of chance. The time for 
 exercising prudence is not so much when in love, as before 
 one falls in love. We should choose with whom we shall so 
 associate, as to risk the engendering of a passion. If we do 
 not use our judgment at the beginning, we can seldom do so 
 at the end. The future husband should, cultivate the habit 
 of self-reliance and command. He should first conquer him- 
 self, and then he will be able to govern his wife. Women 
 are formed to obey ; and wise women look up to a man whom 
 they can respect and obey. Marriage is the firmest, the most 
 lasting, the most trying and tried friendship. It cannot be 
 intact without mutual esteem ; and this esteem must be based 
 on respect. " He must prepare to be wretched," writes 
 Johnson, " who pays to beauty, wealth, and politeness (ex- 
 ternal manner) that respect which is only due to piety and 
 virtue." A woman should be careful to choose a character 
 at once stable and strong. It is astonishing how like husband 
 
MARRIAGE. 295 
 
 and wife grow after years of association, either for good or 
 for evil. A good woman is no match for a careless, design- 
 ing man, without fixed principles ; she is like a ship under 
 bad pilotage — she will surely run upon the rocks. 
 
 " Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, 
 What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. 
 As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown, 
 And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down." 
 
 But, even when all chances are taken, when the ordinary 
 man and woman, with all faults and shortcomings, all in- 
 completeness and ignorance, come together, there is yet time 
 to disprove the saying about marriage being a lottery. The 
 very ceremony should improve them. The man is elevated 
 by being made the protector and head of the woman, the. 
 woman by her new and responsible situation. Then comes 
 the time of small sacrifices to be made with cheerfulness and 
 readiness. The celibate may dream of being great heroes : 
 the men of being knights errant, of rescuing ladies and saving 
 cities ; the women of growing into queens of beauty, and of 
 nursing wounded knights ; or, like Miss Nightingale, found- 
 ing hospitals. But the married know that ours is a day of 
 small things ; small sacrifices daily performed without a 
 murmur ; small cheerfulnesses, good-temper, a smile when 
 another is pleased, a tear of charity when another is in pain. 
 If these only be performed, if we also keep up a constant war 
 against small selfishnesses, against taking the prime cut of the 
 leg of mutton, the biggest egg at breakfast, or the nicest rising 
 crust in the loaf, we shall soon find that we have forced for- 
 tune to give us a prize, not a blank, and that therefore our 
 
296 THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 marriage is no lottery. Then may we delight, like Ramsay 
 in his Gentle Shepherd, in the good-humour and white caps 
 of the wife, who wears them as " guards to her face, to keep 
 her husband's love;" and, like the husband in Middleton's 
 play, exclaim with rhapsody — 
 
 " What a delicious breath marriage gives forth, — 
 The -violet-bed's not sweeter. Honest wedlock 
 Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden, 
 On which the sweet spring flowers take delight 
 To cast their modest odours." 
 
 Or more calmly, but not less truly, rehearse with the golden 
 preacher, Jeremy Taylor, the blessings of marriage : "It hath 
 more of safety than the single life ; it hath not more ease, but 
 less danger ; it is more merry and more sad ; it is fuller of 
 sorrows, and fuller of joys ; it lies under more burdens, but 
 is supported by all the strength of love and charity, and 
 those burdens are delightful. Marriage is the mother of the 
 world, and preserves kingdoms, fills cities and churches, and 
 peoples heaven itself." 
 
IS KNOWLEDGE WORTH HAVING ? 
 
 PICTURE-DEALER was one day describing a 
 customer ; and after several praises bestowed upon 
 his demeanour and "gentlemanly manner," his 
 promptness to pay being deservedly reckoned as 
 a high quality, the man finished by a " There now, he is not 
 a bad judge of pictures either ; he has a pretty taste,, a very 
 pretty taste ; and he knows just as much as a gentleman 
 ought to do." 
 
 It was plain, then, that in our friend's opinion a gentleman 
 ought not to know too much ; and, as regards pictures and 
 many other luxuries, if we look to a man's own happiness, I 
 think he was right. We do not like, we English, to see a 
 man too knowing, too much up to the tricks of the world, like 
 a dirty attorney. A man who knows every little " dodge " is 
 invariably a man with a soiled mind. " I don't like to meet 
 with a man who knows as much as a dealer," continued our 
 interlocutor, " and he never gets the best either ; many a 
 time I've run 'm up at sales, although we've had to share the 
 picture in the knock-out." There is a great feeling against 
 these too knowing men ; " a gentleman should be a gentle- 
 man," is an old saying with tradesmen, and a liberal one 
 
298 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 is often treated much better than a knowing one, besides 
 having the continual dew of that felicity which a generous 
 mind always gives. 
 
 Is knowledge worth having ? Solomon asserts that it is 
 not. " All is vanity and vexation of spirit ;" " much study is 
 a weariness of the flesh." He says this upon good authority, 
 for he had chosen wisdom rather than anything, and above 
 everything. There is another question. What knowledge is 
 mostworth? But this may be simply answered. The knowledge 
 of how to live well, so as to keep a sound healthy conscience 
 in a sound good body ; to go well and quietly to the grave ; 
 to live innocently and honourably : to attain this is the height 
 of wisdom, seldom attained, though sought after by all the 
 Wisely Good. The Mosaic account of the Tree of Know- 
 ledge standing in the midst of the Garden ; of the temptation 
 of the Woman, and then by the Woman ; the promise of the 
 Serpent, that, after eating, they should be like gods — is puz- 
 zling. What does it all mean? Truly, as said the disciples, in 
 reply to a sacred parable, " We cannot tell." Knowledge, the 
 source of good, becomes the very origin and fountain of all 
 evil. It is not so afterwards. Man, through centuries of evil 
 and sadness, through wars and pestilences, through a Cim- 
 merian bog of error, a swamp of folly, and an Egyptian 
 darkness of ignorance, struggles again into the light, and 
 becomes what he is through the very agency of that know- 
 ledge which is so accursed ; so that, like the opposite poles 
 of the magnet, knowledge attracts and repels. Thunder 
 and mephitic vapour, noxious disease and death, serpents and 
 slimy hissing things, lie at the base of the mountain ; but these 
 once passed, the air gets purer and better, the vapours fall to 
 
KNOWLEDGE. 299 
 
 the lower regions ; beautiful verdure clothes the middle ; all 
 the flowers of beauty and virtue bloom yet higher, while the 
 summit is bathed in a glorious and continued light ; so that, 
 like a tropical mountain, poisonous mists may lie at its foot, 
 darkness may envelop its lower regions, but — 
 
 " Eternal sunshine settles on its head." 
 
 There are, then, two kinds of knowledge, the evil knowledge 
 and the good knowledge — one which leads to death, and the 
 other to light and life. Is it possible that in our present state 
 of life we can mistake the paths which branch to these ? It 
 is so ; although if there be one thing upon which we moderns 
 pride ourselves more than upon another, it is our knowledge. 
 Like Paracelsus, our " desire is to know ;" but we are by no 
 means, like him, desirous of placing our bounds within the 
 limits of the knowable. Of all things else we feel the empti- 
 ness. A man may be too rich, too glorified, too exalted. 
 His position may be too high ; and the people who come 
 to ask his advice, or his aid, or his help, may worry him to 
 death. 
 
 If great offices require great talents, they also demand a 
 perpetual activity. We all pay for our elevation, in know- 
 ledge as well as in everything else. It is the trouble of riches 
 — riches of the mind as well as the body. Think what work a 
 clever statesman, a leader of the House of Commons, a popular 
 clergyman, or the editor of an influential journal, must have, 
 if he chooses to do it with a conscience. Here waits one man 
 to ask his advice, another to find fault, a third to praise, a 
 fourth to sneer, a fifth, sixth, and seventh to ask solutions of 
 abstruse points. 
 
300 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 A man may have very little knowledge, but a great deal of 
 wisdom ; and the reverse equally holds good. There are 
 more people in this world than King James, who "never said 
 a foolish thing and never did a wise one." Doctors, clergy- 
 men, and solicitors, see too much of humanity, know too much 
 of its folly, its weakness, and its sin, to be very happy men 
 or to love it very much. Police magistrates and others are 
 in the same case. We get at last, unless very strong-minded 
 indeed, a kind of colour-blindness, and fancy all people the 
 same. Here, from day to day, the current of folly and weak- 
 ness flows on, the spectacle of righteousness falling, respecta- 
 bility being disreputable, goodness being concealed badness, 
 every fruit being touched, every potato specked, every bud 
 with the canker at its core, and — what shall we say ? Shall 
 we believe still in virtue ? Shall we credit humanity with 
 holiness, goodness, beauty, and strength ? Alas ! we patch 
 and paint, decorate and revarnish the structure. The build- 
 ing is large. We have grained it to look like the finest marble ; 
 we have painted a granite base ; but the paint begins to chip, 
 the varnish to peel, the rotten wood peeps through ; maybe 
 the edifice will fall. We cry then, " Bring us back our igno- 
 rance ! " We grow melancholy, and stretch forth our fettered 
 hands. We are sad and tired with the knowledge we have 
 gained. We wish again that we were young, and had faith 
 in all. We feel like Tom Hood, who yearned to be again 
 back in his little white bed, watching, as he lay there, the 
 pure stars ; and he sobs out that — 
 
 " 'Tis little joy 
 To know I'm farther off from heavn 
 Than when I was a boy." 
 
KNOWLEDGE. 301 
 
 There is the same mournful cadence in the songs of all 
 teachers : " the vanity of vanities " of Solomon ; the tender 
 regrets of Plato ; the bitter sneers of Socrates ; the philo- 
 sophic mourning of Lucretius ; the half-drunken sadness of 
 fashionable, clever, worldly Horace ; the pretty sorrow of 
 Anacreon, echoed by Tom Moore ; the wise resignation of 
 Lord Bacon ; and the almost sacred disappointment of John 
 Milton. Is it, therefore, worth while to pursue knowledge ? 
 Let us be content with knowing our own ignorance, and retain 
 what happiness we can : — 
 
 "That far off touch of greatness, 
 To know that we are not great." 
 
 But, although man is empty and vain, although he cannot 
 sow a truth without discovering that an enemy hath mixed 
 the seed, yet he is a glorious animal, of royal lineage, and 
 of wondrous mind. The encouragements given to those who 
 seek knowledge merely for the progress of mankind, is won- 
 derful. Not only has the body been better cared for, not only 
 has the brain grown to be better formed, the very shape and 
 limbs to be more noble, the look to be bolder, and the walk 
 more like unto that of a god ; but the very mind has been 
 more developed, pushed forward, almost re-created. The 
 mind of a cunning Caffre or even of an Earthman is not the 
 normal mind of man. Through what stages of teaching 
 must he not have passed in successive generations, to have 
 produced a Moses or a Socrates ! Man's future is full of 
 hope. Undoubtedly in individual instances he has attained the 
 highest intellectual summit : like Moses, from the highest peak 
 of Horeb, he has taken a Pisgah view of the promised land, 
 
302 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 and has looked over into the glorious regions which he shall 
 hereafter inhabit. But he has still to drag his tail after him. 
 He needs, therefore, more determination and fresh exertions. 
 
 " Deeper, deeper let us toil 
 
 In the mines of knowledge, 
 Nature's wealth and learning's spoil 
 
 Win from school and college. 
 Delve we there for richer gems 
 Than the stars of diadems." 
 
 How, therefore, are we to attain this wonderful knowledge — 
 this that is so rich and beautiful ? The first step is to own, says 
 Cecil, that we are ignorant, and can be taught. The second, if 
 we credit the Persian sage, is to adopt his method : " I was 
 never prevented by shame from asking questions when I was 
 ignorant." That is, he was a continual seeker. Beyond these 
 two foundations mankind seems to advance in knowledge by 
 two methods; both of them very slow, but very sure, by 
 a process of abstract thought, and by that of inductive ob- 
 servation (Bacon's great method, his " new organ ") and 
 deductive reasonings. By abstract thought it is very evident 
 that the Greeks and Romans attained the platform of eleva- 
 tion they so long occupied. By inductive observation, and 
 then deducing facts from these, our modern philosophers 
 have made the wonderful strides they have done, and have 
 placed us so forward in the world. It is observation, as we 
 have before said, which teaches us all things ; or, rather, it is 
 the after-reasoning which is based on observation : by it we 
 may abstract knowledge from a layer of earth, a bed of chalk, 
 or a stone. We do so, in fact ; we call our observation of earth 
 geology ; and we tell which way the wind blew before the 
 
KNOWLEDGE. 303 
 
 Deluge by marking the ripple and cupping of the rain in the 
 petrified sand now preserved for ever. We tell the very path 
 by which gigantic creatures, whom man never saw, walked 
 to the river's edge to find their food. We look upon a leaf 
 or a moss ; we mark the difference, arrange in classes ; and, 
 lo ! from these simple facts grows up every day a know- 
 ledge which testifies of the plan, the order, the disposition, 
 the kindness and goodness, the very mind and intention of 
 the great and good Creator, and which shall "confound 
 the Atheist's sophistries." So we learn to think with Lord 
 Bacon, " God never wrought a miracle to convert an Atheist, 
 because His ordinary works ought to convince him." The 
 old thinker is true : knowledge is one of the wings by which 
 we fly to heaven. 
 
 But, while lifting us above mean ideas and grovelling pas- 
 sions, while making us so much better — alas ! some of us 
 very little — than the grovelling North American Indian, who 
 will gorge himself till he swells out a bloated beast, and then 
 will sleep till digestion takes place ; while making us almost 
 a separate creation, true knowledge blesses all mankind. 
 Nor can man know much without benefiting his fellows. 
 " I make not my head a grave," says an old English philo- 
 sopher, "but a treasury of knowledge. I intend no mo- 
 nopoly, but a community of knowledge. I study not for my 
 own sake only, but for theirs that study not for themselves. 
 I envy no man that knows more, but pity them that know 
 less than I do." And the same good old physician had only 
 one sorrow — that when he died his acquired parts would die 
 with him, and could not be legacied to his honoured friends ; 
 that is, that he could not put his own brains into the heads 
 
304 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 of other people. But yet he has left the world a rich legacy. 
 Talk about the Peabody charity ! what is even that noble 
 dowry to the knowledge which Newton or Bacon or Shak- 
 speare has left the world ! 
 
 But it is not only wealth, and the source of wealth ; we 
 are made by it far less dependent for satisfaction upon the 
 sensitive appetites ; we, by its aid, despise the grosser plea- 
 sures of the senses ; the mind retires within itself, and is 
 enabled to contemplate higher things. When we at last 
 know ourselves, and our own strength and weakness, we rise 
 yet higher : — 
 
 " 'Tis the sublime in man, 
 Our noontide majesty, to know ourselves." 
 
 We are not frightened by bugbears of ignorance and super- 
 stition ; we repose calmly where we have arrived. We are 
 still seekers for the far off and the better ; but we do so quietly 
 and without fret or turmoil. We know that we now see as 
 through a glass, darkly ; but that the time will come when 
 the veil will be lifted off. We rest within the limits of the 
 knowable — not with a fretful impatience, but with a faithful 
 reliance that He who has aided us much will one day aid us 
 more. We remain still workers, knowing our ignorance, 
 groping our way, and feeling, with Bishop Berkeley, that "he 
 who would make a real progress in knowledge, must dedicate 
 his age as well as his youth — the latter growth as well as the 
 first-fruits — at the altar of Truth." 
 
UPON GROWING OLD. 
 
 OHN FOSTER, he who sprung into celebrity 
 from one essay, Popular Ignorance, had a dis- 
 eased feeling against growing old, which seems 
 to us to be very prevalent. He was sorry to lose 
 every parting hour. " I have seen a fearful sight to-day," he 
 would say — " I have seen a buttercup." To others the sight 
 would only give visions of the coming spring and future sum- 
 mer ; to him it told of the past year, the last Christmas, the 
 days which would never come again — the so many days 
 nearer the grave. Thackeray continually expressed the 
 same feeling. He reverts to the merry old time when George 
 the Third was king. He looks back with a regretful mind to 
 his own youth. The black Care constantly rides behind his 
 chariot. "Ah, my friends," he says, "how beautiful was 
 youth ! We are growing old. Spring-time and summer are 
 past. We near the winter of our days. We shall never feel 
 as we have felt. We approach the inevitable grave." Few 
 men, indeed, know how to grow old gracefully, as Madame 
 de Stael very truly observed. There is an unmanly sadness 
 at leaving off the old follies and the old games. We all hate 
 fogey ism. Dr. Johnson, great and good as he was, had a 
 touch of this regret, and we may pardon him for the feeling. 
 
 X 
 
306 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 A youth spent in poverty and neglect, a manhood consumed 
 in unceasing struggle, are not preparatives to growing old in 
 peace. We fancy that, after a stormy morning and a lowering 
 day, the evening should have a sunset glow, and, when the 
 night sets in, look back with regret at the " gusty, babbling, 
 and remorseless day ;" but if we do so, we miss the support- 
 ing faith of the Christian and the manly cheerfulness of the 
 heathen. To grow old is quite natural ; being natural, it is 
 beautiful ; and if we grumble at it, we miss the lesson, and 
 lose all the beauty. 
 
 Half of our life is spent in vain regrets. When we are boys 
 we ardently wish to be men ; when men we wish as ardently 
 to be boys. We sing sad songs of the lapse of time. We 
 talk of " auld lang syne," of the days when we were young, of 
 gathering shells on the sea-shore and throwing them care- 
 lessly away. We never cease to be sentimental upon past 
 youth and lost manhood and beauty. Yet there are no regrets 
 so false, and few half so silly. Perhaps the saddest sight in 
 the world is to see an old lady, wrinkled and withered, dress- 
 ing, talking, and acting like a very young one, and forgetting 
 all the time, as she clings to the feeble remnant of the past, 
 that there is no sham so transparent as her own, and that 
 people, instead of feeling with her, are laughing at her. Old 
 boys disguise their foibles a little better ; but they are equally 
 ridiculous. The feeble protests which they make against the 
 flying chariot of Time are equally futile. The great Mower 
 enters the field, and all must come down. To stay him would 
 be impossible. We might as well try with a finger to stop 
 Ixion's wheel, or to dam up the current of the Thames with a 
 child's foot. 
 
UPON GROWING OLD. 307 
 
 Since the matter is inevitable, we may as well sit down and 
 reason it out. Is it so dreadful to grow old? Does old age 
 need its apologies and its defenders ? Is it a benefit or a 
 calamity ? Why should it be odious and ridiculous ? An 
 old tree is picturesque, an old castle venerable, an old cathe- 
 dral inspires awe — why should man be worse than his works ? 
 
 Let us, in the first place, see what youth is. Is it so blessed 
 and happy and flourishing as it seems to us ? Schoolboys 
 do not think so. They always wish to be older. You cannot 
 insult one of them more than by telling him that he is a year 
 or two younger than he is. He fires up at once : " Twelve, did 
 you say, sir ? No, I'm fourteen." But men and women who 
 have reached twenty-eight do not thus add to their years. 
 Amongst schoolboys, notwithstanding the general tenour of 
 those romancists who see that everything young bears a rose- 
 coloured blush, misery is prevalent enough. Emerson, Cole- 
 ridge, Wordsworth, were each and all unhappy boys. They 
 all had their rebuffs, and bitter, bitter troubles ; all the more 
 bitter because their sensitiveness was so acute. Suicide is 
 not unknown amongst the young ; fears prey upon them and 
 terrify them ; ignorances and follies surround them. Arriving 
 at manhood, we are little better off. If we are poor, we mark 
 the difference between the rich and us ; we see position gains 
 all the day. If we are as clever as Hamlet, we grow just as 
 philosophically disappointed. If we love, we can only be sure 
 of a brief pleasure — an April day. Love has its bitterness. 
 " It is," says Ovid, an adept in the matter, " full of anxious 
 fear." We fret and fume at the authority of the wise heads ; 
 we have an intense idea of our own talent. We believe calves 
 of our own age to be as big and as valuable as full-grown 
 
333 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 bulls ; we envy whilst we jest at the old. We cry, with the 
 puffed-up hero of the Patriciaits Daughter — 
 
 1 ' It may be by the calendar of years 
 You are the elder man ; but 'tis the sun 
 Of knowledge on the mind's dial shining bright, 
 And chronicling deeds and thoughts, that makes true time." 
 
 And yet life is withal very unhappy, whether we live 
 amongst the grumbling captains of the clubs, who are ever 
 seeking and not finding promotion ; amongst the struggling 
 authors and rising artists who never rise ; or among the young 
 men who are full of riches, titles, places, and honour, who 
 have every wish fulfilled, and are miserable because they 
 have nothing to wish for. Thus the young Romans killed 
 themselves after the death of their emperor, not for grief, not 
 for affection, not even for the fashion of suicide, which grew 
 afterwards prevalent enough, but from the simple weariness 
 of doing everything over and over again. Old age has passed 
 such stages as these, landed on a safer shore, and matriculated 
 in a higher college, in a purer air. We do not sigh for im- 
 possibilities ; we cry not — 
 
 * Bring these anew, and set me once again 
 In the delusion of life's infancy ; 
 I was not happy, but I knew not then 
 That happy I was never doom'd to be. " 
 
 We know that we are not happy. We know that life 
 perhaps was not given us to be continuously comfortable and 
 happy. We have been behind the scenes, and know all the 
 illusions ; but when we are old we are far too wise to throw 
 life away for mere ennui. With Dandolo, refusing a crown 
 
UPON GROWING OLD. 309 
 
 at ninety-six, winning battles at ninety-four ; with Wellington, 
 planning and superintendingfortifications at eighty ; with Bacon 
 and Humboldt, students to the last gasp ; with wise old Mon- 
 taigne, shrewd in his grey-beard wisdom and loving life, even in 
 the midst of his fits of gout and colic — Age knows far too much 
 to act like a sulky child. It knows too well the results and the 
 value of things to care about them ; that the ache will subside, 
 the pain be lulled, the estate we coveted be worth little ; the 
 titles, ribbons, gewgaws, honours, be all more or less worthless. 
 " Who has honour? He that died o' Wednesday !" Such a 
 one passed us in the race, and gained it but to fall. We are 
 still up and doing ; we may be frosty and shrewd, but kindly. 
 We can wish all men well ; like them, too, so far as they may be 
 liked, and smile at the fuss, bother, hurry, and turmoil, which 
 they make about matters which to us are worthless dross. 
 The greatest prize in the whole market — in any and in eveiy 
 market — success, is to the old man nothing. He little cares 
 who is up and who is down ; the present he lives in and de- 
 lights in. Thus, in one of those admirable comedies in which 
 Robson acted, we find the son a wanderer, the mother's heart 
 nearly broken, the father torn and broken by a suspicion of 
 his son's dishonesty, but the grandfather all the while con- 
 cerned only about his gruel and his handkerchief. Even the 
 pains and troubles incident to his state visit the old man 
 lightly. Because Southey sat for months in his library, un- 
 able to read or touch the books he loved, we are not to infer 
 that he was unhappy. If the stage darkens as the curtain 
 falls,- certain it also is that the senses grow duller and more 
 blunted. " Don't cry for me, my dear," said an old lady 
 undergoing an operation ; " I do not feel it." 
 
310 THE GENTLE LIFE 
 
 It seems to us, therefore, that a great deal of unnecessary 
 pity has been thrown away upon old age. We begin at school 
 reading Cicero's treatise, hearing him talk with Scipio and 
 Laslius ; we hear much about poor old men ; we are taught 
 to admire the vigour, quickness, and capacity of youth and 
 manhood. We lose sight of the wisdom which age brings 
 even to the most foolish. We think that a circumscribed 
 sphere must necessarily be an unhappy one. It is not always 
 so. What one abandons in growing old is perhaps after all 
 not worth having. The chief part of youth is but excitement ; 
 often both unwise and unhealthy. The same pen which has 
 written, with a morbid feeling, that "there is a class of beings 
 who do grow old in their youth and die ere middle age," tells 
 us also that " the best of life is but intoxication." That passes 
 away. The man who has grown old does not care about it. 
 The author at that period has no feverish excitement about 
 seeing himself in print ; he does not hunt newspapers for 
 reviews and notices. He is content to wait ; he knows what 
 fame is worth. The obscure man of science, who has been 
 wishing to make the world better and wiser ; the struggling 
 curate, the poor and hard-tried man of God ; the enthusiastic 
 reformer, who has watched the sadly slow dawning of progress 
 and liberty ; the artist, whose dream of beauty slowly fades 
 before his dim eyes — all lay down their feverish wishes as 
 they advance in life, forget the bright ideal which they cannot 
 reach, and embrace the more imperfect real. We speak not 
 here of the assured Christian. He, from the noblest pinnacle 
 of faith, beholds a promised land, and is eager to reach it ; 
 he prays " to be delivered from the body of this death ;" but 
 we write of those humbler, perhaps more human souls, with 
 
UPON GROWING OLD. 311 
 
 whom increasing age each day treads down an illusion. All 
 feverish wishes, raw and inconclusive desires, have died down, 
 and a calm beauty and peace survive ; passions are dead, 
 temptations weakened or conquered ; experience has been 
 won ; selfish interests are widened into universal ones; vain, 
 idle hopes, have merged into a firmer faith or a complete 
 knowledge ; and more light has broken in upon the soul's dark 
 cottage, battered and decayed, " through chinks which Time 
 has made." 
 
 Again, old men are valuable, not only as relics of the 
 past, but as guides and prophets for the future. They know 
 the pattern of every turn of life's kaleidoscope. The colours 
 merely fall into new shapes ; the ground-work is just the 
 same. The good which a calm, kind, and cheerful old man 
 can do is incalculable. And whilst he does good to others, 
 he enjoys himself. He looks not unnaturally to that which 
 should accompany old age — honour, love, obedience, troops 
 of friends ; and he plays his part in the comedy or tragedy 
 of life with as much gusto as any one else. Old Montague 
 or Capulet, and old Polonius, that wise maxim-man, enjoy 
 themselves quite as well as the moody Hamlet, the per- 
 turbed Laertes, or even gallant Mercutio or love-sick Romeo. 
 Friar Lawrence, who is a good old man, is perhaps the 
 happiest of all in the dramatis fterson<z — unless we take 
 the gossiping, garrulous old nurse, with her sunny recollec- 
 tions of maturity and youth. The great thing is to have the 
 mind well employed, to work whilst it is yet day. The pre- 
 cise Duke of Wellington, answering every letter with " F. M. 
 presents his compliments ;" the wondrous worker Humboldt, 
 with his orders of knighthood, stars, and ribbons, lying dusty 
 
312 THE GENTLE LIFE. 
 
 in his drawer, still contemplating Cosmos, and answering his 
 thirty letters a day — were both men in exceedingly enviable, 
 happy positions ; they had reached the top of the hill, and 
 could look back quietly over the rough road which they had 
 travelled. We are not all Humboldts or Wellingtons ; but 
 we can all be busy and good. Experience must teach us all 
 a great deal ; and if it only teaches us not to fear the future, 
 not to cast a maundering regret over the past, we can be .as 
 happy in old age — ay, and far more so — than we were in youth. 
 We are no longer the fools of time and error. We are leav- 
 ing by slow degrees the old world ; we stand upon the thres- 
 hold of the new ; not without hope, but without fear, in an 
 exceedingly natural position, with nothing strange or dread- 
 ful about it ; with our domain drawn within a narrow circle, 
 but equal to our power. Muscular strength, organic instincts, 
 are all gone ; but what then ? We do not want them ; we are 
 getting ready for the great change, one which is just as neces- 
 sary as it was to be born ; and to a little child perhaps one 
 is not a whit more painful — perhaps not so painful as the 
 other. The wheels of Time have brought us to the goal; we 
 are about to rest while others labour, to stay at home while 
 others wander. We touch at last the mysterious door — are 
 we to be pitied or to be envied ? 
 
 London : "William Stevens, Printer, 37 Bell Yard, Tempie Bai . 
 

 
 
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