The natural education of the Home is prolonged far into life--indeed, it
never entirely ceases. But the time arrives, in the progress of years,
when the Home ceases to exercise an exclusive influence on the formation
of character; and it is succeeded by the more artificial education of
the school and the companionship of friends and comrades, which continue
to mould the character by the powerful influence of example.

Men, young and old--but the young more than the old--cannot help
imitating those with whom they associate. It was a saying of George
Herbert's mother, intended for the guidance of her sons, "that as our
bodies take a nourishment suitable to the meat on which we feed, so
do our souls as insensibly take in virtue or vice by the example or
conversation of good or bad company."

Indeed, it is impossible that association with those about us should not
produce a powerful influence in the formation of character. For men are
by nature imitators, and all persons are more or less impressed by the
speech, the manners, the gait, the gestures, and the very habits of
thinking of their companions. "Is example nothing?" said Burke. "It is
everything. Example is the school of mankind, and they will learn at
no other." Burke's grand motto, which he wrote for the tablet of
the Marquis of Rockingham, is worth repeating: it was,
"Remember--resemble--persevere."

Imitation is for the most part so unconscious that its effects are
almost unheeded, but its influence is not the less permanent on that
account. It is only when an impressive nature is placed in contact with
an impressionable one, that the alteration in the character becomes
recognisable. Yet even the weakest natures exercise some influence upon
those about them. The approximation of feeling, thought, and habit is
constant, and the action of example unceasing.

Emerson has observed that even old couples, or persons who have been
housemates for a course of years, grow gradually like each other; so
that, if they were to live long enough, we should scarcely be able to
know them apart. But if this be true of the old, how much more true
is it of the young, whose plastic natures are so much more soft and
impressionable, and ready to take the stamp of the life and conversation
of those about them!

"There has been," observed Sir Charles Bell in one of his letters, "a
good deal said about education, but they appear to me to put out of
sight EXAMPLE, which is all-in-all. My best education was the example
set me by my brothers. There was, in all the members of the family, a
reliance on self, a true independence, and by imitation I obtained it."
[121]

It is in the nature of things that the circumstances which contribute to
form the character, should exercise their principal influence during the
period of growth. As years advance, example and imitation become custom,
and gradually consolidate into habit, which is of so much potency that,
almost before we know it, we have in a measure yielded up to it our
personal freedom.

It is related of Plato, that on one occasion he reproved a boy for
playing at some foolish game. "Thou reprovest me," said the boy, "for
a very little thing." "But custom," replied Plato, "is not a little
thing." Bad custom, consolidated into habit, is such a tyrant that men
sometimes cling to vices even while they curse them. They have become
the slaves of habits whose power they are impotent to resist. Hence
Locke has said that to create and maintain that vigour of mind which is
able to contest the empire of habit, may be regarded as one of the chief
ends of moral discipline.

Though much of the education of character by example is spontaneous and
unconscious, the young need not necessarily be the passive followers
or imitators of those about them. Their own conduct, far more than
the conduct of their companions, tends to fix the purpose and form the
principles of their life. Each possesses in himself a power of will and
of free activity, which, if courageously exercised, will enable him to
make his own individual selection of friends and associates. It is only
through weakness of purpose that young people, as well as old, become
the slaves of their inclinations, or give themselves up to a servile
imitation of others.

It is a common saying that men are known by the company they keep. The
sober do not naturally associate with the drunken, the refined with
the coarse, the decent with the dissolute. To associate with depraved
persons argues a low taste and vicious tendencies, and to frequent their
society leads to inevitable degradation of character. "The conversation
of such persons," says Seneca, "is very injurious; for even if it does
no immediate harm, it leaves its seeds in the mind, and follows us when
we have gone from the speakers--a plague sure to spring up in future
resurrection."

If young men are wisely influenced and directed, and conscientiously
exert their own free energies, they will seek the society of those
better than themselves, and strive to imitate their example. In
companionship with the good, growing natures will always find their best
nourishment; while companionship with the bad will only be fruitful in
mischief. There are persons whom to know is to love, honour, and admire;
and others whom to know is to shun and despise,--"DONT LE SAVOIR
N'EST QUE BETERIE," as says Rabelais when speaking of the education of
Gargantua. Live with persons of elevated characters, and you will feel
lifted and lighted up in them: "Live with wolves," says the Spanish
proverb, "and you will learn to howl."

Intercourse with even commonplace, selfish persons, may prove most
injurious, by inducing a dry, dull reserved, and selfish condition of
mind, more or less inimical to true manliness and breadth of character.
The mind soon learns to run in small grooves, the heart grows narrow
and contracted, and the moral nature becomes weak, irresolute,
and accommodating, which is fatal to all generous ambition or real
excellence.

On the other hand, association with persons wiser, better, and more
experienced than ourselves, is always more or less inspiring and
invigorating. They enhance our own knowledge of life. We correct our
estimates by theirs, and become partners in their wisdom. We enlarge our
field of observation through their eyes, profit by their experience,
and learn not only from what they have enjoyed, but--which is still more
instructive--from what they have suffered. If they are stronger
than ourselves, we become participators in their strength. Hence
companionship with the wise and energetic never fails to have a most
valuable influence on the formation of character--increasing our
resources, strengthening our resolves, elevating our aims, and enabling
us to exercise greater dexterity and ability in our own affairs, as well
as more effective helpfulness of others.

"I have often deeply regretted in myself," says Mrs. Schimmelpenninck,
"the great loss I have experienced from the solitude of my early habits.
We need no worse companion than our unregenerate selves, and, by living
alone, a person not only becomes wholly ignorant of the means of helping
his fellow-creatures, but is without the perception of those wants which
most need help. Association with others, when not on so large a scale as
to make hours of retirement impossible, may be considered as furnishing
to an individual a rich multiplied experience; and sympathy so drawn
forth, though, unlike charity, it begins abroad, never fails to bring
back rich treasures home. Association with others is useful also in
strengthening the character, and in enabling us, while we never lose
sight of our main object, to thread our way wisely and well." [122]

An entirely new direction may be given to the life of a young man by
a happy suggestion, a timely hint, or the kindly advice of an honest
friend. Thus the life of Henry Martyn the Indian missionary, seems to
have been singularly influenced by a friendship which he formed, when a
boy, at Truro Grammar School. Martyn himself was of feeble frame, and of
a delicate nervous temperament. Wanting in animal spirits, he took
but little pleasure in school sports; and being of a somewhat petulant
temper, the bigger boys took pleasure in provoking him, and some of
them in bullying him. One of the bigger boys, however, conceiving a
friendship for Martyn, took him under his protection, stood between him
and his persecutors, and not only fought his battles for him, but helped
him with his lessons. Though Martyn was rather a backward pupil, his
father was desirous that he should have the advantage of a college
education, and at the age of about fifteen he sent him to Oxford to try
for a Corpus scholarship, in which he failed. He remained for two years
more at the Truro Grammar School, and then went to Cambridge, where he
was entered at St. John's College. Who should he find already settled
there as a student but his old champion of the Truro Grammar School?
Their friendship was renewed; and the elder student from that time
forward acted as the Mentor, of the younger one. Martyn was fitful in
his studies, excitable and petulant, and occasionally subject to fits
of almost uncontrollable rage. His big friend, on the other hand, was a
steady, patient, hardworking fellow; and he never ceased to watch over,
to guide, and to advise for good his irritable fellow-student. He kept
Martyn out of the way of evil company, advised him to work hard, "not
for the praise of men, but for the glory of God;" and so successfully
assisted him in his studies, that at the following Christmas examination
he was the first of his year. Yet Martyn's kind friend and Mentor
never achieved any distinction himself; he passed away into obscurity,
leading, most probably, a useful though an unknown career; his greatest
wish in life having been to shape the character of his friend, to
inspire his soul with the love of truth, and to prepare him for the
noble work, on which he shortly after entered, of an Indian missionary.

A somewhat similar incident is said to have occurred in the college
career of Dr. Paley. When a student at Christ's College Cambridge, he
was distinguished for his shrewdness as well as his clumsiness, and
he was at the same time the favourite and the butt of his companions.
Though his natural abilities were great, he was thoughtless, idle, and
a spendthrift; and at the commencement of his third year he had
made comparatively little progress. After one of his usual
night-dissipations, a friend stood by his bedside on the following
morning. "Paley," said he, "I have not been able to sleep for thinking
about you. I have been thinking what a fool you are! I have the means of
dissipation, and can afford to be idle: YOU are poor, and cannot afford
it. I could do nothing, probably, even were I to try: YOU are capable of
doing anything. I have lain awake all night thinking about your folly,
and I have now come solemnly to warn you. Indeed, if you persist in
your indolence, and go on in this way, I must renounce your society
altogether!"

It is said that Paley was so powerfully affected by this admonition,
that from that moment he became an altered man. He formed an entirely
new plan of life, and diligently persevered in it. He became one of the
most industrious of students. One by one he distanced his competitors,
and at the end of the year he came out Senior Wrangler. What he
afterwards accomplished as an author and a divine is sufficiently well
known.

No one recognised more fully the influence of personal example on the
young than did Dr. Arnold. It was the great lever with which he worked
in striving to elevate the character of his school. He made it his
principal object, first to put a right spirit into the leading boys,
by attracting their good and noble feelings; and then to make them
instrumental in propagating the same spirit among the rest, by the
influence of imitation, example, and admiration. He endeavoured to make
all feel that they were fellow-workers with himself, and sharers with
him in the moral responsibility for the good government of the place.
One of the first effects of this highminded system of management was,
that it inspired the boys with strength and self-respect. They felt that
they were trusted. There were, of course, MAUVAIS SUJETS at Rugby, as
there are at all schools; and these it was the master's duty to watch,
to prevent their bad example contaminating others. On one occasion
he said to an assistant-master: "Do you see those two boys walking
together? I never saw them together before. You should make an especial
point of observing the company they keep: nothing so tells the changes
in a boy's character."

Dr. Arnold's own example was an inspiration, as is that of every great
teacher. In his presence, young men learned to respect themselves; and
out of the root of self-respect there grew up the manly virtues. "His
very presence," says his biographer, "seemed to create a new spring
of health and vigour within them, and to give to life an interest and
elevation which remained with them long after they had left him; and
dwelt so habitually in their thoughts as a living image, that, when
death had taken him away, the bond appeared to be still unbroken, and
the sense of separation almost lost in the still deeper sense of a life
and a Union indestructible." [123] And thus it was that Dr. Arnold trained
a host of manly and noble characters, who spread the influence of his
example in all parts of the world.

So also was it said of Dugald Stewart, that he breathed the love of
virtue into whole generations of pupils. "To me," says the late Lord
Cockburn, "his lectures were like the opening of the heavens. I felt
that I had a soul. His noble views, unfolded in glorious sentences,
elevated me into a higher world... They changed my whole nature." [124]

Character tells in all conditions of life. The man of good character in
a workshop will give the tone to his fellows, and elevate their entire
aspirations. Thus Franklin, while a workman in London, is said to have
reformed the manners of an entire workshop. So the man of bad character
and debased energy will unconsciously lower and degrade his fellows.
Captain John Brown--the "marching-on Brown"--once said to Emerson,
that "for a settler in a new country, one good believing man is worth a
hundred, nay, worth a thousand men without character." His example is so
contagious, that all other men are directly and beneficially influenced
by him, and he insensibly elevates and lifts them up to his own standard
of energetic activity.

Communication with the good is invariably productive of good. The good
character is diffusive in his influence. "I was common clay till roses
were planted in me," says some aromatic earth in the Eastern fable.
Like begets like, and good makes good. "It is astonishing," says Canon
Moseley, "how much good goodness makes. Nothing that is good is alone,
nor anything bad; it makes others good or others bad--and that other,
and so on: like a stone thrown into a pond, which makes circles that
make other wider ones, and then others, till the last reaches the
shore.... Almost all the good that is in the world has, I suppose,
thus come down to us traditionally from remote times, and often unknown
centres of good." [125] So Mr. Ruskin says, "That which is born of evil
begets evil; and that which is born of valour and honour, teaches valour
and honour."

Hence it is that the life of every man is a daily inculcation of good
or bad example to others. The life of a good man is at the same time the
most eloquent lesson of virtue and the most severe reproof of vice. Dr.
Hooker described the life of a pious clergyman of his acquaintance as
"visible rhetoric," convincing even the most godless of the beauty of
goodness. And so the good George Herbert said, on entering upon the
duties of his parish: "Above all, I will be sure to live well, because
the virtuous life of a clergyman is the most powerful eloquence, to
persuade all who see it to reverence and love, and--at least to desire
to live like him. And this I will do," he added, "because I know we live
in an age that hath more need of good examples than precepts." It was a
fine saying of the same good priest, when reproached with doing an
act of kindness to a poor man, considered beneath the dignity of his
office,--that the thought of such actions "would prove music to him at
midnight." [126] Izaak Walton speaks of a letter written by George Herbert
to Bishop Andrewes, about a holy life, which the latter "put into his
bosom," and after showing it to his scholars, "did always return it to
the place where he first lodged it, and continued it so, near his heart,
till the last day of his life."

Great is the power of goodness to charm and to command. The man inspired
by it is the true king of men, drawing all hearts after him. When
General Nicholson lay wounded on his deathbed before Delhi, he dictated
this last message to his equally noble and gallant friend, Sir Herbert
Edwardes:--"Tell him," said he, "I should have been a better man if
I had continued to live with him, and our heavy public duties had not
prevented my seeing more of him privately. I was always the better for
a residence with him and his wife, however short. Give my love to them
both!"

There are men in whose presence we feel as if we breathed a spiritual
ozone, refreshing and invigorating, like inhaling mountain air, or
enjoying a bath of sunshine. The power of Sir Thomas More's gentle
nature was so great that it subdued the bad at the same time that it
inspired the good. Lord Brooke said of his deceased friend, Sir Philip
Sidney, that "his wit and understanding beat upon his heart, to make
himself and others, not in word or opinion, but in life and action, good
and great."

The very sight of a great and good man is often an inspiration to the
young, who cannot help admiring and loving the gentle, the brave, the
truthful, the magnanimous! Chateaubriand saw Washington only once,
but it inspired him for life. After describing the interview, he says:
"Washington sank into the tomb before any little celebrity had attached
to my name. I passed before him as the most unknown of beings. He was
in all his glory--I in the depth of my obscurity. My name probably dwelt
not a whole day in his memory. Happy, however, was I that his looks were
cast upon me. I have felt warmed for it all the rest of my life. There
is a virtue even in the looks of a great man."

When Niebuhr died, his friend, Frederick Perthes, said of him: "What a
contemporary! The terror of all bad and base men, the stay of all the
sterling and honest, the friend and helper of youth." Perthes said
on another occasion: "It does a wrestling man good to be constantly
surrounded by tried wrestlers; evil thoughts are put to flight when the
eye falls on the portrait of one in whose living presence one would have
blushed to own them." A Catholic money-lender, when about to cheat, was
wont to draw a veil over the picture of his favourite saint. So Hazlitt
has said of the portrait of a beautiful female, that it seemed as if an
unhandsome action would be impossible in its presence. "It does one good
to look upon his manly honest face," said a poor German woman, pointing
to a portrait of the great Reformer hung upon the wall of her humble
dwelling.

Even the portrait of a noble or a good man, hung up in a room, is
companionship after a sort. It gives us a closer personal interest in
him. Looking at the features, we feel as if we knew him better, and were
more nearly related to him. It is a link that connects us with a higher
and better nature than our own. And though we may be far from reaching
the standard of our hero, we are, to a certain extent, sustained and
fortified by his depicted presence constantly before us.

Fox was proud to acknowledge how much he owed to the example and
conversation of Burke. On one occasion he said of him, that "if he was
to put all the political information he had gained from books, all that
he had learned from science, or that the knowledge of the world and its
affairs taught him, into one scale, and the improvement he had derived
from Mr. Burke's conversation and instruction into the other, the latter
would preponderate."

Professor Tyndall speaks of Faraday's friendship as "energy and
inspiration." After spending an evening with him he wrote: "His work
excites admiration, but contact with him warms and elevates the heart.
Here, surely, is a strong man. I love strength, but let me not forget
the example of its union with modesty, tenderness, and sweetness, in the
character of Faraday."

Even the gentlest natures are powerful to influence the character of
others for good. Thus Wordsworth seems to have been especially impressed
by the character of his sister Dorothy, who exercised upon his mind
and heart a lasting influence. He describes her as the blessing of
his boyhood as well as of his manhood. Though two years younger than
himself, her tenderness and sweetness contributed greatly to mould his
nature, and open his mind to the influences of poetry:

        "She gave me eyes, she gave me ears,
         And humble cares, and delicate fears;
         A heart, the fountain of sweet tears,
                 And love and thought and joy."

Thus the gentlest natures are enabled, by the power of affection and
intelligence, to mould the characters of men destined to influence and
elevate their race through all time.

Sir William Napier attributed the early direction of his character,
first to the impress made upon it by his mother, when a boy; and
afterwards to the noble example of his commander, Sir John Moore, when a
man. Moore early detected the qualities of the young officer; and he
was one of those to whom the General addressed the encouragement, "Well
done, my majors!" at Corunna. Writing home to his mother, and describing
the little court by which Moore was surrounded, he wrote, "Where shall
we find such a king?" It was to his personal affection for his chief
that the world is mainly indebted to Sir William Napier for his great
book, 'The History of the Peninsular War.' But he was stimulated to
write the book by the advice of another friend, the late Lord Langdale,
while one day walking with him across the fields on which Belgravia is
now built. "It was Lord Langdale," he says, "who first kindled the fire
within me." And of Sir William Napier himself, his biographer truly
says, that "no thinking person could ever come in contact with him
without being strongly impressed with the genius of the man."

The career of the late Dr. Marshall Hall was a lifelong illustration of
the influence of character in forming character. Many eminent men still
living trace their success in life to his suggestions and assistance,
without which several valuable lines of study and investigation might
not have been entered on, at least at so early a period. He would say
to young men about him, "Take up a subject and pursue it well, and you
cannot fail to succeed." And often he would throw out a new idea to a
young friend, saying, "I make you a present of it; there is fortune in
it, if you pursue it with energy."

Energy of character has always a power to evoke energy in others. It
acts through sympathy, one of the most influential of human agencies.
The zealous energetic man unconsciously carries others along with him.
His example is contagious, and compels imitation. He exercises a sort of
electric power, which sends a thrill through every fibre--flows into the
nature of those about him, and makes them give out sparks of fire.

Dr. Arnold's biographer, speaking of the power of this kind exercised by
him over young men, says: "It was not so much an enthusiastic admiration
for true genius, or learning, or eloquence, which stirred within them;
it was a sympathetic thrill, caught from a spirit that was earnestly
at work in the world--whose work was healthy, sustained, and constantly
carried forward in the fear of God--a work that was founded on a deep
sense of its duty and its value." [127]

Such a power, exercised by men of genius, evokes courage, enthusiasm,
and devotion. It is this intense admiration for individuals--such as
one cannot conceive entertained for a multitude--which has in all times
produced heroes and martyrs. It is thus that the mastery of character
makes itself felt. It acts by inspiration, quickening and vivifying the
natures subject to its influence.

Great minds are rich in radiating force, not only exerting power, but
communicating and even creating it. Thus Dante raised and drew after him
a host of great spirits--Petrarch, Boccacio, Tasso, and many more. From
him Milton learnt to bear the stings of evil tongues and the contumely
of evil days; and long years after, Byron, thinking of Dante under the
pine-trees of Ravenna, was incited to attune his harp to loftier strains
than he had ever attempted before. Dante inspired the greatest painters
of Italy--Giotto, Orcagna, Michael Angelo, and Raphael. So Ariosto and
Titian mutually inspired one another, and lighted up each other's glory.

Great and good men draw others after them, exciting the spontaneous
admiration of mankind. This admiration of noble character elevates
the mind, and tends to redeem it from the bondage of self, one of the
greatest stumbling blocks to moral improvement. The recollection of men
who have signalised themselves by great thoughts or great deeds, seems
as if to create for the time a purer atmosphere around us: and we feel
as if our aims and purposes were unconsciously elevated.

"Tell me whom you admire," said Sainte-Beuve, "and I will tell you what
you are, at least as regards your talents, tastes, and character."
Do you admire mean men?--your own nature is mean. Do you admire rich
men?--you are of the earth, earthy. Do you admire men of title?--you
are a toad-eater, or a tuft-hunter. [128] Do you admire honest, brave, and
manly men?--you are yourself of an honest, brave, and manly spirit.

It is in the season of youth, while the character is forming, that the
impulse to admire is the greatest. As we advance in life, we crystallize
into habit; and "NIL ADMIRARI" too often becomes our motto. It is well
to encourage the admiration of great characters while the nature is
plastic and open to impressions; for if the good are not admired--as
young men will have their heroes of some sort--most probably the great
bad may be taken by them for models. Hence it always rejoiced Dr. Arnold
to hear his pupils expressing admiration of great deeds, or full of
enthusiasm for persons or even scenery. "I believe," said he, "that
'NIL ADMIRARI' is the devil's favourite text; and he could not choose
a better to introduce his pupils into the more esoteric parts of his
doctrine. And, therefore, I have always looked upon a man infected with
the disorder of anti-romance as one who has lost the finest part of his
nature, and his best protection against everything low and foolish." [129]

It was a fine trait in the character of Prince Albert that he was always
so ready to express generous admiration of the good deeds of others. "He
had the greatest delight," says the ablest delineator of his character,
"in anybody else saying a fine saying, or doing a great deed. He would
rejoice over it, and talk about it for days; and whether it was a thing
nobly said or done by a little child, or by a veteran statesman, it gave
him equal pleasure. He delighted in humanity doing well on any occasion
and in any manner." [1210]

"No quality," said Dr. Johnson, "will get a man more friends than a
sincere admiration of the qualities of others. It indicates generosity
of nature, frankness, cordiality, and cheerful recognition of merit." It
was to the sincere--it might almost be said the reverential--admiration
of Johnson by Boswell, that we owe one of the best biographies ever
written. One is disposed to think that there must have been some genuine
good qualities in Boswell to have been attracted by such a man as
Johnson, and to have kept faithful to his worship in spite of rebuffs
and snubbings innumerable. Macaulay speaks of Boswell as an altogether
contemptible person--as a coxcomb and a bore--weak, vain, pushing,
curious, garrulous; and without wit, humour, or eloquence. But Carlyle
is doubtless more just in his characterisation of the biographer, in
whom--vain and foolish though he was in many respects--he sees a man
penetrated by the old reverent feeling of discipleship, full of love
and admiration for true wisdom and excellence. Without such qualities,
Carlyle insists, the 'Life of Johnson' never could have been written.
"Boswell wrote a good book," he says, "because he had a heart and an eye
to discern wisdom, and an utterance to render it forth; because of
his free insight, his lively talent, and, above all, of his love and
childlike openmindedness."

Most young men of generous mind have their heroes, especially if they
be book-readers. Thus Allan Cunningham, when a mason's apprentice in
Nithsdale, walked all the way to Edinburgh for the sole purpose of
seeing Sir Walter Scott as he passed along the street. We unconsciously
admire the enthusiasm of the lad, and respect the impulse which impelled
him to make the journey. It is related of Sir Joshua Reynolds, that when
a boy of ten, he thrust his hand through intervening rows of people to
touch Pope, as if there were a sort of virtue in the contact. At a much
later period, the painter Haydon was proud to see and to touch Reynolds
when on a visit to his native place. Rogers the poet used to tell of his
ardent desire, when a boy, to see Dr. Johnson; but when his hand was on
the knocker of the house in Bolt Court, his courage failed him, and he
turned away. So the late Isaac Disraeli, when a youth, called at Bolt
Court for the same purpose; and though he HAD the courage to knock, to
his dismay he was informed by the servant that the great lexicographer
had breathed his last only a few hours before.

On the contrary, small and ungenerous minds cannot admire heartily. To
their own great misfortune, they cannot recognise, much less reverence,
great men and great things. The mean nature admires meanly. The toad's
highest idea of beauty is his toadess. The small snob's highest idea of
manhood is the great snob. The slave-dealer values a man according to
his muscles. When a Guinea trader was told by Sir Godfrey Kneller, in
the presence of Pope, that he saw before him two of the greatest men in
the world, he replied: "I don't know how great you may be, but I don't
like your looks. I have often bought a man much better than both of you
together, all bones and muscles, for ten guineas!"

Although Rochefoucauld, in one of his maxims, says that there is
something that is not altogether disagreeable to us in the misfortunes
of even our best friends, it is only the small and essentially mean
nature that finds pleasure in the disappointment, and annoyance at the
success of others. There are, unhappily, for themselves, persons so
constituted that they have not the heart to be generous. The most
disagreeable of all people are those who "sit in the seat of the
scorner." Persons of this sort often come to regard the success of
others, even in a good work, as a kind of personal offence. They cannot
bear to hear another praised, especially if he belong to their own art,
or calling, or profession. They will pardon a man's failures, but cannot
forgive his doing a thing better than they can do. And where they
have themselves failed, they are found to be the most merciless of
detractors. The sour critic thinks of his rival:

    "When Heaven with such parts has blest him,
    Have I not reason to detest him?"

The mean mind occupies itself with sneering, carping, and fault-finding;
and is ready to scoff at everything but impudent effrontery or
successful vice. The greatest consolation of such persons are the
defects of men of character. "If the wise erred not," says George
Herbert, "it would go hard with fools." Yet, though wise men may learn
of fools by avoiding their errors, fools rarely profit by the example
which, wise men set them. A German writer has said that it is a
miserable temper that cares only to discover the blemishes in the
character of great men or great periods. Let us rather judge them with
the charity of Bolingbroke, who, when reminded of one of the alleged
weaknesses of Marlborough, observed,--"He was so great a man that I
forgot he had that defect."

Admiration of great men, living or dead, naturally evokes imitation
of them in a greater or less degree. While a mere youth, the mind of
Themistocles was fired by the great deeds of his contemporaries, and he
longed to distinguish himself in the service of his country. When the
Battle of Marathon had been fought, he fell into a state of melancholy;
and when asked by his friends as to the cause, he replied "that the
trophies of Miltiades would not suffer him to sleep." A few years later,
we find him at the head of the Athenian army, defeating the Persian
fleet of Xerxes in the battles of Artemisium and Salamis,--his country
gratefully acknowledging that it had been saved through his wisdom and
valour.

It is related of Thucydides that, when a boy, he burst into tears on
hearing Herodotus read his History, and the impression made upon
his mind was such as to determine the bent of his own genius.
And Demosthenes was so fired on one occasion by the eloquence of
Callistratus, that the ambition was roused within him of becoming an
orator himself. Yet Demosthenes was physically weak, had a feeble voice,
indistinct articulation, and shortness of breath--defects which he was
only enabled to overcome by diligent study and invincible determination.
But, with all his practice, he never became a ready speaker; all his
orations, especially the most famous of them, exhibiting indications of
careful elaboration,--the art and industry of the orator being visible
in almost every sentence.

Similar illustrations of character imitating character, and moulding
itself by the style and manner and genius of great men, are to be found
pervading all history. Warriors, statesmen, orators, patriots, poets,
and artists--all have been, more or less unconsciously, nurtured by the
lives and actions of others living before them or presented for their
imitation.

Great men have evoked the admiration of kings, popes, and emperors.
Francis de Medicis never spoke to Michael Angelo without uncovering,
and Julius III. made him sit by his side while a dozen cardinals were
standing. Charles V. made way for Titian; and one day, when the brush
dropped from the painter's hand, Charles stooped and picked it up,
saying, "You deserve to be served by an emperor." Leo X. threatened
with excommunication whoever should print and sell the poems of Ariosto
without the author's consent. The same pope attended the deathbed of
Raphael, as Francis I. did that of Leonardo da Vinci.

Though Haydn once archly observed that he was loved and esteemed by
everybody except professors of music, yet all the greatest musicians
were unusually ready to recognise each other's greatness. Haydn himself
seems to have been entirely free from petty jealousy. His admiration of
the famous Porpora was such, that he resolved to gain admission to his
house, and serve him as a valet. Having made the acquaintance of the
family with whom Porpora lived, he was allowed to officiate in that
capacity. Early each morning he took care to brush the veteran's coat,
polish his shoes, and put his rusty wig in order. At first Porpora
growled at the intruder, but his asperity soon softened, and eventually
melted into affection. He quickly discovered his valet's genius, and,
by his instructions, directed it into the line in which Haydn eventually
acquired so much distinction.

Haydn himself was enthusiastic in his admiration of Handel. "He is the
father of us all," he said on one occasion. Scarlatti followed Handel in
admiration all over Italy, and, when his name was mentioned, he crossed
himself in token of veneration. Mozart's recognition of the great
composer was not less hearty. "When he chooses," said he, "Handel
strikes like the thunderbolt." Beethoven hailed him as "The monarch of
the musical kingdom." When Beethoven was dying, one of his friends sent
him a present of Handel's works, in forty volumes. They were brought
into his chamber, and, gazing on them with reanimated eye, he exclaimed,
pointing at them with his finger, "There--there is the truth!"

Haydn not only recognised the genius of the great men who had passed
away, but of his young contemporaries, Mozart and Beethoven. Small men
may be envious of their fellows, but really great men seek out and love
each other. Of Mozart, Haydn wrote "I only wish I could impress on
every friend of music, and on great men in particular, the same depth
of musical sympathy, and profound appreciation of Mozart's inimitable
music, that I myself feel and enjoy; then nations would vie with each
other to possess such a jewel within their frontiers. Prague ought not
only to strive to retain this precious man, but also to remunerate him;
for without this the history of a great genius is sad indeed.... It
enrages me to think that the unparalleled Mozart is not yet engaged by
some imperial or royal court. Forgive my excitement; but I love the man
so dearly!"

Mozart was equally generous in his recognition of the merits of Haydn.
"Sir," said he to a critic, speaking of the latter, "if you and I were
both melted down together, we should not furnish materials for one
Haydn." And when Mozart first heard Beethoven, he observed: "Listen to
that young man; be assured that he will yet make a great name in the
world."

Buffon set Newton above all other philosophers, and admired him so
highly that he had always his portrait before him while he sat at work.
So Schiller looked up to Shakspeare, whom he studied reverently and
zealously for years, until he became capable of comprehending nature at
first-hand, and then his admiration became even more ardent than before.

Pitt was Canning's master and hero, whom he followed and admired with
attachment and devotion. "To one man, while he lived," said Canning, "I
was devoted with all my heart and all my soul. Since the death of Mr.
Pitt I acknowledge no leader; my political allegiance lies buried in his
grave." [1211]

A French physiologist, M. Roux, was occupied one day in lecturing to his
pupils, when Sir Charles Bell, whose discoveries were even better known
and more highly appreciated abroad than at home, strolled into his
class-room. The professor, recognising his visitor, at once stopped his
exposition, saying: "MESSIEURS, C'EST ASSEZ POUR AUJOURD'HUI, VOUS AVEZ
VU SIR CHARLES BELL!"

The first acquaintance with a great work of art has usually proved an
important event in every young artist's life. When Correggio first gazed
on Raphael's 'Saint Cecilia,' he felt within himself an awakened power,
and exclaimed, "And I too am a painter" So Constable used to look back
on his first sight of Claude's picture of 'Hagar,' as forming an epoch
in his career. Sir George Beaumont's admiration of the same picture was
such that he always took it with him in his carriage when he travelled
from home.

The examples set by the great and good do not die; they continue to
live and speak to all the generations that succeed them. It was very
impressively observed by Mr. Disraeli, in the House of Commons, shortly
after the death of Mr. Cobden:--"There is this consolation remaining to
us, when we remember our unequalled and irreparable losses, that those
great men are not altogether lost to us--that their words will often be
quoted in this House--that their examples will often be referred to
and appealed to, and that even their expressions will form part of
our discussions and debates. There are now, I may say, some members of
Parliament who, though they may not be present, are still members of
this House--who are independent of dissolutions, of the caprices of
constituencies, and even of the course of time. I think that Mr. Cobden
was one of those men."

It is the great lesson of biography to teach what man can be and can do
at his best. It may thus give each man renewed strength and confidence.
The humblest, in sight of even the greatest, may admire, and hope, and
take courage. These great brothers of ours in blood and lineage, who
live a universal life, still speak to us from their graves, and beckon
us on in the paths which they have trod. Their example is still with us,
to guide, to influence, and to direct us. For nobility of character is
a perpetual bequest; living from age to age, and constantly tending to
reproduce its like.

"The sage," say the Chinese, "is the instructor of a hundred ages. When
the manners of Loo are heard of, the stupid become intelligent, and the
wavering determined." Thus the acted life of a good man continues to be
a gospel of freedom and emancipation to all who succeed him:

          "To live in hearts we leave behind,
          is not to die."

The golden words that good men have uttered, the examples they have set,
live through all time: they pass into the thoughts and hearts of their
successors, help them on the road of life, and often console them in the
hour of death. "And the most miserable or most painful of deaths," said
Henry Marten, the Commonwealth man, who died in prison, "is as nothing
compared with the memory of a well-spent life; and great alone is he
who has earned the glorious privilege of bequeathing such a lesson and
example to his successors!"




CHAPTER IV.--WORK.


     "Arise therefore, and be doing, and the Lord be with thee."
     --l CHRONICLES xxii. 16.

        "Work as if thou hadst to live for aye;
        Worship as if thou wert to die to-day."--TUSCAN PROVERB.

          "C'est par le travail qu'on regne."--LOUIS XIV

       "Blest work! if ever thou wert curse of God,
        What must His blessing be!"--J. B. SELKIRK.

     "Let every man be OCCUPIED, and occupied in the highest
     employment of which his nature is capable, and die with the
     consciousness that he has done his best"--Sydney Smith.


WORK is one of the best educators of practical character. It evokes
and disciplines obedience, self-control, attention, application, and
perseverance; giving a man deftness and skill in his special calling,
and aptitude and dexterity in dealing with the affairs of ordinary life.

Work is the law of our being--the living principle that carries men and
nations onward. The greater number of men have to work with their hands,
as a matter of necessity, in order to live; but all must work in one way
or another, if they would enjoy life as it ought to be enjoyed.

Labour may be a burden and a chastisement, but it is also an honour and
a glory. Without it, nothing can be accomplished. All that is great in
man comes through work; and civilisation is its product. Were labour
abolished, the race of Adam were at once stricken by moral death.

It is idleness that is the curse of man--not labour. Idleness eats the
heart out of men as of nations, and consumes them as rust does iron.
When Alexander conquered the Persians, and had an opportunity of
observing their manners, he remarked that they did not seem conscious
that there could be anything more servile than a life of pleasure, or
more princely than a life of toil.

When the Emperor Severus lay on his deathbed at York, whither he
had been borne on a litter from the foot of the Grampians, his final
watchword to his soldiers was, "LABOREMUS" [we must work]; and nothing
but constant toil maintained the power and extended the authority of the
Roman generals.

In describing the earlier social condition of Italy, when the ordinary
occupations of rural life were considered compatible with the highest
civic dignity, Pliny speaks of the triumphant generals and their men,
returning contentedly to the plough. In those days the lands were tilled
by the hands even of generals, the soil exulting beneath a ploughshare
crowned with laurels, and guided by a husbandman graced with triumphs:
"IPSORUM TUNC MANIBUS IMPERATORUM COLEBANTUR AGRI: UT FAS EST CREDERE,
GAUDENTE TERRA VOMERE LAUREATO ET TRIUMPHALI ARATORE." [131] It was only
after slaves became extensively employed in all departments of industry
that labour came to be regarded as dishonourable and servile. And so
soon as indolence and luxury became the characteristics of the ruling
classes of Rome, the downfall of the empire, sooner or later, was
inevitable.

There is, perhaps, no tendency of our nature that has to be more
carefully guarded against than indolence. When Mr. Gurney asked an
intelligent foreigner who had travelled over the greater part of the
world, whether he had observed any one quality which, more than another,
could be regarded as a universal characteristic of our species, his
answer was, in broken English, "Me tink dat all men LOVE LAZY." It is
characteristic of the savage as of the despot. It is natural to men to
endeavour to enjoy the products of labour without its toils. Indeed,
so universal is this desire, that James Mill has argued that it was
to prevent its indulgence at the expense of society at large, that the
expedient of Government was originally invented. [132]

Indolence is equally degrading to individuals as to nations. Sloth never
made its mark in the world, and never will. Sloth never climbed a hill,
nor overcame a difficulty that it could avoid. Indolence always failed
in life, and always will. It is in the nature of things that it
should not succeed in anything. It is a burden, an incumbrance, and a
nuisance--always useless, complaining, melancholy, and miserable.

Burton, in his quaint and curious, book--the only one, Johnson says,
that ever took him out of bed two hours sooner than he wished to
rise--describes the causes of Melancholy as hingeing mainly on Idleness.
"Idleness," he says, "is the bane of body and mind, the nurse of
naughtiness, the chief mother of all mischief, one of the seven deadly
sins, the devil's cushion, his pillow and chief reposal.... An idle dog
will be mangy; and how shall an idle person escape? Idleness of the
mind is much worse than that of the body: wit, without employment, is a
disease--the rust of the soul, a plague, a hell itself. As in a standing
pool, worms and filthy creepers increase, so do evil and corrupt
thoughts in an idle person; the soul is contaminated.... Thus much I
dare boldly say: he or she that is idle, be they of what condition they
will, never so rich, so well allied, fortunate, happy--let them have
all things in abundance and felicity that heart can wish and desire, all
contentment--so long as he, or she, or they, are idle, they shall never
be pleased, never well in body or mind, but weary still, sickly still,
vexed still, loathing still, weeping, sighing, grieving, suspecting,
offended with the world, with every object, wishing themselves gone or
dead, or else carried away with some foolish phantasie or other." [133]

Burton says a great deal more to the same effect; the burden and lesson
of his book being embodied in the pregnant sentence with which it winds
up:--"Only take this for a corollary and conclusion, as thou tenderest
thine own welfare in this, and all other melancholy, thy good health of
body and mind, observe this short precept, Give not way to solitariness
and idleness. BE NOT SOLITARY--BE NOT IDLE." [134]

The indolent, however, are not wholly indolent. Though the body may
shirk labour, the brain is not idle. If it do not grow corn, it will
grow thistles, which will be found springing up all along the idle
man's course in life. The ghosts of indolence rise up in the dark, ever
staring the recreant in the face, and tormenting him:

      "The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices,
       Make instrument to scourge us."

True happiness is never found in torpor of the faculties, [135] but in
their action and useful employment. It is indolence that exhausts, not
action, in which there is life, health, and pleasure. The spirits may
be exhausted and wearied by employment, but they are utterly wasted by
idleness. Hense a wise physician was accustomed to regard occupation as
one of his most valuable remedial measures. "Nothing is so injurious,"
said Dr. Marshall Hall, "as unoccupied time." An archbishop of Mayence
used to say that "the human heart is like a millstone: if you put wheat
under it, it grinds the wheat into flour; if you put no wheat, it grinds
on, but then 'tis itself it wears away."

Indolence is usually full of excuses; and the sluggard, though unwilling
to work, is often an active sophist. "There is a lion in the path;" or
"The hill is hard to climb;" or "There is no use trying--I have tried,
and failed, and cannot do it." To the sophistries of such an excuser,
Sir Samuel Romilly once wrote to a young man:--"My attack upon your
indolence, loss of time, &c., was most serious, and I really think that
it can be to nothing but your habitual want of exertion that can be
ascribed your using such curious arguments as you do in your defence.
Your theory is this: Every man does all the good that he can. If a
particular individual does no good, it is a proof that he is incapable
of doing it. That you don't write proves that you can't; and your want
of inclination demonstrates your want of talents. What an admirable
system!--and what beneficial effects would it be attended with, if it
were but universally received!"

It has been truly said, that to desire to possess, without being
burdened with the trouble of acquiring, is as much a sign of weakness,
as to recognise that everything worth having is only to be got by paying
its price, is the prime secret of practical strength. Even leisure
cannot be enjoyed unless it is won by effort. If it have not been earned
by work, the price has not been paid for it. [136]