Although cheerfulness of disposition is very much a matter of inborn
temperament, it is also capable of being trained and cultivated like any
other habit. We may make the best of life, or we may make the worst of
it; and it depends very much upon ourselves whether we extract joy or
misery from it. There are always two sides of life on which we can look,
according as we choose--the bright side or the gloomy. We can bring the
power of the will to bear in making the choice, and thus cultivate the
habit of being happy or the reverse. We can encourage the disposition
of looking at the brightest side of things, instead of the darkest. And
while we see the cloud, let us not shut our eyes to the silver lining.

The beam in the eye sheds brightness, beauty, and joy upon life in all
its phases. It shines upon coldness, and warms it; upon suffering, and
comforts it; upon ignorance, and enlightens it; upon sorrow, and cheers
it. The beam in the eye gives lustre to intellect, and brightens beauty
itself. Without it the sunshine of life is not felt, flowers bloom in
vain, the marvels of heaven and earth are not seen or acknowledged, and
creation is but a dreary, lifeless, soulless blank.

While cheerfulness of disposition is a great source of enjoyment in
life, it is also a great safeguard of character. A devotional writer
of the present day, in answer to the question, How are we to overcome
temptations? says: "Cheerfulness is the first thing, cheerfulness is the
second, and cheerfulness is the third." It furnishes the best soil for
the growth of goodness and virtue. It gives brightness of heart and
elasticity of spirit. It is the companion of charity, the nurse of
patience the mother of wisdom. It is also the best of moral and mental
tonics. "The best cordial of all," said Dr. Marshall Hall to one of his
patients, "is cheerfulness." And Solomon has said that "a merry heart
doeth good like a medicine." When Luther was once applied to for a
remedy against melancholy, his advice was: "Gaiety and courage--innocent
gaiety, and rational honourable courage--are the best medicine for young
men, and for old men, too; for all men against sad thoughts." [172] Next
to music, if not before it, Luther loved children and flowers. The great
gnarled man had a heart as tender as a woman's.

Cheerfulness is also an excellent wearing quality. It has been called
the bright weather of the heart. It gives harmony of soul, and is a
perpetual song without words. It is tantamount to repose. It enables
nature to recruit its strength; whereas worry and discontent debilitate
it, involving constant wear-and-tear. How is it that we see such men
as Lord Palmerston growing old in harness, working on vigorously to the
end? Mainly through equanimity of temper and habitual cheerfulness. They
have educated themselves in the habit of endurance, of not being easily
provoked, of bearing and forbearing, of hearing harsh and even unjust
things said of them without indulging in undue resentment, and avoiding
worreting, petty, and self-tormenting cares. An intimate friend of Lord
Palmerston, who observed him closely for twenty years, has said that he
never saw him angry, with perhaps one exception; and that was when the
ministry responsible for the calamity in Affghanistan, of which he was
one, were unjustly accused by their opponents of falsehood, perjury, and
wilful mutilation of public documents.

So far as can be learnt from biography, men of the greatest genius
have been for the most part cheerful, contented men--not eager for
reputation, money, or power--but relishing life, and keenly susceptible
of enjoyment, as we find reflected in their works. Such seem to have
been Homer, Horace, Virgil, Montaigne, Shakspeare, Cervantes. Healthy
serene cheerfulness is apparent in their great creations. Among the same
class of cheerful-minded men may also be mentioned Luther, More, Bacon,
Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, and Michael Angelo. Perhaps they were happy
because constantly occupied, and in the pleasantest of all work--that of
creating out of the fulness and richness of their great minds.

Milton, too, though a man of many trials and sufferings, must have been
a man of great cheerfulness and elasticity of nature. Though overtaken
by blindness, deserted by friends, and fallen upon evil days--"darkness
before and danger's voice behind"--yet did he not bate heart or hope,
but "still bore up and steered right onward."

Henry Fielding was a man borne down through life by debt, and
difficulty, and bodily suffering; and yet Lady Mary Wortley Montague
has said of him that, by virtue of his cheerful disposition, she was
persuaded he "had known more happy moments than any person on earth."

Dr. Johnson, through all his trials and sufferings and hard fights with
fortune, was a courageous and cheerful-natured man. He manfully made
the best of life, and tried to be glad in it. Once, when a clergyman was
complaining of the dulness of society in the country, saying "they only
talk of runts" [17young cows], Johnson felt flattered by the observation
of Mrs. Thrale's mother, who said, "Sir, Dr. Johnson would learn to
talk of runts"--meaning that he was a man who would make the most of his
situation, whatever it was.

Johnson was of opinion that a man grew better as he grew older, and that
his nature mellowed with age. This is certainly a much more cheerful
view of human nature than that of Lord Chesterfield, who saw life
through the eyes of a cynic, and held that "the heart never grows better
by age: it only grows harder." But both sayings may be true according
to the point from which life is viewed, and the temper by which a man is
governed; for while the good, profiting by experience, and disciplining
themselves by self-control, will grow better, the ill-conditioned,
uninfluenced by experience, will only grow worse.

Sir Walter Scott was a man full of the milk of human kindness. Everybody
loved him. He was never five minutes in a room ere the little pets of
the family, whether dumb or lisping, had found out his kindness for all
their generation. Scott related to Captain Basil Hall an incident of his
boyhood which showed the tenderness of his nature. One day, a dog coming
towards him, he took up a big stone, threw it, and hit the dog. The poor
creature had strength enough left to crawl up to him and lick his feet,
although he saw its leg was broken. The incident, he said, had given
him the bitterest remorse in his after-life; but he added, "An early
circumstance of that kind, properly reflected on, is calculated to have
the best effect on one's character throughout life."

"Give me an honest laugher," Scott would say; and he himself laughed the
heart's laugh. He had a kind word for everybody, and his kindness acted
all round him like a contagion, dispelling the reserve and awe which his
great name was calculated to inspire. "He'll come here," said the keeper
of the ruins of Melrose Abbey to Washington Irving--"he'll come here
some-times, wi' great folks in his company, and the first I'll know of
it is hearing his voice calling out, 'Johnny! Johnny Bower!' And when I
go out I'm sure to be greeted wi' a joke or a pleasant word. He'll stand
and crack and laugh wi' me, just like an auld wife; and to think that of
a man that has SUCH AN AWFU' KNOWLEDGE O' HISTORY!"

Dr. Arnold was a man of the same hearty cordiality of manner--full of
human sympathy. There was not a particle of affectation or pretence of
condescension about him. "I never knew such a humble man as the doctor,"
said the parish clerk at Laleham; "he comes and shakes us by the hand as
if he was one of us." "He used to come into my house," said an old woman
near Fox How, "and talk to me as if I were a lady."

Sydney Smith was another illustration of the power of cheerfulness. He
was ever ready to look on the bright side of things; the darkest cloud
had to him its silver lining. Whether working as country curate, or as
parish rector, he was always kind, laborious, patient, and exemplary;
exhibiting in every sphere of life the spirit of a Christian, the
kindness of a pastor, and the honour of a gentleman. In his leisure he
employed his pen on the side of justice, freedom, education, toleration,
emancipation; and his writings, though full of common-sense and bright
humour, are never vulgar; nor did he ever pander to popularity or
prejudice. His good spirits, thanks to his natural vivacity and stamina
of constitution, never forsook him; and in his old age, when borne down
by disease, he wrote to a friend: "I have gout, asthma, and seven other
maladies, but am otherwise very well." In one of the last letters he
wrote to Lady Carlisle, he said: "If you hear of sixteen or eighteen
pounds of flesh wanting an owner, they belong to me. I look as if a
curate had been taken out of me."

Great men of science have for the most part been patient, laborious,
cheerful-minded men. Such were Galileo, Descartes, Newton, and Laplace.
Euler the mathematician, one of the greatest of natural philosophers,
was a distinguished instance. Towards the close of his life he became
completely blind; but he went on writing as cheerfully as before,
supplying the want of sight by various ingenious mechanical devices,
and by the increased cultivation of his memory, which became exceedingly
tenacious. His chief pleasure was in the society of his grandchildren,
to whom he taught their little lessons in the intervals of his severer
studies.

In like manner, Professor Robison of Edinburgh, the first editor of the
'Encyclopaedia Britannica,' when disabled from work by a lingering
and painful disorder, found his chief pleasure in the society of his
grandchild. "I am infinitely delighted," he wrote to James Watt, "with
observing the growth of its little soul, and particularly with its
numberless instincts, which formerly passed unheeded. I thank the French
theorists for more forcibly directing my attention to the finger of God,
which I discern in every awkward movement and every wayward whim. They
are all guardians of his life and growth and power. I regret indeed that
I have not time to make infancy and the development of its powers my
sole study."

One of the sorest trials of a man's temper and patience was that which
befell Abauzit, the natural philosopher, while residing at Geneva;
resembling in many respects a similar calamity which occurred to Newton,
and which he bore with equal resignation. Amongst other things, Abauzit
devoted much study to the barometer and its variations, with the object
of deducing the general laws which regulated atmospheric pressure.
During twenty-seven years he made numerous observations daily, recording
them on sheets prepared for the purpose. One day, when a new servant was
installed in the house, she immediately proceeded to display her zeal
by "putting things to-rights." Abauzit's study, amongst other rooms, was
made tidy and set in order. When he entered it, he asked of the servant,
"What have you done with the paper that was round the barometer?" "Oh,
sir," was the reply, "it was so dirty that I burnt it, and put in its
place this paper, which you will see is quite new." Abauzit crossed his
arms, and after some moments of internal struggle, he said, in a tone
of calmness and resignation: "You have destroyed the results of
twenty-seven years labour; in future touch nothing whatever in this
room."

The study of natural history more than that of any other branch of
science, seems to be accompanied by unusual cheerfulness and equanimity
of temper on the part of its votaries; the result of which is, that
the life of naturalists is on the whole more prolonged than that of
any other class of men of science. A member of the Linnaean Society has
informed us that of fourteen members who died in 1870, two were over
ninety, five were over eighty, and two were over seventy. The average
age of all the members who died in that year was seventy-five.

Adanson, the French botanist, was about seventy years old when the
Revolution broke out, and amidst the shock he lost everything--his
fortune, his places, and his gardens. But his patience, courage,
and resignation never forsook him. He became reduced to the greatest
straits, and even wanted food and clothing; yet his ardour of
investigation remained the same. Once, when the Institute invited him,
as being one of its oldest members, to assist at a SEANCE, his answer
was that he regretted he could not attend for want of shoes. "It was a
touching sight," says Cuvier, "to see the poor old man, bent over the
embers of a decaying fire, trying to trace characters with a feeble hand
on the little bit of paper which he held, forgetting all the pains of
life in some new idea in natural history, which came to him like
some beneficent fairy to cheer him in his loneliness." The Directory
eventually gave him a small pension, which Napoleon doubled; and at
length, easeful death came to his relief in his seventy-ninth year. A
clause in his will, as to the manner of his funeral, illustrates the
character of the man. He directed that a garland of flowers, provided by
fifty-eight families whom he had established in life, should be the
only decoration of his coffin--a slight but touching image of the more
durable monument which he had erected for himself in his works.

Such are only a few instances, of the cheerful-working-ness of great
men, which might, indeed, be multiplied to any extent. All large
healthy natures are cheerful as well as hopeful. Their example is also
contagious and diffusive, brightening and cheering all who come within
reach of their influence. It was said of Sir John Malcolm, when he
appeared in a saddened camp in India, that "it was like a gleam of
sunlight,.... no man left him without a smile on his face. He was 'boy
Malcolm' still. It was impossible to resist the fascination of his
genial presence." [173]

There was the same joyousness of nature about Edmund Burke. Once at a
dinner at Sir Joshua Reynolds's, when the conversation turned upon
the suitability of liquors for particular temperaments, Johnson said,
"Claret is for boys, port for men, and brandy for heroes." "Then," said
Burke, "let me have claret: I love to be a boy, and to have the careless
gaiety of boyish days." And so it is, that there are old young men, and
young old men--some who are as joyous and cheerful as boys in their
old age, and others who are as morose and cheerless as saddened old men
while still in their boyhood.

In the presence of some priggish youths, we have heard a cheerful old
man declare that, apparently, there would soon be nothing but "old boys"
left. Cheerfulness, being generous and genial, joyous and hearty, is
never the characteristic of prigs. Goethe used to exclaim of goody-goody
persons, "Oh! if they had but the heart to commit an absurdity!" This
was when he thought they wanted heartiness and nature. "Pretty dolls!"
was his expression when speaking of them, and turning away.

The true basis of cheerfulness is love, hope, and patience. Love evokes
love, and begets loving kindness. Love cherishes hopeful and generous
thoughts of others. It is charitable, gentle, and truthful. It is a
discerner of good. It turns to the brightest side of things, and its
face is ever directed towards happiness. It sees "the glory in the
grass, the sunshine on the flower." It encourages happy thoughts, and
lives in an atmosphere of cheerfulness. It costs nothing, and yet is
invaluable; for it blesses its possessor, and grows up in abundant
happiness in the bosoms of others. Even its sorrows are linked with
pleasures, and its very tears are sweet.

Bentham lays it down as a principle, that a man becomes rich in his own
stock of pleasures in proportion to the amount he distributes to others.
His kindness will evoke kindness, and his happiness be increased by his
own benevolence. "Kind words," he says, "cost no more than unkind ones.
Kind words produce kind actions, not only on the part of him to whom
they are addressed, but on the part of him by whom they are employed;
and this not incidentally only, but habitually, in virtue of the
principle of association.".... "It may indeed happen, that the effort
of beneficence may not benefit those for whom it was intended; but when
wisely directed, it MUST benefit the person from whom it emanates. Good
and friendly conduct may meet with an unworthy and ungrateful return;
but the absence of gratitude on the part of the receiver cannot destroy
the self-approbation which recompenses the giver, and we may scatter the
seeds of courtesy and kindliness around us at so little expense. Some of
them will inevitably fall on good ground, and grow up into benevolence
in the minds of others; and all of them will bear fruit of happiness
in the bosom whence they spring. Once blest are all the virtues always;
twice blest sometimes." [174]

The poet Rogers used to tell a story of a little girl, a great favourite
with every one who knew her. Some one said to her, "Why does everybody
love you so much?" She answered, "I think it is because I love everybody
so much." This little story is capable of a very wide application; for
our happiness as human beings, generally speaking, will be found to be
very much in proportion to the number of things we love, and the number
of things that love us. And the greatest worldly success, however
honestly achieved, will contribute comparatively little to happiness,
unless it be accompanied by a lively benevolence towards every human
being.

Kindness is indeed a great power in the world. Leigh Hunt has truly said
that "Power itself hath not one half the might of gentleness." Men are
always best governed through their affections. There is a French proverb
which says that, "LES HOMMES SE PRENNENT PAR LA DOUCEUR," and a coarser
English one, to the effect that "More wasps are caught by honey than by
vinegar." "Every act of kindness," says Bentham, "is in fact an exercise
of power, and a stock of friendship laid up; and why should not power
exercise itself in the production of pleasure as of pain?"

Kindness does not consist in gifts, but in gentleness and generosity
of spirit. Men may give their money which comes from the purse, and
withhold their kindness which comes from the heart. The kindness that
displays itself in giving money, does not amount to much, and often
does quite as much harm as good; but the kindness of true sympathy, of
thoughtful help, is never without beneficent results.

The good temper that displays itself in kindness must not be confounded
with softness or silliness. In its best form, it is not a merely passive
but an active condition of being. It is not by any means indifferent,
but largely sympathetic. It does not characterise the lowest and most
gelatinous forms of human life, but those that are the most highly
organized. True kindness cherishes and actively promotes all reasonable
instrumentalities for doing practical good in its own time; and,
looking into futurity, sees the same spirit working on for the eventual
elevation and happiness of the race.

It is the kindly-dispositioned men who are the active men of the
world, while the selfish and the sceptical, who have no love but for
themselves, are its idlers. Buffon used to say, that he would give
nothing for a young man who did not begin life with an enthusiasm of
some sort. It showed that at least he had faith in something good,
lofty, and generous, even if unattainable.

Egotism, scepticism, and selfishness are always miserable companions
in life, and they are especially unnatural in youth. The egotist is
next-door to a fanatic. Constantly occupied with self, he has no thought
to spare for others. He refers to himself in all things, thinks of
himself, and studies himself, until his own little self becomes his own
little god.

Worst of all are the grumblers and growlers at fortune--who find that
"whatever is is wrong," and will do nothing to set matters right--who
declare all to be barren "from Dan even to Beersheba." These grumblers
are invariably found the least efficient helpers in the school of life.
As the worst workmen are usually the readiest to "strike," so the least
industrious members of society are the readiest to complain. The worst
wheel of all is the one that creaks.

There is such a thing as the cherishing of discontent until the feeling
becomes morbid. The jaundiced see everything about them yellow. The
ill-conditioned think all things awry, and the whole world out-of-joint.
All is vanity and vexation of spirit. The little girl in PUNCH, who
found her doll stuffed with bran, and forthwith declared everything to
be hollow and wanted to "go into a nunnery," had her counterpart in real
life. Many full-grown people are quite as morbidly unreasonable. There
are those who may be said to "enjoy bad health;" they regard it as a
sort of property. They can speak of "MY headache"--"MY backache," and
so forth, until in course of time it becomes their most cherished
possession. But perhaps it is the source to them of much coveted
sympathy, without which they might find themselves of comparatively
little importance in the world.

We have to be on our guard against small troubles, which, by
encouraging, we are apt to magnify into great ones. Indeed, the chief
source of worry in the world is not real but imaginary evil--small
vexations and trivial afflictions. In the presence of a great sorrow,
all petty troubles disappear; but we are too ready to take some
cherished misery to our bosom, and to pet it there. Very often it is the
child of our fancy; and, forgetful of the many means of happiness which
lie within our reach, we indulge this spoilt child of ours until
it masters us. We shut the door against cheerfulness, and surround
ourselves with gloom. The habit gives a colouring to our life. We grow
querulous, moody, and unsympathetic. Our conversation becomes full of
regrets. We are harsh in our judgment of others. We are unsociable, and
think everybody else is so. We make our breast a storehouse of pain,
which we inflict upon ourselves as well as upon others.

This disposition is encouraged by selfishness: indeed, it is for the
most part selfishness unmingled, without any admixture of sympathy
or consideration for the feelings of those about us. It is simply
wilfulness in the wrong direction. It is wilful, because it might be
avoided. Let the necessitarians argue as they may, freedom of will and
action is the possession of every man and woman. It is sometimes our
glory, and very often it is our shame: all depends upon the manner in
which it is used. We can choose to look at the bright side of things,
or at the dark. We can follow good and eschew evil thoughts. We can be
wrongheaded and wronghearted, or the reverse, as we ourselves determine.
The world will be to each one of us very much what we make it. The
cheerful are its real possessors, for the world belongs to those who
enjoy it.

It must, however, be admitted that there are cases beyond the reach of
the moralist. Once, when a miserable-looking dyspeptic called upon a
leading physician and laid his case before him, "Oh!" said the doctor,
"you only want a good hearty laugh: go and see Grimaldi." "Alas!" said
the miserable patient, "I am Grimaldi!" So, when Smollett, oppressed
by disease, travelled over Europe in the hope of finding health, he
saw everything through his own jaundiced eyes. "I'll tell it," said
Smellfungus, "to the world." "You had better tell it," said Sterne, "to
your physician." The restless, anxious, dissatisfied temper, that is
ever ready to run and meet care half-way, is fatal to all happiness and
peace of mind. How often do we see men and women set themselves about as
if with stiff bristles, so that one dare scarcely approach them without
fear of being pricked! For want of a little occasional command over
one's temper, an amount of misery is occasioned in society which is
positively frightful. Thus enjoyment is turned into bitterness, and
life becomes like a journey barefooted amongst thorns and briers and
prickles. "Though sometimes small evils," says Richard Sharp, "like
invisible insects, inflict great pain, and a single hair may stop a vast
machine, yet the chief secret of comfort lies in not suffering trifles
to vex us; and in prudently cultivating an undergrowth of small
pleasures, since very few great ones, alas! are let on long leases." [175]

St. Francis de Sales treats the same topic from the Christian's point
of view. "How carefully," he says, "we should cherish the little virtues
which spring up at the foot of the Cross!" When the saint was asked,
"What virtues do you mean?" he replied: "Humility, patience, meekness,
benignity, bearing one another's burden, condescension, softness
of heart, cheerfulness, cordiality, compassion, forgiving injuries,
simplicity, candour--all, in short of that sort of little virtues. They,
like unobtrusive violets, love the shade; like them are sustained by
dew; and though, like them, they make little show, they shed a sweet
odour on all around." [176]

And again he said: "If you would fall into any extreme, let it be on
the side of gentleness. The human mind is so constructed that it resists
rigour, and yields to softness. A mild word quenches anger, as water
quenches the rage of fire; and by benignity any soil may be rendered
fruitful. Truth, uttered with courtesy, is heaping coals of fire on the
head--or rather, throwing roses in the face. How can we resist a foe
whose weapons are pearls and diamonds?" [177]

Meeting evils by anticipation is not the way to overcome them. If we
perpetually carry our burdens about with us, they will soon bear us
down under their load. When evil comes, we must deal with it bravely and
hopefully. What Perthes wrote to a young man, who seemed to him inclined
to take trifles as well as sorrows too much to heart, was doubtless good
advice: "Go forward with hope and confidence. This is the advice given
thee by an old man, who has had a full share of the burden and heat of
life's day. We must ever stand upright, happen what may, and for this
end we must cheerfully resign ourselves to the varied influences of this
many-coloured life. You may call this levity, and you are partly right;
for flowers and colours are but trifles light as air, but such levity is
a constituent portion of our human nature, without which it would sink
under the weight of time. While on earth we must still play with earth,
and with that which blooms and fades upon its breast. The consciousness
of this mortal life being but the way to a higher goal, by no means
precludes our playing with it cheerfully; and, indeed, we must do so,
otherwise our energy in action will entirely fail." [178]

Cheerfulness also accompanies patience, which is one of the main
conditions of happiness and success in life. "He that will be served,"
says George Herbert, "must be patient." It was said of the cheerful and
patient King Alfred, that "good fortune accompanied him like a gift of
God." Marlborough's expectant calmness was great, and a principal secret
of his success as a general. "Patience will overcome all things," he
wrote to Godolphin, in 1702. In the midst of a great emergency, while
baffled and opposed by his allies, he said, "Having done all that is
possible, we should submit with patience."

Last and chiefest of blessings is Hope, the most common of possessions;
for, as Thales the philosopher said, "Even those who have nothing else
have hope." Hope is the great helper of the poor. It has even been
styled "the poor man's bread." It is also the sustainer and inspirer
of great deeds. It is recorded of Alexander the Great, that when he
succeeded to the throne of Macedon, he gave away amongst his friends
the greater part of the estates which his father had left him; and when
Perdiccas asked him what he reserved for himself, Alexander answered,
"The greatest possession of all,--Hope!"

The pleasures of memory, however great, are stale compared with those
of hope; for hope is the parent of all effort and endeavour; and "every
gift of noble origin is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath." It
may be said to be the moral engine that moves the world, and keeps it in
action; and at the end of all there stands before us what Robertson of
Ellon styled "The Great Hope." "If it were not for Hope," said Byron,
"where would the Future be?--in hell! It is useless to say where the
Present is, for most of us know; and as for the Past, WHAT predominates
in memory?--Hope baffled. ERGO, in all human affairs it is Hope, Hope,
Hope!" [179]




CHAPTER IX.--MANNER--ART.



     "We must be gentle, now we are gentlemen."--SHAKSPEARE.

          "Manners are not idle, but the fruit
           Of noble nature and of loyal mind."--TENNYSON.

     "A beautiful behaviour is better than a beautiful form; it
     gives a higher pleasure than statues and pictures; it is the
     finest of the fine arts."--EMERSON.

     "Manners are often too much neglected; they are most
     important to men, no less than to women.... Life is too
     short to get over a bad manner; besides, manners are the
     shadows of virtues."--THE REV. SIDNEY SMITH.


Manner is one of the principal external graces of character. It is the
ornament of action, and often makes the commonest offices beautiful by
the way in which it performs them. It is a happy way of doing things,
adorning even the smallest details of life, and contributing to render
it, as a whole, agreeable and pleasant.

Manner is not so frivolous or unimportant as some may think it to be;
for it tends greatly to facilitate the business of life, as well as
to sweeten and soften social intercourse. "Virtue itself," says Bishop
Middleton, "offends, when coupled with a forbidding manner."

Manner has a good deal to do with the estimation in which men are held
by the world; and it has often more influence in the government of
others than qualities of much greater depth and substance. A manner at
once gracious and cordial is among the greatest aids to success, and
many there are who fail for want of it. [181] For a great deal depends
upon first impressions; and these are usually favourable or otherwise
according to a man's courteousness and civility.

While rudeness and gruffness bar doors and shut hearts, kindness and
propriety of behaviour, in which good manners consist, act as an "open
sesame" everywhere. Doors unbar before them, and they are a passport to
the hearts of everybody, young and old.

There is a common saying that "Manners make the man;" but this is not so
true as that "Man makes the manners." A man may be gruff, and even
rude, and yet be good at heart and of sterling character; yet he would
doubtless be a much more agreeable, and probably a much more useful man,
were he to exhibit that suavity of disposition and courtesy of manner
which always gives a finish to the true gentleman.

Mrs. Hutchinson, in the noble portraiture of her husband, to which
we have already had occasion to refer, thus describes his manly
courteousness and affability of disposition:--"I cannot say whether
he were more truly magnanimous or less proud; he never disdained the
meanest person, nor flattered the greatest; he had a loving and sweet
courtesy to the poorest, and would often employ many spare hours with
the commonest soldiers and poorest labourers; but still so ordering his
familiarity, that it never raised them to a contempt, but entertained
still at the same time a reverence and love of him." [182]

A man's manner, to a certain extent, indicates his character. It is
the external exponent of his inner nature. It indicates his taste, his
feelings, and his temper, as well as the society to which he has been
accustomed. There is a conventional manner, which is of comparatively
little importance; but the natural manner, the outcome of natural gifts,
improved by careful self-culture, signifies a great deal.

Grace of manner is inspired by sentiment, which is a source of no slight
enjoyment to a cultivated mind. Viewed in this light, sentiment is of
almost as much importance as talents and acquirements, while it is
even more influential in giving the direction to a man s tastes and
character. Sympathy is the golden key that unlocks the hearts of others.
It not only teaches politeness and courtesy, but gives insight and
unfolds wisdom, and may almost be regarded as the crowning grace of
humanity.

Artificial rules of politeness are of very little use. What passes by
the name of "Etiquette" is often of the essence of unpoliteness and
untruthfulness. It consists in a great measure of posture-making, and
is easily seen through. Even at best, etiquette is but a substitute for
good manners, though it is often but their mere counterfeit.

Good manners consist, for the most part, in courteousness and kindness.
Politeness has been described as the art of showing, by external signs,
the internal regard we have for others. But one may be perfectly polite
to another without necessarily having a special regard for him. Good
manners are neither more nor less than beautiful behaviour. It has been
well said, that "a beautiful form is better than a beautiful face, and
a beautiful behaviour is better than a beautiful form; it gives a higher
pleasure than statues or pictures--it is the finest of the fine arts."

The truest politeness comes of sincerity. It must be the outcome of the
heart, or it will make no lasting impression; for no amount of polish
can dispense with truthfulness. The natural character must be allowed to
appear, freed of its angularities and asperities. Though politeness,
in its best form, should [18as St. Francis de Sales says] resemble
water--"best when clearest, most simple, and without taste,"--yet genius
in a man will always cover many defects of manner, and much will
be excused to the strong and the original. Without genuineness and
individuality, human life would lose much of its interest and variety,
as well as its manliness and robustness of character.

True courtesy is kind. It exhibits itself in the disposition to
contribute to the happiness of others, and in refraining from all that
may annoy them. It is grateful as well as kind, and readily acknowledges
kind actions. Curiously enough, Captain Speke found this quality of
character recognised even by the natives of Uganda on the shores of
Lake Nyanza, in the heart of Africa, where, he says. "Ingratitude, or
neglecting to thank a person for a benefit conferred, is punishable."

True politeness especially exhibits itself in regard for the personality
of others. A man will respect the individuality of another if he wishes
to be respected himself. He will have due regard for his views and
opinions, even though they differ from his own. The well-mannered man
pays a compliment to another, and sometimes even secures his respect,
by patiently listening to him. He is simply tolerant and forbearant, and
refrains from judging harshly; and harsh judgments of others will almost
invariably provoke harsh judgments of ourselves.

The unpolite impulsive man will, however, sometimes rather lose his
friend than his joke. He may surely be pronounced a very foolish person
who secures another's hatred at the price of a moment's gratification.
It was a saying of Brunel the engineer--himself one of the
kindest-natured of men--that "spite and ill-nature are among the most
expensive luxuries in life." Dr. Johnson once said: "Sir, a man has no
more right to SAY an uncivil thing than to ACT one--no more right to say
a rude thing to another than to knock him down."

A sensible polite person does not assume to be better or wiser or richer
than his neighbour. He does not boast of his rank, or his birth, or his
country; or look down upon others because they have not been born to
like privileges with himself. He does not brag of his achievements or
of his calling, or "talk shop" whenever he opens his mouth. On the
contrary, in all that he says or does, he will be modest, unpretentious,
unassuming; exhibiting his true character in performing rather than in
boasting, in doing rather than in talking.

Want of respect for the feelings of others usually originates in
selfishness, and issues in hardness and repulsiveness of manner. It may
not proceed from malignity so much as from want of sympathy and want of
delicacy--a want of that perception of, and attention to, those little
and apparently trifling things by which pleasure is given or
pain occasioned to others. Indeed, it may be said that in
self-sacrificingness, so to speak, in the ordinary intercourse of life,
mainly consists the difference between being well and ill bred.

Without some degree of self-restraint in society, a man may be found
almost insufferable. No one has pleasure in holding intercourse with
such a person, and he is a constant source of annoyance to those about
him. For want of self-restraint, many men are engaged all their lives
in fighting with difficulties of their own making, and rendering success
impossible by their own crossgrained ungentleness; whilst others, it
may be much less gifted, make their way and achieve success by simple
patience, equanimity, and self-control.

It has been said that men succeed in life quite as much by their temper
as by their talents. However this may be, it is certain that their
happiness depends mainly on their temperament, especially upon their
disposition to be cheerful; upon their complaisance, kindliness of
manner, and willingness to oblige others--details of conduct which are
like the small-change in the intercourse of life, and are always in
request.

Men may show their disregard of others in various unpolite ways--as,
for instance, by neglect of propriety in dress, by the absence of
cleanliness, or by indulging in repulsive habits. The slovenly dirty
person, by rendering himself physically disagreeable, sets the tastes
and feelings of others at defiance, and is rude and uncivil only under
another form.

David Ancillon, a Huguenot preacher of singular attractiveness, who
studied and composed his sermons with the greatest care, was accustomed
to say "that it was showing too little esteem for the public to take
no pains in preparation, and that a man who should appear on a
ceremonial-day in his nightcap and dressing-gown, could not commit a
greater breach of civility."

The perfection of manner is ease--that it attracts no man's notice
as such, but is natural and unaffected. Artifice is incompatible with
courteous frankness of manner. Rochefoucauld has said that "nothing so
much prevents our being natural as the desire of appearing so." Thus we
come round again to sincerity and truthfulness, which find their outward
expression in graciousness, urbanity, kindliness, and consideration for
the feelings of others. The frank and cordial man sets those about him
at their ease. He warms and elevates them by his presence, and wins
all hearts. Thus manner, in its highest form, like character, becomes a
genuine motive power.

"The love and admiration," says Canon Kingsley, "which that truly brave
and loving man, Sir Sydney Smith, won from every one, rich and poor,
with whom he came in contact seems to have arisen from the one fact,
that without, perhaps, having any such conscious intention, he treated
rich and poor, his own servants and the noblemen his guests, alike, and
alike courteously, considerately, cheerfully, affectionately--so leaving
a blessing, and reaping a blessing, wherever he went."

Good manners are usually supposed to be the peculiar characteristic of
persons gently born and bred, and of persons moving in the higher rather
than in the lower spheres of society. And this is no doubt to a great
extent true, because of the more favourable surroundings of the former
in early life. But there is no reason why the poorest classes should not
practise good manners towards each other as well as the richest.

Men who toil with their hands, equally with those who do not, may
respect themselves and respect one another; and it is by their demeanour
to each other--in other words, by their manners--that self-respect as
well as mutual respect are indicated. There is scarcely a moment in
their lives, the enjoyment of which might not be enhanced by kindliness
of this sort--in the workshop, in the street, or at home. The civil
workman will exercise increased power amongst his class, and gradually
induce them to imitate him by his persistent steadiness, civility, and
kindness. Thus Benjamin Franklin, when a working-man, is said to have
reformed the habits of an entire workshop.

One may be polite and gentle with very little money in his purse.
Politeness goes far, yet costs nothing. It is the cheapest of all
commodities. It is the humblest of the fine arts, yet it is so useful
and so pleasure-giving, that it might almost be ranked amongst the
humanities.

Every nation may learn something of others; and if there be one thing
more than another that the English working-class might afford to
copy with advantage from their Continental neighbours, it is their
politeness. The French and Germans, of even the humblest classes, are
gracious in manner, complaisant, cordial, and well-bred. The foreign
workman lifts his cap and respectfully salutes his fellow-workman in
passing. There is no sacrifice of manliness in this, but grace and
dignity. Even the lowest poverty of the foreign workpeople is not
misery, simply because it is cheerful. Though not receiving one-half the
income which our working-classes do, they do not sink into wretchedness
and drown their troubles in drink; but contrive to make the best of
life, and to enjoy it even amidst poverty.

Good taste is a true economist. It may be practised on small means,
and sweeten the lot of labour as well as of ease. It is all the more
enjoyed, indeed, when associated with industry and the performance of
duty. Even the lot of poverty is elevated by taste. It exhibits itself
in the economies of the household. It gives brightness and grace to the
humblest dwelling. It produces refinement, it engenders goodwill, and
creates an atmosphere of cheerfulness. Thus good taste, associated with
kindliness, sympathy, and intelligence, may elevate and adorn even the
lowliest lot.

The first and best school of manners, as of character, is always the
Home, where woman is the teacher. The manners of society at large are
but the reflex of the manners of our collective homes, neither better
nor worse. Yet, with all the disadvantages of ungenial homes, men may
practise self-culture of manner as of intellect, and learn by good
examples to cultivate a graceful and agreeable behaviour towards others.
Most men are like so many gems in the rough, which need polishing by
contact with other and better natures, to bring out their full beauty
and lustre. Some have but one side polished, sufficient only to show the
delicate graining of the interior; but to bring out the full qualities
of the gem needs the discipline of experience, and contact with the best
examples of character in the intercourse of daily life.

A good deal of the success of manner consists in tact, and it is because
women, on the whole, have greater tact than men, that they prove its
most influential teachers. They have more self-restraint than men,
and are naturally more gracious and polite. They possess an intuitive
quickness and readiness of action, have a keener insight into character,
and exhibit greater discrimination and address. In matters of social
detail, aptness and dexterity come to them like nature; and hence
well-mannered men usually receive their best culture by mixing in the
society of gentle and adroit women.

Tact is an intuitive art of manner, which carries one through a
difficulty better than either talent or knowledge. "Talent," says a
public writer, "is power: tact is skill. Talent is weight: tact is
momentum. Talent knows what to do: tact knows how to do it. Talent makes
a man respectable: tact makes him respected. Talent is wealth: tact is
ready-money."

The difference between a man of quick tact and of no tact whatever
was exemplified in an interview which once took place between Lord
Palmerston and Mr. Behnes, the sculptor. At the last sitting which Lord
Palmerston gave him, Behnes opened the conversation with--"Any news,
my Lord, from France? How do we stand with Louis Napoleon?" The Foreign
Secretary raised his eyebrows for an instant, and quietly replied,
"Really, Mr. Behnes, I don't know: I have not seen the newspapers!" Poor
Behnes, with many excellent qualities and much real talent, was one of
the many men who entirely missed their way in life through want of tact.

Such is the power of manner, combined with tact, that Wilkes, one of the
ugliest of men, used to say, that in winning the graces of a lady, there
was not more than three days' difference between him and the handsomest
man in England.

But this reference to Wilkes reminds us that too much importance must
not be attached to manner, for it does not afford any genuine test of
character. The well-mannered man may, like Wilkes, be merely acting a
part, and that for an immoral purpose. Manner, like other fine arts,
gives pleasure, and is exceedingly agreeable to look upon; but it may be
assumed as a disguise, as men "assume a virtue though they have it not."
It is but the exterior sign of good conduct, but may be no more than
skin-deep. The most highly-polished person may be thoroughly depraved
in heart; and his superfine manners may, after all, only consist in
pleasing gestures and in fine phrases.

On the other hand, it must be acknowledged that some of the richest and
most generous natures have been wanting in the graces of courtesy and
politeness. As a rough rind sometimes covers the sweetest fruit, so a
rough exterior often conceals a kindly and hearty nature. The blunt man
may seem even rude in manner, and yet, at heart, be honest, kind, and
gentle.

John Knox and Martin Luther were by no means distinguished for their
urbanity. They had work to do which needed strong and determined
rather than well-mannered men. Indeed, they were both thought to be
unnecessarily harsh and violent in their manner. "And who art thou,"
said Mary Queen of Scots to Knox, "that presumest to school the nobles
and sovereign of this realm?"--"Madam," replied Knox, "a subject born
within the same." It is said that his boldness, or roughness, more than
once made Queen Mary weep. When Regent Morton heard of this, he said,
"Well, 'tis better that women should weep than bearded men."

As Knox was retiring from the Queen's presence on one occasion, he
overheard one of the royal attendants say to another, "He is not
afraid!" Turning round upon them, he said: "And why should the pleasing
face of a gentleman frighten me? I have looked on the faces of angry
men, and yet have not been afraid beyond measure." When the Reformer,
worn-out by excess of labour and anxiety, was at length laid to his
rest, the Regent, looking down into the open grave, exclaimed, in words
which made a strong impression from their aptness and truth--"There lies
he who never feared the face of man!"

Luther also was thought by some to be a mere compound of violence and
ruggedness. But, as in the case of Knox, the times in which he lived
were rude and violent; and the work he had to do could scarcely have
been accomplished with gentleness and suavity. To rouse Europe from its
lethargy, he had to speak and to write with force, and even vehemence.
Yet Luther's vehemence was only in words. His apparently rude exterior
covered a warm heart. In private life he was gentle, loving, and
affectionate. He was simple and homely, even to commonness. Fond of all
common pleasures and enjoyments, he was anything but an austere man,
or a bigot; for he was hearty, genial, and even "jolly." Luther was the
common people's hero in his lifetime, and he remains so in Germany to
this day.

Samuel Johnson was rude and often gruff in manner. But he had been
brought up in a rough school. Poverty in early life had made him
acquainted with strange companions. He had wandered in the streets with
Savage for nights together, unable between them to raise money enough
to pay for a bed. When his indomitable courage and industry at length
secured for him a footing in society, he still bore upon him the scars
of his early sorrows and struggles. He was by nature strong and robust,
and his experience made him unaccommodating and self-asserting. When
he was once asked why he was not invited to dine out as Garrick was,
he answered, "Because great lords and ladies did not like to have their
mouths stopped;" and Johnson was a notorious mouth-stopper, though what
he said was always worth listening to.

Johnson's companions spoke of him as "Ursa Major;" but, as Goldsmith
generously said of him, "No man alive has a more tender heart; he has
nothing of the bear about him but his skin." The kindliness of Johnson's
nature was shown on one occasion by the manner in which he assisted a
supposed lady in crossing Fleet Street. He gave her his arm, and led her
across, not observing that she was in liquor at the time. But the spirit
of the act was not the less kind on that account. On the other hand,
the conduct of the bookseller on whom Johnson once called to solicit
employment, and who, regarding his athletic but uncouth person, told him
he had better "go buy a porter's knot and carry trunks," in howsoever
bland tones the advice might have been communicated, was simply brutal.

While captiousness of manner, and the habit of disputing and
contradicting everything said, is chilling and repulsive, the opposite
habit of assenting to, and sympathising with, every statement made, or
emotion expressed, is almost equally disagreeable. It is unmanly, and is
felt to be dishonest. "It may seem difficult," says Richard Sharp, "to
steer always between bluntness and plain-dealing, between giving
merited praise and lavishing indiscriminate flattery; but it is very
easy--good-humour, kindheartedness, and perfect simplicity, being all
that are requisite to do what is right in the right way." [183]