Gentlefolks and others

Front matter

IlIBPlARY OF CONGRESS,!

I

AND

Preface

Men and women interest us in proportion to what we know of them. Form, feature, movement, speech and conduct, tell us one half: surroundings, education, occupation and results attained, tell the other half. From the whole we come to see how curious a mixture of inherited traits, of special endowments, of world-influences, of self-control and of self-indulgence we all are. How far we are responsible for the coloring of our own lives, how far for that of other lives, are questions to be answered only after careful observation and impartial deductions.

Looking at Human Nature with a sincere desire to learn its meaning, I can see no truth of so vital an importance as individual development. That this belief does not necessarily produce beautiful effects or noble works, I should be prompt to admit. But if you and I give of our best and continue the pursuit of something still better, can more than this be demanded?

Philadelphia, 1416 Spruce Street.

May, 1876.

Contents

PAGE

I. — Gentlefolks 9

II.— Lovers of Nature .

I. Gentlefolks

Who does not like Gentlefolks — like to know them, to be with them, to hear of them ? And why not? If it be laudable to value and seek the best animals, the best fruits, the best fabrics, why not the best people? In common phrase, "Gentlefolks are no better than other folks." True enough : but true only from one point. Viewed on all sides, they are not simply better, but immeasurably better,- than other folks. They look better, behave better. They see more, reflect more, feel more. What they say has greater weight, what they do greater effect. They read their fellow-men, not by their clothes or their houses, but by their personality and conduct. And they read thus, not in a spirit of criticism, but to bring about a just and amicable intercourse.

They do not profess belief in equality as a fraternizing of rudeness and gentleness. They did not make the distinctions of social life : they found them already made. They accept them as an arrangement for which they are not responsible beyond the performance of their own part.

Who are Gentlefolks ? How are they to be recognized ? What part do they play in the world ?

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First of all, they are physically superior. Not that stature, muscle, and features are of special quality; it is the bearing, the controlling, the adapting of the physique which exact our admiration.

They walk with firm, elastic step; one which obeys volition readily, spiritedly, gracefully. It is a degree of the same pleasure we derive from witnessing good riding, swimming, dancing, or any other form of motion. Comparing a given number of men subjected to military drill wnth the same number taken from commerce or mechanics, we quickly detect the value of drill applied to walking. Does not the first glance at a crowded thoroughfare show every grade of striding, mincing, shuffling, dragging, swaggering, strutting ? And do not these motions clearly signal special tidings of character and circumstance? Prosperity, adversity, resolution, vacillation, energy, sluggishness — these and similar conditions or traits speak plainly enough from a man's ordinary walk.

With women the case is somewhat different. The costume of modern civilization, however great a hindrance to natural ease of movement, has a very decided negative advantage. It lends a friendly disguise to many characteristics which the walk would otherwise reveal. And women, amid the anomalous exactions of their position, surely require more than one aid to harmless dissimulation. Yet, aside from trammels or advantages of dress, a woman's walk is very expressive of good- or ill-breeding, as well as of predominant traits of mind or temperament.

Gentlefolks know, too, the art of standing — how to make it express cessation of motion, but cessation with instant facility of starting again. The ground under their feet gives forth a right of possession for the moments or hours it is held. The ownership is manifest in the equipoise of the body, in its firmness of posture. There is no swaying to and fro, no balarTcing of arms and legs, no irresolute turning of the head this way and that way, no vacant gazing at surroundings, no implied tendency to loll, lean, or topple over.

So when sitting they seem at ease, in repose, in a state of comfort. To speak of it suggests but little of the thing itself But to see it, means the sense of fitness that comes from control of muscle, of thought, of feeling. To sit still is apparently as rare an accomplishment among ordinary people as among children. To see the diverse modes of lounging, of wriggling, of fidgeting, of twisting the body, produces a sensation of positive uneasiness. It gives the impression of the body's wishing to get away, to escape, to try something else.

To know the infinite phases of character the human form may be taught to express, we need only glance at works of art, whether painting or sculpture. Not that we are to go to Art to learn of what Nature is capable : but one helps the other. Artists go to Nature for studies, go there with reverent minds, with skilful hands, with esthetic souls. They embody the idea, the sentiment, the attitude, the emotions reflected upon form and countenance. They know far more and do far more towards expressing character than other men. For this reason, then, we go to their w6rks for help in our study of man. Under all the absorbing interest of Art, beyond all its toil, we find subtle truths of psychology which force us into contemplation of the original of Art, — of Nature herself.

The face ! What more than this shows the effect of culture? Every thought, every feeling, every action, leaves its trace, and eventually stamps it as belonging to a distinct class. There may be contradiction, inconsistency, many varied shades of goodness or badness in the same face. Yet, the predominant tendency of the individual is clearly interlined, legible to the most casual observer. A face is an epitome of character. Among well-bred people, the plainest of features acquire a benevolence which conciliates, a dignity which compels deference, a force which exacts respect.

The brow gives the effect of breadth, calmness, reflection. It has its phases of displeasure, indignation, trouble — but they disappear with the exciting causes. Such phases, being occasional, not habitual, do not imprint the frown or the scowl which awakens suspicion, fear, repulsion.

The eye is clear, observant, but unobtrusive. It sees all within range — countless grades of beauty and deformity — yet without abusing its penetration by even a semblance of inquisition. In ordinary worldintercourse its strength is veiled ; its rays are only those of kindness, courtesy, charity, sympathy, tol-erance. But upon special occasions it can speak eloquently of confidence, love, joy; of mistrust, dislike, pain. It can attract or repulse, inspire or subdue, melt with tenderness or burn with passion.

The mouth, too, means far more than rosy, well-cut, or classic. Whoever does not know the subtle delight of reading character on cultured lips loses that which no book, no science, no art, can replace. Such lips make language the most vital and diversified of social arts. Even in repose they interpret the inner self with clearer verdict than any written page could express. They are at once mobile and firm. They vary with every thought or emotion, yet repress every undue demonstration of opinion, desire, or imagination.

They attract and yet control the object thus attracted. They are capable of giving forth all the chords of the soul, ranging from the sweetest strains of love to the angriest hissing of hatred.

Culture develops many sides of character. Therefore the lips of the same individual may be capable of alternate trust and suspicion, assent and denial, like and dislike, buoyancy and gloom, deference and scorn.

If once we have discovered the secret of communing with such lips, we can no more become enamored of a mere pretty mouth than of a statue or picture.

Form and color are a primitive kind of beauty calculated to attract untutored tastes. In the child, in the youth or maiden, they seem sufficient for satisfaction. With growth of character, more is demanded. If we may have symmetry of form and agreeable color as an enclosure for the soul, we accept it gratefully. If we may choose one only, we take the gem without the fine setting.

The nose, the chin, the ear ! Have these anything to say beyond their form ? Surely, e^^slaim many voices, these features cannot express character, any phase of breeding ! Yet who can listen to the Ianguage of daily life without being forcibly struck with the general belief in what those seemingly inanimate features say!

One man says of another:

"He has no chin ! No wonder he is so irresolute!"

Or, of a woman:

** Rather pretty, but with so little nose that we cannot in reason expect any force, any depth of character."

Or, of ears ill shaped, or ill placed :

"Nature means something by that blemish!"

Who can deny that nose, chin, and ear have their own special expression, one which usually harmonizes with, and only occasionally contradicts, the other features ? Yet, when subjected to the general sway of culture their physical disproportion loses its unsightliness.

I would not assert that classic features are the special prerogative of Gentlefolks ; but that their privilege is, to make features subordinate to character.

Hands likewise tell their story. There is one hand which, in its very conformation, illustrates grace, beauty, tenderness. Another as plainly indicates awkwardness, rudeness, brutality. Or, there is the strong, decisive hand, sure of what it wants, prompt to seize and hold. Or, the weak, irresolute hand, kind always but sluggishly inactive.

The custom of hand-shaking is not without due significance. To people of fine sensibilities the slightest touch of a strange hand reveals something of personalify. The energetic, the languid, the wiry, the laborious, the artistic, the inventive, the shrewd, the flaccid, the heartless hand — all give their key-

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note at the first touch. If we have ears to hear that note of warning, we need ask no questions.

Hand-shaking is often a ceremony to be dreaded, so diverse are the grades of coarseness it reveals. Worst of all is the cold, inflexible, clammy touch of a selfish nature. Best of all is the warm, thrilling, life-giving touch of a generous soul. And this best of hands is found solely among men and women of good-breeding. There we must look for the hand which knows how to give the fitting greeting. Not that it is alike to all men. Heaven forbid such equality ! But to each man it gives his due. From the humble dependant up to the cherished friend there is no cause for complaint, no suspicion of hauteur, no betrayal of trust or affection.

Not merely in the greeting but in an infinite variety of services does the hand evince its deftness, its delicacy, its refinement. It may not always be true to itself. Indisposition of body or mind ; unwonted cares or anxieties ; the pressure of affairs or the absorption of the intellect, may at times produce less skill, less warmth, less generosity in the hand. But judging as we would be judged, we take the average, not the one abnormal act or occasion.

Mentally, Gentlefolks are superior to others. Whatever the actual calibre of their intellect, it receives the kind of training suited to its special work. It may not be able to invent a machine, to write a poem, to make a discovery in science. But it has the faculty of appreciation, of looking with respect at all men and at all women in their several positions, of doing them equal justice. It is cosmopolitan. It is broad.

liberal, helpful. It regards every other intellect, not as a rival, but as useful or ornamental in its special place. It knows human nature too well to expect good judgment among the masses: therefore encourages every barrier which law deems best for restraining and guiding men.

The facts, the impressions, the deductions forced upon the mind by a knowledge of society, cannot be averted. Gentlefolks approximate philosophers in one point : they accept the world as it is.

Classes of men, grades of intellect, degrees of moral force — these are acknowledged as existing, as having always been, as being predestined to continue. The Why and the Wherefore of things may be deeply interesting to speculative minds ; but they in no way change the differences in men practically thrust before us.

The one essential distinction of an intellect subjected to good-breeding, is its capacity to discriminate. Good and bad, beautiful and ugly, virtuous and vicious, are not glibly discussed as if they were things of choice or purchase. They are regarded as inevitable belongings of certain people, qualifications of their birth, circumstances, or opportunities. Nor does this faculty of observing the varied phases of society generate pride or self-righteousness. The same eye that notes imbecility of mind or vulgarity of manner, apprehends that causes produced those effects — causes for the most part wholly beyond the control of the individual.

No merit can be attached to the possession of a clear mind. Nor can any reproach be adduced to one befogged by ignorance. Yet, to prevent admira-

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U tion in the one case, or pity in the other, would be as impossible as unwise.

The higher the spirit of the human animal, the greater the need of a close watch and a strong arm in its training. Perhaps one of the most curious facts of social life is the far more general appreciation of thorough-bred brutes than of thorough-bred human beings.

The very lowest classes know the value of training applied to purely physical culture. The pugilist, the pedestrian, the oarsman, the acrobat, the rifleman — these appeal to their sympathies in proportion to skill and hardihood. Admiration carried to wild enthusiasm often comes from the populace whenever the muscular hero of the day fulfils their expectations.

In view of a physical contest, the utmost precaution attests the importance attached to preparation. What extreme care in the choice of a trainer 1 What vigilance over his charge ! What self-denial on the part of the individual in course of training! None too much, however. A single lapse of discipline damages the aspirant's chances, lessens the number of his adherents. Food, drink, sleep, exercise — these, in conjunction with native force, decide the probable chances for victory or defeat.

But training as applicable to character, is to plebeians an unknown science. To the next classes in social status it is a matter of words, seasons, prices. Only by aristocrats, the best of human kind, is training recognized as the acme of civilization.

Morally, Gentlefolks have advantages over others.

Who would maintain the absurdity that people born amid poverty and vice are equally favored with people x8 GENTLEFOLKS.

bom amid plenty and virtue? And the differences of outward life are accurately typified in the inward life.

Gentlefolks are not of necessity eminent moralists. But they are from birth subjected to the restraints of moral training. They have good teachers, good associations, good company. They are taught the great lesson of responsibility — its relations to their property, to their dependants, to their inferiors, to their equals. For the most part they are born with morality of native soundness and subjected from birth to influences favorable for the growth of that miorality.

The term moralist in itself is of slight importance. I form a code of morals consonant with mental perceptions, with calibre of conscience. Other people do the same. Savages, despots, plebeians, rogues — all have a code of morals which they are quick to apply to others if not to themselves. Before attaching undue value, then, to the word moralist, it is well to know by what manner of man it is used. If genuine, morality is an outgrowth of reason and conscience, a result of reflection turned upon experience. It is an influence which urges a man to live out his conception of truth. It fills him with reverence for his own nature, for all men's natures. It reveals to him the Unseen through the Seen. It makes him listen reverently, not only to one voice of Nature, but to many voices. From this influence spring the lofty aspirations, the noble deeds, the enduring works which animate human lives.

The same man might, in the course of his career, give many diverse accounts of his moral condition. At one epoch a staunch adherent of the most ceremonioLis of sects; at another, wholly indifferent to forms and emblems ; at another, willing to believe that germs of truth exist in all sects, ceremonies, and symbols. And so closely allied are the mental and moral states of being, that he may be alternately an idealist, a materialist, a practical worker, a philosopher.

Morality seems as much a native growth of character as intellect, as temperament. If so, it is then an absurdity to try to mould all men and women upon one set of ideas. The moral training which best suits the class or the individual surely proves the one consonant with reason. Do not all beings of average moral capacity wish to do well, to make the most of life, to carry out as far as may be their ideas of work, of love, of charity? Are we not like children, willing enough to be " good" if shown how to be so against the fearful odds of strong inclinations, prejudices, passions ? Are we not glad to be guarded from immorality if something else be provided in its place? A moralist need abatQ nothing of his conviction or zeal because it is invested with gentleness. Dealing as fairly with other heads and hearts as with his own, he speedily arrives at the goal called Tolerance. To know that an immoral act is as natural to one man as a moral one is to another, wholly disarms Judgment of bitterness and wrath.

Without the checks of good-breeding a moralist continually treads upon his neighbor's rights — rights acquired through inherited conditions of mind and soul. To mean well towards others cannot justify our intrusion upon them at unseasonable hours, by disagreeable modes. Before we can expect our morality to affect others in the least favorably, we must let it testify to its intrinsic worth by its acting upon ourselves.

Physique, Intellect, Morale — these, dexterously combined, make that all-potent magic called Manner.

If of refined tastes, we are naturally repulsed by coarseness, wherever found. Bluntness of speech, uncouth ways, discourteous acts, produce marked painful sensations which no effort of reasoning can dispel. Yet, if these sensations be made manifest by voice, eye, tongue, or gesture, are we not as much wanting in true delicacy as the offender himself? Indeed, more so. For in the one case there would be absolute ignorance of offence, in the other a full knowledge of its cause.

Good manners often require us to endure positive suffering rather than wound the feelings of others, lose our possible influence over them, or rudely jar upon their prejudices.

In asking a favor, I may possibly care little whether it be granted or not, but am strongly impressed by the manner of the reply. If it be courteous, denial is easily borne ; but if rude and bitter, philosophy itself offers no consolation. And it is very safe to assume that my manner affects others precisely in the same way. To assume grace, dignity, or gentleness, produces a mannerism which justly draws upon us sarcasm or contempt. But to be habitually considerate of others' defects, faults, and opinions, is as great a virtue as curbing temper or restraining appetites.

A vein of refinement in a family is a possession to be proud of It never appears in the same degree in different members. Sex, temperament, mental capacity, accidental circumstances of care or neglect — :rthese bring about divers grades of the metal. But the essential qualities — these remain. Even covered over with a growth of degenerated character — say in either of the parents — it is still likely to appear again in son or daughter.

Refinement can never be wholly eradicated. Traces of it appear in most unlooked-for ways, in oddest places, in most unpromising exteriors. It appears ^xv the very threshold of a dwelling, in the dress of its owner, in his occupation, in his amusements. No word, no gesture, no action, is too trivial to be influenced by it.

No, — Gentlefolks do not grow naturally. They are a product of culture, and this only in an advanced state of society. A new settlement in a wild country may show us good, hard-working, energetic people, but not — Gentlefolks. These can be produced only after the drudgery of frontier-life has subsided. What Mrs. Trollope once said of us might be applied to every newly-settled land:

" No one will be disappointed w^io visits the country, expecting to find no more than common sense might teach him to look for, namely, a vast continent, by far the greater part of which is still in the state in which nature left it, and a busy, bustling, industrious population, hacking and hewing their way through it."

Good-Breeding is of slow growth. It comes of Thought, of Feeling, of Practice.

Of people in general it might be said:

They have not time to be well-bred or to make their children so.

Toiling for very existence, who could expect them 3 to know aught of the diverse strata in the human character which finally yield that valuable gem of society which no money can purchase — Refinement!

Gentlefolks can never be plentiful in a community. The conditions of growth require too great an amount of care, of time, of culture, before marked characteristics appear.

In viewing a noble group of trees, I do not impair admiration by minute inquiries as to dimension, shape, and utility of every separate tree. I take in the whole, give myself up fully to the thoughts and sentiments awakened. A special technical description would only mar the nobility expressed by the entire group.

So, it seems to me, Gentlefolks are to be viewed. Without volition on their part, without effort, they hold a certain prominence in society. No two among them are alike. Their circumstances, appearance, attainments, influence — all are of varied form and effect. But as a class they merit respect, merit it because representing the best-endowed, best-cultured among human beings. They show us of what delightful degrees of social culture men, women, and children are capable. They make us feel at ease. They awaken thought, sentiment, emulation. They appeal through their very presence to the finer parts of our nature. Not only through their presence : even to hear them spoken of, to hear of their ways and acts, elevates the mind, refines the manner, provokes a spirit of gentleness.

I know they are not exempt from weaknesses and follies. But they do not thrust them at me, do not describe them, do not vaunt them. Among legions of people who cross my path, I can know but a hand-

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ful intimately. Of the rest I know the exterior only. But in view of the multifarious social and business relations which come to even the most unimportant of individuals, that exterior is by no means a slight matter. It includes the diverse effects caused by cleanliness, slovenliness, politeness, incivility, modesty, impudence. It includes every expression of temper, every shade of manner, every form of grace, of awkwardness.

I do not say that all of us can acquire good manners simply through beholding them in others. But I do believe that all of us can cultivate a far more agreeable way of saying and doing things than we now possess. The best forms of speech, the best modes of action, the best esthetic tastes — these are within reach of every one endowed with quick intelligence and fine intuitions. Many men — perhaps even more women — of plebeian birth astonish the world by their strikingly aristocratic bearing. Not that it has been easy of acquisition. It came only through close observation, exceeding care, unremitting watchfulness. But surely this ambition is quite as legitimate — in its way quite as useful even — as intellectual or moral eminence.

Gentlefolks everywhere ! What do we not owe them ? With what profound gratitude do I not recall those known in bygone days ! With what infinite comfort do I not bask in the society of those to-day known to me ! What matters it where they live ? how they look? in what fashion clothed? to which ** set" in the community they belong? to which work they are pledged ?

What I care for is themselves, the dear gentle folks who by their suavity and tenderness counteract the crudity and acerbity of other people. I see that they are many-sided in their nature, capable of great extremes of wisdom and folly. They do many strange, many unrighteous things. They often spend more money than they should; live in houses too fine; dress in clothes too costly; entertain too lavishly. They manifest very puerile weaknesses for books they do not read ; for pictures they do not look at; for porcelain and plate not made for use. They travel when, were it not for custom's sake, they would far rather stay at home. They yield to idleness when they ought to be industrious. They revel in luxury when multitudes around them are pining for want of simple necessities. They sometimes even let other people do their thinking.

In brief, Gentlefolks, however superior, bear yet a striking family likeness to other folks in the persistency with which they strive to make life yield up its sweets and treasures. They are superior; but this by no means implies that they are of a different race, angelic in attributes, divine in deeds. With every earthly advantage, they yet prove conclusively that the present stage of human existence is not meant to be one of perfection. They are not uniformly consistent, not abstractly good, not absolutely faultless. They are then to be sought after, admired, loved, not because they are superhuman, but simply because they are so much more admirable and lovable than other human beings.

Why be ashamed of our race because we discover that the best among us are not immaculate? Surely the sternest moralist among them all — whether in past or present — confesses that living a good life is far

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less easy than to write or preach about it — that, with every available safeguard and precaution, men and women continue to evince many traits perhaps in themselves very natural, but pronounced by the standard in vogue as reprehensible, base, or unholy !

Gentlefolks may join in the universal human chorus so quaintly interpreted by Burton:

" We are not here as those angels, celestial powers and bodies, sun and moon, to finish our course without all offence, with such constancy, to continue for so many ages ; but subject to infirmities, miseries, interrupted, tossed and tumbled up and down, carried about with every small blast, often molested and disquieted upon each slender occasion, uncertain, brittle, and so is all that we trust unto."

They may thus chant, and yet do it in a far less discordant tone than that of the untaught mass.

Upon the whole. Gentlefolks have their full share of discomfort and chagrin. These are indeed inevitable penalties of quick intelligence and refined tastes. Such an organization makes pleasure and pain equally keen. Words, looks, acts, incidents, have power to produce varied degrees of peace or unrest, delight or torture. Gentlefolks, moreover, are not exempt from the hard, ugly facts of life. Bread must be earned or hunger endured. Misfortunes come trooping in when least expected, often through the ignorance or perversity of others. They must live outwardly as the laws and customs of their country require. In doing so they must mingle largely with people of every condition. And in this mingling for purposes of business, or benevolence, or expediency, they endure the most onerous part. They must behold the human countenance in its myriad forms of distortion through passion and debased habits ; see the human form shorn of its symmetry and elasticity, doomed to plod, shuffle, crawl, sneak, or prowl ; hear the human voice bereft of every musical tone, degraded into an instrument which jars upon thought, racks sensibility, destroys the soul's harmony.

It is not the artist only who possesses esthetic perceptions. Scattered among people of varied calibre and worldly position, we find those perceptions developed to an extent which makes the demon of Ugliness a ceaseless source of misery. Especially so when that demon enters man or woman and reveals itself in manner, movement, speech, laughter.

Plebeians might be called people possessed by the demon of Ugliness. They are stamped on face and form with that demon's seal. No disguise, however cunningly devised, can enable them to escape, their social doom.

The Plebeian's walk is either unsteady, pompous, or plodding. His eye is feeble in outlook, sly in expression ; his lips the harbinger of every shade of shrewdness and vulgarity. His manner is now absolutely repulsive, now a base counterfeit of good-breeding. His conversation reveals himself in every sentence, every syllable. If he refer to people he knows or hears of, it is always in connection with the street they live in, the clothes they wear, the money they make or spend. His estimate of them is purely external. He cares nothing for their thoughts, their sentiments, their attainments. He regards them simply as a means of gratifying his senses, of furthering his ambition, of augmenting his heap of gold.