The Mentor

WHAT IS A GENTLEMAN?

Education begins the gentleman; but reading, good company, and reflection must finish him. – Locke.

A man of polished and agreeable manners, as distinguished from the vulgar and clownish. – Worcester.

It would be hard to find two persons that fully agree with regard to what constitutes a gentleman. It is far easier to tell what a gentleman is not than what a gentleman is.

For example, we all agree that the man is not a gentleman that is ignorant of those usages that, by common consent, regulate refined social intercourse; that does not, in his dress, conform, within certain limits at least, to the prevailing modes; that is desirous to attract attention by affecting eccentricities; that bears himself as though he thought himself an object of special attention, i. e., is self-conscious; that has no thought for the comfort, the feelings, or the rights of others. In short, we all agree that no man deserves to be called a gentleman that is not a man of education; i. e., that is not sufficiently acquainted with books and with the usages of refined social intercourse to acquit himself creditably in the society of cultivated people. Not moral worth, nor learning, nor wealth, nor all three combined, can, unaided, make a gentleman, for with all three a man might be coarse, unbred, unschooled in those things that no man can be ignorant of and be welcome in the society of the refined.

A modern English writer says that to formulate the definition of a gentleman in negatives would be easy. “As, for instance,” he says, “we may say that a true gentleman does not soil his conscience with falsehoods, does not waste his time on sensual indulgence, does not endeavor to make the worse appear the better reason, does not ridicule sacred things, does not wilfully give cause of offence to any, does not seek to overreach his neighbor, does not forget the respect due to womanhood, or old age, the feeble or the poor. But, to speak affirmatively,” he continues, “a gentleman is one whose aims are generous, whose trust is constant, whose word is never broken, whose honor is never stained, who is as gentle as brave, and as honest as wise, who wrongs no one by word or deed, and dignifies and embellishes life by nobility of thought, depth of feeling, and grace of manner.”

Thackeray wrote of the gentleman thus: “What is it to be a gentleman? Is it not to be honest, to be gentle, to be generous, to be brave, to be wise, and, possessing all these qualities, to exercise them in the most graceful outward manner? Ought not a gentleman to be a loyal son, a true husband, an honest father? Ought not his life to be decent, his bills to be paid, his tastes to be high and elegant, his aims in life lofty and noble? In a word, ought not the biography of the First Gentleman in Europe to be of such a nature, that it might be read in young ladies’ schools with advantage, and studied with profit in the seminaries of young gentlemen?”

Another English writer says that the primary essentials of what constitutes the true gentleman are Goodness, Gentleness and Unselfishness. “Upon these qualities,” he says, “are based all those observances and customs that we class together under the head of Good Manners. And these good manners, be it remembered, do not consist merely in the art of bowing gracefully, of entering a room properly, of talking eloquently, of being familiar with the minor habits of good society. A man may have all this, know all this, and yet, if he is selfish, or ill-natured, or untruthful, fail of being a gentleman. Good manners are far from being the evidence of good training only; they are also the evidence of a refined nature. They are the fruit of good seed sown on good soil. As a just and elevated thought clearly and gracefully expressed is evidence of a well-trained mind, so every act, however unimportant, and every gesture, however insignificant, is evidence of the kindly, considerate, modest, loyal nature of the true gentleman, or – of the reverse.”

In a story by Spielhagen, the distinguished German novelist, I find the following:

“What do you call a gentleman?” asked the Duke. “Will you give me a definition of the word?”

“That is not so easy, my lord; indeed, I am not sure that it is possible to define the word satisfactorily,” replied Lady De Vere. “By resorting to metaphors, however, I may perhaps be able to outline what we all feel, but are unable fully to describe. A gentleman is one in whom the vigorous and the delicate are happily united. The soft, the refined – all that comes from frequenting the society of women of culture, lies in the ‘gentle;’ the strong, the firm, the stern – all that comes from battling with men, lies in the ‘man;’ ‘gentle’ implies the possession of all the social, ‘man’ of all the civil, virtues; ‘man’ is the fiery wine, ‘gentle’ the tasteful goblet; ‘man’ is the sharp, correct drawing, ‘gentle,’ the warm, soft coloring; ‘gentle’ might be the Sybarite, who is disturbed by the falling of a rose-leaf, ‘man’ is the Brutus, who as judge knows not even his own child. Pericles, the brave, magnanimous, amiable, refined Athenian, might be offered as an example of the true gentleman.”

In his essay in The Century, for October, 1883, on the “Characteristics of London,” W. J. Stillman contrasts the English gentleman with the best American type as follows:

“And it is in this very class that we find here and there that best type of humanity, as the world knows it, the true English gentleman – a being whose exterior decorum may be counterfeited by his emulator, whose inmost gentleness and courtesy may be shadowed forth in peer or peasant – who loves his kind, and feels the common bond of divine birth, but whose most perfect union of noble demeanor and large-heartedness can only be found where the best type of mind has been permitted the largest and richest culture, and the completest freedom of hereditary development in the most favorable external circumstances. There are nobles and noblemen – men who seem to be conscious only that surrounding men are lower than they, and others whose illumination pervades every one near them and brings all up into the same world of light and sweetness. The prestige of nobility is founded on a true human instinct; occasionally one finds an English nobleman who justifies its existence, and makes us snobs in spite of our democracy.

“I could, I am certain, point to Americans who in every substantial trait of the gentleman will stand comparison with any aristocrat born – men in whom gentlehood has grown to hereditary ripeness; the third and fourth generations of men who have cultivated on American soil the virtues of honesty, morality, sincerity, courtesy, self-abnegation, humanity, benevolence; men and women whose babyhood was cradled in those influences that make what we call ‘good breeding,’ and to whom the various vulgarities of our parvenu princes are as foreign as to the bluest-blooded heir of Normandy fortune; and this is to me a more grateful and sympathetic type of humanity than that of its English congener.”

In the writings of a Gallic philosopher, of a former generation, that I lately chanced upon, I find the homme comme il faut– a man that is pretty nearly the counterpart of our gentleman– described essentially as follows:

At the first glance we discover in him nothing that arrests the attention. He is simple, calm, ingenuous, manly rather than graceful, sedate rather than animated. His manner is neither reserved nor demonstrative, but attentive, respectful and guarded; neither obsequious nor imperious, but calm and self-possessed. His politeness appears in acts rather than in protestations. Though he does not despise convention, he is not its slave; he does not allow himself to be hampered by the unimportant, nor does he ever see a heinous offence in a trifling breach of established usage.

His dress is an index of his character: simple, appropriate, harmonious. The man of the world pronounces it tasteful, the man of the people sees in it nothing that is unusual, and the man of sense recognizes in it a certain independence of the newest mode.

Being of those that make haste discreetly, he studies the characters of his acquaintances before giving them his confidence. In conversation, he is neither impatient, restless, nor hurried, and though he is careful in selecting his words, he attaches more importance to the matter of his discourse than to the manner. Made to give the tone, he is content to receive it: he is wont to take as much pains to remain unnoticed as many another takes to make himself seen.

If he appears in a circle where he is not known, the greater number see in him only a quiet, plain man that, despite his simplicity, however, has that about him to which they involuntarily yield their respect. The superficial, the presuming, and the malicious, though ignorant of the cause, are embarrassed by his steady, searching glance; the loyal and the unfortunate, on the contrary, are drawn toward him, feeling that in him they shall find a friend.

He is guarded in speaking ill of others, a thing he never does but with right intentions – as, for example, to unmask a hypocrite, to punish the guilty, or to protect the weak. In speaking of his enemies, he never forgets to be just; he is not of those that are blind to the virtues of even the most unworthy, nor is he of those that are so ungenerous as to deny them.

He is temperate in sustaining his opinions, and opposes only to be better informed, or to enliven the conversation; and often he will suddenly acknowledge his defeat, and confess with generous sincerity that the reasons of his opponent are better than his own. His victories are not less noble. His aim is to enlighten, not to humiliate, much less to offend. If he finds that he is opposed by presumption, obstinacy or ignorance, it is his habit to yield. “You may be right,” he will say; “my way of seeing things is often erroneous, and this, quite likely, is the case now.”

He avoids what is likely to create discord, seeks to promote kindly feeling among his fellows, and never pleads the faults of others in extenuation of his own. He is slow to take offence, opposes incivility with urbanity, and passion with moderation. Wrong-doing he accounts a weakness, and he pleads weakness as its excuse; the wrong-doer excites his pity rather than his hate.

He possesses, in a high degree, the happy faculty of adapting himself to others, from whom he expects no more than they can give and from whom he obtains the best they have. “There are few,” he says, “in whom, if we study them, we do not find some estimable qualities. If each has his weaknesses, so each has his virtues, which it is for us to discover.” Herein he excels.

The same day may see him dogmatize with a pedant, reason with a sage, shine in a social circle, console the unfortunate, contend for the rights of humanity, and swear fidelity to the woman of his choice. He talks trade to the shopkeeper, politics to the ambitious, perspective to the painter, play-things to childhood, house affairs to the matron, and probity to all. All he says bears the impress of a benign, humane philosophy that is now grave and now gay, as the time or the place may demand.

In nothing does his prudence more appear than in his pleasures, for be their character what it may, they never see him overstep the limit prescribed by decency and self-respect. That pleasure that injures no one seems to him innocent, and that recreation that follows labor seems to him reasonable.

Honesty with him has become a sort of instinct, which he exercises without reflection. The possibility that he could take an ignoble advantage, be wilfully unjust, or betray a trust, material or confidential, has never crossed his thought.

In the management of his material concerns, he is a model. In large expenditures he is guarded, in order that he may be the better able to be liberal in small ones. He never is guilty of that parsimony in little things that disgraces more than display in great ones ever exalts. It is his special care to be discriminating in his bounties, moderate in his expenditures and punctual in his payments. He often denies himself the pleasures of luxury to indulge in those of benevolence. If misfortune lessens his income, he is prompt to retrench; he knows that the friends and acquaintances he will lose should not be accounted veritable losses. He is modest in prosperity, resigned in adversity, and dignified always.

If he speaks of religion, he chooses carefully the time and the place. Whatever the prevailing belief in the community in which he lives, he considers it as forming a part of the laws, and he respects whatever contributes to stability and order. He attacks abuses only and seeks to destroy only what he can replace. He takes nothing on trust, but examines well before giving his assent; and that religion finds most favor with him that attaches most importance to the doing of good deeds. The man that in his eyes is the most truly religious is he that does most for his fellows. He rejoices that beneficence is held in like esteem by all creeds, however widely may differ their dogmas, and that the various religions of the world repose on the belief in the existence of a Supreme Being that punishes vice and rewards virtue. He has the modesty to think and the honesty to confess that as so many millions are in error, he also may err. Nor has he the presumption, like so many of his fellows, to set himself up as an infallible judge of others. But he pities those presuming motes that live but an instant, come they know not whence, and go they know not where, and yet would judge the whole by a part, and eternity by a span, conclude that all is but the product of chance, assert that what passes their reason is not reasonable, and deny the existence of Him to whom millions of years are but a moment, and millions of miles but a point.