Self-Help quotes

As for Failure per se, although it may be well to find consolations for it at the close of life, there is reason to doubt whether it is an object that ought to be set before youth at the beginning of it.

Indeed, “how not to do it” is of all things the easiest learnt: it needs neither teaching, effort, self-denial, industry, patience, perseverance, nor judgment.

Besides, readers do not care to know about the general who lost his battles, the engineer whose engines blew up, the architect who designed only deformities, the painter who never got beyond daubs, the schemer who did not invent his machine, the merchant who could …

It is true, the best of men may fail, in the best of causes. But even these best of men did not try to fail, or regard their failure as meritorious; on the contrary, they tried to succeed, and looked upon failure as misfortune.

Failure in any good cause is, however, honourable, whilst success in any bad cause is merely infamous.

At the same time success in the good cause is unquestionably better than failure.

“We put too much faith in systems, and look too little to men.”—B. Disraeli.

“Heaven helps those who help themselves” is a well-tried maxim, embodying in a small compass the results of vast human experience.

The spirit of self-help is the root of all genuine growth in the individual; and, exhibited in the lives of many, it constitutes the true source of national vigour and strength.

The spirit of self-help is the root of all genuine growth in the individual; and, exhibited in the lives of many, it constitutes the true source of national vigour and strength.

Help from without is often enfeebling in its effects, but help from within invariably invigorates.

Whatever is done for men or classes, to a certain extent takes away the stimulus and necessity of doing for themselves; and where men are subjected to over-guidance and over-government, the inevitable tendency is to render them comparatively helpless.

In the order of nature, the collective character of a nation will as surely find its befitting results in its law and government, as water finds its own level.

The noble people will be nobly ruled, and the ignorant and corrupt ignobly.

Indeed all experience serves to prove that the worth and strength of a State depend far less upon the form of its institutions than upon the character of its men.

For the nation is only an aggregate of individual conditions, and civilization itself is but a question of the personal improvement of the men, women, and children of whom society is composed.

National progress is the sum of individual industry, energy, and uprightness, as national decay is of individual idleness, selfishness, and vice.

What we are accustomed to decry as great social evils, will, for the most part, be found to be but the outgrowth of man’s own perverted life;

If this view be correct, then it follows that the highest patriotism and philanthropy consist, not so much in altering laws and modifying institutions, as in helping and stimulating men to elevate and improve themselves by their own free and independent individual action.

It may be of comparatively little consequence how a man is governed from without, whilst everything depends upon how he governs himself from within.

The greatest slave is not he who is ruled by a despot, great though that evil be, but he who is the thrall of his own moral ignorance, selfishness, and vice.

It may be of comparatively little consequence how a man is governed from without, whilst everything depends upon how he governs himself from within.

The greatest slave is not he who is ruled by a despot, great though that evil be, but he who is the thrall of his own moral ignorance, selfishness, and vice.

Nations who are thus enslaved at heart cannot be freed by any mere changes of masters or of institutions;

[4] This doctrine shortly means, everything for the people, nothing by them,—a doctrine which, if taken as a guide, must, by destroying the free conscience of a community, speedily prepare the way for any form of despotism.

Cæsarism is human idolatry in its worst form—a worship of mere power, as degrading in its effects as the worship of mere wealth would be.

A far healthier doctrine to inculcate among the nations would be that of Self-Help; and so soon as it is thoroughly understood and carried into action, Cæsarism will be no more. The two principles are directly antagonistic;

Rising above the heads of the mass, there were always to be found a series of individuals distinguished beyond others, who commanded the public homage. But our progress has also been owing to multitudes of smaller and less known men.

Though only the generals’ names may be remembered in the history of any great campaign, it has been in a great measure through the individual valour and heroism of the privates that victories have been won.

And life, too, is “a soldiers’ battle,”—men in the ranks having in all times been amongst the greatest of workers.

Biographies of great, but especially of good men, are nevertheless most instructive and useful, as helps, guides, and incentives to others.

Some of the best are almost equivalent to gospels—teaching high living, high thinking, and energetic action for their own and the world’s good.

The valuable examples which they furnish of the power of self-help, of patient purpose, resolute working, and steadfast integrity, issuing in the formation of truly noble and manly character, exhibit in language not to be misunderstood, what it is in the power of each to …

Some of God’s greatest apostles have come from “the ranks.” The poorest have sometimes taken the highest places; nor have difficulties apparently the most insuperable proved obstacles in their way.

Those very difficulties, in many instances, would ever seem to have been their best helpers, by evoking their powers of labour and endurance, and stimulating into life faculties which might otherwise have lain dormant.

The instances of obstacles thus surmounted, and of triumphs thus achieved, are indeed so numerous, as almost to justify the proverb that “with Will one can do anything.”

It was characteristic of Johnson to take the intended sarcasm in good part, and even to turn it to account.

“Some gentleman says I have been a tailor. That does not disconcert me in the least; for when I was a tailor I had the reputation of being a good one, and making close fits; I was always punctual with my customers, and always did good work.”

Cardinal Wolsey, De Foe, Akenside, and Kirke White were the sons of butchers; Bunyan was a tinker, and Joseph Lancaster a basket-maker. Among the great names identified with the invention of the steam-engine are those of Newcomen, Watt, and Stephenson;

but having ruined himself by speculations, his family were reduced to comparative poverty. To this circumstance Lagrange was in after life accustomed partly to attribute his own fame and happiness.

“Had I been rich,” said he, “I should probably not have become a mathematician.”

The sons of clergymen and ministers of religion generally, have particularly distinguished themselves in our country’s history. Amongst them we find the names of Drake and Nelson, celebrated in naval heroism; of Wollaston, Young, Playfair, and Bell, in science;

Professor Wilson was the son of a Paisley manufacturer, and Lord Macaulay of an African merchant. Keats was a druggist, and Sir Humphry Davy a country apothecary’s apprentice. Speaking of himself, Davy once said,

“What I am I have made myself: I say this without vanity, and in pure simplicity of heart.”

Richard Owen, the Newton of Natural History, began life as a midshipman, and did not enter upon the line of scientific research in which he has since become so distinguished, until comparatively late in life.

Marshal Randon, the present French Minister of War, began his military career as a drummer boy; and in the portrait of him in the gallery at Versailles, his hand rests upon a drum-head, the picture being thus painted at his own request.

Instances such as these inspire French soldiers with enthusiasm for their service, as each private feels that he may possibly carry the baton of a marshal in his knapsack.

The instances of men, in this and other countries, who, by dint of persevering application and energy, have raised themselves from the humblest ranks of industry to eminent positions of usefulness and influence in society, are indeed so numerous that they have long ceased to …

An easy and luxurious existence does not train men to effort or encounter with difficulty; nor does it awaken that consciousness of power which is so necessary for energetic and effective action in life.

Indeed, so far from poverty being a misfortune, it may, by vigorous self-help, be converted even into a blessing

; rousing a man to that struggle with the world in which, though some may purchase ease by degradation, the right-minded and true-hearted find strength, confidence, and triumph. Bacon says, “Men seem neither to understand their riches nor their strength:

‘Hamlet’ played as a comedy were nothing to it. But he concluded with a sentence which embodied a prophecy. Writhing under the laughter with which his studied eloquence had been received, he exclaimed,

“I have begun several times many things, and have succeeded in them at last. I shall sit down now, but the time will come when you will hear me.”

The time did come; and how Disraeli succeeded in at length commanding the attention of the first assembly of gentlemen in the world, affords a striking illustration of what energy and determination will do; for Disraeli earned his position by dint of patient industry.

Tocqueville himself wrote to a friend—“There is no time of life at which one can wholly cease from action, for effort without one’s self, and still more effort within, is equally necessary, if not more so, when we grow old, as it is in youth.

I compare man in this world to a traveller journeying without ceasing towards a colder and colder region; the higher he goes, the faster he ought to walk. The great malady of the soul is cold.

And in resisting this formidable evil, one needs not only to be sustained by the action of a mind employed, but also by contact with one’s fellows in the business of life.” [25]

He believed that a noble-minded woman insensibly elevated the character of her husband, while one of a grovelling nature as certainly tended to degrade it. [26]

In fine, human character is moulded by a thousand subtle influences; by example and precept; by life and literature; by friends and neighbours; by the world we live in as well as by the spirits of our forefathers, whose legacy of good words and deeds we inherit.

But great, unquestionably, though these influences are acknowledged to be, it is nevertheless equally clear that men must necessarily be the active agents of their own well-being and well-doing;

The career of industry which the nation has pursued, has also proved its best education. As steady application to work is the healthiest training for every individual, so is it the best discipline of a state.

Honourable industry travels the same road with duty; and Providence has closely linked both with happiness.

The gods, says the poet, have placed labour and toil on the way leading to the Elysian fields. Certain it is that no bread eaten by man is so sweet as that earned by his own labour, whether bodily or mental.

Honourable industry travels the same road with duty; and Providence has closely linked both with happiness. The gods, says the poet, have placed labour and toil on the way leading to the Elysian fields.

Certain it is that no bread eaten by man is so sweet as that earned by his own labour, whether bodily or mental.

By labour the earth has been subdued, and man redeemed from barbarism; nor has a single step in civilization been made without it. Labour is not only a necessity and a duty, but a blessing: only the idler feels it to be a curse.

By labour the earth has been subdued, and man redeemed from barbarism; nor has a single step in civilization been made without it.

Labour is not only a necessity and a duty, but a blessing: only the idler feels it to be a curse.

The duty of work is written on the thews and muscles of the limbs, the mechanism of the hand, the nerves and lobes of the brain—the sum of whose healthy action is satisfaction and enjoyment.

The steam-engine was nothing, however, until it emerged from the state of theory, and was taken in hand by practical mechanics; and what a noble story of patient, laborious investigation, of difficulties encountered and overcome by heroic industry, does not that marvellous machine tell of!

It is indeed, in itself, a monument of the power of self-help in man.

Grouped around it we find Savary, the military engineer; Newcomen, the Dartmouth blacksmith; Cawley, the glazier; Potter, the engine-boy; Smeaton, the civil engineer; and, towering above all, the laborious, patient, never-tiring James Watt, the mathematical-instrument maker.

When a boy, he was apprenticed to a barber, and after learning the business, he set up for himself in Bolton, where he occupied an underground cellar, over which he put up the sign,

“Come to the subterraneous barber—he shaves for a penny.”

The other barbers found their customers leaving them, and reduced their prices to his standard, when Arkwright, determined to push his trade, announced his determination to give “A clean shave for a halfpenny.”

After the trial, when passing the hotel at which his opponents were staying, one of them said, loud enough to be heard by him, “Well, we’ve done the old shaver at last;” to which he coolly replied,

“Never mind, I’ve a razor left that will shave you all.”

He established new mills in Lancashire, Derbyshire, and at New Lanark, in Scotland.

It was then customary—previous to the introduction of the factory system—for industrious yeomen with families to employ the time not occupied in the fields in weaving at home; and Robert Peel accordingly began the domestic trade of calico-making.

He was honest, and made an honest article; thrifty and hardworking, and his trade prospered.

He was also enterprising, and was one of the first to adopt the carding cylinder, then recently invented.

Many ingenious Nottingham mechanics had, during a long succession of years, been labouring at the problem of inventing a machine by which the mesh of threads should be twisted round each other on the formation of the net.

Some of these men died in poverty, some were driven insane, and all alike failed in the object of their search.

The old warp-machine held its ground.

Many years after they had been successfully overcome, the conversation which took place one eventful evening was vividly remembered.

“Well,” said the anxious wife, “will it work?” “No,” was the sad answer; “I have had to take it all to pieces again.”

Though he could still speak hopefully and cheerfully, his poor wife could restrain her feelings no longer, but sat down and cried bitterly.

He was not stimulated by the desire of gain, for he was comparatively rich, having acquired a considerable fortune by his wife.

It was a saying of his that “one will never accomplish great things who is constantly asking himself, how much gain will this bring me?”

What mainly impelled him was the irrepressible instinct of the inventor, who no sooner has a mechanical problem set before him than he feels impelled to undertake its solution. The problem in this case was, however, much more difficult than he had anticipated.

It combs the lock of cotton at both ends, places the fibres exactly parallel with each other, separates the long from the short, and unites the long fibres in one sliver and the short ones in another.

In fine, the machine not only acts with the delicate accuracy of the human fingers, but apparently with the delicate intelligence of the human mind.

The chief commercial value of the invention consisted in its rendering the commoner sorts of cotton available for fine spinning.

Thus wealth suddenly flowed in upon poor Heilmann at last. But he did not live to enjoy it. Scarcely had his long labours been crowned by success than he died, and his son, who had shared in his privations, shortly followed him.

It is at the price of lives such as these that the wonders of civilisation are achieved.

“Patience is the finest and worthiest part of fortitude, and the rarest too . . . Patience lies at the root of all pleasures, as well as of all powers. Hope herself ceases to be happiness when Impatience companions her.”—John Ruskin.

His father was probably a worker in glass, to which trade Bernard was brought up. His parents were poor people—too poor to give him the benefit of any school education.

“I had no other books,” said he afterwards, “than heaven and earth, which are open to all.”

He learnt, however, the art of glass-painting, to which he added that of drawing, and afterwards reading and writing.

The second day passed, and still the enamel did not melt. The sun set, and another night passed.

The pale, haggard, unshorn, baffled yet not beaten Palissy sat by his furnace eagerly looking for the melting of the enamel.

A third day and night passed—a fourth, a fifth, and even a sixth,—yes, for six long days and nights did the unconquerable Palissy watch and toil, fighting against hope; and still the enamel would not melt.

Tschirnhaus was a man of education and distinction, and was held in much esteem by Prince Fürstenburg as well as by the Elector. He very sensibly said to Böttgher, still in fear of the gallows—

“If you can’t make gold, try and do something else; make porcelain.”

The alchemist acted on the hint, and began his experiments, working night and day. He prosecuted his investigations for a long time with great assiduity, but without success.

and even after the works were finished, he was locked up nightly in his room. All this preyed upon his mind, and in repeated letters to the King he sought to obtain mitigation of his fate. Some of these letters are very touching.

“I will devote my whole soul to the art of making porcelain,” he writes on one occasion, “I will do more than any inventor ever did before; only give me liberty, liberty!”

To these appeals, the King turned a deaf ear. He was ready to spend money and grant favours; but liberty he would not give. He regarded Böttgher as his slave.

“Allez en avant, et la foi vous viendra!”—D’Alembert.

The greatest results in life are usually attained by simple means, and the exercise of ordinary qualities.

The common life of every day, with its cares, necessities, and duties, affords ample opportunity for acquiring experience of the best kind; and its most beaten paths provide the true worker with abundant scope for effort and room for self-improvement.

The road of human welfare lies along the old highway of steadfast well-doing; and they who are the most persistent, and work in the truest spirit, will usually be the most successful.

Fortune has often been blamed for her blindness; but fortune is not so blind as men are.

Those who look into practical life will find that fortune is usually on the side of the industrious, as the winds and waves are on the side of the best navigators.

The very greatest men have been among the least believers in the power of genius, and as worldly wise and persevering as successful men of the commoner sort.

Some have even defined genius to be only common sense intensified.

A distinguished teacher and president of a college spoke of it as the power of making efforts. John Foster held it to be the power of lighting one’s own fire. Buffon said of genius “it is patience.”

Some have even defined genius to be only common sense intensified. A distinguished teacher and president of a college spoke of it as the power of making efforts.

John Foster held it to be the power of lighting one’s own fire.

Buffon said of genius “it is patience.”

Fortune has often been blamed for her blindness; but fortune is not so blind as men are.

Those who look into practical life will find that fortune is usually on the side of the industrious, as the winds and waves are on the side of the best navigators.

In the pursuit of even the highest branches of human inquiry, the commoner qualities are found the most useful—such as common sense, attention, application, and perseverance.

It was in Newton’s case, as in every other, only by diligent application and perseverance that his great reputation was achieved. Even his recreation consisted in change of study, laying down one subject to take up another. To Dr. Bentley he said:

“If I have done the public any service, it is due to nothing but industry and patient thought.”

So Kepler, another great philosopher, speaking of his studies and his progress, said: “As in Virgil, ‘Fama mobilitate viget, vires acquirit eundo,’ so it was with me, that the diligent thought on these things was the occasion of still further thinking;

not so often the gifted, of naturally bright and shining qualities, as those who have applied themselves diligently to their work, in whatsoever line that might lie.

“Alas!” said a widow, speaking of her brilliant but careless son, “he has not the gift of continuance.”

Wanting in perseverance, such volatile natures are outstripped in the race of life by the diligent and even the dull. “Che va piano, va longano, e va lontano,” says the Italian proverb: Who goes slowly, goes long, and goes far.

“Alas!” said a widow, speaking of her brilliant but careless son, “he has not the gift of continuance.” Wanting in perseverance, such volatile natures are outstripped in the race of life by the diligent and even the dull.

“Che va piano, va longano, e va lontano,” says the Italian proverb: Who goes slowly, goes long, and goes far.

Hence, a great point to be aimed at is to get the working quality well trained. When that is done, the race will be found comparatively easy. We must repeat and again repeat; facility will come with labour.

Dalton, the chemist, repudiated the notion of his being “a genius,” attributing everything which he had accomplished to simple industry and accumulation. John Hunter said of himself,

“My mind is like a beehive; but full as it is of buzz and apparent confusion, it is yet full of order and regularity, and food collected with incessant industry from the choicest stores of nature.”

We have, indeed, but to glance at the biographies of great men to find that the most distinguished inventors, artists, thinkers, and workers of all kinds, owe their success, in a great measure, to their indefatigable industry and application.

We have, indeed, but to glance at the biographies of great men to find that the most distinguished inventors, artists, thinkers, and workers of all kinds, owe their success, in a great measure, to their indefatigable industry and application.

They were men who turned all things to gold—even time itself.

Disraeli the elder held that the secret of success consisted in being master of your subject, such mastery being attainable only through continuous application and study.

Hence, a great point to be aimed at is to get the working quality well trained. When that is done, the race will be found comparatively easy.

We must repeat and again repeat; facility will come with labour.

Not even the simplest art can be accomplished without it; and what difficulties it is found capable of achieving!

It is indeed marvellous what continuous application will effect in the commonest of things. It may seem a simple affair to play upon a violin; yet what a long and laborious practice it requires!

Giardini said to a youth who asked him how long it would take to learn it, “Twelve hours a day for twenty years together.”

Industry, it is said, fait l’ours danser. The poor figurante must devote years of incessant toil to her profitless task before she can shine in it.

Progress, however, of the best kind, is comparatively slow. Great results cannot be achieved at once; and we must be satisfied to advance in life as we walk, step by step.

De Maistre says that “to know how to wait is the great secret of success.”

We must sow before we can reap, and often have to wait long, content meanwhile to look patiently forward in hope; the fruit best worth waiting for often ripening the slowest. But “time and patience,” says the Eastern proverb, “change the mulberry leaf to satin.”

We must sow before we can reap, and often have to wait long, content meanwhile to look patiently forward in hope; the fruit best worth waiting for often ripening the slowest.

But “time and patience,” says the Eastern proverb, “change the mulberry leaf to satin.”

To wait patiently, however, men must work cheerfully. Cheerfulness is an excellent working quality, imparting great elasticity to the character. As a bishop has said, “Temper is nine-tenths of Christianity;” so are cheerfulness and diligence nine-tenths of practical wisdom.

To wait patiently, however, men must work cheerfully. Cheerfulness is an excellent working quality, imparting great elasticity to the character.

As a bishop has said, “Temper is nine-tenths of Christianity;” so are cheerfulness and diligence nine-tenths of practical wisdom.

They are the life and soul of success, as well as of happiness; perhaps the very highest pleasure in life consisting in clear, brisk, conscious working; energy, confidence, and every other good quality mainly depending upon it.

So Dr. Hook, when leaving Leeds for a new sphere of labour said,

“Wherever I may be, I shall, by God’s blessing, do with my might what my hand findeth to do; and if I do not find work, I shall make it.”

Labourers for the public good especially, have to work long and patiently, often uncheered by the prospect of immediate recompense or result.

Labourers for the public good especially, have to work long and patiently, often uncheered by the prospect of immediate recompense or result.

The seeds they sow sometimes lie hidden under the winter’s snow, and before the spring comes the husbandman may have gone to his rest.

It is not every public worker who, like Rowland Hill, sees his great idea bring forth fruit in his life-time.

but seventy years passed before his work bore substantial fruits, nor indeed are they all gathered in yet.

Nothing can compensate for the loss of hope in a man: it entirely changes the character.

“How can I work—how can I be happy,” said a great but miserable thinker, “when I have lost all hope?” One of the most cheerful and courageous, because one of the most hopeful of workers, was Carey, the missionary.

Carey was never ashamed of the humbleness of his origin. On one occasion, when at the Governor-General’s table he over-heard an officer opposite him asking another, loud enough to be heard, whether Carey had not once been a shoemaker:

“No, sir,” exclaimed Carey immediately; “only a cobbler.”

An eminently characteristic anecdote has been told of his perseverance as a boy. When climbing a tree one day, his foot slipped, and he fell to the ground, breaking his leg by the fall.

Carey had need of this sort of dauntless courage for the great missionary work of his life, and nobly and resolutely he did it.

It was a maxim of Dr. Young, the philosopher, that “Any man can do what any other man has done;”

and it is unquestionable that he himself never recoiled from any trials to which he determined to subject himself. It is related of him, that the first time he mounted a horse, he was in company with the grandson of Mr.

It was a principle of action which he laid down for himself, that he must earn his living by business, and not by literature. On one occasion he said,

“I determined that literature should be my staff, not my crutch, and that the profits of my literary labour, however convenient otherwise, should not, if I could help it, become necessary to my ordinary expenses.”

His punctuality was one of the most carefully cultivated of his habits, otherwise it had not been possible for him to get through so enormous an amount of literary labour.

But with all his diligent and indefatigable industry, and his immense knowledge, the result of many years’ patient labour, Scott always spoke with the greatest diffidence of his own powers. On one occasion he said,

“Throughout every part of my career I have felt pinched and hampered by my own ignorance.”

Such is true wisdom and humility; for the more a man really knows, the less conceited he will be.

On one occasion he said, “Throughout every part of my career I have felt pinched and hampered by my own ignorance.”

Such is true wisdom and humility; for the more a man really knows, the less conceited he will be.

The student at Trinity College who went up to his professor to take leave of him because he had “finished his education,” was wisely rebuked by the professor’s reply, “Indeed! I am only beginning mine.”

Such is true wisdom and humility; for the more a man really knows, the less conceited he will be.

The student at Trinity College who went up to his professor to take leave of him because he had “finished his education,” was wisely rebuked by the professor’s reply, “Indeed! I am only beginning mine.”

The superficial person who has obtained a smattering of many things, but knows nothing well, may pride himself upon his gifts;

I dropped my work, and said to myself, ‘True, true! but you shall never have that to say of me again.’ To me that cry was as the voice of God, and it has been a word in season throughout my life.

I learnt from it not to leave till to-morrow the work of to-day, or to idle when I ought to be working.

”

His political fervour become the talk of the village. While busy one night hammering away at a shoe-sole, a little boy, seeing a light in the shop, put his mouth to the keyhole of the door, and called out in a shrill pipe,

“Shoemaker! shoe-maker! work by night and run about by day!”

A friend, to whom Drew afterwards told the story, asked, “And did not you run after the boy, and strap him?” “No, no,” was the reply; “had a pistol been fired off at my ear, I could not have been more dismayed or confounded.

He was not a good speaker, but what he said was believed to proceed from the lips of an honest, single-minded, accurate man. If ridicule, as Shaftesbury says, be the test of truth, Joseph Hume stood the test well.

No man was more laughed at, but there he stood perpetually, and literally, “at his post.”

He was usually beaten on a division, but the influence which he exercised was nevertheless felt, and many important financial improvements were effected by him even with the vote directly against him.

“Opportunity has hair in front, behind she is bald; if you seize her by the forelock you may hold her, but, if suffered to escape, not Jupiter himself can catch her again.”—From the Latin.

Accident does very little towards the production of any great result in life.

Though sometimes what is called “a happy hit” may be made by a bold venture, the common highway of steady industry and application is the only safe road to travel.

“I have retouched this part—polished that—softened this feature—brought out that muscle—given some expression to this lip, and more energy to that limb.” “But these are trifles,” remarked the visitor.

“It may be so,” replied the sculptor, “but recollect that trifles make perfection, and perfection is no trifle.”

So it was said of Nicholas Poussin, the painter, that the rule of his conduct was, that “whatever was worth doing at all was worth doing well;”

and when asked, late in life, by his friend Vigneul de Marville, by what means he had gained so high a reputation among the painters of Italy,

Poussin emphatically answered, “Because I have neglected nothing.”

Although there are discoveries which are said to have been made by accident, if carefully inquired into, it will be found that there has really been very little that was accidental about them.

The Russian proverb says of the non-observant man, “He goes through the forest and sees no firewood.” “The wise man’s eyes are in his head,” says Solomon, “but the fool walketh in darkness.”

“Sir,” said Johnson, on one occasion, to a fine gentleman just returned from Italy, “some men will learn more in the Hampstead stage than others in the tour of Europe.”

It is the mind that sees as well as the eye. Where unthinking gazers observe nothing, men of intelligent vision penetrate into the very fibre of the phenomena presented to them, attentively noting differences, making comparisons, and recognizing their underlying idea.

“Sir,” said Johnson, on one occasion, to a fine gentleman just returned from Italy, “some men will learn more in the Hampstead stage than others in the tour of Europe.”

It is the mind that sees as well as the eye.

Where unthinking gazers observe nothing, men of intelligent vision penetrate into the very fibre of the phenomena presented to them, attentively noting differences, making comparisons, and recognizing their underlying idea.

The difference between men consists, in a great measure, in the intelligence of their observation.

The Russian proverb says of the non-observant man, “He goes through the forest and sees no firewood.”

“The wise man’s eyes are in his head,” says Solomon, “but the fool walketh in darkness.”

So trifling a matter as the sight of seaweed floating past his ship, enabled Columbus to quell the mutiny which arose amongst his sailors at not discovering land, and to assure them that the eagerly sought New World was not far off.

There is nothing so small that it should remain forgotten; and no fact, however trivial, but may prove useful in some way or other if carefully interpreted.

Who could have imagined that the famous “chalk cliffs of Albion” had been built up by tiny insects—detected only by the help of the microscope—of the same order of creatures that have gemmed the sea with islands of coral!

Who could have imagined that the famous “chalk cliffs of Albion” had been built up by tiny insects—detected only by the help of the microscope—of the same order of creatures that have gemmed the sea with islands of coral!

And who that contemplates such extraordinary results, arising from infinitely minute operations, will venture to question the power of little things?

It is the close observation of little things which is the secret of success in business, in art, in science, and in every pursuit in life.

And who that contemplates such extraordinary results, arising from infinitely minute operations, will venture to question the power of little things?

It is the close observation of little things which is the secret of success in business, in art, in science, and in every pursuit in life.

Human knowledge is but an accumulation of small facts, made by successive generations of men, the little bits of knowledge and experience carefully treasured up by them growing at length into a mighty pyramid.

When Franklin made his discovery of the identity of lightning and electricity, it was sneered at, and people asked, “Of what use is it?” To which his reply was,

“What is the use of a child? It may become a man!”

When Galvani discovered that a frog’s leg twitched when placed in contact with different metals, it could scarcely have been imagined that so apparently insignificant a fact could have led to important results.

But it is not tools that make the workman, but the trained skill and perseverance of the man himself. Indeed it is proverbial that the bad workman never yet had a good tool. Some one asked Opie by what wonderful process he mixed his colours.

“I mix them with my brains, sir,” was his reply.

It is the same with every workman who would excel. Ferguson made marvellous things—such as his wooden clock, that accurately measured the hours—by means of a common penknife, a tool in everybody’s hand; but then everybody is not a Ferguson.

This art of seizing opportunities and turning even accidents to account, bending them to some purpose is a great secret of success.

Dr. Johnson has defined genius to be “a mind of large general powers accidentally determined in some particular direction.”

Men who are resolved to find a way for themselves, will always find opportunities enough; and if they do not lie ready to their hand, they will make them.

It is not those who have enjoyed the advantages of colleges, museums, and public galleries, that have accomplished the most for science and art; nor have the greatest mechanics and inventors been trained in mechanics’ institutes.

Necessity, oftener than facility, has been the mother of invention; and the most prolific school of all has been the school of difficulty.

Some of the very best workmen have had the most indifferent tools to work with. But it is not tools that make the workman, but the trained skill and perseverance of the man himself.

Necessity, oftener than facility, has been the mother of invention; and the most prolific school of all has been the school of difficulty. Some of the very best workmen have had the most indifferent tools to work with.

But it is not tools that make the workman, but the trained skill and perseverance of the man himself.

Indeed it is proverbial that the bad workman never yet had a good tool. Some one asked Opie by what wonderful process he mixed his colours. “I mix them with my brains, sir,” was his reply.

Some of the very best workmen have had the most indifferent tools to work with. But it is not tools that make the workman, but the trained skill and perseverance of the man himself.

Indeed it is proverbial that the bad workman never yet had a good tool.

Some one asked Opie by what wonderful process he mixed his colours. “I mix them with my brains, sir,” was his reply. It is the same with every workman who would excel.

The words which Davy entered in his note-book, when about twenty years of age, working in Dr. Beddoes’ laboratory at Bristol, were eminently characteristic of him:

“I have neither riches, nor power, nor birth to recommend me; yet if I live, I trust I shall not be of less service to mankind and my friends, than if I had been born with all these advantages.”

Davy possessed the capability, as Faraday does, of devoting the whole power of his mind to the practical and experimental investigation of a subject in all its bearings;

this also will be a Delambre.” We need scarcely add that the prediction of Teissier was more than fulfilled.

It is not accident, then, that helps a man in the world so much as purpose and persistent industry.

To the feeble, the sluggish and purposeless, the happiest accidents avail nothing,—they pass them by, seeing no meaning in them.

While working and earning his living as a blacksmith, he mastered some eighteen ancient and modern languages, and twenty-two European dialects.

What a solemn and striking admonition to youth is that inscribed on the dial at All Souls, Oxford—“Pereunt et imputantur”—the hours perish, and are laid to our charge.

Time is the only little fragment of Eternity that belongs to man; and, like life, it can never be recalled. “In the dissipation of worldly treasure,” says Jackson of Exeter, “the frugality of the future may balance the extravagance of the past;

What a solemn and striking admonition to youth is that inscribed on the dial at All Souls, Oxford—“Pereunt et imputantur”—the hours perish, and are laid to our charge.

Time is the only little fragment of Eternity that belongs to man; and, like life, it can never be recalled.

“In the dissipation of worldly treasure,” says Jackson of Exeter, “the frugality of the future may balance the extravagance of the past; but who can say, ‘I will take from minutes to-morrow to compensate for those I have lost to-day’?”

Time is the only little fragment of Eternity that belongs to man; and, like life, it can never be recalled.

“In the dissipation of worldly treasure,” says Jackson of Exeter, “the frugality of the future may balance the extravagance of the past; but who can say, ‘I will take from minutes to-morrow to compensate for those I have lost to-day’?”

Melancthon noted down the time lost by him, that he might thereby reanimate his industry, and not lose an hour. An Italian scholar put over his door an inscription intimating that whosoever remained there should join in his labours.

Hume wrote thirteen hours a day while preparing his ‘History of England.’

Montesquieu, speaking of one part of his writings, said to a friend, “You will read it in a few hours; but I assure you it has cost me so much labour that it has whitened my hair.”

The practice of writing down thoughts and facts for the purpose of holding them fast and preventing their escape into the dim region of forgetfulness, has been much resorted to by thoughtful and studious men.

When once asked what method he had adopted to insure success in his undertakings, he replied, “My rule is, deliberately to consider, before I commence, whether the thing be practicable. If it be not practicable, I do not attempt it.

If it be practicable, I can accomplish it if I give sufficient pains to it; and having begun, I never stop till the thing is done.

To this rule I owe all my success.”

In London he was so fortunate as to study under John Hunter, to whom he communicated his views. The advice of the great anatomist was thoroughly characteristic:

“Don’t think, but try; be patient, be accurate.”

Jenner’s courage was supported by the advice, which conveyed to him the true art of philosophical investigation. He went back to the country to practise his profession and make observations and experiments, which he continued to pursue for a period of twenty years.

During Jenner’s own life-time the practice of vaccination became adopted all over the civilized world; and when he died, his title as a Benefactor of his kind was recognised far and wide.

Cuvier has said, “If vaccine were the only discovery of the epoch, it would serve to render it illustrious for ever; yet it knocked twenty times in vain at the doors of the Academies.”

While gauging the heavens with his instruments, he continued patiently to earn his bread by piping to the fashionable frequenters of the Pump-room.

So eager was he in his astronomical observations, that he would steal away from the room during an interval of the performance, give a little turn at his telescope, and contentedly return to his oboe.

Thus working away, Herschel discovered the Georgium Sidus, the orbit and rate of motion of which he carefully calculated, and sent the result to the Royal Society; when the humble oboe player found himself at once elevated from obscurity to fame.

Excellence in art, as in everything else, can only be achieved by dint of painstaking labour.

There is nothing less accidental than the painting of a fine picture or the chiselling of a noble statue.

Every skilled touch of the artist’s brush or chisel, though guided by genius, is the product of unremitting study.

Writing to Barry he said, “Whoever is resolved to excel in painting, or indeed any other art, must bring all his mind to bear upon that one object from the moment that he rises till he goes to bed.” And on another occasion he said,

“Those who are resolved to excel must go to their work, willing or unwilling, morning, noon, and night: they will find it no play, but very hard labour.”

But although diligent application is no doubt absolutely necessary for the achievement of the highest distinction in art, it is equally true that without the inborn genius, no amount of mere industry, however well applied, will make an artist.

But although diligent application is no doubt absolutely necessary for the achievement of the highest distinction in art, it is equally true that without the inborn genius, no amount of mere industry, however well applied, will make an artist.

The gift comes by nature, but is perfected by self-culture, which is of more avail than all the imparted education of the schools.

Some of the greatest artists have had to force their way upward in the face of poverty and manifold obstructions. Illustrious instances will at once flash upon the reader’s mind. Claude Lorraine, the pastrycook; Tintoretto, the dyer;

Though some achieved wealth, yet this was rarely, if ever, the ruling motive. Indeed, no mere love of money could sustain the efforts of the artist in his early career of self-denial and application.

The pleasure of the pursuit has always been its best reward; the wealth which followed but an accident.

Many noble-minded artists have preferred following the bent of their genius, to chaffering with the public for terms.

Spagnoletto verified in his life the beautiful fiction of Xenophon, and after he had acquired the means of luxury, preferred withdrawing himself from their influence, and voluntarily returned to poverty and labour.

When Michael Angelo was asked his opinion respecting a work which a painter had taken great pains to exhibit for profit, he said, “I think that he will be a poor fellow so long as he shows such an extreme eagerness to become rich.”

Like Sir Joshua Reynolds, Michael Angelo was a great believer in the force of labour; and he held that there was nothing which the imagination conceived, that could not be embodied in marble, if the hand were made vigorously to obey the mind.

Sometimes he was too wearied to undress, and he slept in his clothes, ready to spring to his work so soon as refreshed by sleep.

He had a favourite device of an old man in a go-cart, with an hour-glass upon it bearing the inscription, Ancora imparo! Still I am learning.

Titian, also, was an indefatigable worker. His celebrated “Pietro Martire” was eight years in hand, and his “Last Supper” seven. In his letter to Charles V.

His celebrated “Pietro Martire” was eight years in hand, and his “Last Supper” seven. In his letter to Charles V. he said, “I send your Majesty the ‘Last Supper’ after working at it almost daily for seven years—dopo sette anni lavorandovi quasi continuamente.”

Few think of the patient labour and long training involved in the greatest works of the artist.

They seem easy and quickly accomplished, yet with how great difficulty has this ease been acquired. “You charge me fifty sequins,” said the Venetian nobleman to the sculptor, “for a bust that cost you only ten days’ labour.”

They seem easy and quickly accomplished, yet with how great difficulty has this ease been acquired. “You charge me fifty sequins,” said the Venetian nobleman to the sculptor, “for a bust that cost you only ten days’ labour.”

“You forget,” said the artist, “that I have been thirty years learning to make that bust in ten days.”

Once when Domenichino was blamed for his slowness in finishing a picture which was bespoken, he made answer, “I am continually painting it within myself.”

“You charge me fifty sequins,” said the Venetian nobleman to the sculptor, “for a bust that cost you only ten days’ labour.” “You forget,” said the artist, “that I have been thirty years learning to make that bust in ten days.”

Once when Domenichino was blamed for his slowness in finishing a picture which was bespoken, he made answer, “I am continually painting it within myself.”

It was eminently characteristic of the industry of the late Sir Augustus Callcott, that he made not fewer than forty separate sketches in the composition of his famous picture of “Rochester.”

Excepting, however, in their enthusiasm, no two men could be less alike in character.

Cellini was an Ishmael against whom, according to his own account, every man’s hand was turned.

But about his extraordinary skill as a workman, and his genius as an artist, there cannot be two opinions.

Though suffering much from the disease which afflicted him, he solaced himself by study, always striving after excellence.

“In growing old,” he said, “I feel myself becoming more and more inflamed with the desire of surpassing myself and reaching the highest degree of perfection.”

Thus toiling, struggling, and suffering, Poussin spent his later years. He had no children; his wife died before him; all his friends were gone:

Everybody prophesied that he would carry off the medal, for there was none who surpassed him in ability and industry. Yet he lost it, and the gold medal was adjudged to a pupil who was not afterwards heard of.

This failure on the part of the youth was really of service to him; for defeats do not long cast down the resolute-hearted, but only serve to call forth their real powers.

“Give me time,” said he to his father, “and I will yet produce works that the Academy will be proud to recognise.” He redoubled his efforts, spared no pains, designed and modelled incessantly, and made steady if not rapid progress.

“And a great artist you shall be,” said his wife, “and visit Rome too, if that be really necessary to make you great.” “But how?” asked Flaxman.

“Work and economise,” rejoined the brave wife; “I will never have it said that Ann Denman ruined John Flaxman for an artist.”

And so it was determined by the pair that the journey to Rome was to be made when their means would admit. “I will go to Rome,” said Flaxman, “and show the President that wedlock is for a man’s good rather than his harm;

if so, sir, I tell you you are ruined for an artist.” Flaxman went straight home, sat down beside his wife, took her hand in his, and said,

“Ann, I am ruined for an artist.”

“How so, John? How has it happened? and who has done it?” “It happened,” he replied, “in the church, and Ann Denman has done it.”

Flaxman went straight home, sat down beside his wife, took her hand in his, and said, “Ann, I am ruined for an artist.” “How so, John? How has it happened? and who has done it?”

“It happened,” he replied, “in the church, and Ann Denman has done it.”

He then told her of Sir Joshua’s remark—whose opinion was well known, and had often been expressed, that if students would excel they must bring the whole powers of their mind to bear upon their art, from the moment they rose until they went to …

It stands there in majestic grandeur, a monument to the genius of Flaxman himself—calm, simple, and severe.

No wonder that Banks, the sculptor, then in the heyday of his fame, exclaimed when he saw it, “This little man cuts us all out!”

When the members of the Royal Academy heard of Flaxman’s return, and especially when they had an opportunity of seeing and admiring his portrait-statue of Mansfield, they were eager to have him enrolled among their number.

It was a gigantic head of Satan. Towards the close of Chantrey’s life, a friend passing through his studio was struck by this model lying in a corner.

“That head,” said the sculptor, “was the first thing that I did after I came to London. I worked at it in a garret with a paper cap on my head; and as I could then afford only one candle, I stuck that one in my cap that it might move along with me, and give me light whichever way I turned.”

Flaxman saw and admired this head at the Academy Exhibition, and recommended Chantrey for the execution of the busts of four admirals, required for the Naval Asylum at Greenwich. This commission led to others, and painting was given up.

nothing was struck off at a heat; many occupied him for years—touching, retouching, and improving them until they finally passed out of his hands. As with Reynolds, his motto was “Work! work! work!” and, like him, he expressed great dislike for talking artists.

Talkers may sow, but the silent reap.

“Let us be doing something,” was his oblique mode of rebuking the loquacious and admonishing the idle.

He once related to his friend Constable that when he studied at the Scottish Academy, Graham, the master of it, was accustomed to say to the students, in the words of Reynolds,

“If you have genius, industry will improve it; if you have none, industry will supply its place.”

“So,” said Wilkie, “I was determined to be very industrious, for I knew I had no genius.”

if you have none, industry will supply its place.”

“So,” said Wilkie, “I was determined to be very industrious, for I knew I had no genius.”

He also told Constable that when Linnell and Burnett, his fellow-students in London, were talking about art, he always contrived to get as close to them as he could to hear all they said, “for,” said he, “they know a great deal, and I know …

He went to a baker’s shop, bought a loaf, and was taking it away, when the baker snatched it from him, and tossed back the shilling to the starving painter.

The bright shilling had failed him in his hour of need—it was a bad one!

Returning to his lodgings, he rummaged his trunk for some remaining crust to satisfy his hunger. Upheld throughout by the victorious power of enthusiasm, he pursued his design with unsubdued energy. He had the courage to work on and to wait;

As his biographer says of him, “He braved everything, and, by his unaided self, accomplished the work of twelve men.”

Haydn, speaking of his art, said, “It consists in taking up a subject and pursuing it.”

“Work,” said Mozart, “is my chief pleasure.” Beethoven’s favourite maxim was, “The barriers are not erected which can say to aspiring talents and industry, ‘Thus far and no farther.’”

When Moscheles submitted his score of ‘Fidelio’ for the pianoforte to Beethoven, the latter found written at the bottom of the last page, “Finis, with God’s help.”

Beethoven immediately wrote underneath, “O man! help thyself!”

This was the motto of his artistic life. John Sebastian Bach said of himself, “I was industrious; whoever is equally sedulous, will be equally successful.”

Haydn, speaking of his art, said, “It consists in taking up a subject and pursuing it.”

“Work,” said Mozart, “is my chief pleasure.”

Beethoven’s favourite maxim was, “The barriers are not erected which can say to aspiring talents and industry, ‘Thus far and no farther.’”

One of Oliver Cromwell’s great grandsons was a grocer on Snow Hill, and others of his descendants died in great poverty.

Many barons of proud names and titles have perished, like the sloth, upon their family tree, after eating up all the leaves; while others have been overtaken by adversities which they have been unable to retrieve, and sunk at last into poverty and obscurity.

Such are the mutabilities of rank and fortune.

The intelligence was at first received with incredulity, but on further investigation it proved to be correct. Search was made, and presently a diver came up with a solid bar of silver in his arms. When Phipps was shown it, he exclaimed,

“Thanks be to God! we are all made men.”

Diving bell and divers now went to work with a will, and in a few days, treasure was brought up to the value of about £300,000, with which Phipps set sail for England.

that is the proudest reflection of my life.” When a boy, Lord Tenterden was a singer in the Cathedral, and it is a curious circumstance that his destination in life was changed by a disappointment.

When he and Mr. Justice Richards were going the Home Circuit together, they went to service in the cathedral; and on Richards commending the voice of a singing man in the choir, Lord Tenterden said, “Ah! that is the only man I ever envied! When at school in this town, we were candidates for a chorister’s place, and he obtained it.”

Not less remarkable was the rise to the same distinguished office of Lord Chief Justice, of the rugged Kenyon and the robust Ellenborough;

He lost his fellowship, and at the same time shut himself out from preferment in the Church, for which he had been destined. He accordingly turned his attention to the study of the law. To a friend he wrote,

“I have married rashly; but it is my determination to work hard to provide for the woman I love.”

rising at four every morning and studying till late at night, binding a wet towel round his head to keep himself awake. Too poor to study under a special pleader, he copied out three folio volumes from a manuscript collection of precedents.

Long after, when Lord Chancellor, passing down Cursitor Lane one day, he said to his secretary, “Here was my first perch: many a time do I recollect coming down this street with sixpence in my hand to buy sprats for supper.”

When at length called to the bar, he waited long for employment. His first year’s earnings amounted to only nine shillings. For four years he assiduously attended the London Courts and the Northern Circuit, with little better success.

The Master of the Rolls decided against him, but on an appeal to the House of Lords, Lord Thurlow reversed the decision on the very point that Scott had urged. On leaving the House that day, a solicitor tapped him on the shoulder and said,

“Young man, your bread and butter’s cut for life.”

And the prophecy proved a true one. Lord Mansfield used to say that he knew no interval between no business and 3000l. a-year, and Scott might have told the same story;

The ancient crest of a pickaxe with the motto of “Either I will find a way or make one,” was an expression of the same sturdy independence which to this day distinguishes the descendants of the Northmen.

Indeed nothing could be more characteristic of the Scandinavian mythology, than that it had a god with a hammer.

A man’s character is seen in small matters; and from even so slight a test as the mode in which a man wields a hammer, his energy may in some measure be inferred.

There is, indeed, no blessing equal to the possession of a stout heart. Even if a man fail in his efforts, it will be a satisfaction to him to enjoy the consciousness of having done his best.

In humble life nothing can be more cheering and beautiful than to see a man combating suffering by patience, triumphing in his integrity, and who, when his feet are bleeding and his limbs failing him, still walks upon his courage.

Mere wishes and desires but engender a sort of green sickness in young minds, unless they are promptly embodied in act and deed.

The cultivation of this quality is of the greatest importance; resolute determination in the pursuit of worthy objects being the foundation of all true greatness of character.

Energy enables a man to force his way through irksome drudgery and dry details, and carries him onward and upward in every station in life.

It accomplishes more than genius, with not one-half the disappointment and peril. It is not eminent talent that is required to ensure success in any pursuit, so much as purpose,—not merely the power to achieve, but the will to labour energetically and perseveringly.

resolute determination in the pursuit of worthy objects being the foundation of all true greatness of character. Energy enables a man to force his way through irksome drudgery and dry details, and carries him onward and upward in every station in life.

It accomplishes more than genius, with not one-half the disappointment and peril.

It is not eminent talent that is required to ensure success in any pursuit, so much as purpose,—not merely the power to achieve, but the will to labour energetically and perseveringly.

It accomplishes more than genius, with not one-half the disappointment and peril. It is not eminent talent that is required to ensure success in any pursuit, so much as purpose,—not merely the power to achieve, but the will to labour energetically and perseveringly.

Hence energy of will may be defined to be the very central power of character in a man—in a word, it is the Man himself.

It gives impulse to his every action, and soul to every effort. True hope is based on it,—and it is hope that gives the real perfume to life.

Hence energy of will may be defined to be the very central power of character in a man—in a word, it is the Man himself. It gives impulse to his every action, and soul to every effort.

True hope is based on it,—and it is hope that gives the real perfume to life.

There is a fine heraldic motto on a broken helmet in Battle Abbey, “L’espoir est ma force,” which might be the motto of every man’s life. “Woe unto him that is fainthearted,” says the son of Sirach.

In humble life nothing can be more cheering and beautiful than to see a man combating suffering by patience, triumphing in his integrity, and who, when his feet are bleeding and his limbs failing him, still walks upon his courage.

Mere wishes and desires but engender a sort of green sickness in young minds, unless they are promptly embodied in act and deed.

It will not avail merely to wait as so many do, “until Blucher comes up,” but they must struggle on and persevere in the mean time, as Wellington did. The good purpose once formed must be carried out with alacrity and without swerving.

To strive and still strive—such is life; and in this respect mine is fulfilled; but I dare to say, with just pride, that nothing has ever shaken my courage. With a strong soul, and a noble aim, one can do what one wills, morally speaking.”

Hugh Miller said the only school in which he was properly taught was “that world-wide school in which toil and hardship are the severe but noble teachers.”

He who allows his application to falter, or shirks his work on frivolous pretexts, is on the sure road to ultimate failure.

Man owes his growth chiefly to that active striving of the will, that encounter with difficulty, which we call effort; and it is astonishing to find how often results apparently impracticable are thus made possible.

An intense anticipation itself transforms possibility into reality; our desires being often but the precursors of the things which we are capable of performing.

On the contrary, the timid and hesitating find everything impossible, chiefly because it seems so. It is related of a young French officer, that he used to walk about his apartment exclaiming, “I will be Marshal of France and a great general.”

The story is told of a working carpenter, who was observed one day planing a magistrate’s bench which he was repairing, with more than usual carefulness; and when asked the reason, he replied,

“Because I wish to make it easy against the time when I come to sit upon it myself.”

And singularly enough, the man actually lived to sit upon that very bench as a magistrate.

In every moment of our life, conscience is proclaiming that our will is free. It is the only thing that is wholly ours, and it rests solely with ourselves individually, whether we give it the right or the wrong direction.

Our habits or our temptations are not our masters, but we of them.

Even in yielding, conscience tells us we might resist; and that were we determined to master them, there would not be required for that purpose a stronger resolution than we know ourselves to be capable of exercising.

What were the use of laws, were it not the universal belief, as it is the universal fact, that men obey them or not, very much as they individually determine? In every moment of our life, conscience is proclaiming that our will is free.

It is the only thing that is wholly ours, and it rests solely with ourselves individually, whether we give it the right or the wrong direction.

Our habits or our temptations are not our masters, but we of them. Even in yielding, conscience tells us we might resist;

As will, considered without regard to direction, is simply constancy, firmness, perseverance, it will be obvious that everything depends upon right direction and motives.

Directed towards the enjoyment of the senses, the strong will may be a demon, and the intellect merely its debased slave; but directed towards good, the strong will is a king, and the intellect the minister of man’s highest well-being.

“Where there is a will there is a way,” is an old and true saying. He who resolves upon doing a thing, by that very resolution often scales the barriers to it, and secures its achievement.

Directed towards the enjoyment of the senses, the strong will may be a demon, and the intellect merely its debased slave; but directed towards good, the strong will is a king, and the intellect the minister of man’s highest well-being.

“Where there is a will there is a way,” is an old and true saying.

He who resolves upon doing a thing, by that very resolution often scales the barriers to it, and secures its achievement. To think we are able, is almost to be so—to determine upon attainment is frequently attainment itself.

“Where there is a will there is a way,” is an old and true saying. He who resolves upon doing a thing, by that very resolution often scales the barriers to it, and secures its achievement.

To think we are able, is almost to be so—to determine upon attainment is frequently attainment itself.

Thus, earnest resolution has often seemed to have about it almost a savour of omnipotence. The strength of Suwarrow’s character lay in his power of willing, and, like most resolute persons, he preached it up as a system.

He was told that the Alps stood in the way of his armies—“There shall be no Alps,” he said, and the road across the Simplon was constructed, through a district formerly almost inaccessible.

“Impossible,” said he, “is a word only to be found in the dictionary of fools.”

He was a man who toiled terribly; sometimes employing and exhausting four secretaries at a time. He spared no one, not even himself. His influence inspired other men, and put a new life into them. “I made my generals out of mud,” he said.

He was a man who toiled terribly; sometimes employing and exhausting four secretaries at a time. He spared no one, not even himself. His influence inspired other men, and put a new life into them.

“I made my generals out of mud,” he said.

But all was of no avail; for Napoleon’s intense selfishness was his ruin, and the ruin of France, which he left a prey to anarchy. His life taught the lesson that power, however energetically wielded, without beneficence, is fatal to its possessor and its subjects;

Our own Wellington was a far greater man. Not less resolute, firm, and persistent, but more self-denying, conscientious, and truly patriotic.

Napoleon’s aim was “Glory;” Wellington’s watchword, like Nelson’s, was “Duty.”

The former word, it is said, does not once occur in his despatches; the latter often, but never accompanied by any high-sounding professions. The greatest difficulties could neither embarrass nor intimidate Wellington; his energy invariably rising in proportion to the obstacles to be surmounted.

it is the one march more that wins the campaign; the five minutes’ more persistent courage that wins the fight. Though your force be less than another’s, you equal and outmaster your opponent if you continue it longer and concentrate it more.

The reply of the Spartan father, who said to his son, when complaining that his sword was too short, “Add a step to it,” is applicable to everything in life.

Napier took the right method of inspiring his men with his own heroic spirit. He worked as hard as any private in the ranks. “The great art of commanding,” he said, “is to take a fair share of the work.

Sir Charles Napier was another Indian leader of extraordinary courage and determination.

He once said of the difficulties with which he was surrounded in one of his campaigns, “They only make my feet go deeper into the ground.”

His battle of Meeanee was one of the most extraordinary feats in history. With 2000 men, of whom only 400 were Europeans, he encountered an army of 35,000 hardy and well-armed Beloochees.

The Beloochees, though twenty to one, were driven back, but with their faces to the foe. It is this sort of pluck, tenacity, and determined perseverance which wins soldiers’ battles, and, indeed, every battle.

It is the one neck nearer that wins the race and shows the blood; it is the one march more that wins the campaign; the five minutes’ more persistent courage that wins the fight.

Though your force be less than another’s, you equal and outmaster your opponent if you continue it longer and concentrate it more.

However, I put the lime on my hand, and held out my arm steadily. The juggler balanced himself, and, with a swift stroke cut the lime in two pieces.

I felt the edge of the sword on my hand as if a cold thread had been drawn across it.

So much (he added) for the brave swordsmen of India, whom our fine fellows defeated at Meeanee.”

While the issue of the mutiny still appeared uncertain, Holkar, one of the native princes, consulted his astrologer for information. The reply was,

“If all the Europeans save one are slain, that one will remain to fight and reconquer.”

In their very darkest moment—even where, as at Lucknow, a mere handful of British soldiers, civilians, and women, held out amidst a city and province in arms against them—there was no word of despair, no thought of surrender.

Hoping all things, and fearing nothing, this valiant soldier of the truth was borne onward throughout by faith and energy.

“Whatever form of death or torture,” said he, “awaits me, I am ready to suffer it ten thousand times for the salvation of a single soul.”

He battled with hunger, thirst, privations and dangers of all kinds, still pursuing his mission of love, unresting and unwearying.

What followed was mainly the consequence of his indefatigable constancy.

He lighted the torch which kindled other minds, and it was handed on until the illumination became complete.

… she was married from his house, on the 1st of August, 1834,—the day of Negro emancipation—after his Priscilla had been manumitted from her filial service, and left her father’s home in the company of her husband, Buxton sat down and thus wrote to a friend:

“The bride is just gone; everything has passed off to admiration; and there is not a slave in the British colonies!”

Buxton was no genius—not a great intellectual leader nor discoverer, but mainly an earnest, straightforward, resolute, energetic man. Indeed, his whole character is most forcibly expressed in his own words, which every young man might well stamp upon his soul:

The unhappy youth who committed suicide a few years since because he had been “born to be a man and condemned to be a grocer,” proved by the act that his soul was not equal even to the dignity of grocery.

For it is not the calling that degrades the man, but the man that degrades the calling.

All work that brings honest gain is honourable, whether it be of hand or mind. The fingers may be soiled, yet the heart remain pure; for it is not material so much as moral dirt that defiles—greed far more than grime, and vice than verdigris.

Practical industry, wisely and vigorously applied, always produces its due effects. It carries a man onward, brings out his individual character, and stimulates the action of others. All may not rise equally, yet each, on the whole, very much according to his deserts.

“Though all cannot live on the piazza,” as the Tuscan proverb has it, “every one may feel the sun.”

On the whole, it is not good that human nature should have the road of life made too easy.

Hence, an eminent judge, when asked what contributed most to success at the bar, replied,

“Some succeed by great talent, some by high connexions, some by miracle, but the majority by commencing without a shilling.”

We have heard of an architect of considerable accomplishments,—a man who had improved himself by long study, and travel in the classical lands of the East,—who came home to commence the practice of his profession. He determined to begin anywhere, provided he could be employed;

One hot day in July a friend found him sitting astride of a house roof occupied with his dilapidation business. Drawing his hand across his perspiring countenance, he exclaimed,

“Here’s a pretty business for a man who has been all over Greece!”

However, he did his work, such as it was, thoroughly and well; he persevered until he advanced by degrees to more remunerative branches of employment, and eventually he rose to the highest walks of his profession.

The feeling that life is destitute of any motive or necessity for action, must be of all others the most distressing and insupportable to a rational being. The Marquis de Spinola asking Sir Horace Vere what his brother died of, Sir Horace replied,

“He died, Sir, of having nothing to do.”

“Alas!” said Spinola, “that is enough to kill any general of us all.”

Again, some consider themselves born to ill luck, and make up their minds that the world invariably goes against them without any fault on their own part.

We have heard of a person of this sort, who went so far as to declare his belief that if he had been a hatter people would have been born without heads!

There is however a Russian proverb which says that Misfortune is next door to Stupidity;

But it usually happens that those forward men have that valuable quality of promptness and activity without which worth is a mere inoperative property.

A barking dog is often more useful than a sleeping lion.

”

Method is essential, and enables a larger amount of work to be got through with satisfaction.

“Method,” said the Reverend Richard Cecil, “is like packing things in a box; a good packer will get in half as much again as a bad one.”

Cecil’s despatch of business was extraordinary, his maxim being, “The shortest way to do many things is to do only one thing at once;” and he never left a thing undone with a view of recurring to it at a period of more leisure.

On the other hand, the miscalculation of time involves us in perpetual hurry, confusion, and difficulties; and life becomes a mere shuffle of expedients, usually followed by disaster. Nelson once said,

“I owe all my success in life to having been always a quarter of an hour before my time.”

Some take no thought of the value of money until they have come to an end of it, and many do the same with their time.

But the habit of listlessness and idleness may already have become confirmed, and they are unable to break the bonds with which they have permitted themselves to become bound.

Lost wealth may be replaced by industry, lost knowledge by study, lost health by temperance or medicine, but lost time is gone for ever.

A proper consideration of the value of time, will also inspire habits of punctuality. “Punctuality,” said Louis XIV., “is the politeness of kings.” It is also the duty of gentlemen, and the necessity of men of business.

A proper consideration of the value of time, will also inspire habits of punctuality.

“Punctuality,” said Louis XIV., “is the politeness of kings.”

It is also the duty of gentlemen, and the necessity of men of business. Nothing begets confidence in a man sooner than the practice of this virtue, and nothing shakes confidence sooner than the want of it.

The person who is negligent of time and its employment is usually found to be a general disturber of others’ peace and serenity. It was wittily said by Lord Chesterfield of the old Duke of Newcastle—

“His Grace loses an hour in the morning, and is looking for it all the rest of the day.”

Everybody with whom the unpunctual man has to do is thrown from time to time into a state of fever: he is systematically late; regular only in his irregularity. He conducts his dawdling as if upon system; arrives at his appointment after time;

But these we must hold to be the exceptional cases, of low-minded and grasping men, who, though they may gain wealth which they probably cannot enjoy, will never gain an honest character, nor secure that without which wealth is nothing—a heart at peace.

“The rogue cozened not me, but his own conscience,” said Bishop Latimer

of a cutler who made him pay twopence for a knife not worth a penny. Money, earned by screwing, cheating, and overreaching, may for a time dazzle the eyes of the unthinking;

for it is economy that can always best afford to be generous. It does not make money an idol, but regards it as a useful agent. As Dean Swift observes, “we must carry money in the head, not in the heart.”

Economy may be styled the daughter of Prudence, the sister of Temperance, and the mother of Liberty.

It is evidently conservative—conservative of character, of domestic happiness, and social well-being. It is, in short, the exhibition of self-help in one of its best forms.

whereas your prodigal and careless fellows who spend all never find an opportunity for helping anybody. It is poor economy, however, to be a scrub. Narrowmindedness in living and in dealing is generally short-sighted, and leads to failure.

The penny soul, it is said, never came to twopence.

Generosity and liberality, like honesty, prove the best policy after all.

but the facility with which that has been incurred often becomes a temptation to a second; and very soon the unfortunate borrower becomes so entangled that no late exertion of industry can set him free.

The first step in debt is like the first step in falsehood; almost involving the necessity of proceeding in the same course, debt following debt, as lie follows lie.

Haydon, the painter, dated his decline from the day on which he first borrowed money. He realized the truth of the proverb, “Who goes a-borrowing, goes a-sorrowing.” The significant entry in his diary is:

Not only so, but it is incompatible with economy, decency, health, and honest living. When a youth cannot restrain, he must abstain. Dr. Johnson’s case is the case of many.

He said, referring to his own habits, “Sir, I can abstain; but I can’t be moderate.”

But to wrestle vigorously and successfully with any vicious habit, we must not merely be satisfied with contending on the low ground of worldly prudence, though that is of use, but take stand upon a higher moral elevation.

The business man gets into a rut, and often does not look beyond it. If he lives for himself only, he becomes apt to regard other human beings only in so far as they minister to his ends.

Take a leaf from such men’s ledger and you have their life.

Worldly success, measured by the accumulation of money, is no doubt a very dazzling thing; and all men are naturally more or less the admirers of worldly success.

… though men of persevering, sharp, dexterous, and unscrupulous habits, ever on the watch to push opportunities, may and do “get on” in the world, yet it is quite possible that they may not possess the slightest elevation of character, nor a particle of real goodness.

He who recognizes no higher logic than that of the shilling, may become a very rich man, and yet remain all the while an exceedingly poor creature.

For riches are no proof whatever of moral worth; and their glitter often serves only to draw attention to the worthlessness of their possessor, as the light of the glowworm reveals the grub.

He who recognizes no higher logic than that of the shilling, may become a very rich man, and yet remain all the while an exceedingly poor creature.

For riches are no proof whatever of moral worth; and their glitter often serves only to draw attention to the worthlessness of their possessor, as the light of the glowworm reveals the grub.

The manner in which many allow themselves to be sacrificed to their love of wealth reminds one of the cupidity of the monkey—that caricature of our species.

“Give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me.” The late Joseph Brotherton, M.P., left a fine motto to be recorded upon his monument in the Peel Park at Manchester,—the declaration in his case being strictly true:

“My richness consisted not in the greatness of my possessions, but in the smallness of my wants.”

He rose from the humblest station, that of a factory boy, to an eminent position of usefulness, by the simple exercise of homely honesty, industry, punctuality, and self-denial.

He held that drudgery lay on the road to genius, and that there was no limit to the proficiency of an artist except the limit of his own painstaking. He would not believe in what is called inspiration, but only in study and labour.

“Excellence,” he said, “is never granted to man but as the reward of labour.”

“If you have great talents, industry will improve them; if you have but moderate abilities, industry will supply their deficiency. Nothing is denied to well-directed labour; nothing is to be obtained without it.” Sir Fowell Buxton was an equal believer in the power of study;

The growth of these qualities may be encouraged by accustoming young people to rely upon their own resources, leaving them to enjoy as much freedom of action in early life as is practicable. Too much guidance and restraint hinder the formation of habits of self-help.

They are like bladders tied under the arms of one who has not taught himself to swim.

Want of confidence is perhaps a greater obstacle to improvement than is generally imagined. It has been said that half the failures in life arise from pulling in one’s horse while he is leaping. Dr.

… when we have inhaled laughing gas, seen green water turned to red, and phosphorus burnt in oxygen, we have got our smattering, of which the most that can be said is, that though it may be better than nothing, it is yet good for nothing.

Thus we often imagine we are being educated while we are only being amused.

The facility with which young people are thus induced to acquire knowledge, without study and labour, is not education. It occupies but does not enrich the mind. It imparts a stimulus for the time, and produces a sort of intellectual keenness and cleverness;

Dr. Johnson held that “impatience of study was the mental disease of the present generation;” and the remark is still applicable.

We may not believe that there is a royal road to learning, but we seem to believe very firmly in a “popular” one.

In education, we invent labour-saving processes, seek short cuts to science, learn French and Latin “in twelve lessons,” or “without a master.”

We are apt to imagine that because we possess many libraries, institutes, and museums, we are making great progress. But such facilities may as often be a hindrance as a help to individual self-culture of the highest kind.

The possession of a library, or the free use of it, no more constitutes learning, than the possession of wealth constitutes generosity.

Though we undoubtedly possess great facilities it is nevertheless true, as of old, that wisdom and understanding can only become the possession of individual men by travelling the old road of observation, attention, perseverance, and industry.

“this”—pointing to some part of the subject before him—“this is the work that you must study if you wish to become eminent in your profession.” When told that one of his contemporaries had charged him with being ignorant of the dead languages, he said,

“I would undertake to teach him that on the dead body which he never knew in any language, dead or living.”

It is not then how much a man may know, that is of importance, but the end and purpose for which he knows it. The object of knowledge should be to mature wisdom and improve character, to render us better, happier, and more useful;

And as I respect myself, so am I equally bound to respect others, as they on their part are bound to respect me.” Hence mutual respect, justice, and order, of which law becomes the written record and guarantee.

Self-respect is the noblest garment with which a man may clothe himself—the most elevating feeling with which the mind can be inspired.

One of Pythagoras’s wisest maxims, in his ‘Golden Verses,’ is that with which he enjoins the pupil to “reverence himself.” Borne up by this high idea, he will not defile his body by sensuality, nor his mind by servile thoughts.

To think meanly of one’s self, is to sink in one’s own estimation as well as in the estimation of others. And as the thoughts are, so will the acts be.

Man cannot aspire if he look down; if he will rise, he must look up.

The very humblest may be sustained by the proper indulgence of this feeling. Poverty itself may be lifted and lighted up by self-respect;

And even though self-culture may not bring wealth, it will at all events give one the companionship of elevated thoughts. A nobleman once contemptuously asked of a sage, “What have you got by all your philosophy?”

“At least I have got society in myself,” was the wise man’s reply.

But many are apt to feel despondent, and become discouraged in the work of self-culture, because they do not “get on” in the world so fast as they think they deserve to do.

“I assure you,” wrote Giusti the Italian to a friend, “I pay a heavy price for existence. It is true that our lives are not at our own disposal.

Nature pretends to give them gratis at the beginning, and then sends in her account.

” The worst of youthful indiscretions is, not that they destroy health, so much as that they sully manhood. The dissipated youth becomes a tainted man; and often he cannot be pure, even if he would.

“Fast” men waste and exhaust the powers of life, and dry up the sources of true happiness. Having forestalled their spring, they can produce no healthy growth of either character or intellect.

A child without simplicity, a maiden without innocence, a boy without truthfulness, are not more piteous sights than the man who has wasted and thrown away his youth in self-indulgence.

Mirabeau said of himself, “My early years have already in a great measure disinherited the succeeding ones, and dissipated a great part of my vital powers.”

That I have yet gained this point in life I will not say, but I feel myself daily nearer to it.”

It is not ease, but effort—not facility, but difficulty, that makes men.

There is, perhaps, no station in life, in which difficulties have not to be encountered and overcome before any decided measure of success can be achieved. Those difficulties are, however, our best instructors, as our mistakes often form our best experience.

but show me a young man who has not succeeded at first, and nevertheless has gone on, and I will back that young man to do better than most of those who have succeeded at the first trial.”

We learn wisdom from failure much more than from success.

We often discover what will do, by finding out what will not do; and probably he who never made a mistake never made a discovery.

We learn wisdom from failure much more than from success.

We often discover what will do, by finding out what will not do; and probably he who never made a mistake never made a discovery.

It was the failure in the attempt to make a sucking-pump act, when the working bucket was more than thirty-three feet above the surface of the water to be raised, that led observant men to study the law of atmospheric pressure, and opened a new …

John Hunter used to remark that the art of surgery would not advance until professional men had the courage to publish their failures as well as their successes. Watt the engineer said, of all things most wanted in mechanical engineering was a history of failures:

“We want,” he said, “a book of blots.”

When Sir Humphry Davy was once shown a dexterously manipulated experiment, he said—“I thank God I was not made a dexterous manipulator, for the most important of my discoveries have been suggested to me by failures.”

they have far greater reason to fear undue praise and too friendly criticism. When Mendelssohn was about to enter the orchestra at Birmingham, on the first performance of his ‘Elijah,’ he said laughingly to one of his friends and critics,

“Stick your claws into me! Don’t tell me what you like, but what you don’t like!”

It has been said, and truly, that it is the defeat that tries the general more than the victory. Washington lost more battles than he gained; but he succeeded in the end. The Romans, in their most victorious campaigns, almost invariably began with defeats.

and we probably own to rough seas and wintry nights the best training of our race of British seamen, who are, certainly, not surpassed by any in the world.

Necessity may be a hard schoolmistress, but she is generally found the best.

Though the ordeal of adversity is one from which we naturally shrink, yet, when it comes, we must bravely and manfully encounter it. Burns says truly,

“Sweet indeed are the uses of adversity.” They reveal to us our powers, and call forth our energies.

If there be real worth in the character, like sweet herbs, it will give forth its finest fragrance when pressed.

“Crosses,” says the old proverb, “are the ladders that lead to heaven.” “What is even poverty itself,” asks Richter, “that a man should murmur under it? It is but as the pain of piercing a maiden’s ear, and you hang precious jewels in the wound.”

He that wrestles with us strengthens our nerves, and sharpens our skill: our antagonist is thus our helper.”

Without the necessity of encountering difficulty, life might be easier, but men would be worth less.

For trials, wisely improved, train the character, and teach self-help; thus hardship itself may often prove the wholesomest discipline for us, though we recognise it not.

and that even irksome duties well done bring their own reward, and that, if not, still they are duties.”

The battle of life is, in most cases, fought up-hill; and to win it without a struggle were perhaps to win it without honour.

If there were no difficulties there would be no success; if there were nothing to struggle for, there would be nothing to be achieved. Difficulties may intimidate the weak, but they act only as a wholesome stimulus to men of resolution and valour.

Carissimi, when praised for the ease and grace of his melodies, exclaimed, “Ah! you little know with what difficulty this ease has been acquired.”

Sir Joshua Reynolds, when once asked how long it had taken him to paint a certain picture, replied, “All my life.”

Henry Clay, the American orator, when giving advice to young men, thus described to them the secret of his success in the cultivation of his art:

Notwithstanding the many undeniable instances of the precocity of men of genius, it is nevertheless true that early cleverness gives no indication of the height to which the grown man will reach.

Precocity is sometimes a symptom of disease rather than of intellectual vigour.

What becomes of all the “remarkably clever children?” Where are the duxes and prize boys? Trace them through life, and it will frequently be found that the dull boys, who were beaten at school, have shot ahead of them.

The last time the author heard of him, he was chief magistrate of his native town.

The tortoise in the right road will beat a racer in the wrong.

It matters not though a youth be slow, if he be but diligent. Quickness of parts may even prove a defect, inasmuch as the boy who learns readily will often forget as readily;

“There is no action of man in this life, which is not the beginning of so long a chain of consequences, as that no human providence is high enough to give us a prospect to the end.”—Thomas of Malmesbury.

Example is one of the most potent of instructors, though it teaches without a tongue.

It is the practical school of mankind, working by action, which is always more forcible than words. Precept may point to us the way, but it is silent continuous example, conveyed to us by habits, and living with us in fact, that carries us along.

The Home is the crystal of society—the nucleus of national character; and from that source, be it pure or tainted, issue the habits, principles and maxims, which govern public as well as private life.

The nation comes from the nursery.

Public opinion itself is for the most part the outgrowth of the home; and the best philanthropy comes from the fireside. “To love the little platoon we belong to in society,” says Burke, “is the germ of all public affections.”

The characters of parents are thus constantly repeated in their children; and the acts of affection, discipline, industry, and self-control, which they daily exemplify, live and act when all else which may have been learned through the ear has long been forgotten.

Hence a wise man was accustomed to speak of his children as his “future state.”

Even the mute action and unconscious look of a parent may give a stamp to the character which is never effaced;

The veriest trifles thus become of importance in influencing the characters of men.

“A kiss from my mother,” said West, “made me a painter.”

It is on the direction of such seeming trifles when children that the future happiness and success of men mainly depend.

Lord Langdale, looking back upon the admirable example set him by his mother, declared,

“If the whole world were put into one scale, and my mother into the other, the world would kick the beam.”

Mrs. Schimmel Penninck, in her old age, was accustomed to call to mind the personal influence exercised by her mother upon the society amidst which she moved.

And herein lies the great significance of setting forth a good example,—a silent teaching which even the poorest and least significant person can practise in his daily life. There is no one so humble, but that he owes to others this simple but priceless instruction.

Even the meanest condition may thus be made useful; for the light set in a low place shines as faithfully as that set upon a hill.

Everywhere, and under almost all circumstances, however externally adverse—in moorland shielings, in cottage hamlets, in the close alleys of great towns—the true man may grow.

What Mrs. Chisholm described to Mrs. Stowe as the secret of her success, applies to all life. “I found,” she said, “that if we want anything done, we must go to work and do: it is of no use merely to talk—none whatever.”

It is poor eloquence that only shows how a person can talk.

Had Mrs. Chisholm rested satisfied with lecturing, her project, she was persuaded, would never have got beyond the region of talk; but when people saw what she was doing and had actually accomplished, they fell in with her views and came forward to help her.

Had Mrs. Chisholm rested satisfied with lecturing, her project, she was persuaded, would never have got beyond the region of talk; but when people saw what she was doing and had actually accomplished, they fell in with her views and came forward to help her.

Hence the most beneficent worker is not he who says the most eloquent things, or even who thinks the most loftily, but he who does the most eloquent acts.

True-hearted persons, even in the humblest station in life, who are energetic doers, may thus give an impulse to good works out of all proportion, apparently, to their actual station in society.

… the great, and the noble, and the mighty of the land, this poor, obscure old man stepping forward and receiving the especial notice of Him who said ‘Inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these, ye did it also to Me.’”

The education of character is very much a question of models; we mould ourselves so unconsciously after the characters, manners, habits, and opinions of those who are about us.

Good rules may do much, but good models far more; for in the latter we have instruction in action—wisdom at work. Good admonition and bad example only build with one hand to pull down with the other.

we mould ourselves so unconsciously after the characters, manners, habits, and opinions of those who are about us. Good rules may do much, but good models far more; for in the latter we have instruction in action—wisdom at work.

Good admonition and bad example only build with one hand to pull down with the other.

Hence the vast importance of exercising great care in the selection of companions, especially in youth. There is a magnetic affinity in young persons which insensibly tends to assimilate them to each other’s likeness. Mr.

“It has given a colour to my life,” he used to say. Speaking of his success at the Dublin University, he confessed, “I can ascribe it to nothing but my Earlham visits.” It was from the Gurneys he “caught the infection” of self-improvement.

Contact with the good never fails to impart good, and we carry away with us some of the blessing, as travellers’ garments retain the odour of the flowers and shrubs through which they have passed.

Those who knew the late John Sterling intimately, have spoken of the beneficial influence which he exercised on all with whom he came into personal contact. Many owed to him their first awakening to a higher being;

The example of the brave is an inspiration to the timid, their presence thrilling through every fibre. Hence the miracles of valour so often performed by ordinary men under the leadership of the heroic.

The very recollection of the deeds of the valiant stirs men’s blood like the sound of a trumpet.

Ziska bequeathed his skin to be used as a drum to inspire the valour of the Bohemians.

“It is already gone! it left London by to-night’s mail!” was Sir John’s triumphant reply; and in afterwards relating the anecdote he added, with a smile of pleasure,

“Pitt was as much startled as if I had stabbed him.”

To the last this great, good man worked on usefully and cheerfully, setting a great example for his family and for his country.

it is an aristocracy of Character. That is the true heraldry of man.”—The Times.

The crown and glory of life is Character.

It is the noblest possession of a man, constituting a rank in itself, and an estate in the general goodwill; dignifying every station, and exalting every position in society.

It carries with it an influence which always tells; for it is the result of proved honour, rectitude, and consistency—qualities which, perhaps more than any other, command the general confidence and respect of mankind.

Character is human nature in its best form. It is moral order embodied in the individual.

Men of character are not only the conscience of society, but in every well-governed State they are its best motive power; for it is moral qualities in the main which rule the world.

Canning wisely wrote in 1801, “My road must be through Character to power; I will try no other course; and I am sanguine enough to believe that this course, though not perhaps the quickest, is the surest.”

You may admire men of intellect; but something more is necessary before you will trust them.

Hence Lord John Russell once observed in a sentence full of truth, “It is the nature of party in England to ask the assistance of men of genius, but to follow the guidance of men of character.”

You may admire men of intellect; but something more is necessary before you will trust them. Hence Lord John Russell once observed in a sentence full of truth,

“It is the nature of party in England to ask the assistance of men of genius, but to follow the guidance of men of character.”

This was strikingly illustrated in the career of the late Francis Horner—a man of whom Sydney Smith said that the Ten Commandments were stamped upon his countenance.

That character is power, is true in a much higher sense than that knowledge is power.

Mind without heart, intelligence without conduct, cleverness without goodness, are powers in their way, but they may be powers only for mischief.

We may be instructed or amused by them; but it is sometimes as difficult to admire them as it would be to admire the dexterity of a pickpocket or the horsemanship of a highwayman.

and his idea of manhood, in proportion as it is elevated, will steady and animate his motive. It is well to have a high standard of life, even though we may not be able altogether to realize it.

“The youth,” says Mr. Disraeli, “who does not look up will look down; and the spirit that does not soar is destined perhaps to grovel.”

George Herbert wisely writes,

He who has a high standard of living and thinking will certainly do better than he who has none at all.

“Pluck at a gown of gold,” says the Scotch proverb, “and you may get a sleeve o’t.”

Whoever tries for the highest results cannot fail to reach a point far in advance of that from which he started;

There are many counterfeits of character, but the genuine article is difficult to be mistaken. Some, knowing its money value, would assume its disguise for the purpose of imposing upon the unwary.

Colonel Charteris said to a man distinguished for his honesty, “I would give a thousand pounds for your good name.” “Why?” “Because I could make ten thousand by it,” was the knave’s reply.

Integrity in word and deed is the backbone of character; and loyal adherence to veracity its most prominent characteristic.

The true character acts rightly, whether in secret or in the sight of men. That boy was well trained who, when asked why he did not pocket some pears, for nobody was there to see, replied,

“Yes, there was: I was there to see myself; and I don’t intend ever to see myself do a dishonest thing.”

—This is a simple but not inappropriate illustration of principle, or conscience, dominating in the character, and exercising a noble protectorate over it; not merely a passive influence, but an active power regulating the life.

for the character is always weakest at that point at which it has once given way; and it is long before a principle restored can become so firm as one that has never been moved.

It is a fine remark of a Russian writer, that “Habits are a necklace of pearls: untie the knot, and the whole unthreads.”

Wherever formed, habit acts involuntarily, and without effort; and, it is only when you oppose it, that you find how powerful it has become. What is done once and again, soon gives facility and proneness.

Wherever formed, habit acts involuntarily, and without effort; and, it is only when you oppose it, that you find how powerful it has become. What is done once and again, soon gives facility and proneness.

The habit at first may seem to have no more strength than a spider’s web; but, once formed, it binds as with a chain of iron.

The small events of life, taken singly, may seem exceedingly unimportant, like snow that falls silently, flake by flake; yet accumulated, these snow-flakes form the avalanche.

What is done once and again, soon gives facility and proneness. The habit at first may seem to have no more strength than a spider’s web; but, once formed, it binds as with a chain of iron.

The small events of life, taken singly, may seem exceedingly unimportant, like snow that falls silently, flake by flake; yet accumulated, these snow-flakes form the avalanche.

Self-respect, self-help, application, industry, integrity—all are of the nature of habits, not beliefs. Principles, in fact, are but the names which we assign to habits; for the principles are words, but the habits are the things themselves:

Self-respect, self-help, application, industry, integrity—all are of the nature of habits, not beliefs.

Principles, in fact, are but the names which we assign to habits; for the principles are words, but the habits are the things themselves: benefactors or tyrants, according as they are good or evil.

It thus happens that as we grow older, a portion of our free activity and individuality becomes suspended in habit; our actions become of the nature of fate; and we are bound by the chains which we have woven around ourselves.

Hence, it is often harder to unlearn than to learn; and for this reason the Grecian flute-player was justified who charged double fees to those pupils who had been taught by an inferior master.

To uproot an old habit is sometimes a more painful thing, and vastly more difficult, than to wrench out a tooth.

Try and reform a habitually indolent, or improvident, or drunken person, and in a large majority of cases you will fail.

And to bring up men or women with a genial nature of this sort, a good temper, and a happy frame of mind, is perhaps of even more importance, in many cases, than to perfect them in much knowledge and many accomplishments.

As daylight can be seen through very small holes, so little things will illustrate a person’s character.

Indeed character consists in little acts, well and honourably performed; daily life being the quarry from which we build it up, and rough-hew the habits which form it.

but it gives tenfold more pleasure to ourselves. Every man may to a large extent be a self-educator in good behaviour, as in everything else; he can be civil and kind, if he will, though he have not a penny in his purse.

Gentleness in society is like the silent influence of light, which gives colour to all nature; it is far more powerful than loudness or force, and far more fruitful.

It pushes its way quietly and persistently, like the tiniest daffodil in spring, which raises the clod and thrusts it aside by the simple persistency of growing.

Gentleness in society is like the silent influence of light, which gives colour to all nature; it is far more powerful than loudness or force, and far more fruitful.

It pushes its way quietly and persistently, like the tiniest daffodil in spring, which raises the clod and thrusts it aside by the simple persistency of growing.

Even a kind look will give pleasure and confer happiness.

What a lesson!

How cheaply happiness can be given! What opportunities we miss of doing an angel’s work!

I remember doing it, full of sad feelings, passing on, and thinking no more about it; and it gave an hour’s sunshine to a human life, and lightened the load of life to a human heart for a time!” [392]

Good manners, as we call them, are neither more nor less than good behaviour; consisting of courtesy and kindness; benevolence being the preponderating element in all kinds of mutually beneficial and pleasant intercourse amongst human beings.

“Civility,” said Lady Montague, “costs nothing and buys everything.”

The cheapest of all things is kindness, its exercise requiring the least possible trouble and self-sacrifice. “Win hearts,” said Burleigh to Queen Elizabeth, “and you have all men’s hearts and purses.”

benevolence being the preponderating element in all kinds of mutually beneficial and pleasant intercourse amongst human beings. “Civility,” said Lady Montague, “costs nothing and buys everything.” The cheapest of all things is kindness, its exercise requiring the least possible trouble and self-sacrifice.

“Win hearts,” said Burleigh to Queen Elizabeth, “and you have all men’s hearts and purses.”

If we would only let nature act kindly, free from affectation and artifice, the results on social good humour and happiness would be incalculable.

“Win hearts,” said Burleigh to Queen Elizabeth, “and you have all men’s hearts and purses.” If we would only let nature act kindly, free from affectation and artifice, the results on social good humour and happiness would be incalculable.

The little courtesies which form the small change of life, may separately appear of little intrinsic value, but they acquire their importance from repetition and accumulation.

They are like the spare minutes, or the groat a day, which proverbially produce such momentous results in the course of a twelvemonth, or in a lifetime.

“I presume, Sir, you want my vote and interest at this momentous epoch of your life?” Abernethy, who hated humbugs, and felt nettled at the tone, replied:

“No, I don’t: I want a pennyworth of figs; come, look sharp and wrap them up; I want to be off!”

The cultivation of manner—though in excess it is foppish and foolish—is highly necessary in a person who has occasion to negociate with others in matters of business.

and there are circumstances in which words are blows, and inflict wounds far less easy to heal. As bearing upon this point, we quote an instructive little parable spoken some time since by an itinerant preacher of the Evangelical Alliance on the borders of Wales:—

“As I was going to the hills,” said he, “early one misty morning, I saw something moving on a mountain side, so strange looking that I took it for a monster. When I came nearer to it I found it was a man. When I came up to him I found he was my brother.”

The inbred politeness which springs from right-heartedness and kindly feelings, is of no exclusive rank or station. The mechanic who works at the bench may possess it, as well as the clergyman or the peer.

From the highest to the lowest, the richest to the poorest, to no rank or condition in life has nature denied her highest boon—the great heart.

There never yet existed a gentleman but was lord of a great heart.

And this may exhibit itself under the hodden grey of the peasant as well as under the laced coat of the noble.

He told his tale and produced his certificate. “You wrote a pamphlet against us once?” said Mr. Grant. The supplicant expected to see his document thrown into the fire; instead of which Grant signed the name of the firm, and thus completed the necessary certificate.

“We make it a rule,” said he, handing it back, “never to refuse signing the certificate of an honest tradesman, and we have never heard that you were anything else.”

The tears started into the man’s eyes. “Ah,” continued Mr. Grant, “you see my saying was true, that you would live to repent writing that pamphlet.

The True Gentleman is one whose nature has been fashioned after the highest models.

It is a grand old name, that of Gentleman, and has been recognized as a rank and power in all stages of society.

“The Gentleman is always the Gentleman,” said the old French General to his regiment of Scottish gentry at Rousillon, “and invariably proves himself such in need and in danger.”

The true gentleman has a keen sense of honour,—scrupulously avoiding mean actions. His standard of probity in word and action is high.

He does not shuffle or prevaricate, dodge or skulk; but is honest, upright, and straightforward.

His law is rectitude—action in right lines. When he says yes, it is a law: and he dares to say the valiant no at the fitting season. The gentleman will not be bribed;

To obtain this information the minister offered the general a very large sum—considerably above 100,000l. Looking at him quietly for a few seconds, Sir Arthur said, “It appears, then, that you are capable of keeping a secret?” “Yes, certainly,” replied the minister.

“Then so am I,” said the English general, smiling, and bowed the minister out.

It was to Wellington’s great honour, that though uniformly successful in India, and with the power of earning in such modes as this enormous wealth, he did not add a farthing to his fortune, and returned to England a comparatively poor man.

Riches and rank have no necessary connexion with genuine gentlemanly qualities. The poor man may be a true gentleman,—in spirit and in daily life. He may be honest, truthful, upright, polite, temperate, courageous, self-respecting, and self-helping,—that is, be a true gentleman.

The poor man with a rich spirit is in all ways superior to the rich man with a poor spirit.

To borrow St. Paul’s words, the former is as “having nothing, yet possessing all things,” while the other, though possessing all things, has nothing. The first hopes everything, and fears nothing; the last hopes nothing, and fears everything.

To borrow St. Paul’s words, the former is as “having nothing, yet possessing all things,” while the other, though possessing all things, has nothing. The first hopes everything, and fears nothing; the last hopes nothing, and fears everything.

Only the poor in spirit are really poor.

He who has lost all, but retains his courage, cheerfulness, hope, virtue, and self-respect, is still rich. For such a man, the world is, as it were, held in trust; his spirit dominating over its grosser cares, he can still walk erect, a true gentleman.

He gained the pier, received the whole family into the boat, and made for the shore, where he landed them in safety. “Here is your money, my brave young fellow,” said the count.

“No,” was the answer of the young man, “I do not sell my life; give the money to this poor family, who have need of it.”

Here spoke the true spirit of the gentleman, though he was but in the garb of a peasant.