Trying To Be A Gentleman
by
THE efforts which certain young men make, on entering the world, to become gentlemen, is not a little amusing to sober, thoughtful lookers on. To “become” is not, perhaps, what is aimed at, so much as to make people believe that they are gentlemen; for if you should happen to insinuate any thing to the contrary, no matter how wide from the mark they go, you may expect to receive summary punishment for your insolence.
One of these characters made himself quite conspicuous, in Baltimore, a few years ago. His name was L–, and he hailed from Richmond, we believe, and built some consequence upon the fact that he was a son of the Old Dominion. He dressed in the extreme of fashion; spent a good deal of time strutting up and down Market street, switching his rattan; boarded at one of the hotels; drank wines freely, and pretended to be quite a judge of their quality; swore round oaths occasionally, and talked of his honour as a gentleman.
His knowledge of etiquette he obtained from books, and was often quite as literal in his observance of prescribing modes and forms, as was the Frenchman in showing off his skill in our idioms, when he informed a company of ladies, as an excuse for leaving them, that he had “some fish to fry.” That he was no gentleman, internally or externally, was plain to every one; yet he verily believed himself to be one of the first water, and it was a matter of constant care to preserve the reputation.
Among those who were thrown into the society of this L–, was a young man, named Briarly, who had rather more basis to his character, and who, although he dressed well, and moved in good society, by no means founded thereon his claim to be called a gentleman. He never liked L–, because he saw that he had no principle whatever; that all about him was mere sham. The consequence was that he was hardly civil to him, a circumstance which L–was slow either to notice or resent.
It happened, one day, that the tailor of Briarly asked him if he knew any thing about L–.
“Not much,” replied Briarly. “Why do you ask?”
“Do you think him a gentleman?”
“How do you estimate a gentleman?” asked the young man.
“A gentleman is a man of honour,” returned the tailor.
“Very well; then L–must be a gentleman, for he has a great deal to say about his honour.”
“I know he has; but I find that those who talk much of their honour, don’t, as a general thing, possess much to brag of.”
“Then, he talks to you of his honour?”
“Oh, yes; and gives me his word as a gentleman.”
“Does he always keep his word as a gentleman?”
The tailor shrugged his shoulders.
“Not always,” he replied.
“Then I should say that the word of a gentleman isn’t worth much,” smilingly remarked Briarly.
“Not the word of such broadcloth and buckram gentlemen as he is.”
“Take care what you say, or you may find yourself called to account for using improper language about this gentleman. We may have a duel on the carpet.”
“It would degrade him to fight with a tailor,” replied the man of shears. “So I may speak my mind with impunity. But if he should challenge me, I will refuse to fight him, on the ground that he is no gentleman.”
“Indeed! How will you prove that?”
“Every man must be permitted to have his own standard of gentility.”
“Certainly.”
“I have mine.”
“Ah! Well, how do you measure gentility?”
“By my ledger. A man who doesn’t pay his tailor’s bill, I consider no gentleman. If L–sends me a challenge, I will refuse to fight him on that ground.”
“Good!” said Briarly, laughing. “I’m afraid, if your standard were adopted, that a great many, who now pass themselves off for gentlemen, would be held in little estimation.”
“It is the true standard, nevertheless,” replied Shears. “A man may try to be a gentleman as much as he pleases, but if he don’t try to pay his tailor’s bill at the same time, he tries in vain.”