CHAPTER XXXI.

ABOUT CASPAR TUBEROSE AND HIS WIFE-WITH OTHER THINGS TOUCHING THE CONSTITUTION OF A GENTLEMAN.

"BUT what is it that makes a gentleman ?" asked Mrs. Oldham.

"I'll tell you first who is a gentleman. He is a man you know—that florist that has his conservatory at the upper end of Madison street."

"What, Tuberose ?"

"Yes, Caspar Tuberose."

"Who comes to church every Sunday, with that grotesque little figure of a wife hanging on his

arm ?".

"The same. She is crazed, poor thing! Tuberose went to England some fifteen years ago or more, and returned bringing her with him. She was young, and I dare say very pretty, when he

married her; and I have always fancied there must have been some touch of romance in the affair. The fright of the voyage, or some peril at sea, I am told, gave her nerves such a shock, that it unsettled her brain, and she has never been rightly herself since, though always harmless, I believe."

"What a figure she makes of herself," said Mrs. Oldham, "coming to church-her slender form arrayed in a scant, slim dress, hardly coming down to her ankles-the little belt around her waist, or rather almost up to her arms—the old-fashioned Quaker kerchief covering her bosom, and her huge overshadowing bonnet; she is the queerest sight in the world. She has two of those extraordinary bonnets-one for winter and one for summer-both in shape like coal scuttles of the largest size, very flaring, projecting forward more than six inches beyond her forehead and face, and bedizzened with many-hued ribbons-a perfect quarrel of inharmonious colors, in Madge Wildfire fashion."

"The ribbons," said the Doctor, “are, probably, a crazy addition; but as to the rest, the bonnets and the dress are of the same fashion, if not the very same articles, she wore when she first came here a new young bride; and she cannot comprenend that the fashions have changed, or perhaps the

memory of the pleasure she then felt in her array, still clings so vividly to her shattered mind, that she cannot imagine any thing else so fit and so fine."

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"Well, about Tuberose, husband ?"

“He, you observe, is the pink of nicety and neatness. He comes to church dressed with the greatest propriety, and in the mode of the day, with a delicate little nosegay in his button-hole. His whole presence is instinct with precision and decorum, a sense of the proper and the fit. He is perfectly aware of the grotesque appearance of his wife, and of the ridicule it is fitted to provoke in the coarse or the thoughtless. He is just the man to have the keenest sensibility to the contrast between himself and her, and the spectacle they make together. Yet you see not a trace of it in his face or manner, as he goes to church with her-no false shame, no mortified vanity, no neglect or coldness to her not a particle of mean feeling or behavior; on the contrary, he gives her his arm with as much deference as if she were the most correctly dressed duchess in his native land—more than this, with an air of protecting reverence that represses all ridicule, and commands respect for her from everybody that sees them, as he conducts her along the street,

sits beside her at church, and goes with her to the chancel rail on communion Sundays.

"That little florist, I say, has that something inside which it takes to make a gentleman—the very quintessential internal quality of one, which Mr. Stockjob Pile has nothing of. Could Stockjob behave as Tuberose does in like circumstances? No, he cannot even respect such behavior.

"I declare I wish I had a sketch of Tuberose and his wife coming to church arm in arm—such as Wilkie would have made. I would give it the place of honor there, under Ary Sheffer's Christ the Consoler."

"But, husband, you don't give me your definition of a gentleman.”

"It is not the easiest thing in the world to do, my dear; so many elements enter into the meaning of the term in its fullest comprehension. It takes, indeed, as I said, something inside to make a gentleman, but it takes also something outside. Over and above the essential internal qualities-principles, sentiments, impulses-there is also included in the proper idea of one, a certain degree of propriety and refinement in speech and manners. A man may have the air and manner of a gentleman without the spirit of one, like Stockjob Pile; though

where the spirit is wanting, the hollow outside will seldom impose for any length of time upon a tolerably acute observer. And on the other hand, although a man cannot have the true internal spirit, but it will of course find expression outwardly in some form-not only in the matter of his speech and conduct, but also to some extent even in the manner of it-there may still be a lack of those external requisites, derived from breeding and culture, which we commonly and properly include in the idea of one who is completely a gentleman. Then, again, a person may have the true spirit of a gentleman, and also the manners of one in a degree to entitle him to the appellation, and yet he may, in various degrees, fall short of possessing those requisites, partly internal and partly acquired-the delicate deference, nice tact, simple ease, and the exquisite grace, and courtesy-which constitute the inexplicable charm of the thorough-bred and perfect gentleman in the highest idea of the term."

"But about those essential internal qualities," said Mrs. Oldham, "what do you say they are ?"

"Well, nobility of soul, honor, and the courage to do right, respect for God's image in every human soul, respect for every thing intrinsically respectable, and delicacy, gentleness, and kindness of spirit.