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Number One; or, The Way of the World

Chapter viii. Desire for Change of Occupation

page 111

Chapter viii. Desire for Change of Occupation.

It is now twelve months since I entered on the duties of my first commercial situation in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. As junior or "duster" of my department, I had for some time represented an article, the services of which are called into action or laid aside, as occasion might require. The scene changes. The boy who had been at the beck and call of the commercial staff, becomes himself one of the staff, having a boy "at call." I am no longer deputy or lad of all work, but a youth or young man (what youth at 17 is not a young man?) occupying, in an important department, the position of third-salesman, at an improved salary of forty pounds a-year!

This, an unskilled laborer's first year's crop from the field of commerce, is, beyond doubt, a good one. The hand of labor has produced early and fruitful results. The first harvest is not only rich in itself, but is still richer with promises of that to come. Industry has been amply rewarded, and her future prospect is even better than her present gain.

"Well. Does it always follow that each upward step in life yields joy greater than was to be found on that which preceded it? My second commercial season opens auspi-page 112ciously. A higher position than I have hitherto filled awaits me, and my salary is doubled on the opening day. I am relieved by a junior from the minor duties of office; I feel not only equal to the requirements of my improved position, but also sanguine of obtaining a higher, and yet a higher post, till I become the head of the department in which fortune first placed me.

But am I more contented with forty than I was with twenty pounds a-year? Nothing of the kind. Can any one be happier than happy? My salary has been doubled, so have my desires. With twenty pounds a-year my wants were all supplied; with forty pounds a-year, new discoveries are made, and fresh wants immediately follow. No sooner is my footing secure on one path of life, than I cast a longing eye on another, and another, and another path.

Here, my young reader, you have already a faint glimpse of one of the greatest mistakes in the life of the writer—perhaps one of the greatest errors in your own life at this moment—viz., a desire for any trade, profession, or occupation other than that in hand. Such desire is not a solitary sound, as it is often heard in the way of the world. The young draper wishes he had been a druggist, the druggist regrets he was not made a lawyer, the lawyer would have been a doctor, the doctor of medicine says he ought to have been a doctor of divinity, or a curer of souls instead of bodies; and thus the wish resounds from one side of the globe to the other, from merchant as from mechanic, from the sea-sick sailor on his first voyage, as from the home-sick soldier in his first engagement—each desires to be other than he is. It is not always so, nor is it so with all; but it is often so, and ever so with many.

"I should like to be anything but what I am." When-page 113ever such avowal is a faithful reflex of the mind of youth, it reveals that kind of restraint on individual exertion that often proves a serious obstacle, if not a fatal barrier to future advancement. To originate or encourage personal antipathy to labor by which one has to live, and cannot exchange, is to pick a quarrel with one's own dinner. So long as the meal is needed, it is surely a silly thing to complain of the only means by which' It may be obtained. The lamentation is a perpetual drag on the wheel of fortune—especially when suspended from the arm of one who retards his own progress of life, without being able to change its course.

"As thy son will succeed best in the profession he may himself select, check not thy son's inclination." So says a well-known writer, and so say I—that is, if the choice of the son be compatible with the means or station of the parent. It often happens—as in the present case—that either the loss of parents, or position of friends, leaves no choice in the matter. In such case, would not a youth do well to improve, rather than to mourn or despise the calling in which circumstances might have placed him? By improving his position in such calling, he might eventually obtain that to which his heart aspires. Of this, two striking cases will presently be instaneed.

My present improved position is already attended by one or two of the usual accessions occasioned by a rise in the world. That spot which contains the greatest quantity of sugar is sure to be surrounded by the largest number of flies. Let what may decline, acquaintances ever multiply with each upward move in life. This is already perceptible in the second stage of my commercial existence. Without solicitation on my part, my salary is doubled. So is the number of my acquaintances. Unfortunately, the increase page 114represents greater value on the part of the specie than on the part of humanity. But the expensive impression left on the mind by my first faithless companion, Silas Bloomfield, induced me to regard voluntary friends for what they were worth, or rather to weigh them by their own standard—whether their love consisted in the loan of a guinea or a cigar, or in that rarer and more genuine element of friendship that seeks a return only in the image of itself.

Yet, for an extended knowledge of the way of the world I found it quite as necessary to form acquaintances, as it was desirable to ascertain the individual and relative value of such acquaintances. An isolated being becomes as contracted in ideas as in habits. To cage the mind is not the way to insure its expansion. If some of my companions were deficient in those business habits by which I secured their good opinion, others had mastered accomplishments in which I discovered my own defects. While in scientific, medical, and other students, I saw professions the duties of which were more in accordance with my own taste than those of a warehouseman, I found at the same time that my desire was soaring beyond either the means or education of its owner.

But the light that kindled this desire was valuable not merely on account of mental deficiencies discovered, but on account of wants thereby created. By the reflection of other minds, I beheld the advantages of a better education than I was then master of. I saw, and saw clearly, that if mental knowledge was not necessary to the duties of a warehouseman, its acquisition might benefit the possessor in other ways—if only as a means of defence against a satirical or one-sided compliment in the social circle. "A still tongue may make a wise head," but it page 115occurred to me, during rather a protracted display of my wisdom, that the tongue which is not prepared to be other than still must naturally be attached to rather a stupid head.

On the strength of this conviction, I resolved to go, and immediately carried out my resolution by going to school. I was not the only big scholar who felt anxious to improve what had been neglected in the past. The prosecution of my studies every evening from eight till ten o'clock soon enabled me to see, in the mental progress I had already made, how far I must previously have been behind—even in the elementary branches of knowledge.

The value of the ground I had gained created a desire for further advancement; and when, at a subsequent period, the City of London Literary and Scientific Institution was opened in Aldersgate Street, I became one of its first members, of which there was, in a short time, a large number. As it was scarcely possible for young men to pass their evenings here without benefit to themselves, there was nothing very remarkable in the fact that I soon found myself among those who derived greater profit from a reading or lecture room, than from a cigar shop or low singing establishment. I will not insult those of my young readers whose education may have been neglected either by themselves or friends, by an attempt to elaborate the simple truth that by evening study—by a couple of hours two or three times a week—they may do for themselves what others have failed to do for them. Out of a number of living proofs, I will simply mention two or three cases to illustrate not only the ready acquisition of knowledge by means of self-instruction, but also the profitable application of such knowledge when so acquired.

The first case of unaided self-advancement that occurs page 116to my mind is that of one of the most popular preachers (of the Established Church) of the present day.

The Rev. Daniel—, the present incumbent of—, on the south side of London, and—lecturer in the City, was once an intelligent youth who filled an unimportant situation in a warehouse not far from St. Paul's. His occupation was not in accordance with his taste. But his taste soared beyond the means of his respectable but by no means wealthy parents. He joined, and soon became a distinguished member of the Literary Institution just named. In the discussion class of this institution he was at once recognised as an able debater, especially on social, philosophical, and historical subjects. In a short time, he was acknowledged the very first member not only of the particular class mentioned, but of the entire institution. On his retirement, his brother members presented him with a very valuable gift.

The youth now gladly forsook his commercial duties to pursue, at college, studies more in accordance with his own taste. It is not necessary to dwell on that subsequent upward course in his career that led to his present exalted position. It is enough to say that to that position the warehouse-boy raised himself by his own individual exertions.

There was another member of the institution whose early career is still more worthy of note, inasmuch as the aspirant's rise to eminence, although as rapid as that instanced in the foregoing case, was attended by opposition, and was therefore more difficult of attainment.

Unlike the former, this youth, on his first appearance as a speaker in the class of which he was a member, made anything but a favorable impression. His crude style of address and action often proved a source of merriment to page 117those around, while his lofty aspirations (it was whispered in the class that he was anxious to exchange the duties of a draper's shop-boy for those of a barrister) were ridiculed by every member hut himself. In his early oratorical and elocutionary efforts he succeeded only in provoking the laughter of his audience. Night after night and week after week he spoke, or attempted to speak, on every subject under discussion; and night after night and week after week, his impatient audience endeavoured to put him down. But he was not to be put down. Having one evening, during a temporary lull, obtained a hearing, he addressed the members in nearly the following words:—

"Brother members,—permit me to say a word or two before I retire—(a sudden burst of applause for a moment interrupted the speaker, the applauders supposing the persecuted young candidate was about to retire from the contest. Silence restored, the speaker continued)—before I retire to the door for a little fresh air, after those noisy salutations with which my humble efforts are invariably greeted. But I beg to submit one rather important fact for your serious consideration during my temporary absence.

"Everything and everybody, as you are aware, gentlemen, must have had a beginning. And some of the greatest things, and some of the greatest beings in the world, and some of the noisiest spirits in this class, have had very small beginnings. Mine, as you well know, and have made me know and feel too, is a very small beginning. But by perseverance and, I trust, improvement, I may, by degrees, rise in the world as others have risen. Thus, in the course of time, I may secure, even here, that good opinion which I have hitherto failed to obtain. I am not a poet, gentlemen, although the following lines—pre-page 118pared for the occasion—may furnish you at the same time with my past position and future intention in this class:—

"'Climbing for knowledge, a little boy, like me,

Was one day seen upon a lofty tree;

When bigger boys, like you, on mischief bent,

Aimed at the young one's head—and down he went;

But inspired by courage, though repelled by pain,—

To gain the fruit—he climbed the tree again.'"

The good humored, cool, yet emphatic manner in which this address was delivered created, for the first time, a light feeling in favor of the speaker. Having succeeded in obtaining the ear of his class, his subsequent speeches were not only listened to without dissent, but were received by approval. His improvement was rapid and his success unequivocal. The only thing that interrupted his future addresses was the applause by which they were greeted. In less than twelve months he became one of the best speakers in the Institution. Agreeably with his own determination, he continued to climb the tree of knowledge till he reached a high, if not the highest branch in his profession. The draper's boy, that was, is, at this present writing, the well-known Mr. Sergeant—, one of the most eloquent and popular barristers of the day.

Well. In this case of self-instruction and advancement, did the hero originally possess mental talents superior to those owned by the majority of youthful heads? Nothing of the sort. In youth, the intellectual faculties of Mr. Sergeant—were not above the average. The secret of success cannot here be traced to great or precocious talents, but simply to perseverance, and a resolute spirit on the part of the aspirant to make the most of what talent he possessed.

page 119

If this case can prove anything, it can prove this—that success in public speaking is less dependent on the quality of the original stock from which it may spring than on the assiduous cultivation of the same. Perseverance and confidence were the chief elements of success. This youth, with a little talent, and the necessary confidence for its application, raised himself from obscurity to eminence, while other youths in the same class, with superior talents, utterly failed for want of confidence in their own powers. Diffidence—in the absence of the requisite perseverance for overcoming the same—has proved a fatal barrier to hundreds of would-be orators. It was nearly so with me. I had only just enough nerve during my early trial to turn the scale in my own favor. Once turned, and confidence acquired, I became a frequent speaker. But other young men there were, whose talents far exceeded any I ever possessed, who fell, like tender flowers, on the first rude blast of opposition. They were either held from their desire to speak through fear, or, after their first attempt to say something, were kept in perpetual retirement, entirely through diffidence. Practice is the only remedy for this; and practice before private friends—in the way of elocutionary entertainment, or declamatory addresses—would soon enable the speakers, should they desire it, to command the attention of the public.

Is not the acquisition of this confidence a thing to be desired by any youth? Its application may not be needed, but its possession, in case of need, may prove of the utmost value. Diffidence can be more easily rooted out in spring than at any subsequent period of life. Can any stripling tell what may be his position or requirements in the world at the age of maturity? In the future of the poorest boy now living, there may be times and occasions when the page 120fluency of speech, or, at least, the power of giving clear expression to thought, may be of the greatest service. The poor boy may become a man of note; and it cannot be an agreeable thing for a clever man to make a fool of himself—if only in responding to the toast of his own health.

But this subject may find an appropriate conclusion in a verbatim report of a speech that was once delivered to a distinguished company by a gentleman who was clever at almost anything but the art of speech-making:—

"Mr. Chairman,—ladies—ladies and gentlemen. In returning—in rising to return, ladies and gentlemen—in returning my sincere thanks for the great—for the great and distinguished honor you have—I have just—just conferred, permit me to say that I—I beg to assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that nothing that I can say on the present occasion can sufficiently express my—your—your sense of my kindness—-(loud applause and suppressed laughter)—will—kindle a most—I can assure you, ladies and gentlemen, this is—this is the happiest moment of my life—(applause)—and in—in returning from the bottom of my heart—(loud cheers). But it is unnecessary to say anything—(cries of 'go on')—and I trust I have said nothing—(laughter)—nothing on the present occasion that—but I'll not detain you, ladies and gentlemen, by saying that—having said more than I intended to say on the present occasion—I can only say that—that in returning you my sincere thanks, I—I—I beg most sincerely to thank you." (The speaker, on resuming his seat, was rewarded with several rounds of applause of the most unmistakable kind.)