Title: The Laws of Etiquette; Or, Short Rules and Reflections for Conduct in Society
Author: Unknown
Language: English
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The Laws of Etiquette

or,
Short Rules and Reflections

for
CONDUCT IN SOCIETY.

by A Gentleman

PHILADELPHIA:

1836.



Transcriber’s Note: Note the inconsistency of “Brummell” in one place
of the original, and “Brummel” all other places. Also “Shakspeare,”
“Don Quixotte,” “Sir Piercy,” and “Esop” are as in the original.


Contents

 PREFACE
 INTRODUCTION
 CHAPTER I. GOOD BREEDING.
 CHAPTER II. DRESS.
 CHAPTER III. SALUTATIONS.
 CHAPTER IV. THE DRAWING-ROOM. COMPANY. CONVERSATION.
 CHAPTER V. THE ENTRANCE INTO SOCIETY.
 CHAPTER VI. LETTERS.
 CHAPTER VII. VISITS.
 CHAPTER VIII. APPOINTMENTS AND PUNCTUALITY.
 CHAPTER IX. DINNER.
 CHAPTER X. TRAVELLING.
 CHAPTER XI. BALLS.
 CHAPTER XII. FUNERALS.
 CHAPTER XIII. SERVANTS.
 CHAPTER XIV. FASHION.
 CHAPTER XV. MISCELLANEOUS.



PREFACE


The author of the present volume has endeavoured to embody, in as short
a space as possible, some of the results of his own experience and
observation in society, and submits the work to the public, with the
hope that the remarks which are contained in it, may prove available
for the benefit of others. It is, of course, scarcely possible that
anything original should be found in a volume like this: almost all
that it contains must have fallen under the notice of every man of
penetration who has been in the habit of frequenting good society. Many
of the precepts have probably been contained in works of a similar
character which have appeared in England and France since the days of
Lord Chesterfield. Nothing however has been copied from them in the
compilation of this work, the author having in fact scarcely any
acquaintance with books of this description, and many years having
elapsed since he has opened even the pages of the noble oracle. He has
drawn entirely from his own resources, with the exception of some hints
for arrangement, and a few brief reflections, which have been derived
from the French.

The present volume is almost apart from criticism. It has no
pretensions to be judged as a literary work—its sole merit depending
upon its correctness and fitness of application. Upon these grounds he
ventures to hope for it a favourable reception.



INTRODUCTION


The great error into which nearly all foreigners and most Americans
fall, who write or speak of society in this country, arises from
confounding the political with the social system. In most other
countries, in England, France, and all those nations whose government
is monarchical or aristocratic, these systems are indeed similar.
Society is there intimately connected with the government, and the
distinctions in one are the origin of gradations in the other. The
chief part of the society of the kingdom is assembled in the capital,
and the same persons who legislate for the country legislate also for
it. But in America the two systems are totally unconnected, and
altogether different in character. In remodelling the form of the
administration, society remained unrepublican. There is perfect freedom
of political privilege, all are the same upon the hustings, or at a
political meeting; but this equality does not extend to the
drawing-room or the parlour. None are excluded from the highest
councils of the nation, but it does not follow that all can enter into
the highest ranks, of society. In point of fact, we think that there is
more exclusiveness in the society of this country, than there is in
that even of England—far more than there is in France. And the
explanation may perhaps be found in the fact which we hate mentioned
above. There being _there_ less danger of permanent disarrangement or
confusion of ranks by the occasional admission of the low-born
aspirant, there does not exist the same necessity for a jealous
guarding of the barriers as there does here. The distinction of
classes, also, after the first or second, is actually more clearly
defined, and more rigidly observed in America, than in any country of
Europe. Persons unaccustomed to look searchingly at these matters, may
be surprised to hear it; but we know from observation, that there are
among the respectable, in any city of the United States, at least ten
distinct ranks. We cannot, of course, here point them out, because we
could not do it without mentioning names.

Every man is naturally desirous of finding entrance into the best
society of his country, and it becomes therefore a matter of importance
to ascertain what qualifications are demanded for admittance.

A writer who is popularly unpopular, has remarked, that the test of
standing in Boston, is literary eminence; in New York, wealth; and in
Philadelphia, purity of blood.

To this remark, we can only oppose our opinion, that none of these are
indispensable, and none of them sufficient. The society of this
country, unlike that of England, does not court literary talent. We
have cases in our recollection, which prove the remark, in relation to
the highest ranks, even of Boston. Wealth has no pretensions to be the
standard anywhere. In New York, the Liverpool of America, although the
rich may make greater display and _bruit_, yet all of the merely rich,
will find that there does exist a small and unchanging circle, whether
above or below them, ‘it is not ours to say,’ yet completely apart from
them, into which they would rejoice to find entrance, and from which
they would be glad to receive emigrants.

Whatever may be the accomplishments necessary to render one capable of
reaching the highest platform of social eminence, and it is not easy to
define clearly what they are, there is one thing, and one alone, which
will enable any man to _retain_ his station there; and that is, GOOD
BREEDING. Without it, we believe that literature, wealth, and even
blood, will be unsuccessful. By it, if it co-exist with a certain
capacity of affording pleasure by conversation, any one, we imagine,
could frequent the very best society in every city of America, and
_perhaps the very best alone._ To obtain, then, the manners of a
gentleman is a matter of no small importance.

We do not pretend that a man will be metamorphosed into a gentleman by
reading this book, or any other book. Refined manners are like refined
style which Cicero compares to the colour of the cheeks, which is not
acquired by sudden or violent exposure to heat, but by continual
walking in the sun. Good manners can certainly only be acquired by much
usage in good company. But there are a number of little forms,
imperiously enacted by custom, which may be taught in this manner, and
the conscious ignorance of which often prevents persons from going into
company at all.

These forms may be abundantly absurd, but still they _must_ be attended
to; for one half the world does and always will observe them, and the
other half is at a great disadvantage if it does not. Intercourse is
constantly taking place, and an awkward man of letters, in the society
of a polished man of the world, is like a strong man contending with a
skilful fencer. Mr. Addison says, that he once saw the ablest
mathematician in the kingdom utterly embarrassed, from not knowing
whether he ought to stand or sit when my lord duke drank his health.

Some of the many errors which are liable to be committed through
ignorance of usage, are pleasantly pointed out in the following story,
which is related by a French writer.

The Abbé Cosson, professor in the _Collége Mazarin_, thoroughly
accomplished in the art of teaching, saturated with Greek, Latin, and
literature, considered himself a perfect well of science: he had no
conception that a man who knew all Persius and Horace by heart could
possibly commit an error—above all, an error at table. But it was not
long before he discovered his mistake. One day, after dining with the
Abbé de Radonvillers at Versailles, in company with several courtiers
and marshals of France, he was boasting of the rare acquaintance with
etiquette and custom which he had exhibited at dinner. The Abbé
Delille, who heard this eulogy upon his own conduct, interrupted his
harangue, by offering to wager that he had committed at least a hundred
improprieties at the table. “How is it possible!” exclaimed Cosson. “I
did exactly like the rest of the company.”

“What absurdity!” said the other. “You did a thousand things which no
one else did. First, when you sat down at the table, what did you do
with your napkin?” “My napkin? Why just what every body else did with
theirs. I unfolded it entire]y, and fastened it to my buttonhole.”
“Well, my dear friend,” said Delille, “you were the only one that did
_that_, at all events. No one hangs up his napkin in that style; they
are contented with placing it on their knees. And what did you, do when
you took your soup?” “Like the others, I believe. I took my spoon in
one hand, and my fork in the other—” “Your fork! Who ever eat soup with
a fork?—But to proceed; after your soup, what did you eat?” “A fresh
egg.” “And what did you do with the shell?” “Handed it to the servant
who stood behind my chair.” “With out breaking it?” “Without breaking
it, of course.” “Well, my dear Abbé, nobody ever eats an egg without
breaking the shell. And after your egg—?” “I asked the Abbé
Radonvillers to send me a piece of the hen near him.” “Bless my soul! a
piece of the _hen_? You never speak of hens excepting in the barn-yard.
You should have asked for fowl or chicken. But you say nothing of your
mode of drinking.” “Like all the rest, I asked for _claret_ and
_champagne._” “Let me inform you, then, that persons always ask for
_claret wine_ and _champagne wine._ But, tell me, how did you eat your
bread?” “Surely I did that properly. I cut it with my knife, in the
most regular manner possible.” “Bread should always be broken, not cut.
But the coffee, how did you manage it?” “It was rather too hot, and I
poured a little of it into my saucer.” “Well, you committed here the
greatest fault of all. You should never pour your coffee into the
saucer, but always drink it from the cup.” The poor Abbé was
confounded. He felt that though one might be master of the seven
sciences, yet that there was another species of knowledge which, if
less dignified, was equally important.

This occurred many years ago, but there is not one of the observances
neglected by the Abbé Cosson, which is not enforced with equal
rigidness in the present day.



CHAPTER I.
GOOD BREEDING.


The formalities of refined society were at first established for the
purpose of facilitating the intercourse of persons of the same
standing, and increasing the happiness of all to whom they apply. They
are now kept up, both to assist the convenience of intercourse and to
prevent too great familiarity. If they are carried too far, and escape
from the control of good sense, they become impediments to enjoyment.
Among the Chinese they serve only the purpose of annoying to an
incalculable degree. “The government,” says De Marcy, in writing of
China, “constantly applies itself to preserve, not only in the court
and among the great, but among the people themselves, a constant habit
of civility and courtesy. The Chinese have an infinity of books upon
such subjects; one of these treatises contains more than three thousand
articles.— Everything is pointed out with the most minute detail; the
manner of saluting, of visiting, of making presents, of writing
letters, of eating, etc.: and these customs have the force of laws—no
one can dispense with them. There is a special tribunal at Peking, of
which it is one of the chief duties, to ensure the observance of these
civil ordinances?”

One would think that one was here reading an account of the capital of
France. It depends, then, upon the spirit in which these forms are
observed, whether their result shall be beneficial or not. The French
and the Chinese are the most formal of all the nations. Yet the one is
the stiffest and most distant; the other, the easiest and most social.

“We may define politeness,” says La Bruyère, “though we cannot tell
where to fix it in practice. It observes received usages and customs,
is bound to times and places, and is not the same thing in the two
sexes or in different conditions. Wit alone cannot obtain it: it is
acquired and brought to perfection by emulation. Some dispositions
alone are susceptible of politeness, as others are only capable of
great talents or solid virtues. It is true politeness puts merit
forward, and renders it agreeable, and a man must have eminent
qualifications to support himself without it.” Perhaps even the
greatest merit cannot successfully straggle against unfortunate and
disagreeable manners. Lord Chesterfield says that the Duke of
Marlborough owed his first promotions to the suavity of his manners,
and that without it he could not have risen.

La Bruyère has elsewhere given this happy definition of politeness, the
other passage being rather a description of it. “Politeness seems to be
a certain care, by the manner of our words and actions, to make others
pleased with us and themselves.”

We must here stop to point out an error which is often committed both
in practice and opinion, and which consists in confounding together the
gentleman and the man of fashion. No two characters can be more
distinct than these. Good sense and self-respect are the foundations of
the one—notoriety and influence the objects of the other. Men of
fashion are to be seen everywhere: a pure and mere gentleman is the
rarest thing alive. Brummel was a man of fashion; but it would be a
perversion of terms to apply to him “a very expressive word in our
language,—a word, denoting an assemblage of many real virtues and of
many qualities approaching to virtues, and an union of manners at once
pleasing and commanding respect,— the word gentleman.”* The requisites
to compose this last character are natural ease of manner, and an
acquaintance with the “outward habit of encounter”—dignity and
self-possession—a respect for all the decencies of life, and perfect
freedom from all affectation. Dr. Johnson’s bearing during his
interview with the king showed him to be a thorough gentleman, and
demonstrates how rare and elevated that character is. When his majesty
expressed in the language of compliment his high opinion of Johnson’s
merits, the latter bowed in silence. If Chesterfield could have
retained sufficient presence of mind to have done the same on such an
occasion, he would have applauded himself to the end of his days. So
delicate is the nature of those qualities that constitute a gentleman,
that there is but one exhibition of this description of persons in all
the literary and dramatic fictions from Shakespeare downward. Scott has
not attempted it. Bulwer, in “Pelham,” has shot wide of the mark. It
was reserved for the author of two very singular productions,
“Sydenham” and its continuation “Alice Paulet”—works of extraordinary
merits and extraordinary faults—to portray this character completely,
in the person of Mr. Paulet.

* Charles Butler’s Reminiscences



CHAPTER II.
DRESS.


First impressions are apt to be permanent; it is therefore of
importance that they should be favourable. The dress of an individual
is that circumstance from which you first form your opinion of him. It
is even more prominent than manner, It is indeed the only thing which
is remarked in a casual encounter, or during the first interview. It,
therefore, should be the first care.

What style is to our thoughts, dress is to our persons. It may supply
the place of more solid qualities, and without it the most solid are
of little avail. Numbers have owed their elevation to their attention
to the toilet. Place, fortune, marriage have all been lost by
neglecting it. A man need not mingle long with the world to find
occasion to exclaim with Sedaine, “Ah! mon habit, que je vous
remercie!” In spite of the proverb, the dress often _does_ make the
monk.

Your dress should always be consistent with your age and your natural
exterior. That which looks outr, on one man, will be agreeable on
another. As success in this respect depends almost entirely upon
particular circumstances and personal peculiarities, it is impossible
to give general directions of much importance. We can only point out
the field for study and research; it belongs to each one’s own genius
and industry to deduce the results. However ugly you may be, rest
assured that there is some style of habiliment which will make you
passable.

If, for example, you have a stain upon your cheek which rivals in
brilliancy the best Chateau-Margout; or, are afflicted with a nose
whose lustre dims the ruby, you may employ such hues of dress, that the
eye, instead of being shocked by the strangeness of the defect, will be
charmed by the graceful harmony of the colours. Every one cannot indeed
be an Adonis, but it is his own fault if he is an Esop.

If you have bad, squinting eyes, which have lost their lashes and are
bordered with red, you should wear spectacles. If the defect be great,
your glasses should be coloured. In such cases emulate the sky rather
than the sea: green spectacles are an abomination, fitted only for
students in divinity,— blue ones are respectable and even _distingué._

Almost every defect of face may be concealed by a judicious use and
arrangement of hair. Take care, however, that your hair be not of one
colour and your whiskers of another; and let your wig be large enough
to cover the _whole_ of your red or white hair.

It is evident, therefore, that though a man may be ugly, there is no
necessity for his being shocking. Would that all men were convinced of
this! I verily believe that if Mr. — in his walking-dress, and Mr. — in
his evening costume were to meet alone, in some solitary place, where
there was nothing to divert their attention from one another, they
would expire of mutual hideousness.

If you have any defect, so striking and so ridiculous as to procure you
a _nickname_ then indeed there is but one remedy,—renounce society.

In the morning, before eleven o’clock even if you go out, you should
not be dressed. You would be stamped a _parvenu_ if you were seen in
anything better than a reputable old frock coat. If you remain at home,
and are a bachelor, it is permitted to receive visitors in a morning
gown. In summer, calico; in winter, figured cloth, faced with fur. At
dinner, a coat, of course, is indispensable.

The effect of a frock coat is to conceal the height. If, therefore, you
are beneath the ordinary statue, or much above it, you should affect
frock coats on all occasions that etiquette permits.

Before going to a ball or party it is not sufficient that you consult
your mirror twenty times. You must be personally inspected by your
servant or a friend. Through defect of this, I once saw a gentleman
enter a ball-room, attired with scrupulous elegance, but with one of
his suspenders curling in graceful festoons about his feet. His glass
could not show what was behind.

If you are about to present yourself in a company composed only of men,
you may wear boots. If there be but one lady present, pumps and
silk-stockings are indispensable.

There is a common proverb which says, that if a man be well dressed as
to head and feet, he may present himself everywhere. The assertion is
as false as Mr. Kemble’s voice. Happy indeed if it were necessary to
perfect only the extremities. The coat, the waistcoat, the gloves, and,
above all, the cravat, must be alike ignorant of blemish.

Upon the subject of the cravat—(for heaven’s sake and Brummel’s, never
appear in a stock after twelve o’clock)—We cannot at present say
anything. If we were to say anything, we could not be content without
saying all, and to say all would require a folio. A book has been
published upon the subject, entitled “The Cravat considered in its
moral, literary, political, military, and religious attributes.” This
and a clever, though less profound, treatise on “The art of tying the
Cravat,” are as indispensable to a gentleman as an ice at twelve
o’clock.

When we speak of excellence in dress we do not mean richness of
clothing, nor manifested elaboration. Faultless propriety, perfect
harmony, and a refined simplicity,—these are the charms which fascinate
here.

It is as great a sin to be finical in dress as to be negligent.

Upon this subject the ladies are the only infallible oracles. Apart
from the perfection to which they must of necessity arrive, from
devoting their entire existence to such considerations, they seem to be
endued with an inexpressible tact, a sort of sixth sense, which reveals
intuitively the proper distinctions. That your dress is approved by a
man is nothing;—you cannot enjoy the high satisfaction of being
perfectly comme il faut, until your performance has received the seal
of a woman’s approbation.

If the benefits to be derived from cultivating your exterior do not
appear sufficiently powerful to induce attention, the inconveniences
arising from too great disregard may perhaps prevail. Sir Matthew Hale,
in the earlier part of his life, dressed so badly that he was once
seized by the press-gang. Not long since, as I entered the hall of a
public hotel, I saw a person so villainously habited, that supposing
him to be one of the servants, I desired him to take my luggage
upstairs, and was on the point of offering him a shilling, when I
discovered that I was addressing the Honorable Mr. * * *, one of the
most eminent American statesmen.



CHAPTER III.
SALUTATIONS.


The salutation, says a French writer, is the touchstone of good
breeding. According to circumstances, it should be respectful, cordial,
civil, affectionate or familiar:—an inclination of the head, a gesture
with the hand, the touching or doffing of the hat.

If you remove your hat you need not at the same time bend the dorsal
vertebræ of your body, unless you wish to be very reverential, as in
saluting a bishop.

It is a mark of high breeding not to speak to a lady in the street,
until you perceive that she has noticed you by an inclination of the
head.

Some ladies _courtesy_ in the street, a movement not gracefully
consistent with locomotion. They should always _bow._

If an individual of the lowest rank, or without any rank at all, takes
off his hat to you, you should do the same in return. A bow, says La
Fontaine, is a note drawn at sight. If you acknowledge it, you must pay
the full amount. The two best-bred men in England, Charles the Second
and George the Fourth, never failed to take off their hats to the
meanest of their subjects.

Avoid condescending bows to your friends and equals. If you meet a rich
parvenu, whose consequence you wish to reprove, you may salute him in a
very patronizing manner: or else, in acknowledging his bow, look
somewhat surprised and say, “Mister—eh—eh?”

If you have remarkably fine teeth, you may smile affectionately upon
the bowee, without speaking.

In passing ladies of rank, whom you meet in society, bow, but do not
speak.

If you have anything to say to any one in the street, especially a
lady, however intimate you may be, do not stop the person, but turn
round and walk in company; you can take leave at the end of the street.

If there is any one of your acquaintance, with whom you have a
difference, do not avoid looking at him, unless from the nature of
things the quarrel is necessarily for life. It is almost always better
to bow with cold civility, though without speaking.

As a general rule never _cut_ any one in the street. Even political and
steamboat acquaintances should be noticed by the slightest movement in
the world. If they presume to converse with you, or stop you to
introduce their companion, it is then time to use your eye-glass, and
say, “I never knew you.”

If you address a lady in the open air, you remain uncovered until she
has desired you _twice_ to put on your hat. In general, if you are in
any place where _etiquette_ requires you to remain uncovered or
standing, and a lady, or one much your superior, requests you to be
covered or to sit, you may how off the command. If it is repeated, you
should comply. You thereby pay the person a marked, but delicate,
compliment, by allowing their will to be superior to the general
obligations of etiquette.

When two Americans, who “have not been introduced,” meet in some public
place, as in a theatre, a stagecoach, or a steamboat, they will sit for
an hour staring in one another’s faces, but without a word of
conversation. This form of unpoliteness has been adopted from the
English, and it is as little worthy of imitation as the form of their
government. Good sense and convenience are the foundations of good
breeding; and it is assuredly vastly more reasonable and more agreeable
to enjoy a passing gratification, when no sequent evil is to be
apprehended, than to be rendered uncomfortable by an ill-founded pride.
It is therefore better to carry on an easy and civil conversation. A
snuff-box, or some polite accommodation rendered, may serve for an
opening. Talk only about generalities,—the play, the roads, the
weather. Avoid speaking of persons or politics, for, if the individual
is of the opposite party to yourself, you will be engaged in a
controversy: if he holds the same opinions, you will be overwhelmed
with a flood of vulgar intelligence, which may soil your mind. Be
reservedly civil while the colloquy lasts, and let the acquaintance
cease with the occasion.

When you are introduced to a gentleman do not give your hand, but
merely bow with politeness: and if you have requested the introduction,
or know the person by reputation, you may make a speech. I am aware
that high authority might easily be found in this country to sanction
the custom of giving the hand upon a first meeting, but it is
undoubtedly a solecism in manners. The habit has been adopted by us,
with some improvement for the worse, from France. When two Frenchmen
are presented to one another, each _presses_ the other’s hand with
delicate affection. The English, however, never do so: and the
practice, if abstractly correct, is altogether inconsistent with the
caution of manner which is characteristic of their nation and our own.
If we are to follow the French, in shaking hands with one whom we have
never before seen, we should certainly imitate them also in kissing our
_intimate_ male acquaintances. If, however, you ought only to bow to a
new acquaintance, you surely should do more to old ones. If you meet an
intimate friend fifty times in a morning, give your hand every time,—an
observance of propriety, which, though worthy of universal adoption, is
in this country only followed by the purists in politeness. The
requisitions of etiquette, if they should be obeyed at all, should be
obeyed fully. This decent formality prevents acquaintance from being
too distant, while, at the same time, it preserves the “familiar” from
becoming “vulgar.” They may be little things, but

“These little things are great to little men.”

Goldsmith.



CHAPTER IV.
THE DRAWING-ROOM. COMPANY. CONVERSATION.


The grand object for which a gentleman exists, is to excel in company.
Conversation is the mean of his distinction,—the drawing-room the scene
of his glory.

When you enter a drawing-room, where there is a ball or a party, you
salute the lady of the house before speaking to any one else. Even your
most intimate friends are enveloped in an opaque atmosphere until you
have made your bow to your entertainer. We must take occasion here to
obelize a custom which prevails too generally in this country. The
company enter the back door of the back parlour, and the mistress of
the house is seated at the other extremity of the front parlour. It is
therefore necessary to traverse the length of two rooms in order to
reach her. A voyage of this kind is by no means an easy undertaking,
when there are Circes and Calypsos assailing one on every side; and
when one has reached the conclusion, one cannot perhaps distinguish the
object of one’s search at a _coup d’œil._ It would be in every point of
view more appropriate if the lady were to stand directly opposite to
the door of the back parlour. Such is the custom in the best companies
abroad. Upon a single gentleman entering at a late hour, it is not so
obligatory to speak first to the mistress of the ceremonies. He may be
allowed to converge his way up to her. When you leave a room before the
others, go without speaking to any one, and, if possible, unseen.

Never permit the sanctity of the drawing-room to be violated by a boot.

Fashionable society is divided into _sets_, in all of which there is
some peculiarity of manner, or some dominant tone of feeling. It is
necessary to study these peculiarities before entering the circle.

In each of these sets there is generally some _gentleman_, who rules,
and gives it its character, or, rather, who is not ruler, but the first
and most favoured subject, and the prime minister of the ladies’ will.
Him you must endeavour to imitate, taking care not to imitate him so
well as to excel him. To differ in manner or opinion from him is to
render yourself unfit for that circle. To speak disrespectfully of him
is to insult personally every lady who composes it.

In company, though none are “free,” yet all are “equal.” All therefore
whom you meet, should be treated with equal respect, although interest
may dictate toward each different degrees of attention. It is
disrespectful to the inviter to shun any of her guests. Those whom she
has honoured by asking to her house, you should sanction by admitting
to your acquaintance.

If you meet any one whom you have never heard of before at the table of
a gentleman, or in the drawing-room of a lady, you may converse with
him with entire propriety. The form of “introduction” is nothing more
than a statement by a mutual friend that two gentlemen are by rank and
manners fit acquaintances for one another. All this may be presumed
from the fact, that both meet at a respectable house. This is the
theory of the matter. Custom, however, requires that you should take
the earliest opportunity afterwards to be regularly presented to such
an one.

Men of all sorts of occupations meet in society. As they go there to
unbend their minds and escape from the fetters of business, you should
never, in an evening, speak to a man about his professions. Do not talk
of politics with a journalist, of fevers to a physician, of stocks to a
broker,—nor, unless you wish to enrage him to the utmost, of
education to a collegian. The error which is here condemned is often
committed from mere good nature and a desire to be affable. But it
betrays to a gentleman, ignorance of the world—to a philosopher,
ignorance of human nature. The one considers that “Tous les hommes sont
égaux devant la politesse:” the other remembers that though it may be
agreeable to be patronised and assisted, yet it is still more agreeable
to be treated as if you needed no patronage, and were above assistance.

Sir Joshua Reynolds once received from two noblemen invitations to
visit them on Sunday morning. The first, whom he waited upon, welcomed
him with the most obsequious condescension, treated him with all the
attention in the world, professed that he was so desirous of seeing
him, that he had mentioned Sunday as the time for his visit, supposing
him to be too much engaged during the week, to spare time enough for
the purpose, concluded his compliments by an eulogy on painting, and
smiled him affectionately to the door. Sir Joshua left him, to call
upon the other. That one received him with respectful civility, and
behaved to him as he would have behaved to an equal in the
peerage:—said nothing about Raphael nor Correggio, but conversed with
ease about literature and men. This nobleman was the Earl of
Chesterfield. Sir Joshua felt, that though the one had said that he
respected him, the other had proved that he did, and went away from
this one gratified rather than from the first. Reader, there is wisdom
in this anecdote. Mark, learn, and inwardly digest it: and let this be
the moral which you deduce,—that there is distinction in society, but
that there are no distinctions.

The great business in company is conversation. It should be studied as
art. Style in conversation is as important, and as capable of
cultivation as style in writing. The manner of saying things is what
gives them their value.

The most important requisite for succeeding here, is constant and
unfaltering attention. That which Churchill has noted as the greatest
virtue on the stage, is also the most necessary in company,—to be
“always attentive to the business of the scene.” Your understanding
should, like your person, be armed at all points. Never go into society
with your mind _en deshabille._ It is fatal to success to be all absent
or _distrait._ The secret of conversation has been said to consist in
building upon the remark of your companion. Men of the strongest minds,
who have solitary habits and bookish dispositions, rarely excel in
sprightly colloquy, because they seize upon the _thing_ itself,—the
subject abstractly,—instead of attending to the _language_ of other
speakers, and do not cultivate _verbal_ pleasantries and refinements.
He who does otherwise gains a reputation for quickness, and pleases by
showing that he has regarded the observation of others.

It is an error to suppose that conversation consists in talking. A more
important thing is to listen discreetly. Mirabeau said, that to succeed
in the world, it is necessary to submit to be taught many things which
you understand, by persons who know nothing about them. Flattery is the
smoothest path to success; and the most refined and gratifying
compliment you can pay, is to listen. “The wit of conversation consists
more in finding it in others,” says La Bruyère, “than in showing a
great deal yourself: he who goes from your conversation pleased with
himself and his own wit, is perfectly well pleased with you. Most men
had rather please than admire you, and seek less to be instructed,—nay,
delighted,—than to be approved and applauded. The most delicate
pleasure is to please another.”

It is certainly proper enough to convince others of your merits. But
the highest idea which you can give a man of your own penetration, is
to be thoroughly impressed with his.

Patience is a social engine, as well as a Christian virtue. To listen,
to wait, and to be wearied are the certain elements of good fortune.

If there be any foreigner present at a dinner party, or small evening
party, who does not understand the language which is spoken, good
breeding requires that the conversation should be carried on entirely
in his language. Even among your most intimate friends, never address
any one in a language not understood by all the others. It is as bad as
whispering.

Never speak to any one in company about a private affair which is not
understood by others, as asking how _that_ matter is coming on, &c. In
so doing you indicate your opinion that the rest are _de trop._ If you
wish to make any such inquiries, always explain to others the business
about which you inquire, if the subject admit of it.

If upon the entrance of a visitor you continue a conversation begun
before, you should always explain the subject to the new-comer.

If there is any one in the company whom you do not know, be careful how
you let off any epigrams or pleasant little sarcasms. You might be very
witty upon halters to a man whose father had been hanged. The first
requisite for successful conversation is to know your company well.

We have spoken above of the necessity of relinquishing the prerogative
of our race, and being contented with recipient silence. There is
another precept of a kindred nature to be observed, namely, not to talk
too well when you do talk. You do not raise yourself much in the
opinion of another, if at the same time that you amuse him, you wound
him in the nicest point,—his self-love. Besides irritating vanity, a
constant flow of wit is excessively fatiguing to the listeners. A witty
man is an agreeable acquaintance, but a tiresome friend. “The wit of
the company, next to the butt of the company,” says Mrs. Montagu, “is
the meanest person in it. The great duty of conversation is to follow
suit, as you do at whist: if the eldest hand plays the deuce of
diamonds, let not his next neighbour dash down the king of hearts,
because his hand is full of honours. I do not love to see a man of wit
win all the tricks in conversation.”

In addressing any one, always look at him; and if there are several
present, you will please more by directing some portion of your
conversation, as an anecdote or statement, to each one individually in
turn. This was the great secret of Sheridan’s charming manner. His
bon-mots were not numerous.

Never ask a question under any circumstances. In the first place it is
too proud; in the second place, it may be very inconvenient or very
awkward to give a reply. A lady lately inquired of what branch of
medical practice a certain gentleman was professor. He held the chair
of _midwifery_!

It is indispensable for conversation to be well acquainted with the
current news and the historical events of the last few years. It is not
convenient to be quite so far behind the rest of the world in such
matters, as the Courier des Etats-Unis. That sapient journal lately
announced the dethronement of Charles X. We may expect soon to hear of
the accession of Louis Philippe.

In society never quote. If you get entangled in a dispute with some
learned blockhead, you may silence him with a few extemporary
quotations. Select the author for whom he has the greatest admiration,
and give him a passage in the style of that writer, which most
pointedly condemns the opinion he supports. If it does not convince
him, he will be so much stunned with amazement that you can make your
escape, and avoid the unpleasant necessity of knocking him down.

The ordinary weapons which one employs in social encounter, are,
whether dignified or not, always at least honourable. There are some,
however, who habitually prefer to bribe the judge, rather than
strengthen their cause. The instrument of such is flattery. There are,
indeed, cases in which a man of honour may use the same weapon; as
there are cases in which a poisoned sword may be employed for
self-defence.

Flattery prevails over all, always, and in all places; it conquers the
conqueror of Danäe: few are beneath it, none above it: the court, the
camp, the church, are the scenes of its victories, and all mankind the
subjects of its triumphs. It will be acknowledged, then, that a man
possesses no very contemptible power who can flatter skillfully.

The power of flattery may be derived from several sources. It may be,
that the person flattered, finding himself gratified, and conscious
that it is to the flatterer that he is indebted for this gratification,
feels an obligation to him, without inquiring the reason; or it may be,
that imagining ourselves to stand high in the good opinion of the one
that praises us, We comply with what he desires, rather than forfeit
that esteem: or, finally, flattery may be only a marked politeness, and
we submit ourselves to the control of the flatterer rather than be
guilty of the rudeness of opposing him.

Flattery never should be direct. It should not be stated, but inferred.
It is better acted than uttered. Flattery should seem to be the
unwitting and even unwilling expression of genuine admiration. Some
very weak persons do not require that expressions of praise and esteem
toward them should be sincere. They are pleased with the incense,
although they perceive whence it arises: they are pleased that they are
of importance enough to have their favour courted. But in most eases it
is necessary that the flattery should appear to be the honest offspring
of the feelings. _Such_ flattery _must_ succeed; for, it is founded
upon a principle in our nature which is as deep as life; namely, that
we always love those who we think love us.

It is sometimes flattery to accept praises.

Never flatter one person in the presence of another.

Never commend a lady’s musical skill to another lady who herself plays.

It has often, however, a good effect to praise one man to his
particular friend, if it be for something to which that friend has
himself no pretensions.

It is an error to imagine that men are less intoxicated with flattery
than women. The only difference is that esteem must be expressed to
women, but proved to men.

Flattery is of course efficacious to obtain positive benefits. It is
of, more constant use, however, for purposes of defence. You conquer an
attack of rudeness by courtesy: you avert an attack of accusation by
flattery. Every:one remembers the anecdote of Dr. Johnson and Mr.
Ewing. “Prince,” said Napoleon to Talleyrand, “they tell me that you
sometimes speculate improperly in the funds.” “They do me wrong then,”
said Talleyrand. “But how did you acquire so much money!” “I bought
stock the day before you were proclaimed First Consul,” replied the
ex-bishop, “and I sold it the day after.”

Compliments are light skirmishes in the war of flattery, for the
purpose of obtaining an occasional object. They are little false coins
that you receive with one hand and pay away with the other. To flatter
requires a profound knowledge of human nature and of the character of
your subject; to compliment skillfully, it is sufficient that you are a
pupil of Spurzheim.

It is a common practice with men to abstain from grave conversation
with women. And the habit is in general judicious. If the woman is
young, gay and trifling, talk to her only of the latest fashions, the
gossip of the day, etc. But this in other cases is not to be done. Most
women who are a little old, particularly married women — and even some
who are young — wish to obtain a reputation for intellect and an
acquaintance With science. You therefore pay them a real compliment,
and gratify their self-love, by conversing occasionally upon grave
matters, which they do not understand, and do not really relish. You
may interrupt a discussion on the beauty of a dahlia, by observing that
as you know that they take an interest in such things you mention the
discovery of a new method of analyzing curves of double curvature. Men
who talk only of trifles will rarely be popular with women past
twenty-five.

Talk to a mother about her children. Women are never tired of hearing
of themselves and their children.

If you go to a house where there are children you should take especial
care to conciliate their good will by a little manly _tete-a-tete_,
otherwise you may get a ball against your skins, or be tumbled from a
three-legged chair.

To be able to converse with women you must study their vocabulary. You
would make a great mistake in interpreting _never, forever_, as they
are explained in Johnson.

Do not be for ever telling a woman that she is handsome, witty, etc.
She knows that a vast deal better than you do.

Do not allow your love for one woman to prevent your paying attention
to others. The object of your love is the only one who ought to
perceive it.

A little pride, which reminds you what is due to yourself, and a little
good nature, which suggests what is due to others, are the
pre-requisites for the moral constitution of a gentleman.

Too much vivacity and too much inertness are both fatal to politeness.
By the former we are hurried too far, by the latter we are kept too
much back.

_Nil admirari_, the precept of stoicism, is the precept for conduct
among gentlemen. All excitement must be studiously avoided. When you
are with ladies the case is different. Among them, wonder,
astonishment, ecstacy, and enthusiasm, are necessary in order to be
believed.

Never dispute in the presence of other persons. If a man states an
opinion which you cannot adopt, say nothing. If he states a fact which
is of little importance, you may carelessly assent. When you differ let
it be indirectly; rather a want of assent than actual dissent.

If you wish to inquire about anything, do not do it by asking a
question; but introduce the subject, and give the person an opportunity
of saying as much as he finds it agreeable to impart. Do not even say,
“How is your brother to-day?” but “I hope your brother is quite well.”

Never ask a lady a question about anything whatever.

It is a point of courtly etiquette which is observed rigorously by
every one who draws nigh, that a question must never be put to a king.

Never ask a question about the price of a thing. This horrible error is
often committed by a _nouveau riche._

If you have accepted an invitation to a party never fail to keep your
promise. It is cruel to the lady of the house to accept, and then send
an apology at the last moment. Especially do not break your word on
account of bad weather. You may be certain that many others will, and
the inciter will be mortified by the paucity of her guests. A cloak and
a carriage will secure you from all inconvenience, and you will be
conferring a real benefit.



CHAPTER V.
THE ENTRANCE INTO SOCIETY.


Women, particularly women a little on the decline, are those who make
the reputation of a young man. When the lustre of their distinction
begins to fade, a slight feeling of less wonted leisure, perhaps a
little spite, makes them observe attentively those who surround them.
Eager to gain new admirers, they encourage the first steps of a
_debutant_ in the career of society, and exert themselves to fit him to
do honour to their patronage.

A young man, therefore, in entering the world, cannot be too attentive
to conciliate the goodwill of women. Their approbation and support will
serve him instead of a thousand good qualities. Their judgment
dispenses with fortune, talent, and even intelligence. “Les hommes font
les lois: les femmes font les reputations.”

The desire of pleasing is, of course, the basis of social connexion.
Persons who enter society with the intention of producing an effect,
and of being distinguished, however clever they may be, are never
agreeable. They are always tiresome, and often ridiculous. Persons, who
enter life with such pretensions, have no opportunity for improving
themselves and profiting by experience. They are not in a proper state
to _observe_: indeed, they look only for the effect which they produce,
and with that they are not often gratified. They thrust themselves into
all conversations, indulge in continual anecdotes, which are varied
only by dull disquisitions, listen to others with impatience and
heedlessness, and are angry that they seem to be attending to
themselves. Such men go through scenes of pleasure, enjoying nothing.
They are equally disagreeable to themselves and others. Young men
should, therefore, content themselves with being natural. Let them
present themselves with a modest assurance: let them observe, hear, and
examine, and before long they will rival their models.

The conversation of those women who are not the most lavishly supplied
with personal beauty, will be of the most advantage to the young
aspirant. Such persons have cultivated their manners and conversation
more than those who can rely upon their natural endowments. The absence
of pride and pretension has improved their good nature and their
affability. They are not too much occupied in contemplating their own
charms, to be disposed to indulge in gentle criticism on others. One
acquires from them an elegance in one’s manners as well as one’s
expressions. Their kindness pardons every error, and to instruct or
reprove, their acts are so delicate that the lesson which they give,
always without offending, is sure to be profitable, though it may be
often unperceived.

Women observe all the delicacies of propriety in manners, and all the
shades of impropriety, much better than men; not only because they
attend to them earlier and longer, but because their perceptions are
more refined than those of the other sex, who are habitually employed
about greater things. Women divine, rather than arrive at, proper
conclusions.

The whims and caprices of women in society should of course be
tolerated by men, who themselves require toleration for greater
inconveniences. But this must not be carried too far. There are certain
limits to empire which, if they themselves forget, should be pointed
out to them with delicacy and politeness. You should be the slave of
women, but not of all their fancies.

Compliment is the language of intercourse from men to women. But be
careful to avoid elaborate and common-place forms of gallant speech. Do
not strive to make those long eulogies on a woman, which have the
regularity and nice dependency of a proposition in Euclid, and might be
fittingly concluded by Q. E. D. Do not be always undervaluing her rival
in a woman’s presence, nor mistaking a woman’s daughter for her sister.
These antiquated and exploded attempts denote a person who has learned
the world more from books than men.

The quality which a young man should most affect in intercourse with
gentlemen, is a decent modesty: but he must avoid all bashfulness or
timidity. His flights must not go too far; but, so far as they go, let
them be marked by perfect assurance.

Among persons who are much your seniors behave with the utmost
respectful deference. As they find themselves sliding out of importance
they may be easily conciliated by a little respect.

By far the most important thing to be attended to, is ease of manner.
Grace may be added afterwards, or be omitted altogether: it is of much
less moment than is commonly believed. Perfect propriety and entire
ease are sufficient qualifications for standing in society, and
abundant prerequisites for distinction.

There is the most delicate shade of difference between civility and
intrusiveness, familiarity and common-place, pleasantry and sharpness,
the natural and the rude, gaiety and carelessness; hence the
inconveniences of society, and the errors of its members. To define
well in conduct these distinctions, is the great art of a man of the
world. It is easy to know what to do; the difficulty is to know what to
avoid.

Long usage—a sort of moral magnetism, a tact acquired by frequent and
long associating with others—alone give those qualities which keep one
always from error, and entitle him to the name of a thorough gentleman.

A young man upon first entering into society should select those
persons who are most celebrated for the propriety and elegance of their
manners. He should frequent their company and imitate their conduct.
There is a disposition inherent, in all, which has been noticed by
Horace and by Dr. Johnson, to imitate faults, because they are more
readily observed and more easily followed. There are, also, many
foibles of manner and many refinements of affectation, which sit
agreeably upon one man, which if adopted by another would become
unpleasant. There are even some excellences of deportment which would
not suit another whose character is different. For successful imitation
in anything, good sense is indispensable. It is requisite correctly to
appreciate the natural differences between your model and yourself, and
to introduce such modifications in the copy as may be consistent with
it.

Let not any man imagine, that he shall easily acquire these qualities
which will constitute him a gentleman. It is necessary not only to
exert the highest degree of art, but to attain also that higher
accomplishment of concealing art. The serene and elevated dignity which
mark that character, are the result of untiring and arduous effort.
After the sculpture has attained the shape of propriety, it remains to
smooth off all the marks of the chisel. “A gentleman,” says a
celebrated French author, “is one who has reflected deeply upon all the
obligations which belong to his station, and who has applied himself
ardently to fulfil them with grace.”

Polite without importunity, gallant without being offensive, attentive
to the comfort of all; employing a well-regulated kindness, witty at
the proper times, discreet, indulgent, generous, he exercises, in his
sphere, a high degree of moral authority; he it is, and he alone, that
one should imitate.



CHAPTER VI.
LETTERS.


Always remember that the terms of compliment at the close of a
letter—“I have the honour to be your very obedient servant,” etc. are
merely forms—“signifying nothing.” Do not therefore avoid them on
account of pride, or a dislike to the person addressed. Do not presume,
as some do, to found expectations of favour or promotion from great men
who profess themselves your obliged servant.

In writing a letter of business it is extremely vulgar to use satin or
glazed gold-edged paper. Always employ, on such occasions, plain
American paper. Place the date at the top of the page, and if you
please, the name of the person at the top also, just above the ‘Sir;’
though this last is indifferent.

In letters to gentlemen always place the date at the end of the letter,
below his name. Use the best paper, but not figured, and never fail to
enclose it in an envelope. Attention to these matters is indispensable.

To a person whom you do not know well, say Sir, not ‘Dear Sir.’ It
formerly was usual in writing to a distinguished man to employ the form
‘Respected Sir,’ or something of the kind. This is now out of fashion.

There are a great many forms observed by the French in their letters,
which are necessary to be known before addressing one of that nation.
You will find them in their books upon such subjects, or learn them
from your French master. One custom of theirs is worthy of adoption
among us: to proportion the distance between the ‘Sir’ and the first
line of the letter, to the rank of the person to whom you write. Among
the French to neglect attending to this would give mortal offence. It
obtains also in other European nations. When the Duke of Buckingham was
at the court of Spain, some letters passed between the Spanish minister
Olivez and himself,—the two proudest men on earth. The Spaniard wrote a
letter to the Englishman, and put the ‘Monsieur’ on a line with the
beginning of his letter. The other, in his reply, placed the ‘Monsieur’
a little below it.

A note of invitation or reply is always to be enclosed in an envelope.

Wafers are now entirely exploded. A letter of business is sealed with
red wax, and marked with some common stamp. Letters to gentlemen demand
red wax sealed with your arms. In notes to ladies employ coloured wax,
but not perfumed.



CHAPTER VII.
VISITS.


Of visits there are various sorts; visits of congratulation, visits of
condolence, visits of ceremony, visits of friendship. To each belong
different customs.

A visit and an insult must be always returned.

Visits of ceremony should be very short. Go at some time when business
demands the employment of every moment. In visits of friendship adopt a
different course.

If you call to see an acquaintance at lodgings, and cannot find any one
to announce you, you knock very lightly at the door, and wait some time
before entering. If you are in too great a hurry, you might find the
person drawing off a night-cap.

Respectable visitors should be received and treated with the utmost
courtesy. But if a tiresome fellow, after wearying all his friends,
becomes weary of himself, and arrives to bestow his tediousness upon
you, pull out your watch with restlessness, talk about your great
occupations and the value of time. Politeness is one thing; to be made
a convenience of is another.

The style of your conversation should always be in keeping with the
character of the visit. You must not talk about literature in a visit
of condolence, nor about political economy in a visit of ceremony.

When a lady visits you, upon her retiring, you offer her your arm, and
conduct her to her carriage. If you are visiting at the same time with
another lady, you should take leave at the same time, and hand her into
her carriage.

After a hall, a dinner, or a concert, you visit during the week.

Pay the first visit to a friend just returned from a voyage.

Annual visits are paid to persons with whom you have a cool
acquaintance, They visit you in the autumn, you return a card in the
spring.

In paying a visit under ordinary circumstances, you leave a single
card. If there be residing in the family, a married daughter, an
unmarried sister, a transient guest, or any person in a distinct
situation from the mistress of the house, you leave two cards, one for
each party. If you are acquainted with only one member of a family, as
the husband, or the wife, and you wish to indicate that your visit is
to both, you leave two cards. Ladies have a fashion of pinching down
one corner of a card to denote that the visit is to only one of two
parties in a house, and two corners, or one side of the card, when the
visit is to both; but this is a transient mode, and of dubious
respectability.

If, in paying a morning visit, you are not recognized when you enter,
mention your name immediately. If you call to visit one member, and you
find others only in the parlour, introduce yourself to them. Much
awkwardness may occur through defect of attention to this point.

When a gentleman is about to be married, he sends cards, a day or two
before the event, to all whom he is in the habit of visiting. These
visits are never paid in person, but the cards sent by a servant, at
any hour in the morning; or the gentleman goes in a carriage, and sends
them in. After marriage, some day is appointed and made known to all,
as the day on which he receives company. His friends then all call upon
him. Would that this also were performed by cards!



CHAPTER VIII.
APPOINTMENTS AND PUNCTUALITY.


When you make an appointment, always be exact in observing it. In some
places, and on some occasions, a quarter of an hour’s _grace_ is given.
This depends on custom, and it is always better not to avail yourself
of it. In Philadelphia it is necessary to be punctual to a second, for
there everybody breathes by the State-house clock If you make an
appointment to meet anywhere, your body must be in a right line with
the frame of the door at the instant the first stroke of the great
clock sounds. If you are a moment later, your character is gone. It is
useless to plead the evidence of your watch, or detention by a friend.
You read your condemnation in the action of the old fellows who, with
polite regard to your feelings, simultaneously pull out their vast
chronometers, as you enter. The tardy man is worse off than the
murderer. _He_ may be pardoned by one person, (the Governor); the
unpunctual is pardoned by none. _Haud inexpectus loquor._

If you make an appointment with another at your own house, you should
be invisible to the rest of the world, and consecrate your time solely
to him.

If you make an appointment with a lady, especially if it be upon a
promenade, or other public place, you must be there a little before the
time.

If you accept an appointment at the house of a public officer, or a man
of business, be very punctual, transact the affair with despatch, and
retire the moment it is finished.



CHAPTER IX.
DINNER.


The hour of dinner has been said, by Dr. Johnson, to be the most
important hour in civilized life. The etiquette of the dinner-table has
a prominence commensurate with the dignity of the ceremony. Like the
historian of Peter Bell, we commence at the commencement, and thence
proceed to the moment when you take leave officially, or vanish unseen.

In order to dine, the first requisite is—to be invited. The length of
time which the invitation precedes the dinner is always proportioned to
the grandeur of the occasion, and varies from two days to two weeks. To
an invitation received less than two days in advance, you will lose
little by replying in the negative, for as it was probably sent as soon
as the preparations of the host commenced, you may be sure that there
will be little on the table fit to eat. Those abominations, y’clept
“plain family dinners,” eschew like the plague.

You reply to a note of invitation immediately, and in the most direct
and unequivocal terms. If you accept, you arrive at the house
rigorously at the hour specified. It is equally inconvenient to be too
late and to be too early. If you fall into the latter error, you find
every thing in disorder; the master of the house is in his
dressing-room, changing his waistcoat; the lady is still in the pantry;
the fire not yet lighted in the parlour. If by accident or
thoughtlessness you arrive too soon, you may pretend that you called to
inquire the exact hour at which they dine, having mislaid the note, and
then retire to walk for an appetite. If you are too late, the evil is
still greater, and indeed almost without a remedy. Your delay spoils
the dinner and destroys the appetite and temper of the guests; and you
yourself are so much embarrassed at the inconvenience you have
occasioned, that you commit a thousand errors at table. If you do not
reach the house until dinner is served, you had better retire to a
restaurateurs, and thence send an apology, and not interrupt the
harmony of the courses by awkward excuses and cold acceptances.

When the guests have all entered, and been presented to one another, if
any delay occurs, the conversation should be of the lightest and least
exciting kind; mere common-places about the weather and late arrivals.
You should not amuse the company by animated relations of one person
who has just cut his throat from ear to ear, or of another who, the
evening before, was choked by a tough beef-steak and was buried that
morning.

When dinner is announced, the inviter rises and requests all to walk to
the dining-room. He then leads the way, that they may not be at a loss
to know whither they should proceed. Each gentleman offers his arm to a
lady, and they follow in solemn order.

The great distinction now becomes evident between the host and the
guests, which distinction it is the chief effort of good breeding to
remove. To perform faultlessly the honours of the table, is one of the
most difficult things in society: it might indeed be asserted without
much fear of contradiction, that no man has as yet ever reached exact
propriety in his office as host, has hit the mean between exerting
himself too much and too little. His great business is to put every one
entirely at his ease, to gratify all his desires, and make him, in a
word, absolutely contented with men and things. To accomplish this, he
must have the genius of tact to perceive, and the genius of finesse to
execute; ease and frankness of manner; a knowledge of the world that
nothing can surprise; a calmness of temper that nothing can disturb,
and a kindness of disposition that can never be exhausted. When he
receives others, he must be content to forget himself; he must
relinquish all desire to shine, and even all attempts to please his
guests by conversation, and rather, do all in his power to let them
please one another. He behaves to them without agitation, without
affectation; he pays attention without an air of protection; he
encourages the timid, draws out the silent, and directs conversation
without Sustaining it himself. He who does not do all this, is wanting
in his duty as host; he who does, is more than mortal.

When all are seated, the gentleman at the head of the table sends soup
to every one, from the pile of plates which stand at his right hand. He
helps the person at his right hand first, and at his left next, and so
through the whole.

There are an immensity of petty usages at the dinner table, such as
those mentioned in the story of the Abbé Delille and the Abbé Cosson in
the Introduction to this volume, which it would be trifling and tedious
to enumerate hers, and which will be learned by an observing man after
assisting at two or three dinners.

You should never ask a gentleman or lady at the table to help you to
any thing, but always apply to the servants.

Your first duty at the table is to attend to the wants of the lady who
sits next to you, the second, to attend to your own. In performing the
first, you should take care that the lady has all that she wishes, yet
without appearing to direct your attention too much to her plate, for
nothing is more ill-bred than to watch a person eating. If the lady be
something of a _gourmande_, and in ever-zealous pursuit of the aroma of
the wing of a pigeon, should raise an unmanageable portion to her
mouth, you should cease all conversation with her, and look steadfastly
into the opposite part of the room.

In France, a dish, after having been placed upon the table for
approval, is removed by the servants, and carved at a sideboard, and
after. wards handed to each in succession. This is extremely
convenient, and worthy of acceptation in this country. But
unfortunately it does not as yet prevail here. Carving therefore
becomes an indispensable branch of a gentleman’s education. You should
no more think of going to a dinner without a knowledge of this art,
than you should think of going without your shoes. The gentleman of the
house selects the various dishes in the order in which they should be
cut, and invites some particular one to perform the office. It is
excessively awkward to be obliged to decline, yet it is a thing too
often occurring in,his country. When you carve, you should never rise
from your seat.

Some persons, in helping their guests, or recommending dishes to their
taste, preface every such action with an eulogy on its merits, and draw
every bottle of wine with an account of its virtues. Others, running
into the contrary extreme, regret or fear that each dish is not exactly
as it should be; that the cook, etc., etc. Both of these habits are
grievous errors. You should leave it to your guests alone to approve,
or suffer one of your intimate friends who is present, to vaunt your
wine. When you draw a bottle, merely state its age and brand, and of
what particular vintage it is.

Do not insist upon your guests partaking of particular dishes, never
ask persons more than once, and never put anything by force upon their
plates. It is extremely ill-bred, though extremely common, to press
one to eat of anything. You should do all that you can to make your
guests feel themselves at home, which they never can do while you are
so constantly forcing upon their minds the recollection of the
difference between yourself and them. You should never send away your
own plate until all your guests have finished.

Before the cloth is removed you do not drink wine unless with another.
If you are asked to take wine it is uncivil to refuse. When you drink
with another, you catch the person’s eye and bow with politeness. It is
not necessary to say anything, but smile with an air of great kindness.

Some one who sits near the lady of the house, should, immediately upon
the removal of the soup, request the honor of drinking wine with her,
which movement is the signal for all the others. If this is not done,
the master of the house should select some lady. _He_ never asks
gentlemen, but they ask him; this is a refined custom, attended to in
the best company.

If you have drunk with every one at the table, and wish more wine, you
must wait till the cloth is removed. The decanter is then sent round
from the head of the table, each person fills his glass, and all the
company drinks the Health of all the company. It is enough if you bow
to the master and mistress of the house, and to your opposite
neighbour. After this the ladies retire. Some one rises to open the
door for them, and they go into the parlour, the gentlemen remaining to
drink more wine.

After the ladies have retired, the service of the decanters is done.
The host draws the bottles which have been standing in a wine cooler
since the commencement of the dinner. The bottle goes down the left
side and up the right, and the same bottle never passes twice. If you
do not drink, always pass the bottle to your neighbour.

At dinner never call for ale or porter; it is coarse, and injures the
taste for wine.

It was formerly the custom to drink _porter_ with cheese. One of the
few real improvements introduced by the “Napoleon of the realms of
fashion” was to banish this tavern liquor and substitute _port._ The
dictum of Brummell was thus enunciated: “A gentleman never _malts_, he
_ports._”

A gentleman should always express his preference for some one sort of
wine over others; because, as there is always a natural preference for
one kind, if you say that you are indifferent, you show that you are
not accustomed to drink wines. Your preference should not of course be
guided by your real disposition; if you are afflicted by nature with a
partiality for port, you should never think of indulging it except in
your closet with your chamber-door locked. The only index of choice is
fashion;—either permanent fashion (if the phrase may be used), or some
temporary fashion created by the custom of any individual who happens
to rule for a season in society. Port was drunk by our ancestors, but
George the Fourth, upon his accession to the regency, announced his
royal preference for sherry. It has since been fashionable to like
sherry. This is what we call a _permanent_ fashion.

Champagne wine is drunk after the removal of the first cloth; that is
to say, between the meats and the dessert. One servant goes round and
places before each guest a proper-shaped glass; another follows and
fills them, and they are immediately drunk. Sometimes this is done
twice in succession. The bottle does not again make its appearance, and
it would excite a stare to ask at a later period for a glass of
champagne wine.

If you should happen to be blessed with those rely nuisances, children,
and should be entertaining company, never allow them to be brought in
after dinner, unless they are particularly asked for, and even then it
is better to say they are at school. Some persons, with the intention
of paying their court to the father, express great desire to see the
sons; but they should have some mercy upon the rest of the party,
particularly as they know that they themselves would be the most
disturbed of all, if their urgent entreaty was granted.

Never at any time, whether at a formal or a familiar dinner party,
commit the impropriety of talking to a servant: nor ever address any
remark about one of them to one of the party. Nothing can be more
ill-bred. You merely ask for what you want in a grave and civil tone,
and wait with patience till your order is obeyed.

It is a piece of refined coarseness to employ the fingers instead of
the fork to effect certain operations at the dinner table, and on some
other similar occasions. To know how and when to follow the fashion of
Eden, and when that of more civilized life, is one of the many points
which distinguish a gentleman from one not a gentleman; or rather, in
this case, which shows the difference between a man of the world, and
one who has not “the tune of the time.”* Cardinal Richelieu detected an
adventurer who passed himself off for a nobleman, by his helping
himself to olives with a fork. He might have applied the test to a vast
many other things. Yet, on the other hand, a gentleman would lose his
reputation, if he were to take up a piece of sugar with his fingers and
not with the sugar-tongs.

* Shakspeare


It is of course needless to say that your own knife should never be
brought near to the butter, or salt, or to a dish of any kind. If,
however, a gentleman should send his plate for anything near you, and a
knife cannot be obtained immediately, you may skillfully avoid all
censure by using _his_ knife to procure it.

When you send your plate for anything, you leave your knife and fork
upon it, crossed. When you have done, you lay both in parallel lines on
one side. A render who occupies himself about greater matters, may
smile at this precept. It may, indeed, be very absurd, yet such is the
tyranny of custom, that if you were to cross your knife and fork when
you have finished, the most reasonable and strong-minded man at the
table could not help setting you down, in his own mind, as a low-bred
person. _Magis sequor quam probo._

The chief matter of consideration at the dinner table, as indeed
everywhere else in the life of a gentleman, is to be perfectly composed
and at his ease. He speaks deliberately, he performs the most important
act of the day as if he were performing the most ordinary. Yet there is
no appearance of trifling or want of gravity in his manner; he
maintains the dignity which is becoming on so vital an occasion. He
performs all the ceremonies, yet in the style of one who performs no
_ceremony_ at all. He goes through all the complicated duties of the
scene, as if he were “to the manner born.”

Some persons, who cannot draw the nice distinction between too much and
too little, desiring to be particularly respectable, make a point of
appearing unconcerned and quite indifferent to enjoyment at dinner.
Such conduct not only exhibits a want of sense and a profane levity,
but is in the highest degree rude to your obliging host. He has taken a
great deal of trouble to give you pleasure, and it is your business to
be, or at least to appear, pleased. It is one thing, indeed, to stare
and wonder, and to ask for all the delicacies on the table in the style
of a person who had lived all his life behind a counter, but it is
quite another to throw into your manner the spirit and gratified air of
a man who is indeed not unused to such matters, but who yet esteems
them at their fall value.

When the Duke of Wellington was at Paris, as commander of the allied
armies, he was invited to dine with Cambaceres, one of the most
distinguished statesmen and _gourmands_ of the time of Napoleon. In the
course of the dinner, his host having helped him to some particularly
_recherché_ dish, expressed a hope that he found it agreeable. “Very
good,” said the hero of Waterloo, who was probably speculating upon
what he would have done if Blucher had not come up: “Very good; but I
really do not care what I eat.” “Good God!” exclaimed Cambaceres,—as he
started back and dropped his fork, quite “frighted from his
propriety,”—“Don’t care what you eat! What _did_ you come here for,
then?”

After the wine is finished, you retire to the drawing-room, where the
ladies are assembled; the master of the house rising first from the
table, but going out of the room last. If you wish to go before this,
you must vanish unseen.

We conclude this chapter by a word of important counsel to the
host:—Never make an apology.



CHAPTER X.
TRAVELLING.


It is an extremely difficult affair to travel in a coach, with perfect
propriety. Ten to one the person next to you is an English nobleman
_incognito_; and a hundred to one, the man opposite to you is a brute
or a knave. To behave so that you may not be uncivil to the one, nor a
dupe to the other, is an art of some niceness.

As the seats are assigned to passengers in the order in which they are
booked, you should send to have your place taken a day or two before
the journey, so that you may be certain of a back seat. It is also
advisable to arrive at the place of departure early, so that you assume
your place without dispute.

When women appear at the door of the coach to obtain admittance, it is
a matter of some question to know exactly what conduct it is necessary
to pursue. If the women are servants, or persons in a low rank of life,
I do not see upon what ground of politeness or decency you are called
upon to yield your seat. _Etiquette_, and the deference due to ladies
have, of course, no operation in the case of such persons.
Chivalry—(and the gentleman is the legitimate descendant of the knight
of old)—was ever a devotion to rank rather than to sex. Don Quixotte,
or Sir Piercy Shafestone would not willingly have given place to
servant girls. And upon considerations of humanity and regard to
weakness, the case is no stronger. Such people have nerves considerably
more robust than you have, and are quite as capable of riding
backwards, or the top, as yourself. The only reason for _politeness_ in
the case is, that perhaps the other passengers are of the same standing
with the women, and might eject you from the window if you refuse to
give place.

If _ladies_ enter—and a gentleman distinguishes them in an instant—the
case is altered. The sooner you move the better is it for yourself,
since the rest will in the end have to concede, and you will give
yourself a reputation among the party and secure a better seat, by
rising at once.

The principle that guides you in society is politeness; that which
guides you in a coach is good humour. You lay aside all attention to
form, and all strife after effect, and take instead, kindness of
disposition and a willingness to please. You pay a constant regard to
the comfort of your. fellow-prisoners. You take care not to lean upon
the shoulder of your neighbour when you sleep. You are attentive not to
make the stage wait for you at the stopping-places. When the ladies get
out, you offer them your arm, and you do the same when the coachman is
driving rapidly over a rough place. You should make all the
accommodations to others, which you can do consistently with your own
convenience; for, after all, the individuals are each like little
nations; and as, in the one case, the first duty is to your country, so
in the other, the first duty is to yourself.

Some surly creatures, upon entering a coach, wrap about their persons a
great coat of cloth, and about their minds a mantle of silence, which
are not thrown off during the whole journey. This is doing more harm to
themselves than to others. You should make a point of conversing with
an appearance of entire freedom, though with real reserve, with all
those who are so disposed.

One purpose and pleasure of travelling is to gain information, and to
observe the various characters of persons. You will be asked by others
about the road you passed over, and it will be awkward if you can give
no account of it. Converse, therefore, with all. Relate amusing
stories, chiefly of other countries, and even of other times, so as not
to offend any one. If engaged in discussion—and a coach is almost the
only place where discussion should _not_ be avoided—state facts and
arguments rather than opinions. Never answer impudent questions-and
never ask them.

At the meals which occur during a journey, you see beautiful
exemplification of the _dictum_ of Hobbes, “that war is the natural
state of man.” The entire scene is one of unintermitted war of every
person with every other person, with the viands, and with good manners.
You open your mouth only to admit edibles and to bellow to the waiters.
Your sole object is yourself. You drink wine without asking your
neighbour to join you; and if he should be so silly as to ask you to
hand him some specified dish, you blandly comply; but in the passage to
him, you transfer the whole of its contents to your own plate. There is
no halving in these matters. Rapacity, roaring, and rapidity are the
three requisites for dining during a journey. When you have resumed
your seat in the coach, you are as bland as a morning in spring.

Never assume any unreal importance in a stage-coach, founded on the
ignorance of your fellows, and their inability to detect it. It is
excessively absurd, and can only gratify a momentary and foolish
vanity; for, whenever you might make use of your importance, you would
probably be at once discovered. There is an admirable paper upon this
point in one of Johnson’s Adventurers.

The friendship which has subsisted between travellers terminates with
the journey. When you get out, a word, a bow, and the most unpleasant
act of life is finished and forgotten.



CHAPTER XI.
BALLS.


Invitations to a ball should be issued at least ten days in advance, in
order to give an opportunity to the men to clear away engagements; and
to women, time to prepare the artillery of their toilet. Cards of
invitation should be sent—not notes.

Upon the entrance of ladies, or persons entitled to deference, the
master of the house precedes them across the room: he addresses
compliments to them, and will lose his life to procure them seats.

While dancing with a lady whom you have never seen before, you should
not talk to her much.

The master of the ceremonies must take care that every lady dances, and
press into service for that purpose these young gentlemen who are
hanging round the room like fossils. If desired by him to dance with a
particular lady you should refuse on no account.

If you have no ear, that is, a false one, never dance.

To usurp the seat of a person who is dancing is the height of
incivility.

Never go to a public ball.



CHAPTER XII.
FUNERALS.


When any member of a family is dead, it is customary to send
intelligence of the misfortune to all who have been connected with the
deceased in relations of business or friendship. The letters which are
sent contain a special invitation to assist at the funeral.

An invitation of this sort should never be refused, though, of course,
you do not send a reply, for no other reason that I know of, excepting
the impossibility of framing any formula of acceptance.

You render yourself at the house an hour or two after the time
specified. If you were to sit long in the mournful circle you might be
rendered unfit for doing any thing for a week.

Your dress is black, and during the time of waiting you compose your
visage into a “tristful ’haviour,” and lean in silent solemnity upon
the top of your cane, thinking about— last night’s party. This is a
necessary hypocrisy, and assists marvellously the sadness of the
ceremony. You walk in a procession with the others, your carriage
following in the street. The first places are yielded to the relations
of the deceased.

The coffins of persons of distinction are carried in the hands of
bearers, who walk with their hats off.

You walk with another, in seemly order, and converse in a low tone;
first upon the property of the defunct, and next upon the politics of
the day. You walk with the others into the church, where service is
said over the body. It is optional to go to the grave or not. When you
go away, you enter your carriage and return to your business or your
pleasures.

A funeral in the morning, a ball in the evening,—“so runs the world
away.”



CHAPTER XIII.
SERVANTS.


Servants are a necessary evil. He who shall contrive to obviate their
necessity, or remove their inconveniences, will render to human comfort
a greater benefit than has yet been conferred by all the
useful-knowledge societies of the age. They are domestic spies, who
continually embarrass the intercourse of the members of a family, or
possess themselves of private information that renders their presence
hateful, and their absence dangerous. It is a rare thing to see persons
who are not controlled by their servants. Theirs, too, is not the only
kitchen cabinet which begins by serving and ends by ruling.

If we judge from the frequency and inconvenience of an opposite course,
we should say that the most important precept to be observed is, never
to be afraid of your servants. We have known many ladies who, without
any reason in the world, lived in a state of perfect subjugation to
their servants, who were afraid to give a direction, and who submitted
to disobedience and insult, where no danger could be apprehended from
discharging them.

If a servant offends you by any trifling or occasional omission of
duty, reprove the fault with mild severity; if the error be repeated
often, and be of a gross description, never hesitate, but discharge the
servant instantly, without any altercation of language. You cannot
easily find another who will serve you worse.

As for those precautions which are ordinarily taken, to secure the
procurence of good servants, they are, without exception, utterly
useless. The author of the Rambler has remarked, that a written
_character_ of a servant is worth about as much as a discharge from the
Old Bailey. I never, but once, took any trouble to inquire what
reputation a servant had held in former situations. On that occasion, I
heard that I had engaged the very Shakespeare of menials,— Aristides
was not more honest,—Zeno more truth-telling,—nor Abdiel more faithful.
This fellow, after insulting me daily for a week, disappeared with my
watch and three pair of boots.

Those offices which profess to recommend good domestics, are
“bosh,—nothing.” In nine cases out of ten, the keepers are in league
with the servants; and in the tenth, ignorance, dishonesty, or
carelessness will prevent any benefit resulting from,their
“intelligence.” All that you can do is, to take the most decent
creature who applies; trust in Providence, and lock every thing up.

Never speak harshly, or superciliously, or hastily to a servant. There
are many little actions which distinguish, to the eye of the most
careless observer, a gentleman from one not a gentleman; but there is
none more striking than the manner of addressing a servant. Issue your
commands with gravity and gentleness, and in a reserved manner. Let
your voice be composed, but avoid a tone of familiarity or sympathy
with them. It is better in addressing them to use a higher key of
voice, and not to suffer it to fall at the end of a sentence. The best
bred man whom we ever had the pleasure of meeting, always employed, in
addressing servants, such forms of speech as these—“I’ll thank you for
so and so,”—“Such a thing, if you please,”—with a gentle tone, but
very elevated key. The perfection of manner, in this particular, is, to
indicate by your language, that the performance is a favour, and by
your tone that it is a matter of course.

While, however, you practise the utmost mildness and forbearance in
your language, avoid the dangerous and common error of exercising too
great humanity in action. No servant, from the time of the first
Gibeonite downwards, has ever had too much labour imposed upon him;
while thousands have been ruined by the mistaken kindness of their
masters.

Servants should always be allowed, and indeed directed, to go to church
on Sunday afternoon. For this purpose, dinner is served earlier on that
day than usual. If it can be accomplished, the servants should be
induced to attend the same church as the family with whom they live;
because there may be reason to fear that if they profess to go
elsewhere, they may not go to church at all; and the habit of wandering
about the streets with idlers, will speedily ruin the best servant that
ever stood behind a chair.

Servants should be directed to announce visitors. This is always done
abroad, and is a convenient custom.

Never allow a female servant to enter a parlour. If all the male
domestics are gone out, it is better that there should be no attendance
at all.

Some ladies are in the habit of amusing their friends with accounts of
the difficulty of getting good servants, etc. This denotes decided ill
breeding. Such subjects should never be made topics of conversation.

If a servant offends you by any grossness of conduct, never rebuke the
offence upon the spot, nor indeed notice it at all at the time; for you
cannot do it without anger, and without giving rise to a _scene._
Prince Puckler Muskaw was, very properly, turned out of the Travellers’
Club for throwing a fork at one of the waiters.

In the house of another, or when there is any company present in your
own, never converse with the servants. This most vulgar, but not
uncommon, habit, is judiciously censured in that best of novels,—the
Zeluco of Dr. Moore.



CHAPTER XIV.
FASHION.


Fashion is a tyranny founded only on assumption. The principle upon
which its influence rests, is one deeply based in the human heart, and
one which has long been observed and long practised upon in every
department of life. In the literary, the religious, and the political
world, it has been an assured and very profitable conclusion, that the
public,

“Like women, born to be controlled,
Stoops to the forward and the bold.”


“Qui sibi fidit, dux regit examen,” is a maxim of universal truth.
Pococurante, in Candide, was admired for despising Homer and Michel
Angelo; he would have gained little distinction by praising them. The
judicious application of this rule to society, is the origin of
fashion. In despair of attaining greatness of quality, it founds its
distinction only on peculiarity.

We have spoken elsewhere of those complex and very rare
accomplishments, whose union is requisite to constitute a gentleman. We
know of but one quality which is demanded for a man of
fashion,—impudence. An impudence (self-confidence “the wise it call”)
as impenetrable as the gates of Pandemonium—a coolness and
imperturbability of self-admiration, which the boaster in Spencer
might envy—a contempt of every decency, as such, and an utter
imperviousness to ridicule,—these are the amiable and dignified
qualities which serve to rear an empire over the weakness and cowardice
of men.

To define the character of that which is changing even while we survey
it, is a task of no small difficulty. We imagine that there is only one
means by which it may be always described, viz., that it consists in an
entire avoidance of all that is natural and rational. Its essence is
affectation; effeminacy takes the place of manliness; drawling
stupidity, of wit; stiffness and hauteur, of ease and civility; and
self-illustration, of a decent and respectful regard to others.

A man of fashion must never allow himself to be pleased. Nothing is
more decidedly _de mauvais ton_ than any expression of delight. He must
never laugh, nor, unless his penetration is very great, must he even
smile; for he might by ignorance smile at the wrong place or time. All
real emotion is to be avoided; all sympathy with the great or the
beautiful is to be shunned; yet the liveliest feeling may be exhibited
upon the death of a poodle-dog.

At the house of an acquaintance, he must never praise, nor even look,
at the pictures, the carpets, the curtains, or the ottomans, because if
he did, it might be supposed that he was not accustomed to such things.

About two years ago, it began to be considered improper to pay
compliments to women, because if they are not paid gracefully they are
awkward, and to pay them gracefully is difficult. At the present time
it is considered dangerous to a man’s pretensions to fashion, in
England, to speak to women at all. Women are voted bores, and are to be
treated with refined rudeness.

There is no possible system of manners that will serve to exhibit at
once the uncivility and the high refinement which should characterize
the man of fashion. He must therefore have no manners at all. He must
behave with tame and passive insolence, never breaking into active
effrontery excepting towards unprotected women and clergymen. Persons
of no importance he does not see, and is not conscious of their
existence; those who have the same standing, he treats with easy scorn,
and he acknowledges the distinction of superiors only by patronizing
and protecting them. A man of fashion does not despise wealth; he
cannot but think _that_ valuable which procures to others the honour of
paying for his suppers.

Fashion is so completely distinguished from good breeding, that it is
even opposed to it. It is in fact a system of refined vulgarity. What,
for example can be more vulgar than incessantly _talking_ about forms
and customs? About silver forks and French soup? A gentleman follows
these conventional habits; but he follows them as matters of course. He
looks upon them as the ordinary and essential customs of refined
society. French forks are to him things as indispensable as a
table-cloth; and he thinks it as unnecessary to insist upon the one as
upon the other. If he sees a person who eats with his knife, he
concludes that that person is ignorant of the usages of the world, but
he does not shriek and faint away like a Bond-street dandy. If he dines
at a table where there are no silver forks, he eats his dinner in
perfect propriety with steel, and exhibits, neither by manner nor by
speech, that he perceives any error. To be sure, he forms his own
opinion about the rank of his entertainer, but he leaves it to such
new-made gentry as Mr. Theodore Hook, in his vulgar fashionable novels,
to harangue about such delinquencies. The vulgarity of insisting upon
these matters is scarcely less offensive than the vulgarity of
neglecting them. Lady Frances Pelham is but one remove better than a
Brancton.

A man of fashion never goes to the theatre; he is waiting for the
opera.

He, of course, goes out of town in the summer; or, if he cannot afford
to do so, he merely closes his window-shutters, and appears to be gone.

Fashion makes all great things little, and all little things great.

It is commonly said, that it requires more wit to perform the part of
the fool in a farce than that of the master. Without intending any
offence to the fool by the comparison, we may remark, that qualities of
an elevated character are required for the support of the _role_ of a
man of fashion in the solemn farce of life. He must have invention, to
vary his absurdities when they cease to be striking; he must have wit
enough to obtain the reputation of a great deal more; and he must
possess tact to know when and where to crouch, and where and when to
insult.

Brummel, whose career is one of the most extraordinary on record, must
have exercised, during the period of his social reign, many qualities
of conduct which rank among the highest endowments of our race. For an
obscure individual, without fortune or rank, to have conceived the idea
of placing himself at the head of society in a country the most
thoroughly aristocratic in Europe, relying too upon no other weapon
than well-directed insolence; for the same individual to have triumphed
splendidly over the highest and the mightiest—to have maintained a
contest with royalty itself, and to have come off victorious even in
that struggle—for such an one no ordinary faculties must have been
demanded. Of the sayings of Brummel which have been preserved, it is
difficult to distinguish whether they contain real wit, or are only so
sublimely and so absurdly impudent that they look like witty.

We add here a few anecdotes of Brummel, which will serve to show,
better than any precepts, the style of conduct which a man of fashion
may pursue.

When Brummel was at the height of his power, he was once, in the
company of some gentlemen, speaking of the Prince of Wales as a very
good sort of man, who behaved himself very decently, _considering
circumstances_; some one present offered a wager that he would not dare
to give a direction to this very good sort of man. Brummel looked
astonished at the remark, and declined accepting a wager upon such
point. They happened to be dining with the regent the next day, and
after being pretty well fortified. with wine, Brummel interrupted a
remark of the prince’s, by exclaiming very mildly and naturally,
“Wales, ring the bell!” His royal highness immediately obeyed the
command, and when the servant entered, said to him, with the utmost
coolness and firmness, “Show Mr. Brummel to his carriage.” The dandy
was not in the least dejected by his expulsion; but meeting the prince
regent, walking with a gentleman, the next day in the street, he did
not bow to him, but stopping the other, drew him aside and said, in a
loud whisper, “Who is that FAT FRIEND of ours?” It must be remembered
that the object of this sarcasm was at that time exceedingly annoyed by
his increasing corpulency; so manifestly so, that Sheridan remarked,
that “though the regent professed himself a Whig, he believed that in
his heart he was no friend to _new measures._”

Shortly after this occurrence at Carlton-House, Brummel remarked to one
of his friends, that “he had half a mind to cut the young one, and
bring old George into fashion.”

In describing a short visit which he had paid to a nobleman in the
country, he said, that he had only carried with him a night-cap and a
silver basin to spit in, “Because, you know, it is utterly impossible
to spit in clay.”

Brummel was once present at a party to which he had not been invited.
After he had been some time in the room, the gentleman of the house,
willing to mortify him, went up to him and said that he believed that
there must be some mistake, as he did not recollect having had the
honour of sending him an invitation. “What is the name?” said the other
very drawlingly, at the same time affecting to feel in his waistcoat
pocket for a card. “Johnson,” replied the gentleman. “Jauhnson?” said
Brummel, “oh! I remember now that the name was Thaunson (Thompson); and
Jauhnson and Thaunson, Thaunson and Jauhnson, you know, are so much the
same kind of thing.”

Brummel was once asked how much a year he thought would be required to
keep a single man in clothes. “Why, with tolerable economy,” said he,
“I think it might be done for £800.”

He once went down to a gentleman’s house in the country, without having
been asked to do so. He was given to understand, the next morning, that
his absence would be more agreeable, and he took his departure. Some
one having heard of his discomfiture, asked him how he liked the
accommodations there. He replied coolly, that “it was a very decent
house to spend a single night in.”

We have mentioned that this dreaded arbiter of modes had threatened
that he would put the prince regent out of fashion. Alas! for the peace
of the British monarch, this was not an idle boast. His dangerous rival
resolved in the unfathomable recesses of a mind capacious of such
things, to commence and to carry on a war whose terror and grandeur
should astound society, to administer to audacious royalty a lesson
which should never be forgotten, and finally to retire, when retire he
must, with mementos of his tremendous power around him, and with the
mightiest of the earth at his feet. Inventive and deliberate were the
counsels which he meditated; sublime and resolute was the conduct he
adopted. He decided, with an originality of genius to which the
conqueror of Marengo might have vailed, that the _neck_ of the foe was
the point at which the first fatal shaft of his excommunicating ire
should be hurled. With rapid and decisive energy he concentrated all
his powers for instantaneous action. He retired for a day to the
seclusion of solitude, to summon and to spur the energies of the most
self-reliant mind in Europe, as the lion draws back to gather courage
for the leap. As, like the lion, he drew back; so, like the lion, did
he spring forward upon his prey. At a ball given by the Duchess of
Devonshire, when the whole assembly were conversing upon his supposed
disgrace, and insulting by their malevolence one whom they had
disgusted by their adulation, Brummel suddenly stood in the midst of
them. Could it be indeed Brummel? Could it be mortal who thus appeared
with such an encincture of radiant glory about his neck? Every eye was
upon him, fixed in stupid admiration; every tongue, as it slowly
recovered from its speechless paralysis, faltered forth “what a
cravat!” What a cravat indeed! Hundreds that had, a moment before,
exulted in unwonted freedom, bowed before it with the homage of servile
adoration. What a cravat! There it stood; there was no doubting its
entity, no believing it an illusion. There it stood, smooth and stiff,
yet light and almost transparent; delicate as the music of Ariel, yet
firm as the spirit of Regulus; bending with the grace of Apollo’s
locks, yet erect with the majesty of the Olympian Jove: without a
wrinkle, without an indentation. What a cravat! The regent “saw and
shook;” and uttering a faint gurgle from beneath the wadded bag which
surrounded his royal thorax, he was heard to whisper with dismay, “D—n
him! what a cravat!” The triumph was complete.

It is stated, upon what authority we know not, that his royal highness,
after passing a sleepless night in vain conjectures, despatched at an
early hour, one of his privy-counsellors to Brummel, offering _carte
blanche_ if he would disclose the secret of that mysterious cravat. But
the “_atrox animus Catonis_” disdained the bribe. He preferred being
supplicated, to being bought, by kings. “Go,” said he to the messenger,
with the spirit of Marius mantling in his veins, “Go, and tell _you_r
master that you have seen _his_ master.”

For the truth of another anecdote, connected with this cravat, we have
indisputable evidence. A young nobleman of distinguished talents and
high pretensions as to fortune and rank, saw this fatal band, and eager
to advance himself in the rolls of fashion, retired to his chamber to
endeavour to penetrate the method of its construction. He tried every
sort of known, and many sorts of unknown stiffeners to accomplish the
end—paper and pasteboard, and wadding, shavings, and shingles, and
planks,—all were vainly experienced. Gargantua could not have exhibited
a greater invention of expedients than he did; but vainly. After a
fortnight of the closest application, ardour of study and anxiety of
mind combined, brought him to the brink of the grave. His mother having
ascertained the origin of his complaint, waited upon Brummel, who was
the only living man that could remove it. She implored him, by every
human motive, to say but one word, to save the life of her son and
prevent her own misery. But the tyrant was immoveable, and the young
man expired a victim of his sternness.

When, at length, yielding to that strong necessity which no man can
control, Brummel was obliged, like Napoleon, to abdicate, the mystery
of that mighty cravat was unfolded. There was found, after his
departure to Calais, written on sheet of paper upon his table, the
following epigram of scorn: “STARCH IS THE MAN.” The cravat of Brummel
was merely—starched! Henceforth starch was introduced into every cravat
in Europe.

Brummel still lives, an obscure consul in a petty European town.

Physically there is something to command our admiration in the history
of a man who thus lays at his mercy all ranks of men,—the lofty and the
low, the great, the powerful and the vain: but morally and seriously,
no character is more despicable than that of the mere man of fashion,
Seeking nothing but notoriety, his path to that end is over the ruins
of all that is worthy in our nature. He knows virtue only to despise
it; he makes himself acquainted with human feelings only to outrage
them. He commences his career beyond the limits of decency, and ends it
far in the regions of infamy. Feared by all and respected by none,
hated by his worshippers and despised by himself, he rules,—an object
of pity and contempt: and when his power is past, his existence is
forgotten; he lives on in an, oblivion which is to him worse than
death, and the stings of memory goad him to the grave.

The devotee of fashion is a trifler unworthy of his race; the _mere_
gentleman is a character which may in time become somewhat tiresome;
there is a just mean between the two, where a better conduct than
either is to be found. It is that of a man who, yielding to others,
still maintains his self-respect, and whose concessions to folly are
controlled by good sense; who remembers the value of trifles without
forgetting the importance of duties, and resolves so to regulate his
conduct that neither others may be offended by his stiffness, nor
himself have to regret his levity.

Live therefore among men—to conclude our homily after the manner of
Quarles—live therefore among men, like them, yet not disliking thyself;
and let the hues of fashion be reflected from thee, but let them not
enter and colour thee within.



CHAPTER XV.
MISCELLANEOUS.


There is nothing more ill bred in the world than continual talking
about good breeding.

You should never employ the word “_genteel_;” the proper word is
“_respectable._”

If you are walking down the street with another person on your arm, and
stop to say something to one of your friends, do not commit the too
common and most awkward error of introducing such persons to one
another. Never introduce morning visitors, who happen to meet in your
parlour without being acquainted. If _you_ should be so introduced,
remember that the acquaintance afterwards goes for nothing: you have
not the slightest right to expect that the other should ever speak to
you.

If you wish to be introduced to a lady, you must always have her
consent previously asked; this formality it is not necessary to observe
in the case of gentlemen alone.

Presents are the gauge of friendship. They also serve to increase it,
and give it permanence.

Among friends presents ought to be made of things of small value; or,
if valuable, their worth should be derived from the style of the
workmanship, or from some accidental circumstance, rather than from the
inherent and solid richness. Especially never offer to a lady a gift of
great cost: it is in the highest degree indelicate, and looks as if you
were desirous of placing her under an obligation to you, and of buying
her good will. The gifts made by ladies to gentlemen are of the most
refined nature possible: they should be little articles not purchased,
but deriving a priceless value as being the offspring of their gentle
skill; a little picture from their pencil, or a trifle from their
needle.

To persons much your superiors, or gentlemen whom you do not know
intimately, there is but one species of appropriate present—game.

If you make a present, and it is praised by the receiver, you should
not yourself commence undervaluing it. If one is offered to you, always
accept it; and however small it may be, receive it with civil and
expressed thanks, without any kind of affectation. Avoid all such
deprecatory phrases, as “I fear I rob you,” etc.

To children, the only presents which you offer are sugar-plums and
bon-bons.

Avoid the habit of employing French words in English conversation; it
is in extremely bad taste to be always employing such expressions as
_ci-devant_, _soi-disant_, _en masse_, _couleur de rose_, etc. Do not
salute your acquaintances with _bon jour_, nor reply to every
proposition, _volontiers._

In speaking of French cities and towns, it is a mark of refinement in
education to pronounce them rigidly according to English rules of
speech. Mr. Fox, the best French scholar, and one of the best bred men
in England, always sounded the x in _Bourdeaux_, and the s in Calais,
and on all occasions pronounced such names just as they are written.

In society, avoid having those peculiar preferences for some subjects,
which are vulgarly denominated. “_hobby horses._” They make your
company a _bore_ to all your friends; and some kind-hearted creature
will take advantage of them and _trot_ you, for the amusement of the
company.

A certain degree of reserve, or the appearance of it, should be
maintained in your intercourse with your most intimate friends. To
ordinary acquaintances retain the utmost reserve—never allowing them to
read your feelings, not, on the other hand, attempting to take any
liberties with them. Familiarity of manner is the greatest vice of
society. “Ah! allow me, my dear fellow,” says a rough voice, and at the
same moment a thumb and finger are extended into my snuff-box, which,
in removing their prey drop half of it upon my clothes,—I look up, and
recognize a person to whom I was introduced by mistake last night at
the opera. I would be glad to have less fellowship with such _fellows._
In former times great philosophers were said to have demons for
familiars,—thereby indicating that a familiar man is the very devil.

Remember, that all deviations from prescribed forms, on common
occasions, are vulgar; such as sending invitations, or replies, couched
in some unusual forms of speech. Always adhere to the immemorial
phrase,—“Mrs. X. requests the honour of Mr, Y.’s company,” and “Mr. Y.
has the honour of accepting Mrs. X.’s polite invitation.” Never
introduce persons with any outlandish or new-coined expressions; but
perform the operation with mathematical precision—“Mr. A., Mr. A’; Mr.
A’, Mr. A.”

When two gentlemen are walking with a lady in the street, they should
not be both upon the same side of her, but one of them should walk upon
the outside and the other upon the inside.

When you walk with a lady, even if the lady be young and unmarried,
offer your arm to her. This is always done in France, and is practised
in this country by the best bred persons. To be sure, this is done only
to married women in France, because unmarried women never walk alone
with gentlemen, but as in America the latter have the same freedom as
the former, this custom should here be extended to them.

If you are walking with a woman who has your arm, and you cross the
street, it is better not to disengage your arm, and go round upon the
outside. Such effort evinces a palpable attention to form, and _that_
is always to be avoided.

A woman should never take the arms of two men, one being upon either
side; nor should a man carry a woman upon each arm. The latter of these
iniquities is practised only in Ireland; the former perhaps in
Kamskatcha. There are, to be sure, some cases in which it is necessary
for the protection of the women, that they should both take his arm, as
in coming home from a concert, or in passing, on any occasion, through
a crowd.

When you receive company in your own house, you should never be much
dressed. This is a circumstance of the first importance in good
breeding.

A gentleman should never use perfumes; they are agreeable, however,
upon ladies.

Avoid the use of proverbs in conversation, and all sorts of cant
phrases. This error is, I believe, censured by Lord Chesterfield, and
is one of the most offensively vulgar things which a person can commit.
We have frequently been astonished to hear such a slang phrase as “the
whole hog” used by persons who had pretensions to very superior
standing. We would be disposed to apply to such an expression a
criticism of Dr. Johnson’s, which rivals it in Coarseness: “It has not
enough salt to keep it from stinking, enough wit to prevent its being
offensive.” We do not wish to advocate any false refinement, or to
encourage any cockney delicacy: but we may be decent without being
affected. The stable language and raft humour of Crockett and Downing
may do very well to amuse one in a morning paper, but it exhibits
little wit and less good sense to adopt them in the drawing-room. This
matter should be “reformed altogether.”

If a plate be sent to you, at dinner, by the master or mistress of the
house, you should always take it, without offering it to all your
neighbours as was in older times considered necessary. The spirit of
antique manners consisted in exhibiting an attention to ceremony; the
spirit of modern manners consists in avoiding all possible appearance
of form. The old custom of deferring punctiliously to others was
awkward and inconvenient. For, the person, in favor of whom the
courtesy was shown, shocked at the idea of being exceeded in
politeness, of course declined it, and a plate was thus often kept
vibrating between two bowing mandarins, till its contents were cold,
and the victims of ceremony were deprived of their dinner. In a case
like this, to reverse the decision which the host has made as to the
relative standing of his guests, is but a poor compliment to him, as it
seems to reprove his choice, and may, besides, materially interfere
with his arrangements by rendering _unhelped_ a person whom he supposes
attended to.

The same avoidance of too much attention to yielding place is proper in
most other cases. Shenstone, in some clever verses, has ridiculed the
folly; and Goldsmith, in his “Vicar,” has censured the inconvenience,
of such outrageous formality. These things are now managed better. One
person yields and another accepts without any controversy.

When you are helped to anything at a dinner table, do not wait, with
your plate untouched, until others have begun to eat. This stiff-piece
of mannerism is often occurring in the country, and indeed among all
persons who are not thoroughly bred. As soon as your plate is placed
before you, you should take up your knife and arrange the table
furniture around you, if you do not actually eat.

As to the instruments by which the operation of dining is conducted, it
is a matter of much consequence that entire propriety should be
observed as to their use. We have said nothing about the use of silver
forks, because we do not write for savages; and where, excepting among
savages, shall we find any who at present eat with other than a French
fork?. There are occasionally to be found some ancients, gentlemen of
the old school, as it is termed, who persist in preferring steel, and
who will insist on calling for a steel fork if there is none on the
table. They consider the modem custom an affectation, and deem that all
affectation should be avoided. They tread upon the pride of Plato, with
more pride. There is often affectation in shunning affectation. It is
better in things not material to submit to the established habits,
especially when, as in the present case, the balance of convenience is
decidedly on the part of fashion. The ordinary custom among well bred
persons, is as follows:—soup is taken with a spoon. Some foolish
_fashionables_ employ a fork! They might as well make use of a
broomstick. The fish which follows is eaten with a fork, a knife not
being used at all. The fork is held in the right hand, and a piece of
bread in the left. For any dish in which cutting is not indispensable,
the same arrangement is correct. When you have upon your plate, before
the dessert, anything partially liquid, or any sauces, you must not
take them up with a knife, but with a piece of bread, which is to be
saturated with the juices, and then lifted to the mouth. If such an
article forms part of the dessert, you should eat it with a spoon. In
carving, steel instruments alone are employed. For fowls a peculiar
knife is used, having the blade short and the handle very long. For
fish a broad and pierced silver blade is used.

A dinner—we allude to _dinner-parties_—in this country, is generally
despatched with too much hurry. We do not mean, that persons commonly
eat too fast, but that the courses succeed one another too
precipitately. Dinner is the last operation of the day, and there is no
subsequent business which demands haste. It is usually intended,
especially when there are no ladies, to sit at the table till nine,
ten, or eleven o’clock, and it is more agreeable that the _eating_
should be prolonged through a considerable portion of the entire time.
The conveniences of digestion also require more deliberation, and it
would therefore not be unpleasant if an interval of a quarter of an
hour or half an hour were allowed to intervene between the meats and
the dessert.

At dinner, avoid taking upon your plate too many things at once. One
variety of meat and one kind of vegetable is the _maximum._ When you
take another sort of meat, or any dish not properly a vegetable, you
always change your plate.

The fashion of dining inordinately late in this country is foolish. It
is borrowed from England without any regard to the difference in
circumstances between the two nations. In London, the whole system of
daily duties is much later. The fact of parliament’s sitting during the
evening and not in the morning, tends to remove the active part of the
day to a much more advanced hour. When persons rise at ten or two
o’clock, it is not to be expected that they should dine till eight or
twelve in the evening. There is nothing of this sort in France. There
they dine at three, or earlier. We have known some fashionable dinners
in different cities in this country at so late an hour as eight or nine
o’clock. This is absurd, where the persons have all breakfasted at
eight in the morning. From four o’clock till five varies the proper
hour for a dinner party here.

Never talk about politics at a dinner table or in a drawing room.

When you are going into a company it is of advantage to run over in
your mind, beforehand, the topics of conversation which you intend to
bring up, and to arrange the manner in which you will introduce them.
You may also refresh your general ideas upon the subjects, and run
through the details of the few very brief and sprightly anecdotes which
you are going to repeat; and also have in readiness one or two
brilliant phrases or striking words which you will use upon occasion.
Further than this it is dangerous to make much preparation. If you
commit to memory long speeches with the design of delivering them, your
conversation will become formal, and you will be negligent of the
observations of your company. It will tend also to impair that habit of
readiness and quickness which it is necessary to cultivate in order to
be agreeable.

You must be very careful that you do not repeat the same anecdotes or
let off the same good things twice to the same person. Richard Sharpe,
the “conversationist” as he was called in London, kept a regular book
of entry, in which he recorded where and before whom he had uttered
severally his choice sayings. The celebrated Bubb Doddington prepared a
manuscript book of original _facetiæ_, which he was accustomed to read
over when he expected any distinguished company, trusting to an
excellent memory to preserve him from iteration.

If you accompany your wife to a ball, be very careful not to dance with
her.

The lady who gives a ball dances but little, and always selects her
partners.

If you are visited by any company whom you wish to drive away forever,
or any friends whom you wish to alienate, entertain them by reading to
them your own productions.

If you ask a lady to dance, and she is engaged, do not prefer a request
for her hand at the next set after that, because she may be engaged for
that also, and for many more; and you would have to run through a long
list of interrogatories, which would be absurd and awkward.

A gentleman must not expect to shine in society, even the most
frivolous, without a considerable stock of knowledge. He must be
acquainted with facts rather than principles. He needs no very sublime
sciences; but a knowledge of biography and literary history, of the
fine arts, as painting, engraving, music, etc., will be of great
service to him.

Some men are always seen in the streets with an umbrella under their
arm. Such a foible may be permitted to such men as Mr. Southey and the
Duke of Wellington: but in ordinary men it looks like affectation, and
the monotony is exceedingly _boring_ to the sight.

To applaud at a play is not _fashionable_; but it is _respectable_ to
evince by a gentle concurrence of one finger and a hand that you
perceive and enjoy a good stroke in an actor.

If you are at a concert, or a private musical party, never beat time
with your feet or your cane. Nothing is more unpleasant.

Few things are more agreeable or more difficult, than to relate
anecdotes with entire propriety. They should be introduced gracefully,
have fit connexion with the previous remarks, and be in perfect keeping
with the company, the subject and the tone of the conversation; they
should be short, witty and eloquent, and they should be new but not
far-fetched.

In rapid and eager discourse, when persons are excited and impatient,
as at a ball or in a promenade, repeat nothing but the spirit and soul
of a story, leaping over the particulars. There are however many places
and occasions in which you may bring out the details with advantage,
precisely, but not tediously. When you repeat a true story be always
extremely exact. Mem. Not to forget the point of your story, like most
narrators.

When you are telling a flat anecdote by mistake, laugh egregiously,
that others may do the same: when you repeat a spirited and striking
bon mot, be grave and composed, in order that others may not be the
same.

For one who has travelled much, to hit the proper medium between too
much reserve and too much intrusion, on the subject of his adventures,
is not easy. Such a person is expected to give amusement by pleasant
histories of his travels, and it is agreeable that he should do so, yet
with moderation; he should not reply to every remark by a memoir,
commencing, “When I was in Japan.”

Rampant witticisms which require one to laugh, are apt to grow
fatiguing: it is better to have a sprightly and amusing vein running
through your conversation, which, betraying no effort, allows one to be
grave without offence, or to smile without pain.

Punning is now decidedly out of date. It is a silly and displeasing
thing, when it becomes a habit. Some one has called it the wit of
fools. It is within the reach of the most trifling, and is often used
by them to puzzle and degrade the wise. Whatever may be its merits, it
is now out of fashion.

It is respectable to go to church once on Sunday. When you are there,
behave with decency. You should never walk in fashionable places on
Sunday afternoon. It is notoriously vulgar. If your health requires you
to take the air, you should seek some retired street.

In conversation avoid such phrases as “My _dear_ sir or madam.”

A gentleman is distinguished as much by his composure as by any other
quality. His exertions are always subdued, and his efforts easy. He is
never surprised into an exclamation or startled by anything. Throughout
life he avoids what the French call _scenes_, occasions of exhibition,
in which the vulgar delight. He of course has feelings, but he never
exhibits any to the world. He hears of the death of his pointer or the
loss of an estate with entire calmness when others are present.

It is very difficult for a literary man to preserve the perfect manners
and exact semblance of a gentleman. He must be able to throw aside all
the qualities which authorship tends to stamp so deeply upon him, and
thoroughly to despise the cant of the profession. Yet this must be done
without any affectation. Upon the whole, unless he has rare tact, he
will please as much by going into company with all the marks of his
employment upon his manners, than by awkwardly attempting to throw off
his load. One would rather see a man with his fingers inked, than to
see him nervously striving to cover them with a tattered kid glove. As
to literary ladies, they make up their minds to sacrifice all present
and personal admiration for future and abiding renown.

It is not considered fashionable to carry a watch. What has a
fashionable man to do with time? Besides he never goes into those
obscure parts of the town where there are no public clocks, and his
servant will tell him when it is time to dress for dinner. A gentleman
carries his watch in his pantaloons with a plain black ribbon attached.
It is only worthy of a shop-boy to put it in his waistcoat pocket.

Custom allows to men the privilege of taking snuff, however unneat this
habit may appear. If you affect the “tangible smell,” always take it
from a box, and not from your waistcoat pocket or a paper. The common
opinion, that Napoleon took snuff from his pocket, (which fact, by the
way, is denied by Bourrienne,) has for ever driven this convenient
custom from the practice of gentlemen, for the same reason that Lord
Byron’s anti-neckcloth fashion has compelled every man of sense to bind
a cravat religiously about his throat. As to taking snuff from a paper,
it is vile.

Women should abstain most scrupulously from tobacco, for nothing can be
more fatal to their divinity: they should at least avoid it until past
fifty;—that is to say, if a woman past fifty can anywhere be found.
Chewing is permitted only to galley-slaves and metaphysicians.

It was a favourite maxim of Rivarol, “Do you wish to succeed? Cite
proper names.” Rivarol is dead in exile, having left behind him little
property and less reputation. Judging from all experience, if we were
to frame an extreme maxim, it should be, “If you wish to succeed never
cite a proper name.” It will make you agreeable and hated. Your
conversation will be listened to with interest, and your company
shunned with horror. You will obtain the reputation of a gossip and a
scandal-bearer, and you will soon be obliged either to purchase a razor
or apply for a passport. If you are holding a tete-a-tete with a
notorious Mrs. Candour, then, indeed, your tongue should be as sharp
and nimble as the forked lightning. You must beat her at her own
weapons, and convince her that it would be dangerous to traduce your
character to others.

A bachelor is a person who enjoys everything and pays for nothing; a
married man is one that pays for everything and enjoys nothing. The one
drives a sulky through life, and is not expected to take care of any
one but himself: the other keeps a carriage, which is always too full
to afford him a comfortable seat. Be cautious then how you exchange
your sulky for a carriage.

In ordinary conversation about persons employ the expressions _men_ and
_women_; _gentleman_ and _lady_ are _distinctive_ appellations, and not
to be used upon general occasions.

You should say _forte-piano_, not _piano-forte_: and the _street door_,
not the _front door._

“A man may have virtue, capacity, and good conduct,” says La Bruyère,
“and yet be insupportable; the air and manner which we neglect, as
little things, are frequently what the world judges us by, and makes
them decide for or against us.”

In your intercourse with the world you must take persons as they are,
and society as you find it. You must never oppose the one, nor attempt
to alter the other. Society is a harlequin stage, upon which you never
appear in your own dress nor without a mask. Keep your real
dispositions for your fireside, and your real character for your
private friend. In public, never differ from anybody, nor from
anything. The _agreeable_ man is one who _agrees._

THE END.





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