A FORTUNE IN GOOD MANNERS
Give a boy address and accomplishments, and you give him the mastery of
palaces and fortunes wherever he goes; he has not the trouble of
earning or owning them; they solicit him to enter and possess.--EMERSON.
With hat in hand, one gets on in the world.--GERMAN PROVERB.
What thou wilt,
Thou must rather enforce it with thy smile,
Than hew to it with thy sword.
SHAKESPEARE.
Politeness has been compared to an air cushion, which, although there
is apparently nothing in it, eases our jolts wonderfully.--GEORGE L.
CAREY.
Birth's gude, but breedin's better.--SCOTCH PROVERB.
Conduct is three fourths of life.--MATTHEW ARNOLD.
"Why the doose de 'e 'old 'is 'ead down like that?" asked a cockney
sergeant-major angrily, when a worthy fellow soldier wished to be
reinstated in a position from which he had been dismissed. "Has 'e 's
been han hofficer 'e bought to know 'ow to be'ave 'isself better. What
use 'ud 'e be has a non-commissioned hofficer hif 'e didn't dare look
'is men in the face? Hif a man wants to be a soldier, hi say, let 'im
cock 'is chin hup, switch 'is stick abart a bit, an give a crack hover
the 'ead to hanybody who comes foolin' round 'im, helse 'e might just
has well be a Methodist parson."
The English is somewhat rude, but it expresses pretty forcibly the fact
that a good bearing is indispensable to success as a soldier. Mien and
manner have much to do with our influence and reputation in any walk of
life.
"Don't you wish you had my power?" asked the East Wind of the Zephyr.
"Why, when I start they hail me by storm signals all along the coast.
I can twist off a ship's mast as easily as you can waft thistledown.
With one sweep of my wing I strew the coast from Labrador to Cape Horn
with shattered ship timber. I can lift and have often lifted the
Atlantic. I am the terror of all invalids, and to keep me from
piercing to the very marrow of their bones, men cut down forests for
their fires and explore the mines of continents for coal to feed their
furnaces. Under my breath the nations crouch in sepulchers. Don't you
wish you had my power?"
Zephyr made no reply, but floated from out the bowers of the sky, and
all the rivers and lakes and seas, all the forests and fields, all the
beasts and birds and men smiled at its coming. Gardens bloomed,
orchards ripened, silver wheat-fields turned to gold, fleecy clouds
went sailing in the lofty heaven, the pinions of birds and the sails of
vessels were gently wafted onward, and health and happiness were
everywhere. The foliage and flowers and fruits and harvests, the
warmth and sparkle and gladness and beauty and life were the only
answer Zephyr gave to the insolent question of the proud but pitiless
East Wind.
The story goes that Queen Victoria once expressed herself to her
husband in rather a despotic tone, and Prince Albert, whose manly
self-respect was smarting at her words, sought the seclusion of his own
apartment, closing and locking the door. In about five minutes some
one knocked.
"Who is it?" inquired the Prince.
"It is I. Open to the Queen of England!" haughtily responded her
Majesty. There was no reply. After a long interval there came a
gentle tapping and the low spoken words: "It is I, Victoria, your
wife." Is it necessary to add that the door was opened, or that the
disagreement was at an end? It is said that civility is to a man what
beauty is to a woman: it creates an instantaneous impression in his
behalf.
The monk Basle, according to a quaint old legend, died while under the
ban of excommunication by the pope, and was sent in charge of an angel
to find his proper place in the nether world. But his genial
disposition and great conversational powers won friends wherever he
went. The fallen angels adopted his manner, and even the good angels
went a long way to see him and live with him. He was removed to the
lowest depths of Hades, but with the same result. His inborn
politeness and kindness of heart were irresistible, and he seemed to
change the hell into a heaven. At length the angel returned with the
monk, saying that no place could be found in which to punish him. He
still remained the same Basle. So his sentence was revoked, and he was
sent to Heaven and canonized as a saint.
The Duke of Marlborough "wrote English badly and spelled it worse," yet
he swayed the destinies of empires. The charm of his manner was
irresistible and influenced all Europe. His fascinating smile and
winning speech disarmed the fiercest hatred and made friends of the
bitterest enemies.
A gentleman took his daughter of sixteen to Richmond to witness the
trial of his bitter personal enemy, Aaron Burr, whom he regarded as an
arch-traitor. But she was so fascinated by Burr's charming manner that
she sat with his friends. Her father took her from the courtroom, and
locked her up, but she was so overcome by the fine manner of the
accused that she believed in his innocence and prayed for his
acquittal. "To this day," said she fifty years afterwards, "I feel the
magic of his wonderful deportment."
Madame Récamier was so charming that when she passed around the box at
the Church St. Roche in Paris, twenty thousand francs were put into it.
At the great reception to Napoleon on his return from Italy, the crowd
caught sight of this fascinating woman and almost forgot to look at the
great hero.
"Please, Madame," whispered a servant to Madame de Maintenon at dinner,
"one anecdote more, for there is no roast to-day." She was so
fascinating in manner and speech that her guests appeared to overlook
all the little discomforts of life.
According to St. Beuve, the privileged circle at Coppet after making an
excursion returned from Chambéry in two coaches. Those arriving in the
first coach had a rueful experience to relate--a terrific
thunder-storm, shocking roads, and danger and gloom to the whole
company. The party in the second coach heard their story with
surprise; of thunder-storm, of steeps, of mud, of danger, they knew
nothing; no, they had forgotten earth, and breathed a purer air; such a
conversation between Madame de Staël and Madame Récamier and Benjamin
Constant and Schlegel! they were all in a state of delight. The
intoxication of the conversation had made them insensible to all notice
of weather or rough roads. "If I were Queen," said Madame Tesse, "I
should command Madame de Staël to talk to me every day." "When she had
passed," as Longfellow wrote of Evangeline, "it seemed like the ceasing
of exquisite music."
Madame de Staël was anything but beautiful, but she possessed that
indefinable something before which mere conventional beauty cowers,
commonplace and ashamed. Her hold upon the minds of men was wonderful.
They were the creatures of her will, and she shaped careers as if she
were omnipotent. Even the Emperor Napoleon feared her influence over
his people so much that he destroyed her writings and banished her from
France.
In the words of Whittier it could be said of her as might be said of
any woman:--
Our homes are cheerier for her sake,
Our door-yards brighter blooming,
And all about the social air
Is sweeter for her coming.
A guest for two weeks at the house of Arthur M. Cavanaugh, M. P., who
was without arms or legs, was very desirous of knowing how he fed
himself; but the conversation and manner of the host were so charming
that the visitor was scarcely conscious of his deformity.
"When Dickens entered a room," said one who knew him well, "it was like
the sudden kindling of a big fire, by which every one was warmed."
It is said that when Goethe entered a restaurant people would lay down
their knives and forks to admire him.
Philip of Macedon, after hearing the report of Demosthenes' famous
oration, said: "Had I been there he would have persuaded me to take up
arms against myself."
Henry Clay was so graceful and impressive in his manner that a
Pennsylvania tavern-keeper tried to induce him to get out of the
stage-coach in which they were riding, and make a speech to himself and
his wife.
"I don't think much of Choate's spread-eagle talk," said a
simple-minded member of a jury that had given five successive verdicts
to the great advocate; "but I call him a very lucky lawyer, for there
was not one of those five cases that came before us where he wasn't on
the right side." His manner as well as his logic was irresistible.
When Edward Everett took a professor's chair at Harvard after five
years of study in Europe, he was almost worshiped by the students. His
manner seemed touched by that exquisite grace seldom found except in
women of rare culture. His great popularity lay in a magical
atmosphere which every one felt, but no one could describe, and which
never left him.
A New York lady had just taken her seat in a car on a train bound for
Philadelphia, when a somewhat stout man sitting just ahead of her
lighted a cigar. She coughed and moved uneasily; but the hints had no
effect, so she said tartly: "You probably are a foreigner, and do not
know that there is a smoking-car attached to the train. Smoking is not
permitted here." The man made no reply, but threw his cigar from the
window. What has her astonishment when the conductor told her, a
moment later, that she had entered the private car of General Grant.
She withdrew in confusion, but the same fine courtesy which led him to
give up his cigar was shown again as he spared her the mortification of
even a questioning glance, still less of a look of amusement, although
she watched his dumb, immovable figure with apprehension until she
reached the door.
Julian Ralph, after telegraphing an account of President Arthur's
fishing-trip to the Thousand Islands, returned to his hotel at two
o'clock in the morning, to find all the doors locked. With two friends
who had accompanied him, he battered at a side door to wake the
servants, but what was his chagrin when the door was opened by the
President of the United States!
"Why, that's all right," said Mr. Arthur when Mr. Ralph asked his
pardon. "You wouldn't have got in till morning if I had not come. No
one is up in the house but me. I could have sent my colored boy, but
he had fallen asleep and I hated to wake him."
The late King Edward, when Prince of Wales, the first gentleman in
Europe, invited an eminent man to dine with him. When coffee was
served, the guest, to the consternation of the others, drank from his
saucer. An open titter of amusement went round the table. The Prince,
quickly noting the cause of the untimely amusement, gravely emptied his
cup into his saucer and drank after the manner of his guest. Silent
and abashed, the other members of the princely household took the
rebuke and did the same.
Queen Victoria sent for Carlyle, who was a Scotch peasant, offering him
the title of nobleman, which he declined, feeling that he had always
been a nobleman in his own right. He understood so little of the
manners at court that, when presented to the Queen, after speaking to
her a few minutes, being tired, he said, "Let us sit down, madam;"
whereat the courtiers were ready to faint. But she was great enough,
and gave a gesture that seated all her puppets in a moment. The
Queen's courteous suspension of the rules of etiquette, and what it may
have cost her, can be better understood from what an acquaintance of
Carlyle said of him when he saw him for the first time. "His presence,
in some unaccountable manner, rasped the nerves. I expected to meet a
rare being, and I left him feeling as if I had drunk sour wine, or had
had an attack of seasickness."
Some persons wield a scepter before which others seem to bow in glad
obedience. But whence do they obtain such magic power? What is the
secret of that almost hypnotic influence over people which we would
give anything to possess?
Courtesy is not always found in high places. Even royal courts furnish
many examples of bad manners. At an entertainment given years ago by
Prince Edward and the Princess of Wales, to which only the very cream
of the cream of society was admitted, there was such pushing and
struggling to see the Princess, who was then but lately married, that,
as she passed through the reception rooms, a bust of the Princess Royal
was thrown from its pedestal and damaged, and the pedestal upset; and
the ladies, in their eagerness to see the Princess, actually stood upon
it.
When Catherine of Russia gave receptions to her nobles, she published
the following rules of etiquette upon cards: "Gentlemen will not get
drunk before the feast is ended. Noblemen are forbidden to strike
their wives in company. Ladies of the court must not wash out their
mouths in the drinking-glasses, or wipe their faces on the damask, or
pick their teeth with forks." But to-day the nobles of Russia have no
superiors in manners.
Etiquette originally meant the ticket or tag tied to a bag to indicate
its contents. If a bag had this ticket it was not examined. From this
the word passed to cards upon which were printed certain rules to be
observed by guests. These rules were "the ticket" or the etiquette.
To be "the ticket," or, as it was sometimes expressed, to act or talk
by the card, became the thing with the better classes.
It was fortunate for Napoleon that he married Josephine before he was
made commander-in-chief of the armies of Italy. Her fascinating
manners and her wonderful powers of persuasion were more influential
than the loyalty of any dozen men in France in attaching to him the
adherents who would promote his interests. Josephine was to the
drawing-room and the salon what Napoleon was to the field--a preeminent
leader. The secret of her personality that made her the Empress not
only of the hearts of the Frenchmen, but also of the nations her
husband conquered, has been beautifully told by herself. "There is
only one occasion," she said to a friend, "in which I would voluntarily
use the words, 'I _will_!'--namely, when I would say, 'I will that all
around me be happy.'"
"It was only a glad 'good-morning,'
As she passed along the way,
But it spread the morning's glory
Over the livelong day."
A fine manner more than compensates for all the defects of nature. The
most fascinating person is always the one of most winning manners, not
the one of greatest physical beauty. The Greeks thought beauty was a
proof of the peculiar favor of the gods, and considered that beauty
only worth adorning and transmitting which was unmarred by outward
manifestations of hard and haughty feeling. According to their ideal,
beauty must be the expression of attractive qualities within--such as
cheerfulness, benignity, contentment, charity, and love.
Mirabeau was one of the ugliest men in France. It was said he had "the
face of a tiger pitted by smallpox," but the charm of his manner was
almost irresistible.
Beauty of life and character, as in art, has no sharp angles. Its
lines seem continuous, so gently does curve melt into curve. It is
sharp angles that keep many souls from being beautiful that are almost
so. Our good is less good when it is abrupt, rude, ill timed, or ill
placed. Many a man and woman might double their influence and success
by a kindly courtesy and a fine manner.
Tradition tells us that before Apelles painted his wonderful Goddess of
Beauty which enchanted all Greece, he traveled for years observing fair
women, that he might embody in his matchless Venus a combination of the
loveliest found in all. So the good-mannered study, observe, and adopt
all that is finest and most worthy of imitation in every cultured
person they meet.
Throw a bone to a dog, said a shrewd observer, and he will run off with
it in his mouth, but with no vibration in his tail. Call the dog to
you, pat him on the head, let him take the bone from your hand, and his
tail will wag with gratitude. The dog recognizes the good deed and the
gracious manner of doing it. Those who throw their good deeds should
not expect them to be caught with a thankful smile.
"Ask a person at Rome to show you the road," said Dr. Guthrie of
Edinburgh, "and he will always give you a civil and polite answer; but
ask any person a question for that purpose in this country (Scotland),
and he will say, 'Follow your nose and you will find it.' But the
blame is with the upper classes; and the reason why, in this country,
the lower classes are not polite is because the upper classes are not
polite. I remember how astonished I was the first time I was in Paris.
I spent the first night with a banker, who took me to a pension, or, as
we call it, a boarding-house. When we got there, a servant girl came
to the door, and the banker took off his hat, and bowed to the servant
girl, and called her mademoiselle, as though she were a lady. Now, the
reason why the lower classes there are so polite is because the upper
classes are polite and civil to them."
A fine courtesy is a fortune in itself. The good-mannered can do
without riches, for they have passports everywhere. All doors fly open
to them, and they enter without money and without price. They can
enjoy nearly everything without the trouble of buying or owning. They
are as welcome in every household as the sunshine; and why not? for
they carry light, sunshine, and joy everywhere. They disarm jealousy
and envy, for they bear good will to everybody. Bees will not sting a
man smeared with honey.
"A man's own good breeding," says Chesterfield, "is the best security
against other people's ill manners. It carries along with it a dignity
that is respected by the most petulant. Ill breeding invites and
authorizes the familiarity of the most timid. No man ever said a pert
thing to the Duke of Marlborough, or a civil one to Sir Robert Walpole."
The true gentleman cannot harbor those qualities which excite the
antagonism of others, as revenge, hatred, malice, envy, or jealousy,
for these poison the sources of spiritual life and shrivel the soul.
Generosity of heart and a genial good will towards all are absolutely
essential to him who would possess fine manners. Here is a man who is
cross, crabbed, moody, sullen, silent, sulky, stingy, and mean with his
family and servants. He refuses his wife a little money to buy a
needed dress, and accuses her of extravagance that would ruin a
millionaire. Suddenly the bell rings. Some neighbors call: what a
change! The bear of a moment ago is as docile as a lamb. As by magic
he becomes talkative, polite, generous. After the callers have gone,
his little girl begs her father to keep on his "company manners" for a
little while, but the sullen mood returns and his courtesy vanishes as
quickly as it came. He is the same disagreeable, contemptible, crabbed
bear as before the arrival of his guests.
What friend of the great Dr. Johnson did not feel mortified and pained
to see him eat like an Esquimau, and to hear him call men "liars"
because they did not agree with him? He was called the "Ursa Major,"
or Great Bear.
Benjamin Rush said that when Goldsmith at a banquet in London asked a
question about "the American Indians," Dr. Johnson exclaimed: "There is
not an Indian in North America foolish enough to ask such a question."
"Sir," replied Goldsmith, "there is not a savage in America rude enough
to make such a speech to a gentleman."
After Stephen A. Douglas had been abused in the Senate he rose and
said: "What no gentleman should say no gentleman need answer."
Aristotle thus described a real gentleman more than two thousand years
ago: "The magnanimous man will behave with moderation under both good
fortune and bad. He will not allow himself to be exalted; he will not
allow himself to be abased. He will neither be delighted with success,
nor grieved with failure. He will never choose danger, nor seek it.
He is not given to talk about himself or others. He does not care that
he himself should be praised, nor that other people should be blamed."
A gentleman is just a gentle man: no more, no less; a diamond polished
that was first a diamond in the rough. A gentleman is gentle, modest,
courteous, slow to take offense, and never giving it. He is slow to
surmise evil, as he never thinks it. He subjects his appetites,
refines his tastes, subdues his feelings, controls his speech, and
deems every other person as good as himself. A gentleman, like
porcelain-ware, must be painted before he is glazed. There can be no
change after it is burned in, and all that is put on afterwards will
wash off. He who has lost all but retains his courage, cheerfulness,
hope, virtue, and self-respect, is a true gentleman, and is rich still.
"You replace Dr. Franklin, I hear," said the French Minister, Count de
Vergennes, to Mr. Jefferson, who had been sent to Paris to relieve our
most popular representative. "I succeed him; no man can replace him,"
was the felicitous reply of the man who became highly esteemed by the
most polite court in Europe.
"You should not have returned their salute," said the master of
ceremonies, when Clement XIV bowed to the ambassadors who had bowed in
congratulating him upon his election. "Oh, I beg your pardon," replied
Clement. "I have not been pope long enough to forget good manners."
Cowper says:--
A modest, sensible, and well-bred man
Would not insult me, and no other can.
"I never listen to calumnies," said Montesquieu, "because if they are
untrue I run the risk of being deceived, and if they are true, of
hating people not worth thinking about."
"I think," says Emerson, "Hans Andersen's story of the cobweb cloth
woven so fine that it was invisible--woven for the king's garment--must
mean manners, which do really clothe a princely nature."
No one can fully estimate how great a factor in life is the possession
of good manners, or timely thoughtfulness with human sympathy behind
it. They are the kindly fruit of a refined nature, and are the open
sesame to the best of society. Manners are what vex or soothe, exalt
or debase, barbarize or refine us by a constant, steady, uniform,
invincible operation like that of the air we breathe. Even power
itself has not half the might of gentleness, that subtle oil which
lubricates our relations with each other, and enables the machinery of
society to perform its functions without friction.
"Have you not seen in the woods, in a late autumn morning," asks
Emerson, "a poor fungus, or mushroom,--a plant without any solidity,
nay, that seemed nothing but a soft mush or jelly,--by its constant,
total, and inconceivably gentle pushing, manage to break its way up
through the frosty ground, and actually to lift a hard crust on its
head? It is the symbol of the power of kindness."
"There is no policy like politeness," says Magoon; "since _a good
manner often succeeds where the best tongue has failed_." The art of
pleasing is the art of rising in the world.
The politest people in the world, it is said, are the Jews. In all
ages they have been maltreated and reviled, and despoiled of their
civil privileges and their social rights; yet are they everywhere
polite and affable. They indulge in few or no recriminations; are
faithful to old associations; more considerate of the prejudices of
others than others are of theirs; not more worldly-minded and
money-loving than people generally are; and, everything considered,
they surpass all nations in courtesy, affability, and forbearance.
"Men, like bullets," says Richter, "go farthest when they are
smoothest."
Napoleon was much displeased on hearing that Josephine had permitted
General Lorges, a young and handsome man, to sit beside her on the
sofa. Josephine explained that, instead of its being General Lorges,
it was one of the aged generals of his army, entirely unused to the
customs of courts. She was unwilling to wound the feelings of the
honest old soldier, and so allowed him to retain his seat. Napoleon
commended her highly for her courtesy.
President Jefferson was one day riding with his grandson, when they met
a slave, who took off his hat and bowed. The President returned the
salutation by raising his hat, but the grandson ignored the civility of
the negro. "Thomas," said the grandfather, "do you permit a slave to
be more of a gentleman than yourself?"
"Lincoln was the first great man I talked with freely in the United
States," said Fred Douglass, "who in no single instance reminded me of
the difference between himself and me, of the difference in color."
"Eat at your own table," says Confucius, "as you would eat at the table
of the king." If parents were not careless about the manners of their
children at home, they would seldom be shocked or embarrassed at their
behavior abroad.
James Russell Lowell was as courteous to a beggar as to a lord, and was
once observed holding a long conversation in Italian with an
organ-grinder whom he was questioning about scenes in Italy with which
they were each familiar.
In hastily turning the corner of a crooked street in London, a young
lady ran with great force against a ragged beggar-boy and almost
knocked him down. Stopping as soon as she could, she turned around and
said very kindly: "I beg your pardon, my little fellow; I am very sorry
that I ran against you." The astonished boy looked at her a moment,
and then, taking off about three quarters of a cap, made a low bow and
said, while a broad, pleasant smile overspread his face: "You have my
parding, miss, and welcome,--and welcome; and the next time you run
ag'in' me, you can knock me clean down and I won't say a word." After
the lady had passed on, he said to a companion: "I say, Jim, it's the
first time I ever had anybody ask my parding, and it kind o' took me
off my feet."
"Respect the burden, madame, respect the burden," said Napoleon, as he
courteously stepped aside at St. Helena to make way for a laborer
bending under a heavy load, while his companion seemed inclined to keep
the narrow path.
A Washington politician went to visit Daniel Webster at Marshfield,
Mass., and, in taking a short cut to the house, came to a stream which
he could not cross. Calling to a rough-looking farmer near by, he
offered a quarter to be carried to the other side. The farmer took the
politician on his broad shoulders and landed him safely, but would not
take the quarter. The old rustic presented himself at the house a few
minutes later, and to the great surprise and chagrin of the visitor was
introduced as Mr. Webster.
Garrison was as polite to the furious mob that tore his clothes from
his back and dragged him through the streets as he could have been to a
king. He was one of the serenest souls that ever lived. Christ was
courteous, even to His persecutors, and in terrible agony on the cross,
He cried: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." St.
Paul's speech before Agrippa is a model of dignified courtesy, as well
as of persuasive eloquence.
Good manners often prove a fortune to a young man. Mr. Butler, a
merchant in Providence, R. I., had once closed his store and was on his
way home when he met a little girl who wanted a spool of thread. He
went back, opened the store, and got the thread. This little incident
was talked of all about the city and brought him hundreds of customers.
He became very wealthy, largely because of his courtesy.
Ross Winans of Baltimore owed his great success and fortune largely to
his courtesy to two foreign strangers. Although his was but a
fourth-rate factory, his great politeness in explaining the minutest
details to his visitors was in such marked contrast with the limited
attention they had received in large establishments that it won their
esteem. The strangers were Russians sent by their Czar, who later
invited Mr. Winans to establish locomotive works in Russia. He did so,
and soon his profits resulting from his politeness were more than
$100,000 a year.
A poor curate saw a crowd of rough boys and men laughing and making fun
of two aged spinsters dressed in antiquated costume. The ladies were
embarrassed and did not dare enter the church. The curate pushed
through the crowd, conducted them up the central aisle, and amid the
titter of the congregation, gave them choice seats. These old ladies
although strangers to him, at their death left the gentle curate a
large fortune. Courtesy pays.
Not long ago a lady met the late President Humphrey of Amherst College,
and she was so much pleased with his great politeness that she gave a
generous donation to the college.
"Why did our friend never succeed in business?" asked a man returning
to New York after years of absence; "he had sufficient capital, a
thorough knowledge of his business, and exceptional shrewdness and
sagacity." "He was sour and morose," was the reply; "he always
suspected his employees of cheating him, and was discourteous to his
customers. Hence, no man ever put good will or energy into work done
for him, and his patrons went to shops where they were sure of
civility."
Some men almost work their hands off and deny themselves many of the
common comforts of life in their earnest efforts to succeed, and yet
render success impossible by their cross-grained ungentlemanliness.
They repel patronage, and, naturally, business which might easily be
theirs goes to others who are really less deserving but more
companionable.
Bad manners often neutralize even honesty, industry, and the greatest
energy; while agreeable manners win in spite of other defects. Take
two men possessing equal advantages in every other respect; if one be
gentlemanly, kind, obliging, and conciliating, and the other
disobliging, rude, harsh, and insolent, the former will become rich
while the boorish one will starve.
[Illustration: Jane Addams]
A fine illustration of the business value of good manners is found in
the Bon Marché, an enormous establishment in Paris where thousands of
clerks are employed, and where almost everything is kept for sale. The
two distinguishing characteristics of the house are one low price to
all, and extreme courtesy. Mere politeness is not enough; the
employees must try in every possible way to please and to make
customers feel at home. Something more must be done than is done in
other stores, so that every visitor will remember the Bon Marché with
pleasure. By this course the business has been developed until it is
said to be the largest of the kind in the world.
"Thank you, my dear; please call again," spoken to a little beggar-girl
who bought a pennyworth of snuff proved a profitable advertisement and
made Lundy Foote a millionaire.
Many persons of real refinement are thought to be stiff, proud,
reserved, and haughty who are not, but are merely diffident and shy.
It is a curious fact that diffidence often betrays us into
discourtesies which our hearts abhor, and which cause us intense
mortification and embarrassment. Excessive shyness must be overcome as
an obstacle to perfect manners. It is peculiar to the Anglo-Saxon and
the Teutonic races, and has frequently been a barrier to the highest
culture. It is a disease of the finest organizations and the highest
types of humanity. It never attacks the coarse and vulgar.
Sir Isaac Newton was the shyest man of his age. He did not acknowledge
his great discovery for years just for fear of attracting attention to
himself. He would not allow his name to be used in connection with his
theory of the moon's motion, for fear it would increase the
acquaintances he would have to meet. George Washington was awkward and
shy and had the air of a countryman. Archbishop Whately was so shy
that he would escape notice whenever it was possible. At last he
determined to give up trying to cure his shyness; "for why," he asked,
"should I endure this torture all my life?" when, to his surprise, it
almost entirely disappeared. Elihu Burritt was so shy that he would
hide in the cellar when his parents had company.
Practice on the stage or lecture platform does not always eradicate
shyness. David Garrick, the great actor, was once summoned to testify
in court; and, though he had acted for thirty years with marked
self-possession, he was so confused and embarrassed that the judge
dismissed him. John B. Gough said that he could not rid himself of his
early diffidence and shrinking from public notice. He said that he
never went on the platform without fear and trembling, and would often
be covered with cold perspiration.
There are many worthy people who are brave on the street, who would
walk up to a cannon's mouth in battle, but who are cowards in the
drawing-room, and dare not express an opinion in the social circle.
They feel conscious of a subtle tyranny in society's code, which locks
their lips and ties their tongues. Addison was one of the purest
writers of English and a perfect master of the pen, but he could
scarcely utter a dozen words in conversation without being embarrassed.
Shakespeare was very shy. He retired from London at forty, and did not
try to publish or preserve one of his plays. He took second or
third-rate parts on account of his diffidence.
Generally shyness comes from a person thinking too much about
himself--which in itself is a breach of good breeding--and wondering
what other people think about him.
"I was once very shy," said Sydney Smith, "but it was not long before I
made two very useful discoveries; first, that all mankind were not
solely employed in observing me; and next, that shamming was of no use;
that the world was very clear-sighted, and soon estimated a man at his
true value. This cured me."
What a misfortune it is to go through life apparently encased in ice,
yet all the while full of kindly, cordial feeling for one's fellow men!
Shy people are always distrustful of their powers and look upon their
lack of confidence as a weakness or lack of ability, when it may
indicate quite the reverse. By teaching children early the arts of
social life, such as boxing, horseback riding, dancing, elocution, and
similar accomplishments, we may do much to overcome the sense of
shyness.
Shy people should dress well. Good clothes give ease of manner, and
unlock the tongue. The consciousness of being well dressed gives a
grace and ease of manner that even religion will not bestow, while
inferiority of garb often induces restraint. As peculiarities in
apparel are sure to attract attention, it is well to avoid bright
colors and fashionable extremes, and wear plain, well-fitting garments
of as good material as the purse will afford.
Beauty in dress is a good thing, rail at it who may. But it is a lower
beauty, for which a higher beauty should not be sacrificed. They love
dress too much who give it their first thought, their best time, or all
their money; who for it neglect the culture of the mind or heart, or
the claims of others on their service; who care more for dress than for
their character; who are troubled more by an unfashionable garment than
by a neglected duty.
When Ezekiel Whitman, a prominent lawyer and graduate of Harvard, was
elected to the Massachusetts legislature, he came to Boston from his
farm in countryman's dress, and went to a hotel in Boston. He entered
the parlor and sat down, when he overheard the remark between some
ladies and gentlemen: "Ah, here comes a real homespun countryman.
Here's fun." They asked him all sorts of queer questions, tending to
throw ridicule upon him, when he arose and said, "Ladies and gentlemen,
permit me to wish you health and happiness, and may you grow better and
wiser in advancing years, bearing in mind that outward appearances are
deceitful. You mistook me, from my dress, for a country booby; while
I, from the same superficial cause, thought you were ladies and
gentlemen. The mistake has been mutual." Just then Governor Caleb
Strong entered and called to Mr. Whitman, who, turning to the
dumfounded company, said: "I wish you a very good evening."
"In civilized society," says Johnson, "external advantages make us more
respected. A man with a good coat upon his back meets with a better
reception than he who has a bad one."
One cannot but feel that God is a lover of the beautiful. He has put
robes of beauty and glory upon all his works. Every flower is dressed
in richness; every field blushes beneath a mantle of beauty; every star
is veiled in brightness; every bird is clothed in the habiliments of
the most exquisite taste.
Some people look upon polished manners as a kind of affectation. They
claim admiration for plain, solid, square, rugged characters. They
might as well say that they prefer square, plain, unornamented houses
made from square blocks of stone. St. Peter's is none the less strong
and solid because of its elegant columns and the magnificent sweep of
its arches, its carved and fretted marbles of matchless hues.
Our manners, like our characters, are always under inspection. Every
time we go into society we must step on the scales of each person's
opinion, and the loss or gain from our last weight is carefully noted.
Each mentally asks, "Is this person going up or down? Through how many
grades has he passed?" For example, young Brown enters a drawing-room.
All present weigh him in their judgment and silently say, "This young
man is gaining; he is more careful, thoughtful, polite, considerate,
straightforward, industrious." Besides him stands young Jones. It is
evident that he is losing ground rapidly. He is careless, indifferent,
rough, does not look you in the eye, is mean, stingy, snaps at the
servants, yet is over-polite to strangers.
And so we go through life, tagged with these invisible labels by all
who know us. I sometimes think it would be a great advantage if one
could read these ratings of his associates. We cannot long deceive the
world, for that other self, who ever stands in the shadow of ourselves
holding the scales of justice, that telltale in the soul, rushes to the
eye or into the manner and betrays us.
But manners, while they are the garb of the gentleman, do not
constitute or finally determine his character. Mere politeness can
never be a substitute for moral excellence, any more than the bark can
take the place of the heart of the oak. It may well indicate the kind
of wood below, but not always whether it be sound or decayed.
Etiquette is but a substitute for good manners and is often but their
mere counterfeit.
Sincerity is the highest quality of good manners.
The following recipe is recommended to those who wish to acquire
genuine good manners:--
Of Unselfishness, three drachms;
Of the tincture of Good Cheer, one ounce;
Of Essence of Heart's-Ease, three drachms;
Of the Extract of the Rose of Sharon, four ounces;
Of the Oil of Charity, three drachms, and no scruples;
Of the Infusion of Common Sense and Tact, one ounce;
Of the Spirit of Love, two ounces.
The Mixture to be taken whenever there is the slightest symptom of
selfishness, exclusiveness, meanness, or I-am-better-than-you-ness.
Pattern after Him who gave the Golden Rule, and who was the first true
gentleman that ever breathed.