hand you take, while you retire a little out of the human current; and
never fall into the absurdity of attempting to draw a tight or moistened
glove while another waits the slow process. It is better to offer the
gloved hand as a rule, without apology, in the street.
If you are compelled to detain a friend, when he is walking with a
stranger, briefly but politely apologize to the stranger, and keep no
one "in durance vile" longer than absolute necessity requires. When thus
circumstanced yourself, respond cheerfully and courteously to the
apologetic phrase offered, and, drawing a little aside, occupy yourself
with anything beside the private conversation that interrupts your
walk. Sometimes circumstances render it decorous to pass on with some
courteous phrase, to step into some neighboring bookseller's, etc., or
to make a rapid appointment for a re-union. Cultivate the quick
discernment, the ready tact, that will engender _ease of manner_ under
those and similar circumstances requiring prompt action.
Never leave a friend suddenly in the street, either to join another, or
for any other reason, without an apology; the briefest phrase, expressed
in a _cordial tone_, will suffice, in an emergency.
Upon passing servants, or other inferiors in station, whom you wish to
recognize, in the street, it is a good practice, without bowing or
touching the hat, to salute them in a kindly voice.
When you meet a gentleman whom you know, walking with one or more
ladies, with whom you are not acquainted, bow with grave respect to them
also.
Politeness requires that upon meeting ladies and gentlemen together,
with both of whom one is acquainted, that one should lift the hat as he
approaches them, and bowing first to the ladies, include the gentleman
in a sweeping motion, or a succeeding bow, as the case permits. Should
you stop, speak first to the lady, but do not offer to shake hands with
a lady in full morning costume, should your glove be dark-colored or
your hand uncovered. Again lift your hat to each, in succession of age
or rank, as a substitute for this dubious civility, with some playful
expression, as "I am sorry my glove is not quite fresh, Mrs. ----, but
you need no assurance of my being always the most devoted of your
friends" or "admirers," or "Really, Miss ----, you are so beautifully
dressed, and looking so charmingly, that I dare not venture too near!"
And as you part, again take your hat quite off, letting the party _pass
you_, and on the wall side of the street, if that be practicable.
In the street with other men, carefully give that precedence to superior
age or station which is so becoming in the young, by taking the outer
side of the pavement, or that nearer the counter current, as
circumstances may make most polite. When you give, or have an arm,
carefully avoid all erratic movements, and _keep step_, like a
well-trained soldier!
Towards _ladies_, in the streets, the most punctilious observance of
politeness is due. Walking with them, one should, of course, assume the
relative position best adapted to protect them from inconvenience or
danger, and carefully note and relieve them from the approach of either.
In attending them into a store, &c., always give them precedence,
holding the door open from without, if practicable. If compelled to pass
before them, to attend to this courtesy, say, "allow me," or "with your
permission," etc. Meeting ladies, the hat should be taken off as you
bow, and replaced when you have passed, or, if you pause to address
them, politely raised again as you quit them.
When you are stopped by a lady friend in the street, at once place
yourself so as best to shield her from the throng, if you are in a
crowd, or from passing vehicles, etc., and never by your manner
indicate either surprise or embarrassment upon such an occasion. Allow
_her_ to terminate the interview, and raise your hat quite off as you
take leave of her.
When a stranger lady addresses an inquiry to you in the street, or when
you restore something she has inadvertently dropped, touch your hat
ceremoniously, and with some phrase or _accent_ of respect, add grace to
a civility.
If you have occasion to speak more than a word or two to a lady whom you
may meet in walking, turn and accompany her while you say what you wish,
and, taking off your hat, when you withdraw, express your regret at
losing the further enjoyment of her society, or the like.
If you wish to join a lady whom you see before you, be careful in
hurrying forward not to incommode her (or others, indeed), and do not
speak so hurriedly, or loudly, as to startle her, or arrest attention,
and should you have only a slight acquaintance with her, say, as you
assume a position at her side, "With your permission, madam, I will
attend you," or "Give me leave to join your walk, Miss ----" etc.
Of course, no well-bred man ever risks the possibility of intrusion in
this way, or ever speaks first to a lady to whom he has only had a
passing introduction. In the latter case, you look at a lady as you
advance towards her, and await her recognition.
Speaking of an intrusion, you should be well assured that you will not
make an _awkward third_ before you venture to attach yourself to a lady
and gentleman walking together, though you may even know them very
well; and the same rule holds good in a picture-gallery, rococo-shop, or
elsewhere, when two persons, or a party, sit or walk together.
Every man is bound by the laws of courtesy, to note any street accident
that imperils ladies, and at once to hasten to render such service as
the occasion requires. Promptitude and self-possession may do good
service to humanity and the fair, at such a juncture.
Should you observe ladies whom you know, unattended by a gentleman,
alighting from or entering a carriage, especially if there is no
footman, and the driver maintains his seat, at once advance, hold the
door open, and offer your hand, or protect a dress from the wheel, or
the like, and bowing, pass on, all needed service rendered; or, if more
familiarity and your own wish sanction it, accompany them where they may
chance to be entering.
No general rule can be laid down respecting offering the arm to ladies
in the street. Where persons are known and reside habitually, local
custom will usually be the best guide. At night, the arm should always
be tendered, and so in ascending the multiplied steps of a public
building, etc., for equally obvious reasons. For similar cause, you go
before ladies into church, into a crowded concert-room, etc., wherever,
in short, they are best aided in securing seats, and escaping jostling,
by this precedence of them. When attending a stranger lady, in visiting
the noted places of your own city, or the like, and when one of a party
for a long walk, or of travellers, it may often be an imperative
civility to proffer the arm. To relatives, or elderly ladies, this is
always a proper courtesy, as it is to every woman, when you can thus
most effectually secure her safety or her comfort.
Do not forget, when walking with elderly people, or ladies, to moderate
the headlong speed of your usual step.
I will here enter my most emphatic protest against a practice of which
ladies so justly complain,--the too-frequent rudeness of men in
stationing themselves at the entrance of churches, concert-rooms, opera
houses, etc., for the express purpose, apparently, of staring every
modest woman who may chance to enter, out of countenance. No one
possessed of true good-breeding will indulge in a practice so at
variance with propriety. If occasion demands your thus remaining
stationary upon the steps or in the portico of a public edifice, make
room, at once, for ladies who may be entering, and avoid any appearance
of curiosity regarding them. A similar course is suitable when occupying
a place upon the steps, or at the windows of a pump-room at a
watering-place, or of a hotel. Carefully avoid all semblance of staring
at ladies passing in the street, alighting from a carriage, etc., and
make no comment, even of a complimentary nature, in a voice that can
possibly reach their ears. So, when walking in the street, if beauty or
grace attract your attention, let your regard be respectful, and, even
then, not too fixed. An audible comment or exclamation, addressed to a
companion, a laugh, a familiar stare, are each and all, when any
stranger, and more especially a _woman_, is the subject of them,
unhandsome in the extreme.
* * * * *
Breakfasting one morning, at West Point, with an agreeable Portuguese,
we chatted for some time over the newspapers and our coffee, as we sat
within view of one of the most beautiful landscapes it has ever been my
fortune to behold. At length our _un-American_ indulgence in this
respect, became the theme of conversation between us.
"Pardon me," said the elegant foreigner, "but though the Americans are
very kind--a very pleasant people, they do not take enough of time for
these things, at all. They do not only eat in a hurry, but they even
_pass their friends_ in the street, sometimes, _without speaking to
them_! I remember last winter, in Philadelphia, where I was some months,
I met one day, in Chestnut street, a gentleman whom I knew very well,
and he passed me without speaking. I made up my mind at once, that this
shall not happen again, so the next time I saw him coming, I looked into
a shop window, or at something, and did not see him. He came to me and
said--"Good morning, Mr. A----! what is the matter with you, that you do
not speak to me?" or something like that. I answered, that he had _cut_
me in the street (I think that is what you call it!) two or three days
before, and that I never will permit myself to be treated in this
manner. Then he said, that I must excuse him, that he must have been
_in business_ and did not see me, and so on. But this is not the way of
a _gentleman_ in my country!"
You must imagine for yourselves the double effect, lent to the words of
my companion by his foreign action and imperfect pronunciation, and the
slight curl of his dark moustache as he emphasized the words I have
underscored.
* * * * *
"What a harum-scarum fellow that James Condon is!" exclaimed a young
lady, in my hearing. "I had reason to repent declining to drive to the
concert last night, I assure you! The moon, upon which I had counted,
was obscured, and he not only hurried me along (though we had plenty of
time, as I was quite ready when he came), at breathless speed, but
actually dragged me over a heap of rubbish, in crossing the street, upon
which I nearly tumbled down, though I had his arm. When we reached the
place, I was so heated and flurried that I could not half enjoy the
music, and this morning I find not only that my handsome new boots are
completely spoiled, but that I have any quantity of lime upon the bottom
of the dress I wore, and my pretty fan, which he must needs insist upon
carrying for me, sadly broken!"
* * * * *
"I have seen everything and everybody I wish, in London, except the Duke
of Wellington," said a sprightly lady whose early morning walk past
Apsley House--the town residence of the Iron Duke--I was attending some
years since, "every distinguished man, except the Hero of Waterloo. I
hope I shall not lose that pleasure!"
"You may have that pleasure now, madam!" exclaimed a gentleman, passing
us and rapidly walking forward, in whose erect figure and very narrow
brimmed hat, I at once recognized the object of my companion's hitherto
unsatisfied curiosity.
Strolling in Kensington Park, during that same morning, and at an hour
too unfashionably early for a crowd, with my fair charge, I drew her
gently aside, as she leaned on my arm, from some slight obstruction in
our path, which she did not observe, and which might otherwise have
incommoded her.
"Really Colonel Lunettes," said she, "your watchful politeness reminds
me of my dear father's. You gentlemen of the old school so much surpass
modern beaux in courtesy! I well remember the last walk I had in
Broadway with papa, before we sailed. Mrs. W---- and I were making a
morning visit, quite up town for us Brooklynites--in Union Place, upon a
bride, when who should also arrive but papa. When we took leave, he
accompanied us, and finding that we had taken a fancy to walk all the
way to the ferry, insisted upon going with us--only think, at his age,
and so luxurious in his habits, too! As he is a little hard of hearing,
and likes always to talk with Mrs. W----, who is a great favorite of
his, I insisted upon his walking between us--that I might have his arm,
and yet not interfere with his conversation. This, of course, brought me
on the outside. But I cannot describe to you the watchful care he had
for me, all the way. At the slightest crowding he held me so firmly--saw
every swerve of the vehicles towards us, and would hold my dress away
from every rough box or so, that lumbered the sidewalk, and every now
and then he would say--'Minnie, wouldn't you be more comfortable on my
other arm? I am afraid you will be hurt there!' At the Brooklyn ferry he
was to leave us, as he could not go over to dine that day. Seeing a
crowd at the door of the office, he hastened a little before us to pay
the fare, and then saw us safely through the press, taking leave of me
as politely as of Mrs. W----. 'What an elegant gentleman your father
is!' cried out Mrs. W----, as soon as he was gone, 'he always reminds me
of the descriptions we read of the chivalrous courtesy of knights of
olden time; it is like listening to a heroic ballad to be with him, and
receive his politeness.' I know you won't laugh at me, Colonel, when I
say that the memory of that simple incident is still as fresh in my
heart, as though no ocean voyage and long travel had come between; and I
can truly say that I was prouder of my _cavalier attendant_ that day,
than I ever was of all the young men together, who ever walked Broadway,
with me." The tremulous tones, the glistening eyes, and the glowing
cheeks of the fair young speaker attested the truth of her filial
boast, and I--but you must draw your own morals!
Presently we resumed our chat, and the theme of the moment together.
"I well recollect," said my companion, in the course of our discussion,
"the impression produced upon me, in my girlhood, by the manners of a
young gentleman, who was my groomsman at the wedding of a young friend.
Some of the lessons of good breeding taught me by his example, I shall
never forget, I think. I was the most bashful creature in the world at
that time, and he quite won my heart by the politeness with which he set
me at ease, at once, when he came to take me away in a carriage to join
my young friends. But that was not the point: the next morning after the
wedding, we were all to attend the 'happy pair' as far as Saratoga, on
their wedding-tour; that is, the bridesmaids and bridesmen. At
Schenectady, we were put into an old-fashioned car, divided into
compartments. Just as we were about to start, a singularly tall, gaunt,
Yankeefied-looking elderly woman scrambled into our little box of a
place, and seated herself. We were fairly off, before she seemed fully
to realize the trials of her new position. She did not say, in the
language of the popular song,
'I think there must be danger
'Mong so many sparks!'
but she looked as though she feared having fallen among the Philistines;
and, I am ashamed to say that some of our merry party made no scruple of
privately amusing themselves with her peculiarities of dress and manner.
Mr. Henry, however (my groomsman), addressed some polite remarks to her,
in so grave and respectful a manner as soon to convince her of his
sincerity, and as carefully watched the sparks that fell upon her thick
worsted gown, as those that annoyed the rest of us. At the first
stopping-place, you may be very sure that the unwilling intruder was in
haste to change her seat.
"'Do you wish to get out, madam!' inquired Mr. Henry; 'allow me to help
you;' and bounding out, he assisted her down the high step, as carefully
and respectfully as though she were some high dame of rank and fashion.
I am afraid that, though I did not actually join in the merriment of my
thoughtless friends, I deserved the sting of conscience that served to
fasten this little incident so firmly in my remembrance. Perhaps I was,
for this reason, the more impressed by another proof of the ever-ready
politeness of this gentleman, who made such an impression upon my
girlish fancy. We dined at Ballston, on our way to Saratoga, and after
dinner, I asked Mr. Henry, with whom, in spite of my first awe of his
superiority of years and polish, I began to feel quite at ease, to run
down with me to one of the Springs, for a glass of water, before we
should resume our journey. So he good-naturedly left the gentlemen
(_now_ I know that he may have wished to smoke) together at the table,
and accompanied me. But now for my _denoument_. Just as we were in a
narrow place, between a high, steep bank and the track, the cars came
rushing towards us. In an instant, _quicker_ than thought, Mr. Henry had
transferred me from the arm next the cars--because more removed from the
edge of the bank--to the other arm, thus placing his person between me
and any passing danger, and with such a quiet, re-assuring manner! You
smile, Colonel--but, really--well, you see what an impression it made
upon my youthful sensibilities!"
* * * * *
"Oh, girls, such a charming adventure as I had this evening!" exclaimed
Margaret, as a bevy of fair young creatures clustered together before
the fire in a drawing-room where I was seated after dinner, with my
newspaper. My attention was arrested by the peculiar animation with
which these words were pronounced, and I glanced at the group, over the
top of my spectacles. They reminded me of so many brilliant-hued
butterflies, in their bright-colored winter dresses, and with their
light, wavy motions as they settled themselves, one on a pile of
cushions, others on a low ottoman, and two pretty fairies on the
hearth-rug, each uttering some exclamation of gratification at the
prospect of amusement.
"Now, don't expect anything extraordinary or dreadful, you silly
creatures; I have no 'hair-breadth 'scapes by land or sea' to entertain
you with. Can't one have a 'charming adventure,' and yet have nothing
to tell?"
"But do tell us all there is to tell, dear Miss ----. Do, please, this
very moment," entreated one of the fairies, linking her arms around her
companion, and mingling her golden ringlets with the darker locks of the
head upon which her own lovingly rested. And a little concert of similar
pleadings followed. This prelude over, the tantalizing adventuress
began:
"Before I went over to New York this morning, I wrote a little note to
Mary Bostwick, telling her all about our arrangements for the
Christmas-tree, and charging her not to fail to come to us on Christmas
eve, and all about it, for fear that, as I had so much to accomplish, I
might not be able to go up to Twenty-third street, and return home in
time to meet you all here. My plan was to keep it until I was decided,
and then, if obliged to send it, to put it in one of the City Express
letter-boxes. Well, by the time I was through with all my important
errands, it was time for me to turn my steps homeward. So, happening
last at Tiffany's, to get the--I mean, I asked at Tiffany's for one of
the places where a box is kept in that neighborhood, and was told that
there was one in a druggist's, quite near--just above. Hurrying along, I
must have passed the place, and stopped somewhere not far below
'Taylor's,' to see exactly where I was. Time was flying, and it was
really almost growing dark; so I ventured to inquire of a gentleman who
was passing, though an entire stranger, for the druggist's.
"'I think it is below, near the Astor House,' said he, with such an
appearance of interest as to embolden me to mention what I was in search
of.
"'If that is all,' he replied, 'I dare say there is one nearer. Let me
see,' glancing around, 'I think there is one on the opposite corner--I
will see.'
"'I have no right to give you that trouble, sir,' said I.
"'Yes you have--it is what every man owes to your sex.'
"'You are very good, sir; but I am sure I can make the inquiry for
myself.'
"'No, it is a tavern, where you cannot properly go alone! Remain here,
and I will ascertain for you.'
"Before I could repeat my thanks, the gentleman was half across the
street.
"Hoping to facilitate matters, I followed him to the opposite pavement,
and stood where he would observe me upon coming out of the door I had
seen him enter. I held the note and my porte-monnaie ready in my hand.
"'There is a box here,' said my kind friend, returning, 'if you will
intrust me with your letter, I will deposit it for you.'
"'You are very good, sir; I would like to pay it,' I answered, opening
my porte-monnaie.
"He took the letter quickly, and prevented my intended offer of the
postage so decidedly, that I did not dare insist. But, by this time, I
really could not refrain from the expression of more than an ordinary
acknowledgment:
"'I have to thank you, sir,' said I, 'not only for a real kindness to a
stranger, but for a _pleasant memory_, which I shall not soon lose. Such
courtesy is too unusual to be soon forgotten! 'How far one little candle
sometimes throws its rays!'--many thanks and good evening, sir!'
"I had still one more errand in Canal street, but I stayed on the
'unfashionable side' of the street, and went up, to avoid the
awkwardness of re-crossing with the gentleman, and the possibility of
imposing any further tax upon his politeness--bless him! I wasn't half
as weary after I met him, and my heart has been in a glow ever since!"
"Bravo!" "Bravissimo!" echoed round the room, in various waves of
silvery sound.
"Is that all, Miss ----?" inquired the only _boy_ of the party, unless
you except the approach to second childhood ensconced behind the
newspaper, and now acting the amiable part of _reporter_, for your
benefit.
"All, unless I add that I occasionally glanced cautiously over, to catch
the form of my kind friend, as I hurried along, that I might not again
cross his path; but I did not 'calculate' successfully after all; for,
as I ran across Broadway, at Canal street corner, he was a little nearer
than I had expected. I bowed slightly, and hurried on:--but wasn't it
beautiful? Such chivalrous sentiments towards women: '_It is what we all
owe your sex!_' And his manner was more expressive than his words--so
gentle and quiet! No stage effect"----
"But you quoted Shakespeare," insinuated a pretty piece of malice on the
ottoman.
"I couldn't help it, if I did! I was surprised out of the use of
ordinary language by an extraordinary occasion. If you are going to
ridicule me, I shall be sorry I told you; for it is one of the
pleasantest things that has happened to me in a great while! There was
I, in my _incognito-dress_, as I call it, weary and pale, nothing about
me to attract interest, I am sure! I wish such men were more common in
this world, they would elevate the race!"
"I declare, cousin Maggie, you are growing enthusiastic! I haven't seen
such beaming eyes and such a brilliant color for a long time! Was this
most gallant knight of yours a _young_ gentleman, may I ask?"
The lady thus questioned seemed to reflect a moment before she replied:
"If you mean to inquire whether he was a whiskered, moustached
_elegant_, not a bit of it! I should not have addressed such a man in
the street. On the contrary, he was"----
"_Married_, I am afraid!" interrupted pretty mischief on the ottoman,
giggling behind her next neighbor.