young man, even if he had wished to be polite to a stranger neither
young nor beautiful, which is very doubtful, would have exhibited the
graceful self-possession and easy politeness of this gentleman:--he was,
probably, going to his home in the upper part of the city after a
business-day. As I remember his dress, though, of course, I had no
thought about it at the time, it was the simple, unnoticeable attire of
an American gentleman when engaged in business occupations--everything
about him, as I recall his presence, was in keeping--unostentatious,
quiet, appropriate! I shall long preserve his portrait in my
picture-gallery of memory, and I am proud to believe that he is my own
countryman!"
"Cousin Maggie always says," remarked one of her auditors, "that
Americans are the most truly polite men she has met"----
"Yes," returned the enthusiast, "though sometimes wanting in mere
surface-polish--
'Where'er I roam, whatever lands I see,
My heart, untravelled, fondly turns to'----
my own dear, honored countrymen--more truly chivalrous, more truly just
towards our sex, than the men of any other land! I never yet appealed to
one of them for aid, for courtesy, _as a woman, and as a woman should_,
in vain. And I never, scarcely, am so placed as to have occasion for
kindness--real kindness--without receiving it, unasked. The other day,
for instance, caught in a sudden shower, I stood waiting for a stage,
'down town,' in Broadway. There was such a jam that I was afraid to try
and get into one that stopped quite near the sidewalk. A policeman, at
that moment, asked me whether I wished to get in, and, holding my arm,
stepped over the curb with me. 'I don't know what the ladies would do
without the aid of your corps, sometimes, in these crowds,' said I.
"'If the ladies will accept our services, we are proud, madam,' answered
he.
"'I am very glad to do so,' returned I; and well I might, for, at that
instant, as I was on the point of setting my foot on the step of the
omnibus, the horse attached to a cart next behind suddenly started
forward, and left no space between his head and the door of the stage. I
shrunk back, as you may imagine, and said I would walk, in spite of the
rain. But the policeman encouraged me, and called out to the carman to
fall back. At that instant, I observed a gentleman come out upon the
step of the stage. With a single imperious gesture, and the sternest
face, he drove back the horse, and springing into the omnibus, held the
door open with one hand, and extended the other to me. To be sure, the
policeman almost pinched my arm in two, in his effort to keep me safe,
but I was, at last, seated with whole bones and a grateful heart, at the
side of my brave, kind champion. As soon as I recovered breath, I was
curious to see again the face whose expression had arrested my attention
(of course, I did not wait for breath to _thank_ him), and to note the
external characteristics of a man who would impulsively render such
service to a woman--like Charles Lamb--(dear, gentle Charles Lamb!)
holding his umbrella over the head of a washerwoman, because she was a
_woman_! Well, my friend was looking straight before him, apparently
wholly unconscious of the existence of the trembling being he had so
humanely befriended, with the most impenetrable face imaginable, and a
sort of abstracted manner. Presently I desired to open the window behind
me--still not quite recovered from my fright and flutter. Almost before
my hand was on the glass, my courteous neighbor relieved me of my task.
Again I rendered cordial thanks, and again, as soon as delicacy
permitted, glanced furtively at the face beside me. Nothing to reward my
scrutiny was there revealed; the same absorbed, fixed expression, the
same seeming unconsciousness! But can you doubt that a noble, manly
nature was veiled beneath that calm face and quiet manner--a nature that
would gleam out in an instant, should humanity prompt, or wrong excite?
And I could tell you numberless such anecdotes--all illustrative of my
favorite theory."
"So could we all," said another lady, "I have no doubt, if we only
remembered them."
"I never forget anything of that kind," returned Margaret. "It is to me
like a strain of fine music, _acted poetry_, if I may use such a phrase.
Such incidents make, for me, the _poetry of real life_, indeed! They
inspire in my heart,
'The still, _sweet_ music of humanity.'"
One magnificent moonlight night, while I was in Rome with your cousins
and the W----s, a party was formed to visit the Coliseum. That whimsical
creature, Grace, whom I had more than once detected in a disposition to
fall behind the rest of the company, as we strolled slowly through the
ruins, at length stole up to me, as I paused a little apart from the
group, and twining her arm within mine, whispered softly:
"_Do_, dear Uncle Hal, come this way with me for a few moments!"
Yielding to the impulse she gave me, we were presently disengaged from
our companions, and, leaning, as if by mutual agreement, against a
pillar.
"What a luxury it is to be quiet!" exclaimed your cousin, with a sigh of
relief. "How that little Miss B---- _does_ chatter! Really it is
profanation to think or speak of common things to-night, and here!"
"Well, my fair Epicurean," returned I, "since
----'Silence, like a poultice comes
To heal the blows of sound,'
you shall reward me for my indulgence in attending you, by repeating
some of Byron's _apropos_ lines, for me as we stand here"--
"At your pleasure, dear uncle."
Presently she began, in a subdued tone, as if afraid of disturbing the
dreams of another, or as if half listening while she spoke to the tread
of those
'Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time;'
but gradually losing all consciousness, save that of the inspiration of
the bard, our fair enthusiast reached a climax of eloquence with the
words--
'The azure gloom
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume
Hues which have words, and speak to ye of Heaven,
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument,'--
and she stretched out her arm, with an impulsive gesture, as she spoke.
I perceived a sudden recoil, at the instant, of her dilating form, and,
before I could devise an explanation, heard the words, "You are my
prisoner, madam," and discovered a gentleman standing in the deep shadow
of the pillar, close at her side, busily endeavoring to disentangle the
fringe of her shawl from the buttons of his coat.
I remembered, afterwards, having noticed in passing, sometime before, a
shadowy figure standing with folded arms and upturned face, half lost in
the deep shadow of a pillar, apparently quite unconscious of the
vicinity of the chattering ephemera fluttering by his retreat. I at once
surmised that Grace and I had approached from the other side, and
inadvertently stationed ourselves near this aesthetical devotee--so near
that your cousin, in the excitement of her eloquence, had fastened a
lasso upon the dress of the stranger.
"You are my prisoner, madam," he said, in French. The words were simple
enough, not so apposite but that many an one might have uttered them
under similar circumstances. Yet they were replete with meaning,
conveyed by the subtle aid of intonation and of _manner_. The most
chivalrous courtesy, the most exquisite refinement, were fully expressed
in that brief sentence.
"I have no fears either for my purse, or my life," returned the
quick-witted lady thus addressed, aiding in the required
disentanglement.
"You need have none," rejoined the gentleman, "though the laws of
chivalry entitle me to demand a goodly ransom for so fair a
prize"--glancing politely towards me.
"Accept, at least, the poor guerdon of this token of my thanks," said
the enthusiast of the moment, tendering a beautiful flower, which was
opportunely loosened from her bosom by the slight derangement of her
dress.
"It will be a treasured memento," answered the stranger, receiving the
proffered gift with graceful respect, and, bowing with the most courtly
deference, he walked rapidly away, as loth, by lingering one needless
moment, to seem intrusive.
"What a voice!" exclaimed Grace, as the retreating figure disappeared
behind the fragment of a fallen column, "blithe as the matin tone of a
lark, and"----
"Clear as the note of the clarion that startled you so upon the Appian
Way, the other day," I suggested, "and indeed, I am not sure that there
was not a little tremor in your fingers, this time, my brave lady, and
that you did not hold just a little tighter fast the arm of your old
uncle."
"What nonsense, Uncle Hal!--could anything be more delicately
reassuring--admitting that I was startled, at first,--than the whole
bearing of the gentleman?"
"Should you know him again?" I questioned.
"I think I should, were it only by the diamond he wore," she replied,
with a little laugh at the woman's reason. "Did you observe it uncle, as
his macintosh was opened by the pulling of that silly fringe--really it
might grace the crescent of Dian herself, on a gala-night--it was a
young star! but I also saw his face distinctly as he raised his hat."
Well, now for the _denoument_ of my story--for every romantic adventure
should properly have a _denoument_.
As we were all riding on the Campagna a few days afterwards, the usual
intimation was given of the approach of the _cortege_ of the Pope. Of
course we went through the mummery of withdrawing, while the poor old
man was hurried along in his airing. Standing thus together, a party of
gentlemen rode rapidly up, and, recognizing some of our party, joined
us.
Scarcely were the usual greetings over, when Grace, reining her horse
near me, said, in a low tone: "Uncle, there is the 'bright particular
star' of the other night in the Coliseum; I know I am not mistaken."
And so it proved--the polished, graceful stranger was not a Prince
_incognito_, not even an acreless count, whose best claim to respect
consisted in hereditary titles and courtly manners, but a _young
American artist_, full of activity, enthusiasm and genius, who had not
forgotten to give beauty to the casket, because it enshrined a gem of
high value.
_Apropos_ of gems--I afterwards learned that the superb brilliant he
always wore on his breast was a token of the gratitude of a
distinguished and munificent patron and friend, for whom this child of
feeling and genius had successfully incarnated all that was earthly of
one loved and lost.
We subsequently became well acquainted with our gifted countryman, and a
right good fellow he proved. We met him constantly in society, while at
Florence--the Italian _Paradise of Americans_, as Miss ---- always called
it--where his genial manners, the type of a genial nature, made him a
general favorite, as well with natives as foreigners.
Soon after he was named to me that day on the Campagna, your cousin, who
had again moved from my side, turned her face towards us. The movement
arrested the attention of my companion--he glanced inquiringly at me.
"I think I am not mistaken, sir; have we not met before?" and the same
exquisite courtesy illumined his face that had so impressed me
previously. "May I ask the honor of a presentation to my sometime
prisoner?"
"Really, sir," I overheard Grace confessing, in her sprightliest tones,
as, the two parties uniting for the nonce, we all rode on together;
"really, sir, I remember to have been secretly rejoiced at having left
my heart, watch, and other valuables, safely locked up at home, when I
found myself in such a dangerous-looking neighborhood."
"And _I_ still indulge the regret that my profession did not fully
entitle me to retain possession, not only of the shawl, which, no doubt,
was a camel's hair of unknown value, but of the embodied poetry it
enwrapped."
"You seem quite to overlook the fact that I was guarded, like a damsel
of old, by a doughty knight."
I wish I could half describe the dextrous twirl of the moustache, and
the quickly-shadowed brow that suddenly transformed that luminous and
honest face into that of the dark, moody brigand, as, fumbling in his
bosom the while, as about to unsheath a dagger, he growled, in
mock-heroic manner--"It were easy to find means to silence such an
opponent, with such a reward in view!"
The merry laugh with which Grace received this sally, proved that she,
at least, liked the _versatility of manner_ possessed by her gallant
attendant.
* * * * *
Touching the electric chain of memory, causes another link to vibrate,
and I am reminded of my promise, made in a former letter, to tell you
about the American girl whose beautiful arm threw Powers into raptures.
You will, perhaps, recollect that I alluded to my having met abroad the
heroine of the _cornelian pate_ anecdote. I assure you, I had ample
occasion, more than once, to be proud of my lovely countrywoman, in the
most distinguished European circles--and by that term I do not refer to
distinction created by mere rank. But to my tale:
One day, during our mutual sojourn in her well-named Italian "Paradise,"
Miss ----, and her father, in accordance with a previous arrangement,
called at my lodgings, to take me with them to a dinner at the Palace de
----.
"I propose, as we have purposely come early, Col. Lunettes, in the hope
of finding you at leisure, that we shall drop in at Powers' studio, a
few minutes; it is in our direct way, and he will be there, as I happen
to know. I so wish to know your impression of papa's bust."
While I was enjoying a chat with the presiding genius of the scene, a
little apart from a group gathered about some object of peculiar
interest, a sudden glow of enthusiasm lighted his eye, as with
Promethean fire.
"Heavens, what an arm!" exclaimed Powers. "Oh, for the art to _petrify_
it!" he added, with an expressive gesture, the _furore_ of the artist
rapidly enkindling.
Following the direction of his glance, I beheld what might well excite
admiration in a less discriminating spectator. The velvet mantle that
had shrouded the gala dress of Miss ---- having fallen from her
shoulders, disclosed the delicate beauty of the uncovered arm and hand,
which she was eagerly extending towards the marble before her.
"Remain just as you now stand, for a moment," said I, "and let me see
what I can do for you."
"Miss ----," I asked, advancing towards my fair friend, "will you let me
invite your attention to this new study? It is entitled 'The Artist's
Prayer,' and is supposed to impersonate the petition, 'Petrify it, O, ye
gods!'"
Of course, this led to a brief and laughing explanation.
"Happily, no earthly Powers can achieve that transformation!" exclaimed
the Lucifer of the Coliseum, who was present, "but all will join in the
entreaty that we may be permitted to possess an _imitation_ of so
beautiful an original."
I am not permitted to disclose the secrets of the inner temple; but many
of you will yet behold the loveliness that so charmed the lovers of art,
moulded into eternal marble.
LETTER VI.
MANNER, CONTINUED.
RULES FOR VISITING, AND FOR MANNER IN SOCIETY GENERALLY.
MY DEAR NEPHEWS:
Having attempted, in my last two letters, with what success you will
best judge, to give you some practical hints respecting manner at home
and in the street, suppose we take up, next, the consideration of the
conduct proper in _Visiting_, and on public occasions, generally.
Among the minor obligations of social life, perhaps few things are
regarded as more formidable by the unpractised, than ceremonious
_morning visits to ladies_. And perhaps, among the simple occurrences of
ordinary existence, few serve more fully to illustrate individual tact,
self-possession, and conversational skill.
Without aiming at much method in so doing, I will endeavor to furnish
you with a few directions of general applicability.
Hours for making morning calls are somewhat varied by place and
circumstance; but, as a rule, twelve o'clock is the earliest hour at
which it is admissible to make a visit of ceremony. From that time until
near the prevailing dinner-hour, in a small town, or that known to be
such in particular instances, one may suit one's convenience.
It is obviously unsuitable, usually, to prolong an interview of this
kind beyond a very moderate length, and hence, as well as for other
reasons, the conversation should be light, varied, and appropriate to
outward circumstances.
It is proper to send your card, not only to announce yourself to
strangers to whom you may wish to pay your respects, but to all ladies
with whom you are not upon very intimate terms, and at a private house,
to designate intelligibly to the servant who receives your card, the
individual, or the several persons, whom you wish to see.
If you go to a hotel, etc., for this purpose, write the name of the lady
or ladies, for whom your visit is designed, upon your card, _above_ your
own name, in a legible manner, and await the return of the messenger, to
whom you intrust it, _where you part from him_. If, upon his return, you
are to remain for your friends, and there be a choice of apartments for
that purpose, unless you choose to station yourself within sight of the
stairs they must of need descend, or the corridor through which they
must pass, let the porter in attendance distinctly understand not only
your name, but where you are to be found, and if possible, give him some
clue to the identification of the friends you wish to see. After a few
vexatious mistakes and misapprehensions, you will admit the wisdom of
these precautionary measures, I have no doubt. When you are shown into
the drawing-room of a private residence, if the mistress of the mansion
is present, at once advance towards her. Should she offer her hand, be
prompt to receive it, and for this purpose, take your hat, stick, and
right-hand glove (unless an occasion of extreme ceremony demands your
wearing the latter), in your left hand, as you enter. If your hostess
does not offer her hand, when she rises to receive you, simply bow, as
you pay your compliments, and take the seat she designates, or that the
servant places for you. When there are other ladies of the same family
present, speak to each, in succession, according to age, or other proper
precedence, before you seat yourself. If there are ladies in the room
whom you do not know, bow slightly to them, also, and if you are
introduced, after you have assumed a seat, rise and bow to them. When
men are introduced, they usually mutually advance and shake hands; but
the intimation that this will be agreeable to her, should always be the
test when you are presented to a lady, or when you address a lady
acquaintance.
Some tact is necessary in deciding your movements when you find yourself
preceded by other visitors, in making a morning call. If you have no
special reason, as a message to deliver, or an appointment to make, for
lingering, and discover that you are interrupting a circle, or when you
are in the midst of strangers, where the conversation does not at once
become general, upon your making one of them, address a few polite
phrases to your hostess, if you can do so with ease and propriety from
your position with regard to her, and take leave, approaching her nearly
enough, when you rise to go, to make your adieu audible, or to receive
her hand, should she offer it. To strangers, even when you have been
introduced, you, ordinarily, only bow passingly, as you are about to
quit the room.
Should you have a special object in calling upon a lady, keep it
carefully in view, that you may accomplish it before you leave her
presence. When other visitors, or some similar circumstance, interfere
with the accomplishment of your purpose, you may write what you wish
upon a card in the hall, as you go out, and intrust it to a servant, or
leave a message with him, or in case of there being objections to either
of those methods of communication, resort to an appointment requested
through him, or subsequently write a note to that effect, or containing
an explanation of the object of your visit. When you determine to
outstay others at a morning reception, upon the rising of ladies to
depart, you rise also, under all circumstances; and when they are
acquaintances, and unattended by a gentleman, accompany them to the
street-door, and to their carriage, if they are driving, and then return
to your hostess. Unacquainted, you simply stand until ladies leave the
room, politely returning their parting salutation, if they make one. Any
appearance of a wish on the part of those whom you chance to meet thus,
for an _aside_ conversation, will, of course, suggest the propriety of
occupying yourself until your hostess is at leisure, with some subject
of interest in the room--turn to a picture, open a book, examine some
article of _bijouterie_, and, thus civilly unobtrusive, observe only
when it is proper for you to notice the separation of the company.
As I have before said, in making a visit of mere politeness, some
passing topic of interest should succeed the courteous inquiries, etc.,
that naturally commence the conversation. Visiting a lady practised in
the usages of society, relieves one, very naturally, from any necessity
for _leading_ the conversation.
When your object is to make an appointment, give an invitation, etc.,
repeat the arrangement finally agreed upon, distinctly and deliberately,
upon rising to go away, that both parties may distinctly understand it,
beyond the possibility of mistake.
In attending ladies who are making morning visits, it is proper to
assist them up the steps, ring the bell, write cards, etc. Entering,
always _follow_ them into the house and into the drawing-room, and wait
until they have finished their salutations, unless you have to perform
the part of presenting them. In that case, you enter with them, or stand
within the door until they have entered, and advance beside them into
the apartment.
Ladies should always be the first to rise, in terminating a visit, and
when they have made their adieux, their cavaliers repeat the ceremony,
and follow them out.
When gentlemen call together, the younger, or least in rank, gives
careful precedence to others, rendering them courtesies similar to those
due to ladies.
Soiled over-shoes, or wet over-garments, should, on no account, be worn
into an apartment devoted to the use of ladies, unless they cannot be
safely left outside--as in the passage of a public house. In such case,
by no means omit an apology for the necessary discourtesy.
When ladies are not in the apartment where you are to pay your respects
to them, advance to meet them upon their entrance; and in the public
room of a hotel, meet them as near the door as possible, especially if
there is no gentleman with them, or the room be previously occupied, and
conduct them to seats.
Never remain seated in the company of ladies with whom you are
ceremoniously associated, while they are standing. Follow them to any
object of interest to which they direct your attention; place a seat for
them, if much time will be required for such a purpose; ring the bell,
bring a book; in short, courteously relieve them from whatever may be
supposed to involve effort, fatigue, or discomfort of any kind. It is,
for this reason, eminently suitable to offer the arm to ladies when
ascending stairs. Nothing is more absurd than the habit of _preceding
them_ adopted by some men--as if by following just behind, as one
should, if the arm is disengaged, there can be any violation of
propriety. Soiled frills or unmended hose must have originated this
vulgarity! Tender the arm on the wall side of a lady, mounting a stairs,
that she may have the benefit of the railing, and the fewer steps upon a
landing; and in assisting an invalid, or aged person, it is often well
to keep one step in advance. It is always decorous to suit your pace to
those you would assist.
It is also a proper courtesy, always to relieve ladies of their parcels,
parasols, shawls, etc., when ever this will conduce to their
convenience, which is especially the case, of course, when they are
occupied with the care of their dresses in ascending steps, entering a
carriage, or passing through a crowd.
The rules of etiquette properly observable in making ordinary
ceremonious morning-visits, are also applicable to _Morning
Wedding-Receptions_ with slight variations. Of course, you do not then
announce yourself by a card. When previously acquainted with her, you
advance immediately to the bride, and offer your _wishes for her future
happiness_. Never _congratulate_ a lady upon her marriage; such
felicitations are, with good taste, tendered to the bridegroom, not to
the bride.