A GENTLEMAN.
BY
MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, LL.D.
❦
SECOND EDITION.
NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO:
BENZIGER BROTHERS,
_Printers to the Holy Apostolic See._
1893.
Copyright, 1893, by BENZIGER BROTHERS.
TO
ALL BOYS WHO WANT TO MAKE
LIFE CHEERFUL.
Preface.
In offering this little book to that public for which it is intended—a
public made up of young men from fifteen to twenty years of age—the
author fears that he may seem presumptuous. He intends to accentuate
what most of them already know, not to teach them any new thing. And if
he appear to touch too much upon the trifles of life, it is because
experience shows that it is the small things of our daily intercourse
with our fellow-beings which make the difference between success and
failure. He gratefully acknowledges his obligation to the Reverend
editor of the _Ave Maria_ for permission to use in the last part of this
volume several of the “Chats with Good Listeners.”
THE UNIVERSITY OF NOTRE DAME,
February 2, 1893.
Contents.
PAGE
I. THE NEED OF GOOD MANNERS, 9
II. RULES OF ETIQUETTE, 29
III. WHAT MAKES A GENTLEMAN, 47
IV. WHAT DOES NOT MAKE A GENTLEMAN, 64
V. HOW TO EXPRESS ONE’S THOUGHTS, 84
IV. LETTER-WRITING, 106
VII. WHAT TO READ, 126
VIII. THE HOME BOOK-SHELF, 144
IX. SHAKSPERE, 168
X. TALK, WORK, AND AMUSEMENT, 181
XI. THE LITTLE JOYS OF LIFE, 194
A GENTLEMAN.
I. The Need of Good Manners.
I have been asked to refresh your memory and to recall to your mind the
necessity of certain little rules which are often forgotten in the
recurrent interest of daily life, but which, nevertheless, are extremely
important parts of education. There are rules made by society to avoid
friction, to preserve harmony, and perhaps to accentuate the immense
gulf that lies between the savage and the civilized man. But, trifling
as they seem, you will be handicapped in your career in life if you do
not know them. Good manners are good manners everywhere in civilization;
etiquette is not the same everywhere. The best manners come from the
heart; the best etiquette comes from the head. But the practice of one
and the knowledge of the other help to form that combination which the
world names a gentleman, and which is described by the adjective
well-bred.
For instance, if a man laughs at a mistake made by another in the
hearing of that other, he commits a solecism in good manners—he is
thoughtless and he appears heartless; but if he wears gloves at the
dinner-table and persists in keeping them on his hands while he eats, he
merely commits a breach of etiquette. Society, which makes the rules
that govern it, will visit the latter offence with more severity than
the former.
Some young people fancy that when they leave school they will be
free,—free to break or keep little rules. But it is a mistake: if one
expects to climb in this world, one will find it a severe task; one can
never be independent of social restrictions unless one become a tramp or
flee to the wilds of Africa. But even there they have etiquette, for one
of Stanley’s officers tells us that some Africans must learn to spit
gracefully in their neighbor’s face when they meet.
I do not advise the stringent keeping of the English etiquette of
introductions. At Oxford, they say, no man ever notices the existence of
another until he is introduced; and they tell of one Oxford man who saw
a student of his own college drowning. “Why did you not save him?” “How
could I?” demanded this monster of etiquette; “I had never been
introduced to him.”
Boys at school become selfish in the little things, and they seem to be
more selfish than they really are. Every young man is occupied with his
own interest. If a man upsets your coffee in his haste to get at his
own, you probably forgive him until you get a chance to upset his. There
is no time to quarrel about it,—no code among you which in the outside
world would make such a reprisal a reason for exile from good society.
When you get into this outside world you will perhaps be inclined to
overrate the small observances which you now look on with indifference
as unnecessary to be practised. But either extreme is bad. To be
boorish, rough, uncouth, is a sin against yourself and against society;
to be too exquisite, too foppish, too “dudish,”—if I may use a slang
word,—is only the lesser of two evils. Society may tolerate a “dude;”
but it first ignores and then evicts a boor.
A famous Queen of Spain once said that a man with good manners needs no
other letter of introduction. And it is true that good manners often
open doors to young men which would otherwise be closed, and make all
the difference between success and failure. This recalls to my mind an
instance which, if it be not true, has been cleverly invented. It is an
extreme case of self-sacrifice, and one which will hardly be imitated.
It happened that not long ago there lived in Washington a young
American, who had been obliged to leave West Point because of a slight
defect in his lungs. He was poor. He had few friends, and an education,
which fortunately had included the practice of good manners. It happened
that he was invited out to dinner; and he was seated some distance from
the Spanish Ambassador,—who had the place of honor; for the etiquette of
the table is very rigid,—but within reach of his eye. Just as the salad
was served the hostess grew suddenly pale, for she had observed on the
leaf of lettuce carried to this young man a yellow caterpillar. Would he
notice it? Would he spoil the appetite of the other guests by calling
attention to it, or by crushing it? The Ambassador had seen the
creature, too, and he kept his eye on the young man, asking himself the
same questions.
The awful moment came: the young man’s plate of salad was before him;
the hostess tried to appear unconcerned, but her face flushed. Our young
man lifted the leaf, caught sight of the caterpillar, paused half a
second, and then heroically swallowed lettuce, caterpillar and all! The
hostess felt as if he had saved her life.
After dinner, the Ambassador asked to be introduced to him. A week later
he was sent to Cuba as English secretary to a high official there. The
climate has suited him; his health is restored; and he has begun a
career under the most favorable auspices.
You know the story of Sir Walter Raleigh and the cloak. Sir Walter was
poor, young, and without favor at court. One day Queen Elizabeth
hesitated to step on a muddy place in the road; off came Sir Walter’s
new cloak,—his best and only one,—all satin and velvet and gold lace.
Down it went as a carpet for the Queen’s feet, and his fortune was made.
But neither our West-Pointer nor Sir Walter would have made his fortune
by his good manners if he had not disciplined himself to be thoughtful
and alert.
On the other hand, many a man has lost much by inattention to the little
rules of society. One of the best young men I ever knew failed to get
certain letters of introduction, which would have helped him materially,
because he would wear a tall hat and a sack coat, or a low hat and a
frock coat. Society exacts, however, that a man shall do neither of
these things. Remember that I do not praise the social code that exacts
so much attention to trifles,—I only say that it exists.
Prosper Mérimée lost his influence at the court of Napoleon the Third by
a little inattention to the etiquette which exacts in all civilized
countries that a napkin shall not be hung from a man’s neck, but shall
be laid on his knee. Mérimée, who was a charming writer, very high in
favor with the Empress Eugenie, was invited to luncheon in her
particular circle one day. He was much flattered, but he hung his napkin
from the top button of his coat; the Empress imitated his example, for
she was very polite, but she never asked him to court again. It is the
way of the social world—one must follow the rules or step out.
If a man chooses to carry his knife to his mouth instead of merely using
it as an implement for cutting, he is at perfect liberty to do so. He
may not succeed in chopping the upper part of his head off, but he will
succeed in cutting himself off from the “Dress Circle of Society,” as
Emerson phrases it. Apart from the first consideration that should
govern our manners,—which is, that Our Lord Jesus Christ means that, in
loving our neighbors as ourselves, we should show them respect and
regard,—you must remember that politeness is power, and that for the
ambitious man there is no surer road to the highest places in this land,
and in all others, than through good manners. You may gain the place you
aim for, but, believe me, you will keep it with torture and difficulty
if you begin now by despising and disregarding the little rules that
have by universal consent come to govern the conduct of life. One
independent young person may thrust his knife into his mouth with a
large section of pie on it, if he likes: you can put anything into a
barn that it will hold, if the door be wide enough. They tell me that in
Austria some of the highest people eat their sauerkraut with the points
of their knives. But we do not do it here, and we must be governed by
the rules of our own society. Some of you who always want to know the
reason for rules, may ask why are we permitted to eat cheese with our
knives after dinner. I can only answer that I do not know and I do not
care. The subject is not important enough for discussion. Good society
all over the English-speaking world permits the use of the knife only in
eating cheese. Some people prefer to take it with their fingers, like
olives, asparagus, artichokes, and undressed lettuce. So generally is
this small rule observed, that a very important discovery was made not
very long ago through a knowledge of it. An adventurer claiming to be a
French duke was introduced to an American family. He was well received,
until one day he tried to spear an olive with his knife. As this is not
a habit of good society, he was quietly dropped—very fortunately for the
family, as he was discovered to be a forger and ex-convict.
You may ask, Why are olives, lettuce, and asparagus often eaten with the
fingers? I can only answer, that it is a custom of civilized society.
You may ask me again, Why must we break our bread instead of cutting it?
And why must we take a fork to eat pie, when we are permitted to eat
asparagus and lettuce with our fingers? I say again that I do not know:
all that I know is, that these social rules are fixed, and that it is
better to obey than to lose time in asking why.
But if you should happen to be of a doubting turn of mind, accept an
invitation to dinner from some person for whose social standing you have
much respect, and then if your hostess in the kindness of her heart
serves pie, take half of it in your right hand, close your eyes, bite a
crescent of it in your best manner, and observe the effect on the other
guests. You may be quite certain that if you desire not to be invited
again to that house you will have your wish. Society in this country is
becoming more and more civilized and exacting every year; and you will
simply put a mark of inferiority on yourself in its eyes if you
disregard rules which are trifles in themselves, but very important in
their effect.
A young man’s fate in life may be decided by a badly-written letter or a
well-written one, by a rough gesture, by an oath or an unclean phrase
uttered when he thinks no one is listening. But let us remember that
there is always some one looking or hearing; for, and this is an axiom,
there are no secrets in life.
Emerson says, writing of “Behavior:” “Nature tells every secret over.
Yes, but in man she tells it all the time, by form, attitude, gesture,
mien, face and parts of the face, and by the whole action of the
machine. The visible carriage or action of the individual, as resulting
from his organization and his will combined, we call manners. What are
they but thought entering the hands and feet, controlling the movements
of the body, the speech and behavior?”
Of the power of manners Emerson further says: “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 them.”
And in another place: “There are certain manners which are learned in
good society of such force that, if a person have them, he or she must
be considered and is everywhere welcome, though without beauty or wealth
or genius.”
Cardinal Newman, in his definition of a gentleman, does not forget
manners, though he lays less stress on their power for worldly
advancement than Emerson does. Good manners are, in the opinion of the
great cardinal, the outward signs of true Christianity. Etiquette is the
extreme of good manners. A man may be a good Christian and expectorate,
spit, sprinkle, spray, diffuse tobacco-juice right and left. But the man
who will do that, though he have a good heart and an unimpeachable
character, is not a gentleman in the world’s meaning of the term, for
_with the world_ it is not the heart that counts, but the manners. You
may keep your hat on your head if you choose when you meet a clergyman
or a lady. You need not examine your conscience about it, and you will
find nothing against it in the Constitution of the United States; you
may be on your way to give your last five dollars to the poor or to
visit a sick neighbor; but, by that omission you stamp yourself at once
as being outside the sacred circle in which society includes gentlemen.
You can quote a great many fine sentiments against me, if you like; you
may say, with Tennyson,
“Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.”
God keep us from thinking otherwise; but, if one get into a habit of
disregarding the small rules of etiquette, if one use one’s fork for a
toothpick, drink out of one’s finger-bowl, reach over somebody’s head
for a piece of bread, all the kind hearts and simple faith in the world
will not keep you in the company of well-bred people. You may answer
that some very good persons blow their soup with their breath, stick
their own forks into general dishes, and—the thing has been done once
perhaps in some savage land—wipe their noses with their napkins. But if
these good people paid more attention to the little things of life,
their goodness would have more power over others. As it is, virtue loses
half its charm when it ignores good manners. It is only old people and
men of great genius who can afford to disregard manners. Old people are
privileged. If they choose to eat with their knives or with their
napkins around their necks,—a thing which is no longer tolerated,—the
man who remarks on it, who shows that he notices it, who criticises it,
is not only a boor, but a fool. Young people have no such privileges:
they must acquire the little habits of good society or they will find
every avenue of cultivation closed to them.
The only time they are privileged to violate etiquette is when some
older person does it: then they had better follow a bad form than rebuke
him by showing superiority in manners.
It is foolish to appear to despise the little rules that govern the
conduct of life. This appearance of contempt for observances which have
become part of the every-day existence of well-regulated people, arises
either from selfishness or ignorance. The selfish man does not care to
consider his neighbors; but his selfishness is very shortsighted,
because his neighbors, whose feelings and rights he treats as
non-existent, will soon force the consideration of them on him.
A young man may think it a fine thing to be independent in social
matters. He will soon find that he cannot afford in life to be
independent of anything except an evil influence. If he prefers the
society of loungers in liquor-saloons or at hotel-bars, he needs nothing
but a limitless supply of money. His friends there require the
observance of only one rule of etiquette—he must “treat” regularly. To
young men who hunger for that kind of independence and that sort of
friends I have nothing to say, except that it is easy to prophesy their
ruin and disgrace. If a man has no better ambition than to die in an
unhonored grave or to live forsaken in an almshouse, let him make up his
mind to be “independent.” The world in which you will live is exacting,
and you can no more succeed and defy its exactions than you can stick
your finger into a fire and escape burning.
Even in the question of clothes—which seems to most of us entirely our
own affair—society exacts obedience. You cannot wear slovenly clothes to
church, for instance, and expect to escape the indignation of your
dearest friends.
In the most rigid of European countries, if one happens to be presented
to the king one wears no gloves: one would as soon think of wearing
gloves as of wearing a hat. Similarly, according to the strictest
etiquette in European countries, people generally take off their gloves
at the Canon of the Mass, and, above all, when they approach the altar,
because they are in the special presence of God, the King of heaven and
earth. How different is the practice of some of us! We lounge into
church as we would into a gymnasium, with no outward recognition of the
Presence of God except a “dip” towards the tabernacle or an occasional
and often inappropriate thumping of the stomach, which is, I presume,
supposed to express devotion.
It is as easy to bring a flower touched by the frost back to its first
beauty as to restore conduct warped by habit. And so, if you want to
acquire good manners that will be your passport to the best the world
has, begin now by guarding yourself from every act that may infringe on
your neighbor’s right, from every word that will give him needless pain,
and from every gesture at table which may interfere with his comfort. We
cannot begin to discipline ourselves too soon; it is good, as the
Scripture says, “that a man bear the yoke when he is young.”
Social rules, as I said, are very stringent on the seemingly unimportant
matter of clothes: so a man must not wear much jewelry, under pain of
being considered vulgar. He may wear a pin, or a ring, or a watch-chain,
if he likes; but for a young man, the less showy these are, the better.
It may be said that there are a great many people who admire diamonds,
and who like to see many of them worn. This is true; but if a young man
puts a small locomotive headlight in his bosom, or gets himself up in
imitation of a pawnbroker’s window, he may be suspected of having robbed
a bank. It is certain that he will show very bad taste. Lord Lytton, the
author of “Pelham,” who was a great social authority, says that a man
ought to wear no jewelry unless it is exquisitely artistic or has some
special association for the wearer.
If a young man is invited to a dinner or to a great assembly in any
large city, he must wear a black coat. A gray or colored coat worn after
six o’clock in the evening, at any assembly where there are ladies,
would imply either disrespect or ignorance on the part of the wearer. In
most cities he is expected to wear the regulation evening dress, the
“swallow-tail” coat of our grandfathers, and, of course, black trousers
and a white tie. In London or New York or Chicago a man must follow this
last custom or stay at home. He has his choice. The “swallow-tail” coat
is worn after six o’clock in the evening, never earlier, in all
English-speaking countries. In France and Spain and Italy and Germany it
is worn as a dress of ceremony at all hours. No man can be presented to
the Holy Father unless he wears the “swallow-tail,” so rigid is this
rule at Rome, though perhaps an exception might be made under some
circumstances.
In our country, where the highest places are open to those who deserve
them, a young man is foolish if he does not prepare himself to deserve
them. And no man can expect to be singled out among other men if he
neglects his manners or laughs at the rules which society makes.
Speaking from the spiritual or intellectual point of view, there is no
reason why a man should wear a white linen collar when in the society of
his fellows; from the social point of view there is every reason, for he
will suffer if he does not. Besides, he owes a certain respect to his
neighbors. A man should dress according to circumstances: the base-ball
suit or the Rugby flannels are out of place in the dining-room or the
church or the parlor, and the tall hat and the dress suit are just as
greatly out of place in the middle of the game on the playground. Good
sense governs manners; but when in doubt, we should remember that there
are certain social rules which, if learnt and followed, will serve us
many mortifications and even failures in life.
No man is above politeness and no man below it. Louis the Fourteenth, a
proud and autocratic monarch, always raised his hat to the poorest
peasant woman; and a greater man than he, George Washington, wrote the
first American book of etiquette.
II. Rules of Etiquette.
The social laws that govern the Etiquette of Entertainments of all kinds
are as stringent and as well defined as any law a judge interprets for
you. It may be thought that one may do as he pleases at the theatre, in
a concert-room, or at a dinner-party; that little breaches of good
manners will pass unobserved or be forgiven because the person who
commits them is young. This is a great mistake. More is expected from
the young than the old; and if a young man comes out of college and
shows that he is ignorant of the rules of etiquette which all well-bred
people observe, he will be looked on as badly brought up. There are
certain finical rules which are made from time to time, which live a
brief space and are heard of no more. The English, who generally set the
fashion in these things, call these non-essentials “fads.” They are made
to be forgotten.
For a time it had become a fashionable “fad” to use the left hand as
much as possible, in saluting to take off one’s hat with the left hand,
to eat one’s soup with the left hand; but this is all nonsense. Not long
ago, in New York, every “dude” turned up the bottoms of his trousers in
all sorts of weather, because in London everybody did it. Other fads
were the carrying of a cane, handle down, and the holding of the arms
with the elbows stuck out on both sides of him. Another importation of
the Anglomaniacs was the habit of putting American money into pounds,
shillings, and pence, for people who had been so long abroad could not
be expected to remember their own currency. Another pleasant importation
is the constant repetition of “don’t you know.” But they are all silly
fashions, that may do for that class of “chappies” whose most serious
occupation is that of sucking the heads of their canes, or of reducing
themselves to idiocy with the baleful cigarette, or considering how
pretty the girls think they are—but not for men.
The rules held by sane people all over the English-speaking world are
those one ought to follow, not the silly follies of the hour, which
stamp those who adopt them as below the ordinary level of human beings.
Let us imagine that you have been sent to Washington on business. I take
Washington because it is the capital of the United States, and, if you
do the right thing according to social rules there, you will do the
right thing everywhere else. So you are going to Washington, where you
will see one of the most magnificent domes in the world and the very
beautiful bronze gates of the Capitol, a building about which we do not
think enough because it happens to be in our own country. If it were in
Europe, we should be flocking over in droves to see it.
Some kind friend gives you a letter of introduction to a friend of his.
You accept it with thanks, of course. It is unsealed, because no
gentleman ever seals a letter of introduction. You read it and are
delighted to find yourself complimented. Now, if you want to do the
right thing, you will go to a good hotel when you get to Washington; a
_good_ hotel—a hotel you can mention without being ashamed of it. It
will pay to spend the extra money. And if a woman comes into the
elevator as you are going up to your room,—I would not advise you to
take a suite of rooms on the ground-floor,—lift your hat and do not put
it on again until she goes out. You will send your letter of
introduction to your friend’s friend and wait until he acknowledges it.
But if you want to do the wrong thing, you will take the letter of
introduction and your travelling bag and go at once to Mr. Smith’s
house. You may arrive at midnight; but never mind that,—people like
promising young folk to come at any time. If the clocks are striking
twelve, show how athletic you are by pulling the bell out by the wires.
When the members of the family are aroused, thinking the house is afire,
they will be so grateful to you, and then you can ask for some hot
supper. This pleasing familiarity will delight them. It will show them
that you feel quite at home. It will ruin you eventually in the
estimation of stupid people who do not want visitors at midnight—but you
need not mind them, though they form the vast majority of mankind.
If you want to do the right thing, wait until Mr. Smith acknowledges
your letter of introduction and asks you to call at his house. If the
letter is addressed to his office, you may take it yourself and send it
in to him. But you ought not to go to his house until he invites you.
After he does this, call in the afternoon or evening—never in the
morning, unless you are specially asked. A “morning call” in good
society means a call in the afternoon. And a first call ought not to
last more than fifteen minutes. Take your hat and cane into the parlor;
you may leave overcoat and umbrella and overshoes in the hall. A young
man who wants to act properly will not lay his cane across the piano or
put his hat on a chair. The hat and stick ought to be put on the floor
near him, if he does not care to hold them in his hands. If he leaves
his hat in the hall, his hostess will think that he is going to spend
the day in her house. But if she insists on taking his hat from him, it
will not do to struggle for it. Such devotion to etiquette might make a
bad impression. Good feeling and common-sense must modify all rules; and
if one’s entertainers have the old-fashioned impressions that the first
duty of hospitality is to grasp one’s hat and cane, let them have them
by all means; but do not take the sign to mean that you are to stay all
day. A quarter of an hour is long enough for a first call.
“You must have had a delightful visitor this morning,” one lady said to
another. “He stayed over an hour. What did he talk about?” The other
lady smiled sadly: “He told me how he felt when he had the scarlet
fever, and all about his mother’s liver-complaint.”
Topics of conversation should be carefully chosen. Strangers do not want
to see a man often who talks about his troubles, his illness, and his
virtues. The more the “You” is used in general society and the less the
“I,” the better it will be for him who has the tact to use it. There is
no use in pretending that our troubles are interesting to anybody but
our mothers. Other people may listen, but, depend upon it, they prefer
to avoid a man with a grievance.
If the young man with the letter of introduction has made a good
impression, he will probably be invited to dinner. And then, if he has
been careless of little observances, he will begin to be anxious.
Perhaps it will be a ceremonious dinner, too, where there will be a
crowd of young girls ready to criticise in their minds every motion, and
some older ladies who will be sure to make up their minds as to the
manner in which he has been brought up at home or at college. And we
must remember that our conduct when we get out into the world reflects
credit or discredit on our homes or our schools.
If our young man is invited to luncheon, he will find it much the same
as a dinner, except that it will take place some time between twelve and
two o’clock; while a dinner in a city is generally given at six o’clock,
but sometimes not till eight. The very fashionable hour is nine. In
Washington the time is from six to eight. If the dinner is to be
formal—not merely a family dinner—our young stranger will get an
invitation worded in this way:
_Mr. and Mrs. John Robinson
request the pleasure of
Mr. James Brown’s company at dinner,
On Thursday, June the Twentieth,
At seven o’clock._
Our young man should send an answer at once to this, and he must say Yes
or No; and if Mr. James Brown “regrets that he cannot have the pleasure
of accepting Mr. and Mrs. John Robinson’s invitation to dinner on June
the Twentieth, at seven o’clock,” let him give a good reason. If he have
a previous engagement, that is a good reason; if he will be out of town,
that is a good reason; but he must answer the invitation at once, and
say whether he will go or not. To invite to dinner is the highest social
compliment one man can pay another, and it should be considered in that
light. Of course if a young man considers himself so brilliant that
people must invite him to their houses, he may do as he pleases, but he
will soon find himself alone in that opinion. It is not good looks or
brilliancy of conversation that gains a man the right kind of friends:
it is good manners. Conceit in young people is an appalling obstacle to
their advancement. You remember the story of the New York college man
who was rescued from drowning by a ferry-hand. The latter expressed his
disgust with the reward he received, and one of the college man’s
friends asked him why he had not done more for his rescuer. “Done more?”
he exclaimed,—he considered himself the handsomest man of his
class,—“Done more! What could I do? Did not I give him my photograph,
cabinet size?”
If a young man is shy, now will come his time of trials. But if he keeps
in mind the few rules that regulate the etiquette of the dinner-table,
he will have no reason to fear that he will make any important mistakes.
If his hostess should ask him to take a lady in to dinner, he will offer
her his left arm, so that his right may be free to adjust her chair, and
he will wait until his place is pointed out by the hostess. He will find
it awkward if he should drop into the first seat he come to—for the laws
of the dinner-table are regularity and beauty. We cannot all be
beautiful, but we can move in obedience to good rules. It is important
that the man received in society should not cover too much space with
his feet; he ought to try to keep them together.
A dinner—that is, a formal dinner—generally opens with four or five
oysters. The guest is expected to squeeze lemon on them and to eat them
with an oyster-fork. If one man is tempted to saw an oyster in half with
a knife, he had better resist the temptation and miss eating the oyster
rather than commit so barbarous an outrage. A guest who would cut an
oyster publicly in half is probably a cannibal who would cut up a small
baby without remorse. A man must not ask for oysters twice.
After the oysters comes the soup. If the dinner-party is small, the soup
may be passed by guest to guest; but the waiter generally serves it. It
is a flagrant violation of good manners to ask for soup twice. It should
be taken from the side of the spoon if the guest’s mustache will permit
it, and not from the tip. Soup is dipped from the eater, not toward him.
Among the Esquimaux it is the fashion to smack the lips after every
luscious mouthful of liquid grease; with us, people do not make any
noise or smack their lips over anything they eat, no matter how good it
is. In George Eliot’s novel of “Middlemarch,” Dorothea’s sister’s
greatest objection to Mr. Causaban is that his mother had never taught
him to eat soup without making a noise.
After the soup comes the fish. The young guest may not like fish, but he
must pretend to eat it; it is bad manners not to pretend to eat
everything set before one at a dinner. A little tact will help anybody
to do it. No dish must be sent away with the appearance of having been
untasted. It would be an insult to one’s hostess not to seem to like
everything she has offered us. And, as the chief duty of social
intercourse is to give pleasure and to spare pain, this little
suggestion is most important.
On this point Mrs. Sherwood, an acknowledged authority on social
matters, says: “First of all things, decline nothing. If you do not like
certain kinds of food, it is a courtesy to your hostess to appear as if
you did. You can take as little on your plate as you choose, and you can
appear as if eating it, for there is always your bread to taste and your
fork or spoon to trifle with, and thus conceal your unwillingness to
partake of a disliked course.” Fish is eaten with a fork in one hand and
a piece of bread in the other. There was once a man who filled his mouth
with fish and dropped the bones from his lips to his plate. He
disappeared—and nobody asks where he has gone. If a bone does happen to
get into the mouth, it can be quietly removed. The guest who puts his
fingers ostentatiously into his mouth to take out the fish-bones he has
greedily placed there might, under temptation, actually and savagely
tilt over his soup plate to scoop up the last drop of the liquid.
The next course, after the fish, is the entrée; it may be almost
anything. No well-bred man ever asks for a second helping of the
sweetbreads, or chops, or whatever dish may form the entrée. It is eaten
with the fork in the right hand and a piece of bread in the left. In
England it is considered ill-bred to pass the fork from the left hand to
the right; but we have not as yet become so expert in the use of the
left hand, so we use our forks with the right. A guest who asks for a
second portion of the entrée may find himself in the position of a
certain Congressman who had never troubled himself about etiquette. He
was invited to a state dinner at the White House. The courses were
delayed by this genial legislator, who would be helped twice. When the
roasts came on he turned to a lady, and in his amiable way said, with a
fascinating smile, “No, I can’t eat more; I’m full—up to here,” he
added, making a pleasant motion across his throat. It was probably the
same Congressman who, seeing a slice of lemon floating in his
finger-bowl, drank its contents, and swore that it was the weakest
lemonade he had ever tasted.
The roast comes after the entrée. Each course is eaten slowly, because
the host wants to keep his guests in pleasant conversation at his table
as long as possible. If the host helps our young guest to a slice of the
roast, whatever flesh-meat or fowl it may be, the guest must not pass it
to anybody else: he must keep it himself; it was intended for him. This
rule does not apply to the soup and the fish and the entrées as it does
to the roast. Suppose a guest wants his beef rare, or underdone, and I
pass him the piece given to me by the host, because he knows I like it
well-done: the consequence is that the guest next to me gets what he
does not like and I get what I do not like. Another thing: Begin to eat
as soon as you are helped. Do not wait for anybody; if you do, your food
may become cold.
The seat of honor for the men is always on the hostess’ right hand; for
the ladies, on the right hand of the host. The lady in the seat of honor
is always helped first. She begins to eat at once. There is nobody to
wait for then. The rule is that one should begin to eat as soon as one
is served. This rule may be followed everywhere, and the practice of it
prevents much embarrassment.
After the roast there will probably be an entremets of some kind. It may
be an omelette, it may be only a salad, or it may be some elaborately
made dish. In any case, your fork and a bit of bread will help you out.
When in doubt, a young man should always use his fork—never his knife,
as it is used only to cut with, and to help one’s self to cheese.
Vegetables are always taken with the fork; lettuce too, and asparagus,
except when there is no liquid sauce covering it entirely. Lettuce, when
without sauce, asparagus when not entirely covered with sauce, are eaten
with the fingers. Water-cress is always eaten with the fingers, and so
are artichokes. A dinner ought not to last over two hours; but it may.
If our guest yawns or looks at his watch he is ruined socially. He might
almost as well thrust his knife into his mouth as do either of them.
When he gets more accustomed to the world, he will discern that people
object to a view of his throat suddenly opened to them.
But to return to our dinner-party: If the finger-bowls are brought on,
the general custom is to remove them from the little plate on which they
stand. The little napkins underneath them are not used: these are merely
put there to save the plate from being scratched by the finger-bowls. As
usage differs somewhat here, the young guest had better watch his
hostess and imitate her.
An ice called a Roman punch is served after the roast; it is always
eaten with a spoon. If a fork is served with the ice-cream at the end of
the dinner, the amiable young man had better not begin to giggle and ask
“What’s this for?” If he never saw ice-cream eaten with a fork before,
it is not necessary to show it. It is very often so eaten, and if he
finds a fork near his ice-cream plate, let him use it just as if it was
no novelty. To show surprise in society is bad taste; it is good taste
to praise the flowers, the china, the soup. One ought to say that he
enjoyed himself, but never to say that he is thankful for a good dinner.
It is understood that civilized people dine together for the pleasure of
one another’s society, not merely to eat.
When the little cups of black coffee are served, our young guest may
take a lump of sugar with his fingers, if there are no tongs. Similarly
in regard to olives, he may take them with his fingers and eat them with
his fingers. One’s fingers should be dipped in the finger-bowls,—there
is a story told of a young man who at his first dinner-party put his
napkin into his finger-bowl and mopped his face. The host, who ought to
have been more polite, asked him if he wanted a bathtub. The boy said
no, and asked for a sponge.
If our young guest be wise he will pay all possible attention to the
hostess; the host really does not count until the cigars come around.
Then let the young person beware in being too ready to smoke. He may
possibly not be offered cigars at all, but if he is, and he smokes in
any lady’s presence without asking her permission, the seal of vulgarity
is impressed on him.
A guest to whom black coffee is served in a little cup ought not to ask
for cream. It might cause some inconvenience; it is not the custom. When
a plate is changed or sent up to our host, the knife and fork should be
laid parallel with each other and obliquely across the plate. At small
dinners, where the host insists on helping you twice, one may keep his
knife and fork until his plate is returned to him.
III. What Makes a Gentleman.
Cardinal Newman made a famous definition and description, both in the
same paragraph, of a gentleman. “It is almost,” he said, in his “Idea of
a University,” “a definition of a gentleman to say he is one who never
inflicts pain.” And this truth will be found to be the basis of all
really good manners. Good manners come from the heart, while etiquette
is only an invention of wise heads to prevent social friction, or to
keep fools at a distance. Nobody but an idiot will slap a man on the
back unless the man invites the slap by his own familiarity. It seems to
me that the primary rule which, according to Cardinal Newman, makes a
gentleman is more disregarded in large schools than anywhere else. There
is no sign which indicates ignorance or lack of culture so plainly as
the tendency to censure, to jibe, to sneer,—to be always on the alert to
find faults and defects. On the other hand, a true gentleman does not
censure, if he can help it: he prefers to discover virtues rather than
faults; and, if he sees a defect, he is silent about it until he can
gently suggest a remedy.
The school-boy is not remarkable for such reticence. And this may be one
of the reasons why he has the reputation of being selfish, ungrateful,
and sometimes cruel. He is not any of these things; he is, as a rule,
only thoughtless. It has been said that a _blunder_ is often worse than
a _crime_; and thoughtlessness sometimes produces effects that are more
enduringly disastrous than crimes. Forgetfulness among boys or young men
is thoughtlessness. If an engineer forget for a _moment_, his train may
go to RUIN. If a telegrapher forget to send a message, death may be the
result; but neither of them can acquire such control over himself that
he will always _remember_, if he does not practise the art of thinking
every day of his life. It is thoughtfulness, consideration, that makes
life not only endurable, but pleasant. As Christians, we are bound to do
to others as we would have them do to us. But as members of a great
society, in which each person must be a factor even more important than
he imagines, we shall find that, even if our Christianity did not move
us to bear and forbear from the highest motives, ordinary prudence and
regard for our own comfort and reputation should lead us to do these
things. The Christian gentleman is the highest type: he may be a hero as
well as a gentleman. Culture produces another type, and Cardinal Newman
thus describes him. The Cardinal begins by saying that “it is almost a
definition of a gentleman to say he is one who never inflicts pain. This
description,” he continues, “is both refined and, as far as it goes,
accurate. The gentleman is mainly occupied in merely removing the
obstacles which hinder the free and unembarrassed action of those about
him; and he concurs with their movements rather than takes the
initiative himself. The benefits may be considered as parallel to what
are called comforts or conveniences in arrangements of a personal
nature: like an easy-chair or a good fire, which do their part in
dispelling cold or fatigue, though nature provides both means of rest
and animal heat without them. The true gentleman in like manner
carefully avoids whatever may cause a jar or a jolt in the minds of
those with whom he is cast,—all clashing of opinion or collision of
feeling, all restraint or suspicion or gloom or resentment,—his great
concern being to make every one at their ease or at home. He has his
eyes on all the company: he is tender towards the bashful, gentle toward
the distant, and merciful towards the absurd; he can recollect to whom
he is speaking; he guards against unreasonable allusions or topics which
may irritate; he is seldom prominent in conversation, and never
wearisome. He makes light of favors which he does them, and seems to be
receiving when he is conferring. He never speaks of himself except when
compelled, never defends himself by a mere retort; he has no ears for
slander or gossip, is scrupulous in imputing motives to those who
interfere with him, and interprets everything for the best. He is never
mean or little in his disputes, never takes unfair advantage, never
mistakes personalities or sharp sayings for arguments, or insinuates
evil which he dare not say out. From a long-sighted prudence he observes
the maxim of the ancient sage, that we should ever conduct ourselves
towards our enemy as if he were one day to be our friend.”
The Cardinal’s definition of a gentleman does not end with these words:
you can find it for yourself in his “Idea of a University,” page 204. It
will be found, on examination, to contain the principles which give a
man power to make his own life and that of his fellow-beings cheerful
and pleasant. And life is short enough and hard enough to need all the
kindness, all the cheerfulness, all the gentleness, that we can put into
it.
If a friend passes from among us, one of the most enduring of our
consolations is that we never gave him needless pain while he lived. And
who can say which of our friends may go next? He who sits by you
to-night, he who greets you first in the morning, may suffer from a
hasty word or a thoughtless act that you can never recall.
It is in the ordinary ways of life that the true gentleman shows
himself. He does not wait until he gets out of school to pay attention
to the little things. He begins here, and he begins the moment he feels
that he ought to begin. Somebody once wrote that the man who has never
made a mistake is a fool. And another man added to this, that a wise man
makes mistakes, but _never_ the _same_ mistake _twice_. A gentleman at
heart may blush when he thinks of his mistakes, but he never repeats
them. It is a mistake made by thoughtless young people to stand near
others who are talking. It is a grave sin against politeness for them to
listen, as they sometimes do, with eyes and ears open for fear they
should miss any of the words not intended for them. The young man thus
engaged is an object of pity and contempt. Politeness may prevent others
from rebuking him publicly, but it does not change their opinion of him,
nor does it enter their minds to excuse him on the plea that he “didn’t
think.”
It does not seem to strike some of you that the convenience of those who
work for you ought to be considered, and that unnecessary splashings of
liquids and dropping of crumbs and morsels of food is the most
reprehensible indication of thoughtlessness.
We often forget that criticism does not mean fault-finding. It means
rather the art of finding virtues; and after any private entertainment,
at which each performer has done his best for his audience, it is very
bad taste to point out all the defects in his work: you may do this at
rehearsal, but not after the work is done; you may discourage him by
touching on something that he cannot help. A friend of mine once played
a part in _Box and Cox_, but on the day after the performance he was
much cast down by the comments in one of the daily papers. “Mr. Smith,”
the critic said, “was admirable, but he should not have made himself
ridiculous by wearing such an abnormally _long false_ nose.” As the nose
happened to be Mr. Smith’s _own_, he was discouraged. Criticism of music
especially, unless it be intelligent, is likely to make the critic seem
ignorant. For instance, there was on one occasion on a musical programme
a _ballade_ by Chopin in A flat major. The young woman who played it on
the piano was afterwards horrified to find herself described as having
sung a _lively_ ballad called “A Fat Major”! The musical critic had
better know what he is talking about or be silent. No, no, gentlemen,
let us not be censorious about the efforts of those who do their best
for us; and good-fellowship—what the French call _esprit de corps_—ought
to show itself in our manners. Anybody can blame injudiciously, but few
can praise judiciously. At college boys especially must remember that
the college is part of ourselves, and that any reproach on our _alma
mater_ is a reproach on _ourselves_. Its reputation is our reputation,
and the critically censorious student will find that, in the end, it is
the wiser course to dwell on the best side of his college life. The
world hates a fault-finder: he will soon see himself left entirely alone
with those acute perceptions that help him to find out all that is bad
in his fellow-creatures and nothing that is good. To be a gentleman, one
must be tolerant, and, above all, grateful.