of the dinner-party in a preceding page. One’s conduct anywhere must be
guided by good sense and the usages of the occasion. At a concert, for
instance, the main object of each person present is to hear the music.
Anything that interferes with this is a breach of good manners. To
chatter during a song or while a piece of music is played shows selfish
disregard for the comfort of others and a contemptible indifference to
the feelings of the performer. Music may be a great aid to conversation,
but conversation is no assistance to music; and people who go to a
concert do not pay for their tickets to hear somebody in the next seat
tell his private affairs in a loud voice. There are some human creatures
who seem to imagine that they may reveal everything possible to their
next neighbor in a crowded theatre without being heard by anybody else.
There is an old anecdote, but a true one, of a very fashionable lady in
Boston who attended an organ recital in the Music Hall there. She was
supposed to be an amateur of classical music, but her reputation was
shattered by an unlucky pause in the tones of the organ. The music
ceased unexpectedly, and the only sound heard was that of her voice,
soaring above the silence and saying to her friend, “We FRY ours in
LARD.” Her reputation was ruined in musical circles. One goes to a
concert or an opera to listen, not to talk. It is only the vulgar, the
ostentatious, the ignorant, that distinguish themselves in public places
by a disregard of the rights of others. To enter a concert-room late and
to interrupt a singer, to enter any public hall while a speaker is
making an address, is to excite the disapproval of all well-bred people.
Sir Charles Thornton, for a long time British minister at Washington,
was noted for his care in this particular: he would stand for half an
hour outside the door of a concert-room rather than enter while a piece
of music was in progress.
Weddings, I presume, may be put down under the head of entertainments.
The etiquette of the assistants is very simple. A wedding invitation
requires no answer: a card sent by mail and addressed to the senders of
the invitation, who are generally the father and mother of the bride, is
quite sufficient. It is unnecessary to say that it is not proper during
a marriage ceremony to stand on the seats of the pews in order to get a
good look at the happy pair. A tradition exists to the effect that a man
during a wedding ceremony once climbed on a confessional. It is added,
too,—and I am glad of it,—that he fell and broke his neck. But there is
no knowing what some barbarians will do: watch them on Sundays, chewing
toothpicks, standing in ranks outside of the churches, and believing
that the ladies are admiring their best clothes.
My list of entertainments would be incomplete without the dancing party.
St. Francis de Sales says of dancing, that a little of it ought to go a
great way. Society ordains that every man shall learn to dance; but if
he can talk intelligently, society will forgive him for not dancing.
Dancing, after all, is only a substitute for conversation; and, properly
directed, it is a very good substitute for scandal, mean gossip, or the
frivolous chatter which makes assemblies of young people unendurable to
anybody who has not begun to be afflicted with softening of the brain.
Public dances—dances into which anybody can find entrance by paying a
fee—are avoided by decent people. A young man who has any regard for his
reputation will avoid them; and as nearly every young man has his way to
make in the world, he cannot too soon realize how the report that he
frequents such places will hurt him; for, as I said, there are no
secrets in this world,—everything comes out sooner or later.
It is no longer the fashion for a young man to invite a young woman to
accompany him to a dance, even at a private house. He must first ask her
mother. This European fashion has—thank Heaven!—reached many remote
districts of late, where young people hitherto ignored the existence of
their parents when social pleasures were concerned. The young girl who
doesn’t want the “old man to know” had better be avoided. And in the
best circles young women are not permitted to go to the theatre or to
dances without a _chaperon_,—that is, the mother or some elderly lady is
expected to accompany the young people. This, of course, makes trips to
the theatre expensive; but the young man who cannot afford to take an
extra aunt or mother had better avoid such amusements until he can.
As to whether you are to take part in the round dances or not, that will
be settled by your confessor: I have no right to dictate on that
subject. But if you are invited to a dance, pay your respects to your
hostess _first_, and say something pleasant. You must remember that she
intends that you shall be useful,—that you shall dance with the ladies
to whom she introduces you, and that you shall not think of your own
pleasure entirely, but help to give others pleasure by dancing with the
ladies who have no partners. In a word, you must be as unselfish in this
frivolous atmosphere as on more serious occasions. When the refreshments
are served, you must think of yourself last. If you want to gorge
yourself, you can take a yard or two of Bologna sausage to your room
after the entertainment is over. A young man over twenty-one should wear
an evening suit and no jewelry at a dance. Infants under that age are
supposed to be safely tucked in bed at the time the ordinary dance
begins.
At a dance or at any other entertainment no introduction should be made
thoughtlessly. If a gentleman is presented to a lady, it should be done
only after her permission has been asked and received. And the form
should be, “Mrs. Jones, allow me to present Mr. Smith.” A younger man
should always be introduced to an older man, one of inferior position to
one of superior position. If you are introducing a friend to the mayor
of your city, you ought not to say, “Let me introduce the Mayor to you.”
On the contrary, the form should be “Mr. Mayor, allow me to present my
friend Mr. Smith.”
On being introduced to a lady, it is not the fashion for a man to extend
his hand,—for hand-shaking on first introduction is a thing of the past.
If the lady extends her hand, it is proper to take it; but the
pump-handle style is no longer practised, except perhaps in some unknown
wilds of Alaska. After a man is introduced to a lady and he meets her
again, he must not bow until she has bowed to him. In France the man
bows first; in America and England we give that privilege to the woman.
An American takes his hat entirely from his head when he meets a lady; a
foreigner raises it but slightly, but he bows lower than we do. In
introducing people, we ought always to be careful to give them their
titles, and to add, if possible, the place from which they come. If Mr.
Jones, of Chicago, is introduced to Mr. Robinson, of New York, the
subject for conversation is already arranged. We know what they will
talk about. If the wife of the President introduced you to him, she
would call him the President; but if you addressed him, you would call
him “Mr. President,” as you would address the mayor of a city as “Mr.
Mayor.” Mrs. Grant was the only President’s wife who did not give her
husband his title in introductions: she called him simply and modestly,
“Mr. Grant.”
An English bard sings:
“I know a duke, well—let him pass—
I may not call his grace an ass,
Though if I did, I’d do no wrong—
Save to the asses and my song.
“The duke is neither wise nor good:
He gambles, drinks, scorns womanhood;
And at the age of twenty-four
Is worn and battered as threescore.
“I know a waiter in Pall Mall,
Who works and waits and reasons well;
Is gentle, courteous, and refined,
And has a magnet in his mind.
“What is it makes his graceless grace
So like a jockey out of place?
What makes the waiter—tell who can—
The very flower of gentleman?
“Perhaps their mothers!—God is great!
It can’t be accident or fate.
The waiter’s heart is true,—and then,
Good manners make our gentlemen.”
IV. What Does Not Make a Gentleman.
We have touched on the etiquette of dress and of entertainments; and now
I beg leave to repeat some things already said, and to add a few others
that need to be said.
A young man cannot afford to be slovenly in his dress. Carelessness in
dress will prejudice people against him as completely as a badly written
letter. He will find himself mysteriously left out in invitations. If he
applies for a position in an office or a bank, or anywhere else, where
neatness of dress is expected, he will get the cold shoulder. A young
man who wears grease spots habitually on the front of his coat, whose
trousers are decorated with dark shadows and the mud of last week, whose
shoes are red and rusty, and who hangs a soiled handkerchief, like a
flag of truce, more than half out of his pocket, will find himself
barred from every place which his ambition would spur him to enter. You
may say that dress does not make the man. You may call to mind Burns’
lines to the effect that “a man’s a man for a’ that;” a piece of silver
is only a piece of silver, worth more or less, until the United States
mint stamps it a dollar. The stamp of your character and the manner of
your bringing up give you the value at which the world appraises you.
I recall to mind an instance which shows that we cannot always control
our dress. There was a boy at school who was the shortest and the
youngest among three tall brothers. He never had any clothes of his own.
He had to wear the cast-off suits of the other brothers, and it was no
unusual thing for his trousers to trip him up when he tried to run,
although they were fastened well up under his shoulders. This unhappy
youth was the victim of circumstances; if he made a bad impression, he
could not help it. But he was always neat and clean, and he never put
grease on his hair or leaned against papered walls in order to leave his
mark there. He never saturated himself with cologne to avoid a bath; he
never chewed gum; he was never seen with a dirty-yellow rivulet at
either side of his lips, which flowed from a plug of tobacco somewhere
in his gullet; and so, though he was pitied for the eccentricities of
his toilet, he was not despised.
In a country where we do not have to buy water there is no excuse for
neglecting the bath. The average Englishman talks so much of his bath
and his tub, that one cannot help thinking that the Order of Bath is a
late discovery in his country, although we know it was instituted long
ago. Every boy ought to keep himself “well groomed;” to be clean outside
and in gives him a solid respect for himself that makes others respect
him. It is like a college education: it causes him to feel that he is
any man’s equal. But one with a sham diamond in his bosom, or cuffs that
he has to shove up his sleeves every now and then to prevent them from
showing how dirty they are, can never feel quite like a man.
We Americans have reason to be proud of the decay of two arts which
Charles Dickens when he wrote “American Notes” found in a flourishing
condition,—the art of swearing in public and the art of tobacco-chewing.
When Dickens made his first visit to this country he was amazed by the
skill which Americans showed in the art of tobacco-chewing. The
“spit-box,” the spittoon, the cuspidore,—which is supposed to be an
elegant name for a very inelegant utensil,—seemed to him to be the most
important of American institutions. We who have become accustomed to the
cuspidore do not realize how its constant presence surprises foreigners.
They do not understand why the floor of every hotel should be furnished
with conveniences for spitting, because no country except the United
States is infested by tobacco-chewers. Charles Dickens was severe on the
prevalence of the tobacco-chewing habit. He was roundly abused for his
criticisms on our public manners. No doubt his censure was well founded,
for the manners of Americans have improved since. To Dickens it seemed
as if the principal American amusement was tobacco-chewing. He found the
American a gloomy being, who regarded all the refinements with dislike,
and whose politeness to women was his one redeeming feature. Dickens
admitted that a woman might travel alone from one end of the country to
the other and receive the most courteous attention from even the
roughest miner. And this is as true now as it was then. There are no men
in any country so polite to women as Americans; and in no other country
on the face of the earth is the sex of our mothers so publicly
respected. This chivalric characteristic, which Tom Moore tells us was
the most brilliant jewel in the crown of the Irish, “When Malachi wore
the collar of gold,” is now an American characteristic, and
distinctively an American characteristic. So sure are the ladies of
every attention, that they take the reverential attitude of men as a
matter of course. They no longer thank us when we give up our places in
the street-car to them, or walk in the mud to let them pass; and it is
probably regard for them that has caused the American to cease to flood
every public place with vile tobacco-juice.
There was a time when the marble floors of our largest hotels were so
spotted with this vicious fluid that their color could not be
recognized, when the atmosphere reeked with filthy fumes, and many a man
bit off a large chunk of tobacco between every second word. It was his
method of punctuating his talk. He expectorated when he wanted to make a
comma and bit off a “chew” at a period; he squirted a half-pint of amber
liquid across the room for an interrogation-mark, and struck his
favorite spot on the ceiling to mark an exclamation. But we are not so
bad as we used to be. George Washington, whose first literary effort was
an essay on Manners, might complain that we lack much, but he would find
that the tobacco-chewer is not so prominent a figure in all landscapes
as he formerly was.
The truth is, that American good sense is putting an end to this dirty
and disgusting habit. There was a time when a man was asked for a “chew”
on almost every street corner. But this was in the days of the Bowery
boys and of the old volunteer fire-departments, when strange things
occurred. It is related that an English traveller riding down Broadway,
some time about the year 1852, found that the light was suddenly shut
out of his left eye. He fancied for an instant that his optic nerves had
been paralyzed. He was relieved by the sound of an apologetic voice
coming from the opposite seat. It said: “I didn’t intend to put that
‘chew’ into your eye, sir. I was aiming at the window when you bobbed
your head!” And the thoughtful expectorator gently removed the ball of
tobacco from the Englishman’s eye!
That could hardly occur now. Chewers do not take such risks, or they aim
straighter. For a long time the typical American, as represented in
English novels or on the English stage, chewed tobacco and whittled a
wooden nutmeg. The English have learned only of late that every American
does not do these things.
If foreigners hate this savage practice, who can blame them? How we
should sneer and jeer at the English if, in ferry-boats, in horse-cars,
in public halls, pools of tobacco-juice should be seen, and if perpetual
yellow, ill-smelling fountains sprung from men’s mouths. How _Puck_
would caricature John Bull in his constant attitude of chewing! How
filthy and barbaric we would say the British were! We should speak of
it, in Fourth-of-July orations, as a proof of British inferiority. But
we cannot do this, for the English do not chew tobacco,—and some of us
do.
It is a habit that had better be unlearned as soon as possible. It is
happily ceasing to be an American vice, and with it will cease the
chronic dyspepsia and many of the stomach and throat diseases which have
become almost national. Many a man, come to the years of discretion,
bitterly regrets that he ever learned to chew tobacco; but he thought
once that it was a manly thing, and he learns when too late that the
manly thing would have been to avoid it. Some of you will perhaps
remember a fashion boys had—I don’t know whether they have it now—of
getting tattooed by some expert who practised the art. What pain we
suffered while a small star was picked in blue ink at the junction of
the thumb with the hand!—and how proud we were of a blue anchor printed
indelibly on our wrists! But a day came when we should have been glad to
have blotted out this insignia with thrice the pain. And so the day will
come when the inveterate tobacco-chewer will wish with all his heart
that he had never been induced to put a piece of tobacco into his mouth.
It is one of those vices which has an unpleasant sting and which is its
own punishment. It is unbecoming to a gentleman; it violates every rule
of good manners,—the spectacle of a young man dropping a “quid” into his
hand before he goes into dinner and trying on the sly to wipe off the
dirty stains on his chin is enough to turn the stomach of a cannibal.
Going back to the subject of entertainments, let me impress on you that
it is your duty when you go into society to think as little of
yourselves as possible, and to talk as little of yourselves. If a man
can sing or play on any musical instrument or recite, and he is asked to
do any of these things, let him not refuse. Young women sometimes say no
in society when they mean yes; but young men are not justified in
practising such an affectation. It is not good taste to show that one is
anxious to sing or to play or to recite. If you are invited out, do not
begin at once by talking about elocution, until somebody is forced to
ask you to recite; and do not hum snatches of song until there is no
escape for your friends from the painful duty of asking you to sing. The
restless efforts of some amateurs to get a hearing in society always
brings to mind a certain theatrical episode. There was a young actress
who thought she could sing, and consequently she introduced a vocal solo
whenever she could. She was cast for the principal part in a melodrama
full of tragic situations. The manager congratulated himself that here,
at least, there was no chance for the tuneful young lady to try her
scales. But he was mistaken. The great scene was on. A flash of
lightning illumined the stage. The actress was holding a pathetic
conversation with her mother as the thunder rolled. The mother suddenly
fell with a shriek, struck dead. And then the devoted daughter said,
“Aha, mee mother is dead! Alas, I will now sing the song she loved so
much in life!” And the young lady walked to the footlights and warbled
“Comrades.”
She _would_ and she did sing, but I am afraid the audience laughed. I
offer this authentic anecdote as a warning to young singers that they
should neither be hasty nor reluctant in displaying their talents. A man
goes into society that he may give as well as gain pleasure. The highest
form of social pleasure is conversation; but conversation does not mean
a monologue. Good listeners are as highly appreciated in society as good
talkers. A good listener often gives an impression of great wisdom which
is dispelled the moment he opens his mouth. Mr. Gladstone was charmed by
a young lady who sat next to him at dinner; he concluded that she was
one of the most intelligent women he had ever met, until she spoiled it
all by saying, with effusion, “Oh, I love cabbage!”
A young man should neither talk too much nor too little, and he should
never talk about himself unless he is forced to. Madame Roland, a famous
Frenchwoman, who perished during the Reign of Terror under the
guillotine, said that by listening attentively to others she made more
friends than by any remarks of her own. “Judicious silence,” the author
of “In a Club Corner” says, “is one of the great social virtues.” A man
who tries to be funny at all times is a social nuisance. Two famous men
suffered very much for their tendency to be always humorous. These were
Sydney Smith and our own lamented S. S. Cox. Sydney Smith could not
speak without exciting laughter. Once, when he had said grace, a young
lady next to him exclaimed, “You are always so amusing!” And S. S. Cox,
one of the most serious of men at heart and the cleverest in head, never
attained the place in politics he ought to have gained because he was
supposed to be always in fun. Jokes are charming things in a limited
circle, but no gentleman nowadays indulges in those practical jokes
which we have heard of. It is not considered a delicate compliment to
pull a chair away just as anybody is about to sit down; and the young
person who jabs acquaintances in the ribs, to make them laugh at his
delightful sayings, is not rapturously welcomed in quiet families.
A young man should not make a practice of using slang, and he should
never use it in the presence of ladies. To advise a friend to “shut his
face” or to “come off the perch” may sound “smart,” but it is vulgar,
and is fatal to those ambitious young men who feel that their success in
life depends on the good opinion of cultivated people. Moreover, this
habitual slang is likely to crop out at the most inopportune times. Mr.
Sankey, of the evangelizing firm of Moody and Sankey, at a camp-meeting
once asked a devout young man if he loved the Lord. There was profound
silence until the young man, who thought in slang, answered in a loud
voice, “You bet!”
Slang is in bad taste; and the slang we borrow from the English is the
worst of all—the repetition of “don’t you know?” for instance. “I’m
going to town, don’t you know, and if I see your friends, don’t you
know, I’ll tell them you were asking for them, don’t you know,—oh, yes,
I shall, don’t you know.” Imagine an American so idiotic as not only to
imitate the vulgarest Cockney slang, but to do it in the vulgarest
Cockney accent! There was a woman who at a dinner said, “Have some soup,
don’t you know; it’s not half nawsty, don’t you know.”
I must remind you again not to use, in letter-writing, tinted or
ornamented paper. Let it be white and, by all means, unruled; your
envelope may be either oblong or square, but the square form is
preferable. If you have time and want to follow the present fashion, and
also to pay a compliment of extreme carefulness to the person to whom
you are writing, close your letters with red sealing-wax. Some
old-fashioned people look on postal cards as vulgar. However, it is not
well to write family secrets on these cheap forms. And if any man owes
you money, do not ask him for it on a postal card: it is against a more
forcible law than those that make etiquette. Postal cards are not to be
used except on business. Be sure to write the name of the person to whom
the letter is addressed on the last page of the letter. But if you begin
a letter with “Dear Mr. Smith,” you need not write Mr. Smith’s name
again at the end of the letter. Buy good paper and envelopes. And do not
write on old scraps of paper when you write home. Nothing is too good
for your father and mother; they may not say much about it, but every
little attention from you brightens their lives and helps towards paying
that debt of gratitude to them which you can never fully discharge.
A young man has asked me to say something about the etiquette of cards
and calls. A man, under the American code of politeness, need not make
many calls. If he is invited to an entertainment of any kind, he should
go to the house of his host to call or leave his card. If it be his
first call, he must leave a card for each grown-up member of the family.
After that he need leave only one card. The old fashion of turning down
the corners of cards is gone out. A man’s card should be very small,
_not_ gilt-edged; it should never be printed, but always engraved or
written, with the address in the left-hand lower corner. A man may write
his own cards. In that case he must not put “Mr.” before his name. But
if he has them engraved, the present usage demands that “Mr.” must
appear before his name. If he has been at a party of any kind, he must
call within a week after it, or he can send his card with his mother or
sister, if they should happen to be calling at his host’s within that
time. A man’s card, like his note-paper, ought to be as simple as
possible. Secretary Bayard’s cards always bore the plain inscription,
“Mr. Bayard.” Sciolists and pretenders of all kinds put a great number
of titles on their cards. Corn-cutters and spiritists and quacks of all
sorts are always sure to print “Professor” before their names, but men
who have a right to the title never do it. Be sure, then, to have a
neat, plain card, well engraved. It costs very little to have a plate
made by a good stationery firm; and a neat, elegant card, like a
well-written letter, is a good introduction. It symbolizes the man.
Daniel Webster’s card was simply “Mr. Webster,” and it expressed the
man’s hatred for all pretence. A gentleman should never call on a young
lady without asking for her mother or her _chaperon_. And he should
never leave a card for her without leaving one for her mother. It will
not do to send a card by mail after one has been asked to dinner. A
personal visit must be made and a card left. In calling on the sons or
daughters of a family, cards should be left for the father and mother.
It may surprise some young men to find that in the great world fathers
and mothers are so much considered. I know that there are some boys at
school who write home on any odd, soiled paper they can find, and who
write only when they want something or feel like grumbling. Their
letters run something like this:
“DEAR FATHER: The weather is bad. I am not well this evening, hoping
to find you the same. Grub as usual. Please send me five dollars.
“Yours,” etc.