INTRODUCTIONS.
Fashion, in its various unmeaning freaks, sometimes decrees that it is
not “stylish to introduce strangers.” But this is a whim that, whenever
attempted, has neither become general nor lasted long. It has seldom
been adopted by persons of good sense and good manners—and very rarely
by that fortunate class whose elevated standing in society enables them
to act as they please, in throwing aside the fetters of absurd
conventionalities, and who can afford to do so.
Non-introduction has been found, in many instances, to produce both
inconvenience and vexation. Persons who had long known each other by
reputation, and who would have rejoiced in an opportunity of becoming
personally acquainted, have met in society, without being aware of it
till afterward; and the opportunity has never recurred. One of our most
distinguished literary Americans was seated at a dinner-party next to an
European lady equally distinguished in literature; but as there were no
introductions, he was not aware of her presence till the party was over
and the lady gone. The lady knew who the gentleman was, and would gladly
have conversed with him; but as he did not speak, because he was not
introduced, she had not courage to commence—though she might have done
so with perfect propriety, considering who _he_ was, and who _she_ was.
Still worse—from not knowing who are present, you may inadvertently fall
upon a subject of conversation that, for private reasons, may be
extremely irksome or painful to some of the company; for instance, in
discussing a public character. Severe or mortifying remarks may
unintentionally be made on the near relative, or on the intimate
companion, of one whom you would on no account desire to offend. And in
this way you may make enemies, where, under other circumstances, you
would have made friends. In such cases, it is the duty of the hostess,
or of any mutual acquaintance, immediately to introduce both parties,
and thus prevent any further animadversions that may be _mal-a-propos_,
or in any way annoying. It is safest, when among strangers, to refrain
from bitter animadversions on anybody.
In introducing a gentleman to a lady, address _her_ first, as for
instance—“Miss Smith, permit me to make you acquainted with Mr.
Jones”—or, “Mrs. Farley, allow me to present Mr. Wilson”—that is, you
must introduce the gentleman to the lady, rather than the lady to the
gentleman. Also, if one lady is married and the other single, present
the single lady to the matron, as—“Miss Thomson, let me introduce you to
Mrs. Williams.”[4]
In introducing a foreigner, it is proper to present him as “Mr. Howard
from England”—“Mr. Dupont from France”—“Mr. Wenzel from Germany.” If you
know of what European city he is a resident, it is better still, to say
that he is “from London,”—“Paris,”—“Hamburg.” Likewise, in introducing
one of your own countrymen very recently returned from a distant part of
the world, make him known as “Mr. Davis, just from China”—“Mr. Edwards,
lately from Spain”—“Mr. Gordon, recently from South America.” These
slight specifications are easily made; and they afford, at once, an
opening for conversation between the two strangers, as it will be
perfectly natural to ask “the late arrived” something about the country
he has last visited, or at least about his voyage.
When presenting a member of Congress, mention the State to which he
belongs, as, “Mr. Hunter of Virginia”—“Mr. Chase of Ohio,” &c. Recollect
that both senators and gentlemen of the house of representatives are
members of Congress—Congress including the two legislative bodies. In
introducing a governor, designate the state he governs—as, “Governor
Penington of New Jersey.” For the chief magistrate of the republic, say
simply—“The President.”
In introducing an officer, tell always to which service he belongs—as
“Captain Turner of the Navy”—“Captain Anderson of the Army.”
We regret the custom of continuing to give military titles to militia
officers. Foreigners are justly diverted at finding _soi-disant_
generals and colonels among men who fill very subordinate stations in
civil life—men that, however respectable in their characters, may be
deficient in the appearance, manners, or education that should belong to
a regular officer. This foolish practice can only be done away by the
militia officers themselves (those that really are gentlemen—and there
are many) magnanimously declining to be called generals, colonels, &c.
except on parade occasions; and when actually engaged in militia duty.
Let them omit these titles on their cards, and request that no letters
be directed to them with such superscriptions; and that in introductions
or in conversation they may be only addressed as plain Mr. It is still
more absurd to continue these military titles long after they have
ceased to hold the office,—and above all, to persist in them when
travelling in foreign countries, tacitly permitting it to be supposed
that they own commissions in the regular service.
English tourists (even when they know better) make this practice a
handle for pretending, in their books, that the officers of the American
army are so badly paid, or so eager to make additional money, that they
exercise all sorts of trades, and engage in the humblest occupations to
help themselves along. They tell of seeing a captain stitching coats, a
major making shoes, a colonel driving a stage, and a general selling
butter in market—sneeringly representing them as regular officers of the
United States army. Is it true that we republicans have such a hankering
after titles? If so, “reform it altogether.” And let one of the first
steps be to omit the “Esq.” in directing a letter to an American
citizen, for whom the title can have no meaning. In England it signifies
the possessor of an estate in the country, including the office of
justice of peace. In America, it means a magistrate only; who may live
in a city, and own not an inch of ground anywhere. But why should all
manner of men, of all trades, and professions, expect to see an “Esq.”
after their name, when with reference to _them_, it can have no rational
application?
An introduction should always be given in a distinct and audible voice,
so that the name may be clearly understood. The purpose is defeated, if
it is murmured over in so low a tone as to be unintelligible. And yet
how often is this the case; for what reason it is difficult to divine.
It is usual for the introducee to repeat the name of the introduced.
This will prove that it has really been heard. For instance, if Mrs.
Smith presents Miss Brook to Miss Miles, Miss Miles immediately says,
“Miss Brook”—or better still—“Miss Brook, I am glad to meet you,” or
something similar. Miss Miles then begins a talk.
If you introduce yourself to a lady whom you wish to know, but who does
not know _you_, address her by her name, express your desire to make her
acquaintance, and then give her your card. Replying that it affords her
pleasure to meet you, she will give you her hand, and commence a
conversation, so as to put you quite at ease after your
self-introduction.
In introducing members of your own family, always mention, audibly, the
name. It is not sufficient to say “my father,” or “my mother”—“my son,”
“my daughter”—“my brother,” or “my sister.” There may be more than one
surname in the same family. But say, “my father, Mr. Warton,”—“my
daughter, Miss Wood”—or “my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Wood”—“my sister, Miss
Mary Ramsay”—“my brother, Mr. James Ramsay,” &c. It is best in all these
things to be explicit. The eldest daughter is usually introduced by her
surname only—as “Miss Bradford”—her younger sisters, as “Miss Maria
Bradford”—“Miss Harriet Bradford.”
In presenting a clergyman, put the word “Reverend” before his
name—unless he is a bishop, and then, of course, the word “Bishop”
suffices. The head of a college-department introduce as “Professor”—and
it is to them only that the title properly belongs, though arrogated by
all sorts of public exhibitors, mesmerists and jugglers included.
Where the company is large, the ladies of the house should have tact
enough to avoid introducing and placing together persons who cannot
possibly assimilate, or take pleasure in each other’s society. The dull,
and the silly, will be far happier with their compeers. To a woman of
talent, and a good conversationist, it is a cruelty to put her
unnecessarily in contact with stupid, or unmeaning people. She is wasted
and thrown away upon such as are neither amusing nor amusable. Neither
is it well to bring together a gay, lively woman of the world, and a
solemn, serious, repulsive dame, who is a contemner of the world and all
its enjoyments. There can be no conversation that is mutually agreeable,
between a real lady of true delicacy and refinement, and a so-called
lady whose behaviour and talk are coarse and vulgar,—or between a woman
of highly cultivated mind, and one who is grossly ignorant of every
thing connected with books, and who boasts of that ignorance. We have
heard a lady of fashion say, “Thank God, I never read.” The answer might
well have have been, “You need not tell us that.”
In inviting but a small company, it is indispensable to the pleasure of
all, that you ask none who are strikingly unsuitable to the rest—or
whose presence will throw a damp on conversation. Especially avoid
bringing into the same room, persons who are at notorious enmity with
each other, even if, unhappily, they should be members of the same
family. Those who are known as adversaries should be invited on
different evenings.
Avoid giving invitations to bores. They will come without.
The word “bore” has an unpleasant and an inelegant sound. Still, we have
not, as yet, found any substitute that so well expresses the
meaning,—which, we opine, is a dull, tiresome man, or “a weariful
woman,” either inveterately silent, or inordinately talkative, but never
saying any thing worth hearing, or worth remembering—people whom you
receive unwillingly, and whom you take leave of with joy; and who, not
having perception enough to know that their visits are always unwelcome,
are the most sociable visiters imaginable, and the longest stayers.
In a conversation at Abbotsford, there chanced to be something said in
reference to bores—those beings in whom “man delights not, nor woman
neither.” Sir Walter Scott asserted, humourously, that bores were always
“good respectable people.” “Otherwise,” said he “there could be no
bores. For if they were also scoundrels or brutes, we would keep no
measures with them, but at once kick them out the house, and shut the
door in their faces.”
When you wish an introduction to a stranger lady, apply to your hostess,
or to some of the family, or to one of the guests that is acquainted
with that lady: you will then be led up and presented to her. Do not
expect the stranger to be brought to you; it is your place to go to her.
If you are requested by a female friend to introduce her to a
distinguished gentleman, a public character, be not so ungenerous as to
go _immediately_ and conspicuously to inform him of the fact. But spare
her delicacy, by deferring the ceremony for a while; and then take an
opportunity of saying to him, “I shall be glad to make you acquainted
with my friend Miss Morris. Come with me, and I will introduce you.”
When the introduction has thus taken place, you may with propriety leave
them together to entertain each other for awhile; particularly if both
parties are capable of doing so. And then, after a quarter of an hour’s
conversation, let the lady release the gentleman from further
attendance, by bowing to him, and turning to some other acquaintance who
may not be far off. She can leave _him_ much more easily than he can
leave _her_, and it will be better to do so in proper time, than to
detain him too long. It is generally in his power to return to her
before the close of the evening, and if he is pleased with her society,
he will probably make an opportunity of doing so.
If he is what is called a lion, consideration for the rest of the
company should admonish her not to monopolize him. But lions usually
know how to get away adroitly. By-the-bye, she must not talk to him of
his professional celebrity, or ask him at once for his autograph.
We saw no less a person than Charles Dickens compelled, at a large
party, to devote the whole evening to writing autographs for a multitude
of young ladies—many of whom, not satisfied with obtaining one of his
signatures for themselves, desired half a dozen others for “absent
friends.” All conversation ceased with the first requisition for an
autograph. He had no chance of saying any thing. We were a little
ashamed of our fair townswomen.
Should it fall to your lot to introduce any of the English nobility,
take care (before hand) to inform yourself exactly what their titles
really are. Americans are liable to make sad blunders in these things.
It may be well to know that a duke is the highest title of British
nobility, and that his wife is a duchess. His eldest son is a marquis as
long as his father lives, on whose demise the marquis becomes a duke.
The wife of a marquis is a marchioness. There are a few marquises whose
fathers were not dukes. The younger sons are termed Lord Henry, Lord
Charles, Lord John, &c. The daughters Lady Caroline, Lady Augusta, Lady
Julia. The family name is generally quite different from the title.
Thus, the name of the Duke of Richmond is Lenox—that of the Duke of
Rutland, Manners. The family name of the Duke of Norfolk (who ranks
first of the English nobility) is Howard. The present Duke of
Northumberland’s name is Algernon Percy. Arthur Wellesley was that of
the great Duke of Wellington. His eldest son was Marquis of Douro, and
his second son Lord Charles Wellesley. The children of a marquis are
called Lord Frederick, or Lord Henry, and Lady Louisa, or Lady Harriet.
The next title is viscount, as Viscount Palmerston. The next is earl,
whose wife is a countess, and the children may be Lord Georges and Lady
Marys.
After the viscounts come the barons, whose children are denominated the
Honourable Miss, or Mr. John Singleton Copley, (whose father was Copley,
the celebrated American painter,) is now Baron Lyndhurst. His eldest
daughter, is the Hon. Miss Copley. In common parlance, barons are always
termed lords. Some few have two titles—as Lord Say and Sele—Lord
Brougham and Vaux. After William the Fourth had suddenly dissolved the
parliament that held out so long against passing the reform bill, and
the king, appointing a new cabinet, had placed Lord Brougham at the head
of the ministry, a ridiculous comic song came out at one of the minor
theatres, implying that now his majesty has swept out the whole
parliament, “he takes up his broom and valks,” (Brougham and Vaux.)
When the widow of a nobleman marries a man who has no title, she always
retains hers. Thus when the widow of the Earl of Mansfield married
Colonel Greville, (a nephew of the Earl of Warwick,)—on their door-plate
the names were—“The Countess Dowager of Mansfield, and the Hon. Colonel
Greville,”—a rather long inscription. A nobleman’s daughter marrying a
commoner, retains her original title of Lady, but takes his
surname—thus, Lady Charlotte Campbell, whose father was Duke of Argyle,
became, on her marriage with Dr. Bury, a clergyman, Lady Charlotte Bury.
It will be understood that if a nobleman’s daughter marries a nobleman,
her title merges in his—but if she marries a commoner, she retains what
title she had originally—her husband, of course, obtaining no rank by
his marriage.
The title of a baronet is Sir—as Sir Francis Burdett, Sir Walter Scott.
His children are Mr. and Miss, without any “Hon.” affixed to their
names. Baronets are a grade below barons, but the title is hereditary,
descending to the eldest son or next male heir. In directing to a
baronet, put “Bart.” after his name. A knight is also called Sir, as Sir
Thomas Lawrence, Sir Edwin Landseer, &c.; but his title being only for
life, dies with him.[5] It is always conferred by the sovereign touching
his shoulder with a sword, and saying, for instance, “Rise up, Sir
Francis Chantry.” In writing to a knight, put “Knt.” The wives of both
baronets and knights are called Lady. The wife of Sir John Franklin (who
was knighted) is Lady Franklin—not Lady _Jane_ Franklin, as has been
erroneously supposed. She could not be Lady Jane unless her father was a
nobleman.
A nobleman always signs his title only, without designating his exact
rank—the Duke of Athol signing himself “Athol”—the Duke of Bedford,
“Bedford”—the Marquis of Granby, “Granby”—the Earl of Chesterfield,
“Chesterfield,” &c. The wives of peers give their Christian name with
their title—as Isabella Buccleuch—Margaret Northampton—Elizabeth Derby,
&c.
The English bishops are addressed in letters as the Lord Bishop of
Rochester, the Lord Bishop of Bath and Wells. The Archbishop of
Canterbury, who is Primate of England,—(Head of the English Church,) is
called His Grace, or Your Grace. The bishops are all (by virtue of their
office) members of the House of Peers or Lords. They sign their
Christian name with the title of their bishopric, as John Durham—William
Oxford.
All full noblemen have an hereditary seat in the House of Peers, which
they take on attaining the age of twenty-one, and it continues while
they live. Their younger sons, the Lord Johns and Lord Fredericks, can
only have a seat in the House of Commons, and to that they must be
elected, like the other members. Baronets, not being peers, must also be
elected as commons.
Americans going to England would do well to look over a book of the
British Peerage, so as to save themselves from making blunders, which
are much ridiculed in a country where little allowance is made for
republican habits and for republican ignorance of what appertains to
monarchical institutions.[6] It would not be amiss even to know that a
full coat of arms, including shield, supporters, crest, and scroll with
a motto, belongs only to the chief of a noble family; and that the
younger branches are entitled only to the crest, which is the head of
the same animal that stands erect on each side of the shield as if to
support it, such as stags, foxes, bears, vultures, &c. A baronet has a
shield only, with a bloody or wounded hand over the top.
Our countrymen abroad sometimes excite ill-concealed mirth, by the
lavish use they make of titles when they chance to find themselves among
the nobility. They should learn that none but servants or people of the
lower classes make constant use of the terms “my lord,” and “my
lady”—“your lordship,” or “your ladyship”—“your grace,” &c., in
conversing with persons of rank. Formerly it was the custom, but it is
long since obsolete, except, as we have said, from domestics or
dependants. Address them simply as Lord Derby, or Lord Dunmore—Lady
Wilton, Lady Mornington, &c.