In the character of _Host_, much is requisite that would be unsuitable elsewhere, since the youngest and most modest man must, of necessity, then take the lead. Thus, when you have guests at dinner, some care and tact are required in the simple matter, even, of disposing of your visitors with due regard to proper precedents. Of course, when there are only men present, you desire him whom you wish to distinguish, to conduct the mistress of the mansion to the table, and are, yourself, the last to enter the dining-room. When there are ladies, the place of honor accorded to age, rank, or by some temporary relative circ.u.mstance, is designated as being at your right hand, and you precede your other guests, in attendance upon such a lady. A stranger lady, for whom an entertainment is given, should be met by her host before she enters the drawing-room, and conducted to the hostess. A gentleman, under similar circ.u.mstances, must be received at the door of the reception-room. In both instances, introductions should at once be given to those who are _invited to meet such guests_.

Persons living in large cities may, if they possess requisite pecuniary means, always procure servants so fully acquainted with the duties properly belonging to them as to relieve themselves, when they have visitors, from all attention to the details of the table. But it is only in the best appointed establishments that hospitality does not enjoin some regard to these matters. It may be unfashionable to keep an eye to the comfort of one's friends, when we are favored with their company, to consult their tastes, to humor their peculiarities, to convince them, by a thousand nameless acts of consideration and deference, that we have pleasure in rendering them honor due;--this may not be in strict accordance with the cold ceremony of modern fashion, but it, nevertheless, ill.u.s.trates one of the most beautiful of characteristics--one ranked by the ancients as a _virtue_--Hospitality!

Permit me, also, to remind you that sometimes the most worthy people are not high-bred--not familiar with conventional proprieties; that they even have a dread of them, on account of this ignorance; and that they are, therefore, not fit subjects towards whom to display strict ceremony, or from whom to expect it. But always remember, that, though they may not understand conventionalisms, they will fully appreciate genuine _kindness_, the talismanic charm that will always place the humblest and most self distrustful guest at ease. And never let a vulgar, degrading fear of compromising your claims to gentility, tempt you to the inhumanity of wounding the feelings of the humblest of your humble friends!

If you have a large rout at your house, it will, necessarily, be impossible for you to render special attention to each guest; but you should, notwithstanding, quietly endeavor to promote the enjoyment of the company, by bringing such persons together as are best suited to the appreciation of each other's society, by drawing out the diffident, tendering some civility to an elderly, or particularly una.s.suming visitor, and, in short, by a manner that, without in any degree savoring of over-solicitude, or bustling self-importance, shall save you from a fate similar to that of a gentleman of whom I lately read the following anecdote:

A stranger at a large party, observing a gentleman leaning upon the corner of a mantel-piece, with a peculiarly melancholy expression of countenance, accosted him thus:--"Sir, as we both seem to be entire strangers to all here, suppose we both return home?" He addressed his _host_!

In general society, do not let your pleasure in the conversation of one person whom you may chance to meet, or your being attached to a pleasant party, tempt you to forget the respect due to other friends, who may be present. Married ladies, whose hospitalities you have shared, strangers who possess a claim upon you, through your relations with mutual friends, gentlemen whose politeness has been socially extended to you, should never be rudely overlooked, or discourteously neglected. Such a manner would indicate rather a vulgar eagerness for selfish enjoyment than the collected self-possession, the well-sustained good-breeding, of a _man of the world_. Do not let a sudden attack of the modesty suitable to youth and insignificance, induce you to regard those proprieties as of no importance in your particular case--exclaiming, "What's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba?" Believe me, no one is so unimportant as to be unable to give pleasure by politeness; and no one having a place in society, has a right to self-abnegation in this respect.

"Husband, do you know a young Mr. V----, in society here--a lawyer, I think?" inquired a lady-friend of mine, of a distinguished member of the Legislature of our State, with whom I was dining, at his hotel.

"V----? That I do! and a right clever fellow he is:--why, my dear?"

"Oh, nothing, I met him somewhere the other morning, and was struck with his pleasing manners. This morning I was really indebted to his politeness. You know how slippery it was--well, I had been at Mrs.

S----'s reception, and was just hesitating on the top of the steps, on coming away, afraid to call the man from his horses, and fearful of venturing down alone, when Mr. V---- ran up, like a chamois-hunter, and offered his a.s.sistance. He not only escorted me to the sleigh, but tucked up the furs, gave me my m.u.f.f, and inquired for your health with such good-humor and cordiality as really quite won my heart!"

"I should be exceedingly jealous, were it not that he made exactly the same impression upon me, a few evenings before you joined me here. It was at Miss T----'s wedding. Of course, I had a card of invitation to the reception, after the ceremony, but, disliking crowds as I do, and as you were not here, I decided not to go.--The truth is, Colonel, [turning to me] we backwoodsmen are a little shy of these grand state occasions of ceremony and parade."--

"Backwoodsmen, as you are pleased to term them, sometimes confer far more honor upon such occasions than they upon him," returned I.

"You are very polite, sir. Well, as I was saying, in the morning I met the bride's father, who was one of my early college friends, in the street, and he urged me, with such old-fashioned, hearty cordiality to come, that I began to think the homely charm of _hospitality_ might not be wholly lacking, even at a fashionable entertainment, in this most fashionable city. So the upshot of the matter was my going, though with some misgivings about my _court-costume_, as my guardian-angel had deserted me." Really, boys, I wish you could have seen the chivalrous courtesy that lighted the fine eye and shone over the manner of the speaker, as, with these last words, he bowed to the fair companion of his life for something like half a century.

"You forget, my dear," rejoined the lady, as a soft smile, and a softer blush stole over her still beautiful face, "that Mrs. M---- wrote me you were quite the lion of the occasion, and that half the young ladies present, including the bride herself, were"--

"My dear! I cry you mercy!--Bless my soul!--an old fellow like me!"----

"But K----, my dear friend," I exclaimed, "don't be personal"----

"Lunettes, you were always, and still are, irresistible with the ladies, but--you are _an exception_."

"I protest!" cried Mrs. K----, joining in our laughter, "Mr. Clay, to his latest day, was in high favor with ladies, young and old--there was no withstanding the _charm of his manner_. At Washington, one winter that I spent there, wherever I met him, he was encircled by the fairest and most distinguished of our s.e.x, all seeming to vie with each other for his attentions--and this was not because of his political rank, for others in high position did not share his popularity;--it was his grace, his courtesy, his _je ne sais quoi_, as the French say."

"Mr. Clay was as remarkable for quiet self-possession and tact, in social as in public life," said I. "When I had the honor to be his colleague, I often had occasion to observe and admire both. I remember once being a good deal amused by a little scene between him and a Miss ----, then a reigning belle at Washington, and a great favorite of Mr.

Clay's. Returning late one night from the Capitol, excessively fatigued by a long and exciting debate, in which he had borne an active part, he dropped into the ladies' parlor of our hotel, on his way up stairs, hoping, I dare say, Mrs. K., to enjoy the soothing influence of gentler smiles and tones than those he had left. The room was almost deserted, but, ensconced in one corner of a long, old-fashioned sofa, sat Miss ----, reading. His keen eye detected his fair friend in a moment, and his lagging step quickened as he approached her. A younger and handsomer man might well have envied the warm welcome he received. After sitting a moment beside the lady, Mr. Clay said, abruptly:--

"'Miss ----, what is your definition of true politeness?'

"'Perfect ease,' she replied.

"'I have the honor to agree with you, madam, and, with your entire permission, will take leave to a.s.sume the correctness of _this position_!' As he spoke, with a dextrous movement, the statesman disposed a large cushion near Miss ----'s end of the sofa, and simultaneously, down went his head upon the cushion, and up went his heels at the other extreme of the sofa! But, my dear fellow, we are losing your adventures at the great wedding party, all this time"----

"Very true, my dear," added Mrs. K----, wiping her eyes, "you fell in love with Mr. V----, you know"--

"Oh, yes," returned my host, "I did, indeed; but I had no adventures, in particular. V---- was one of the _aids-de-camp_, on the occasion, as I knew by the white love-knot (what is the fashionable name, wife?) he wore on his breast. He was in the hall when I came down stairs, to act in his office of groomsman. Upon seeing me, he advanced, and asked whether he could be of any service to me. I explained, while I drew on my gloves, that I did not know the bride, and feared that even her mother might have forgotten an early friend. His young eyes found the b.u.t.ton of my glove quicker than mine, and as he released my hand, he said, showing a sad rent in his own, "you are fortunate in not having split them, sir,--but you _gentlemen of the old school_," he added with a respectful bow, "always surpa.s.s us youngsters in matters of dress, as well as everything else." As he said this, the young rogue glanced politely over my plain black suit, and offered me his arm as deferentially as though I had been an Ex-President, at least; and so on, throughout the evening, with apparent _unconsciousness of self_. I should have thought him wholly devoted to my enjoyment of everything and everybody, had I not observed that others, equally, or more, in need of his attention than I, shared his courtesy--from an elderly lady in a huge church-tower of a cap, who seemed fearfully exercised less she should not secure her full share of the wedding-cake boxes, to one of the little sisters of the bride, who clung to her dress and sobbed as if her heart must break--all seemed to like him and _depend_ on him."

"I have not the pleasure of Mr. V----'s acquaintance," said I, "but I prophesy that _he will succeed in life_!"

"Yes, and make friends at every step!" responded Mrs. K----, warmly.

"After we parted this morning, I had an agreeable sort of half-consciousness that something pleasant had happened to me, and when I a.n.a.lised the feeling, Wordsworth's lines seemed to have been impersonated to me:--

'A face with gladness overspread!

Soft smiles, by human kindness bred!

And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays!'"

I have known few persons with as exquisite aesthetical perceptions as my lovely friend Minnie. So I promised myself great pleasure in taking her to see Cole's celebrated series of pictures--THE COURSE OF TIME. It was soon after Cole's lamented death; and, as Minnie had been some time living where she was deprived of such enjoyments, she had never seen these fine pictures.

As we drove along towards the Art Union Gallery, the fair enthusiast was all eager expectation. "How often my kind friend Mr. S---- B. R----, used to talk to me of Cole," said she, "and promise me the pleasure of knowing him. When he died I felt as though I had lost a dear friend, as I had indeed, for all who worship art, have a friend in each child of genius."

"Cole was emphatically one of these," returned I, "as his conceptions alone prove."

"Yes, indeed," replied Minnie, "I always think of him as the _poet-painter_, since I saw his first series--the 'Progress of Empire.'

Only a poet's imagination could conceive his subjects."

I placed my sweet friend in the most favorable position for enjoying each picture in succession, and seated myself at her side, rather for the gratification of listening to the low murmurs of delight that should be breathed by her kindred soul, than to view the painter's skill, as that no longer possessed the attraction of novelty for me.

We had just come to the sublime portraiture of "_Manhood_," and Minnie seemed wholly absorbed in her own thoughts and imaginings. Suddenly a silly giggle broke the charmed stillness. The Devotee of the Beautiful started, as if abruptly awakened from a dream, and a slight shiver ran through her sensitive frame.

Turning, I perceived, standing close behind us, a group of young persons, chattering and laughing, and pointing to different parts of the picture before us. Their plat.i.tudes were not, perhaps, especially stupid, nor were they more noisy and rude than I have known _free-born republicans_ before, under somewhat similar circ.u.mstances; but poor Minnie endured absolute torture; her idealized delight vanished before a coa.r.s.e reality. I well remember the imploring and distressed look with which she whispered: "Let us go, dear Colonel;" and one glance at her pale face satisfied me that the spell was irrevocably broken for her, and that her long antic.i.p.ated "joy," in beholding "a thing of beauty"

had indeed been cruelly alloyed.

If my memory serves me aright, I told you something, in a former letter, of an interesting lady, a friend of mine, whose husband was shot all to pieces in the Mexican War, and after lying for many months in an almost hopeless condition, finally so far recovered as to be removed to the sea-board, to take ship for New Orleans. When informed of this, his beautiful young wife--a belle, a beauty, and the petted idol of a large family circle before her marriage--set out, at mid-winter, accompanied by one of her brothers and taking with her the infant-child, whom its soldier-father had never seen, to meet her husband on his homeward route. This explanation will render intelligible the following incident, which she herself related to me.

"My brother remained with us some time at New Orleans," said the fair narrator; "but, as Ernest began to improve, I entreated him to return home, as both his business and his family demanded his attention; and you know, Colonel Lunettes," she added, with a sad smile, "that a _soldier's wife_ must learn to be brave, for her own sake as well as for his. Ernest had with him an excellent, faithful servant, who was fully competent to such service as I could not render, and my little boy's nurse was with me, of course. So we made our homeward journey by slow stages, but with less suffering to my husband than we could have hoped, and I grew strong as soon as we were re-united, and felt adequate to anything, almost."

The fair young creature added the last word with the same mournful smile that had before flitted over her sweet face, and as if rather in reply to the doubtful expression she read in my countenance, than from any remembrance of having failed, in the slightest degree, in the task of which she spoke.

"On the night of our arrival at A----, however," pursued Mrs. V----, "we seemed to reach such a climax of fatigue and trial, as to make further endurance literally impossible for poor Ernest. Our little child had been taken ill the day before, so that I could not devote myself so entirely to him as I could have wished; and, as we drew near home, his impatience seemed to increase the pain of his wounds, so that, on this evening, he was almost exhausted both in body and mind. We stopped at the D---- House, as being nearest the depot, which was a great point with us; but such a comfortless, shiftless place!"----

"An abominable hole!" I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed; "one never gets anything fit to eat there!"

"That was the least of our difficulties," returned the lady, "as we had to leave our man-servant to look after our luggage, it was with great difficulty that my poor husband was a.s.sisted up stairs into the public parlor, and he almost fainted while I gave a few hurried directions about a room. Such a scene as it was! The poor baby, weary and sleepy, began to cry for mamma, and nurse had as much as she could do with the care of him. Ernest had sunk down upon the only sofa in the room--a huge, heavy machine of a thing, that looked as though never designed to be moved from its place against the wall. I gave my husband a restorative, but in vain. He grew so ghastly pale that"----a sob here choked the utterance of the speaker.

"My dear child," said I, taking her hand, "do not say another word; I cannot forgive myself for asking you these particulars--all is well now--do not recall the past!"

"Excuse me, dear Colonel, I _wish_ to tell you, I want you to know, how we were treated by a brute in human form--to ask you whether you could have believed in the existence of such a being--so utterly dest.i.tute of common politeness, not to say humanity."

"I hope no one who could aid you, in this extremity, failed to do so."

"You shall hear. Ernest was shivering with cold, as well as exhaustion, and whispered to me that he would try to sit by the fire until the room was prepared. I looked round the place for an easy-chair; there was but one, and that was occupied by a man who was staring at us, as though we were curiosities exhibited for his especial benefit."

"'Ernest,' said I aloud, 'you are too weak to sit in one of these chairs without arms, and with nothing to support your head.'