It is of course needless to say that your own knife should never be brought near to the b.u.t.ter, or salt, or to a dish of any kind. If, however, a gentleman should send his plate for anything near you, and a knife cannot be obtained immediately, you may skillfully avoid all censure by using _his_ knife to procure it.

When you send your plate for anything, you leave your knife and fork upon it, crossed. When you have done, you lay both in parallel lines on one side. A render who occupies himself about greater matters, may smile at this precept. It may, indeed, be very absurd, yet such is the tyranny of custom, that if you were to cross your knife and fork when you have finished, the most reasonable and strong-minded man at the table could not help setting you down, in his own mind, as a low-bred person. _Magis sequor quam probo._

The chief matter of consideration at the dinner table, as indeed everywhere else in the life of a gentleman, is to be perfectly composed and at his ease. He speaks deliberately, he performs the most important act of the day as if he were performing the most ordinary. Yet there is no appearance of trifling or want of gravity in his manner; he maintains the dignity which is becoming on so vital an occasion. He performs all the ceremonies, yet in the style of one who performs no _ceremony_ at all. He goes through all the complicated duties of the scene, as if he were "to the manner born."

Some persons, who cannot draw the nice distinction between too much and too little, desiring to be particularly respectable, make a point of appearing unconcerned and quite indifferent to enjoyment at dinner. Such conduct not only exhibits a want of sense and a profane levity, but is in the highest degree rude to your obliging host. He has taken a great deal of trouble to give you pleasure, and it is your business to be, or at least to appear, pleased. It is one thing, indeed, to stare and wonder, and to ask for all the delicacies on the table in the style of a person who had lived all his life behind a counter, but it is quite another to throw into your manner the spirit and gratified air of a man who is indeed not unused to such matters, but who yet esteems them at their fall value.

When the Duke of Wellington was at Paris, as commander of the allied armies, he was invited to dine with Cambaceres, one of the most distinguished statesmen and _gourmands_ of the time of Napoleon. In the course of the dinner, his host having helped him to some particularly _recherche_ dish, expressed a hope that he found it agreeable. "Very good," said the hero of Waterloo, who was probably speculating upon what he would have done if Blucher had not come up: "Very good; but I really do not care what I eat." "Good G.o.d!" exclaimed Cambaceres,--as he started back and dropped his fork, quite "frighted from his propriety,"--"Don't care what you eat!

What _did_ you come here for, then?"

After the wine is finished, you retire to the drawing-room, where the ladies are a.s.sembled; the master of the house rising first from the table, but going out of the room last.

If you wish to go before this, you must vanish unseen.

We conclude this chapter by a word of important counsel to the host:--Never make an apology.

CHAPTER X. TRAVELLING.

It is an extremely difficult affair to travel in a coach, with perfect propriety. Ten to one the person next to you is an English n.o.bleman _incognito_; and a hundred to one, the man opposite to you is a brute or a knave. To behave so that you may not be uncivil to the one, nor a dupe to the other, is an art of some niceness.

As the seats are a.s.signed to pa.s.sengers in the order in which they are booked, you should send to have your place taken a day or two before the journey, so that you may be certain of a back seat. It is also advisable to arrive at the place of departure early, so that you a.s.sume your place without dispute.

When women appear at the door of the coach to obtain admittance, it is a matter of some question to know exactly what conduct it is necessary to pursue. If the women are servants, or persons in a low rank of life, I do not see upon what ground of politeness or decency you are called upon to yield your seat. _Etiquette,_ and the deference due to ladies have, of course, no operation in the case of such persons.

Chivalry--(and the gentleman is the legitimate descendant of the knight of old)--was ever a devotion to rank rather than to s.e.x. Don Quixotte, or Sir Piercy Shafestone would not willingly have given place to servant girls. And upon considerations of humanity and regard to weakness, the case is no stronger. Such people have nerves considerably more robust than you have, and are quite as capable of riding backwards, or the top, as yourself. The only reason for _politeness_ in the case is, that perhaps the other pa.s.sengers are of the same standing with the women, and might eject you from the window if you refuse to give place.

If _ladies_ enter--and a gentleman distinguishes them in an instant--the case is altered. The sooner you move the better is it for yourself, since the rest will in the end have to concede, and you will give yourself a reputation among the party and secure a better seat, by rising at once.

The principle that guides you in society is politeness; that which guides you in a coach is good humour. You lay aside all attention to form, and all strife after effect, and take instead, kindness of disposition and a willingness to please.

You pay a constant regard to the comfort of your. fellow- prisoners. You take care not to lean upon the shoulder of your neighbour when you sleep. You are attentive not to make the stage wait for you at the stopping-places. When the ladies get out, you offer them your arm, and you do the same when the coachman is driving rapidly over a rough place. You should make all the accommodations to others, which you can do consistently with your own convenience; for, after all, the individuals are each like little nations; and as, in the one case, the first duty is to your country, so in the other, the first duty is to yourself.

Some surly creatures, upon entering a coach, wrap about their persons a great coat of cloth, and about their minds a mantle of silence, which are not thrown off during the whole journey. This is doing more harm to themselves than to others. You should make a point of conversing with an appearance of entire freedom, though with real reserve, with all those who are so disposed.

One purpose and pleasure of travelling is to gain information, and to observe the various characters of persons. You will be asked by others about the road you pa.s.sed over, and it will be awkward if you can give no account of it. Converse, therefore, with all. Relate amusing stories, chiefly of other countries, and even of other times, so as not to offend any one. If engaged in discussion--and a coach is almost the only place where discussion should _not_ be avoided--state facts and arguments rather than opinions.

Never answer impudent questions-and never ask them.

At the meals which occur during a journey, you see beautiful exemplification of the _dictum_ of Hobbes, "that war is the natural state of man." The entire scene is one of unintermitted war of every person with every other person, with the viands, and with good manners. You open your mouth only to admit edibles and to bellow to the waiters. Your sole object is yourself. You drink wine without asking your neighbour to join you; and if he should be so silly as to ask you to hand him some specified dish, you blandly comply; but in the pa.s.sage to him, you transfer the whole of its contents to your own plate. There is no halving in these matters.

Rapacity, roaring, and rapidity are the three requisites for dining during a journey. When you have resumed your seat in the coach, you are as bland as a morning in spring.

Never a.s.sume any unreal importance in a stage-coach, founded on the ignorance of your fellows, and their inability to detect it. It is excessively absurd, and can only gratify a momentary and foolish vanity; for, whenever you might make use of your importance, you would probably be at once discovered. There is an admirable paper upon this point in one of Johnson's Adventurers.

The friendship which has subsisted between travellers terminates with the journey. When you get out, a word, a bow, and the most unpleasant act of life is finished and forgotten.

CHAPTER XI. b.a.l.l.s.

Invitations to a ball should be issued at least ten days in advance, in order to give an opportunity to the men to clear away engagements; and to women, time to prepare the artillery of their toilet. Cards of invitation should be sent--not notes.

Upon the entrance of ladies, or persons ent.i.tled to deference, the master of the house precedes them across the room: he addresses compliments to them, and will lose his life to procure them seats.

While dancing with a lady whom you have never seen before, you should not talk to her much.

The master of the ceremonies must take care that every lady dances, and press into service for that purpose these young gentlemen who are hanging round the room like fossils. If desired by him to dance with a particular lady you should refuse on no account.

If you have no ear, that is, a false one, never dance.

To usurp the seat of a person who is dancing is the height of incivility.

Never go to a public ball.

CHAPTER XII. FUNERALS.

When any member of a family is dead, it is customary to send intelligence of the misfortune to all who have been connected with the deceased in relations of business or friendship. The letters which are sent contain a special invitation to a.s.sist at the funeral.

An invitation of this sort should never he refused, though, of course, you do not send a reply, for no other reason that I know of, excepting the impossibility of framing any formula of acceptance.

You render yourself at the house an hour or two after the time specified. If you were to sit long in the mournful circle you might be rendered unfit for doing any thing for a week.

Your dress is black, and during the time of waiting you compose your visage into a "tristful 'haviour," and lean in silent solemnity upon the top of your cane, thinking about-- last night's party. This is a necessary hypocrisy, and a.s.sists marvellously the sadness of the ceremony. You walk in a procession with the others, your carriage following in the street. The first places are yielded to the relations of the deceased.

The coffins of persons of distinction are carried in the hands of bearers, who walk with their hats off.

You walk with another, in seemly order, and converse in a low tone; first upon the property of the defunct, and next upon the politics of the day. You walk with the others into the church, where service is said over the body. It is optional to go to the grave or not. When you go away, you enter your carriage and return to your business or your pleasures.

A funeral in the morning, a ball in the evening,"--so runs the world away."

CHAPTER XIII. SERVANTS.

Servants are a necessary evil. He who shall contrive to obviate their necessity, or remove their inconveniences, will render to human comfort a greater benefit than has yet been conferred by all the useful-knowledge societies of the age.

They are domestic spies, who continually embarra.s.s the intercourse of the members of a family, or possess themselves of private information that renders their presence hateful, and their absence dangerous. It is a rare thing to see persons who are not controlled by their servants. Theirs, too, is not the only kitchen cabinet which begins by serving and ends by ruling.

If we judge from the frequency and inconvenience of an opposite course, we should say that the most important precept to be observed is, never to be afraid of your servants. We have known many ladies who, without any reason in the world, lived in a state of perfect subjugation to their servants, who were afraid to give a direction, and who submitted to disobedience and insult, where no danger could be apprehended from discharging them.

If a servant offends you by any trifling or occasional omission of duty, reprove the fault with mild severity; if the error be repeated often, and be of a gross description, never hesitate, but discharge the servant instantly, without any altercation of language. You cannot easily find another who will serve you worse.

As for those precautions which are ordinarily taken, to secure the procurence of good servants, they are, without exception, utterly useless. The author of the Rambler has remarked, that a written _character_ of a servant is worth about as much as a discharge from the Old Bailey. I never, but once, took any trouble to inquire what reputation a servant had held in former situations. On that occasion, I heard that I had engaged the very Shakespeare of menials,-- Aristides was not more honest,--Zeno more truth-telling,--nor Abdiel more faithful. This fellow, after insulting me daily for a week, disappeared with my watch and three pair of boots.

Those offices which profess to recommend good domestics, are "bosh,--nothing." In nine cases out of ten, the keepers are in league with the servants; and in the tenth, ignorance, dishonesty, or carelessness will prevent any benefit resulting from,their "intelligence." All that you can do is, to take the most decent creature who applies; trust in Providence, and lock every thing up.

Never speak harshly, or superciliously, or hastily to a servant. There are many little actions which distinguish, to the eye of the most careless observer, a gentleman from one not a gentleman; but there is none more striking than the manner of addressing a servant. Issue your commands with gravity and gentleness, and in a reserved manner. Let your voice be composed, but avoid a tone of familiarity or sympathy with them. It is better in addressing them to use a higher key of voice, and not to suffer it to fall at the end of a sentence. The best bred man whom we ever had the pleasure of meeting, always employed, in addressing servants, such forms of speech as these--"I'll thank you for so and so,"--" Such a thing, if you please,"--with a gentle tone, but very elevated key. The perfection of manner, in this particular, is, to indicate by your language, that the performance is a favour, and by your tone that it is a matter of course.

While, however, you practise the utmost mildness and forbearance in your language, avoid the dangerous and common error of exercising too great humanity in action. No servant, from the time of the first Gibeonite downwards, has ever had too much labour imposed upon him; while thousands have been ruined by the mistaken kindness of their masters.

Servants should always be allowed, and indeed directed, to go to church on Sunday afternoon. For this purpose, dinner is served earlier on that day than usual. If it can be accomplished, the servants should be induced to attend the same church as the family with whom they live; because there may be reason to fear that if they profess to go elsewhere, they may not go to church at all; and the habit of wandering about the streets with idlers, will speedily ruin the best servant that ever stood behind a chair.

Servants should be directed to announce visitors. This is always done abroad, and is a convenient custom.

Never allow a female servant to enter a parlour. If all the male domestics are gone out, it is better that there should be no attendance at all.

Some ladies are in the habit of amusing their friends with accounts of the difficulty of getting good servants, etc.

This denotes decided ill breeding. Such subjects should never be made topics of conversation.