It is a singular fact, and quite as discreditable for the people of America as the fact of Lord Chesterfield’s observations for grown up men and women was to the people of England, that at this day it should be necessary to publish a behaviour book for ladies. As if all ladies didn’t know how to behave themselves in their sovereign capacity as ladies; but, whatever the supposition, the truth of the matter is that we are all, ladies and gentlemen, the better for an occasional hint on the minor moralities. Human nature is always in danger of degenerating into a state of barbarism unless kept up by the stimulus of the press, social, literary, and moral, which has placed it in the comparatively high ranks of civilization. We say comparatively, for it is hardly to be presumed that we have yet reached perfection in the social scale. As we look back upon days of goths and savages, who were ignorant of finger glasses, and eat peas with a knife, so the time may come when the manners of the nineteenth century will be superseded by something vastly more angelic.
In the mean time, to hold our own, we must be kept at school, or our heels will get higher than our heads; our tobacco smoke will be in everybody’s faces; our language will deteriorate by all sorts of slang and abominations,—coming back perhaps from a trip to California as corrupt in jargon as Gresset’s celebrated parrot after his voyage on the canal among the boatmen. But these are the vilenesses and proclivities of gentlemen. What has Miss Leslie to say of the ladies?
A great deal on many points. As much about deportment as Mr. Turveydrop himself. Suggestions for home and abroad, at sea and on shore, paying visits and receiving visits, giving and receiving, amusing and being amused, at the hippodrome and in church, shopping, talking, laughing, and above all, in company with “literary women.”
We have turned down a leaf here and there, and this is the result. Miss Leslie has an eye for the humorous and, be sure, will always be entertaining.
A suggestion to ladies on a visitation at a friend’s house, the propriety of which all old married people and crusty bachelors will concur in:—
“PAST TEN O’CLOCK!”
“If you are a young lady that has beaux, remember that you have no right to encourage the over-frequency of their visits in any house that is not your home, or to devote much of your time and attention to flirtation with them. Above all, avoid introducing to the family of your entertainers, young men whom they are likely in any respect to disapprove. No stranger who has the feelings of a gentleman, will make a second visit to any house unless he is invited by the head of the family, and he will take care that his visits shall not begin too early, or continue too late. However delightful he may find the society of his lady-fair, he has no right to incommode the family with whom she is staying, by prolonging his visits to an unseasonable hour. If he seems inclined to do so, there is nothing amiss in his fair-one herself hinting to him that it is past ten o’clock. Also, there should be “a temperance” even in his morning calls. It is rude in a young lady and gentleman to monopolize one of the parlours nearly all the forenoon—even if they are really courting—still more if they are only pretending to court; for instance, sitting close to each other, and whispering on subjects that might be discussed aloud before the whole house, and talked of across the room.”
We would propose to remove the necessity for the caution in the following by removing the cause. Let there be no seats inviting visitors to use them which should not be sit upon:”
“It is not pleasant to be a guest in a house where you perceive that your hostess is continually and fretfully on the watch, lest some almost imperceptible injury should accrue to the furniture. We have known ladies who were always uneasy when their visiters sat down on a sofa or an ottoman, and could not forbear inviting them to change their seats and take chairs. We suppose the fear was that the more the damask-covered seats were used, the sooner they would wear out. Let no visiter be so rash as to sit on a pier-divan with her back near a mirror. The danger is imminent—not only of breaking the glass by inadvertently leaning against it, but of certainly fretting its owner, with uneasiness, all the time. Children should be positively interdicted taking these precarious seats.”
There is positive humanity in this remark:—
A GUEST, NOT A SEAMSTRESS.
“If she desires to assist you in sewing, and has brought no work of her own, you may avail yourself of her offer, and employ her in moderation—but let it be in moderation only, and when sitting in the family circle. When alone in her own room, she, of course, would much rather read, write, or occupy herself in some way for her own benefit, or amusement. There are ladies who seem to expect that their guests should perform as much work as hired seamstresses.”
It is not for gentlemen to look into the mysteries of these things, but reviewers have a duty to perform—so, thinking of the fair Belinda, and of her airy troop of gnomes and fays, we stop at a sensible passage on
THE TOILET TABLE.
“The toilet-table should be always furnished with a clean hair-brush, and a nice comb. We recommend those hair-brushes that have a mirror on the back, so as to afford the lady a glimpse of the back of her head and neck. Better still, as an appendage to a dressing-table, is a regular hand-mirror, of sufficient size to allow a really satisfactory view. These hand-mirrors are very convenient, to be used in conjunction with the large dressing-glass. Their cost is but trifling. The toilet-pincushion should always have pins in it. A small work-box properly furnished with needles, scissors, thimble, and cotton-spools, ought also to find a place on the dressing-table, in case the visiter may have occasion to repair any accident that may have happened to her dress.
For want of proper attention to such things, in an ill-ordered, though perhaps a very showy establishment, we have known an expected visiter ushered first into a dark entry, then shown into a dark parlour with an ashy hearth, and the fire nearly out: then, after groping her way to a seat, obliged to wait till a small hand-lamp could be procured to light her dimly up a steep, sharp-turning stair-case; and then, by the same lamp, finding on the neglected dressing-table a broken comb, an old brush, and an empty pincushion,—or (quite as probably) nothing at all—not to mention two or three children coming to watch and stare at her. On returning to the parlour, the visiter would probably find the fire just then making up, and the lamp still unlighted, because it had first to be trimmed. Meanwhile, the guest commences her visit with an uncomfortable feeling of self-reproach for coming too early; all things denoting that she was not expected so soon. In such houses everybody comes too early. However late, there will be nothing in readiness.
Don’t put your guest in
A ROCKING CHAIR.
“By-the-bye, the dizzy and ungraceful practice of rocking in a rocking-chair is now discontinued by all genteel people, except when entirely alone. A lady should never be seen to rock in a chair, and the rocking of a gentleman looks silly. Rocking is only fit for a nurse putting a baby to sleep. When children get into a large rocking-chair, they usually rock it over backward, and fall out. These chairs are now seldom seen in a parlour. Handsome, stuffed easy chairs, that are moved on castors, are substituted—and of these, half a dozen of various forms are not considered too many.”
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Dr. Johnson, who was an amateur in living out, and who once said “It was a very good dinner sir! but it was’nt a dinner to invite a man to,” would concur in the following. The hit at the “make no stranger” of your guest, is a very fair one—as if people didn’t like to be treated with all the respect assigned to strangers:—
UNSATISFACTORY APOLOGIES.
“Do not, on sitting down to table, inform your guest that “you make no stranger of her,” or that you fear she will not be able to “make out” at your plain table. These apologies are ungenteel and foolish. If your circumstances will not allow you on any consideration to make a little improvement in your usual family-fare, your friend is, in all probability, aware of the fact, and will not wish or expect you to incur any inconvenient expense on her account. But if you are known to possess the means of living well, you ought to do so; and to consider a good, though not an extravagantly luxurious table as a necessary part of your expenditure.”
In the chapter on “the entrée,” this sketch of
UNOCCUPIED FEMALES.
“There are certain unoccupied females so over-friendly as to take the entrée of the whole house. These are, generally, ultra-neighbourly neighbours, who run in at all hours of the day and evening; ferret out the ladies of the family, wherever they may be—up-stairs or down; watch all their proceedings when engaged, like good housewives, in inspecting the attics, the store-rooms, the cellars, or the kitchens. Never for a moment do they seem to suppose that their hourly visits may perhaps be inconvenient or
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unseasonable; or too selfish to abate their frequency, even when they suspect them to be so, these inveterate sociablists make their incursions at all avenues. If they find that the front-door is kept locked, they glide down the area-steps, and get in through the basement. Or else, they discover some back-entrance, by which they can slip in at “the postern-gate”—that is, alley-wise:—sociablists are not proud. At first, the sociablist will say, on making her third or fourth appearance for the day, “Who comes to see you oftener than I?” But after awhile even this faint shadow of an apology is omitted—or changed to “Nobody minds me.” She is quite domesticated in your house—an absolute habitué. She sees all, hears all, knows all your concerns. Of course she does. Her talk to you is chiefly gossip, and therefore her talk about you is chiefly the same. She is au-fait of every thing concerning your table, for after she has had her dinner at her own home, she comes bolting into your dining room and “sits by,” and sees you eat yours. It is well if she does not begin with “a look in” upon you before breakfast. She finds out everybody that comes to your house; knows all your plans for going to this place or that; is well acquainted with every article that you wear; is present at the visits of all your friends, and hears all their conversation. Her own is usually ‘an infinite deal of nothing.’ ”
The saving of unnecessary labor, in the opening hint of the following, is excellent:—
BORES.
“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.’ ”
“Conduct in the street,” has a profitable suggestion for
THE RELIEF OF BROADWAY.
“When three ladies are walking together, it is better for one to keep a little in advance of the other two, than for all three to persist in maintaining one unbroken line. They cannot all join in conversation without talking across each other—a thing that, in-doors or out-of-doors, is awkward, inconvenient, ungenteel, and should always be avoided. Also, three ladies walking abreast occupy too much of the pavement, and therefore incommode the other passengers. Three young men sometimes lounge along the pavement, arm in arm. Three young gentlemen never do so.”
A lady “as is a lady,” may always be tested by her observance of the following:—
THE THIRTEENTH IN AN OMNIBUS.
“If, on stopping an omnibus, you find that a dozen people are already seated in it, draw back, and refuse to add to the number; giving no heed to the assertion of the driver, that “there is plenty of room.” The passengers will not say so, and you have no right to crowd them all, even if you are willing to be crowded yourself—a thing that is extremely uncomfortable, and very injurious to your dress, which may, in consequence, he so squeezed and rumpled as never to look well again. None of the omnibuses are large enough to accommodate even twelve grown people comfortably; and that number is the utmost the law permits. A child occupies more than half the space of a grown person, yet children are brought into omnibuses ad libitum. Ten grown persons are as many as can be really well seated in an omnibus—twelve are too many; and a lady will always regret making the thirteenth—and her want of consideration in doing so will cause her to be regarded with unfavourable eyes by the other passengers. It is better for her to go into a shop, and wait for the next omnibus, or even to walk home, unless it is actually raining.”
There is much more on omnibuses, as indeed the subject is copious enough for a separate code of regulations. Dean Swift would have presented them to the public with infinite gusto.
Somebody may be curious to know at what rate the
FASHIONS TRAVEL TO PHILADELPHIA.
“If you are a stranger in the city, (Philadelphia for instance,) do not always be exclaiming at the prices, and declaring that you can buy the same articles much lower and much handsomer in New York, Boston, or Baltimore. For certain reasons, prices are different in different places. If an article is shown to you in Philadelphia as ‘something quite new,’ refrain from saying that it has been out of fashion these two years in New York. This may injure its sale with bystanders, chancing to hear you. You need only say ‘that it is very pretty, but you do not want it now.’
“It is strange, but no less strange than true, that though the distance between New York and Philadelphia is reduced to less than half a day’s travel, it takes a year or more, for the New York fashions to get to Philadelphia, and many of them never arrive at all. There are certain dress-makers and milliners in the latter city who, if you show them any thing quite fresh from New York, will habitually reply, ‘Oh we made that, here in Philadelphia, a year or two ago.’ You need not believe them. Our American ladies derive all their ideas of costume from France; and as New York rejoices in the most extensive and the most speedy intercourse with that land of taste and elegance, the French fashions always get there first. The wonder is that so long a time elapses before they prevail in the other cities. We must say, however, that whatever is fantastic and extreme, is generally modified and softened down in Philadelphia. In provincial towns, and in remote new settlements, we often see a disposition to carry to the utmost a fashion already too showy or gaudy.”
We must pass over much sound and rational advice on general conduct, for a paragraph or two purely literary. In the wisdom of the following we entirely agree. No slang should ever cross the door of the lips of a beautiful woman:—
NO SLANG.
“Persons who have no turn for humor, and little perception of it, are apt to mistake mere coarseness for that amusing gift; and in trying to be diverting, often become vulgar—a word not too severe for things that are sometimes said and written by very good people who wish to be funny, and do not know how. For instance, there is no wit, but there is shocking ungentility, in a lady to speak of taking a ‘snooze’ instead of a nap,—in calling pantaloons ‘pants,’ or gentlemen ‘gents,’—in saying of a man whose dress is getting old that he looks ‘seedy,’—and in alluding to an amusing anecdote, or a diverting incident, to say that it is ‘rich.’ All slang words are detestable from the lips of ladies.
“We are always sorry to hear a young lady use such a word as ‘polking’ when she tells of having been engaged in a certain dance too fashionable not long since; but happily, now it is fast going out, and almost banished from the best society. To her honour be it remembered, Queen Victoria has prohibited the polka being danced in her presence. How can a genteel girl bring herself to say, ‘Last night I was polking with Mr. Bell,’ or ‘Mr. Cope came and asked me to polk with him.’ Its coarse and ill-sounding name is worthy of the dance.
“We have little tolerance for young ladies, who, having in reality neither wit nor humour, set up for both, and having nothing of the right stock to go upon, substitute coarseness and impertinence, (not to say impudence,) and try to excite laughter, and attract the attention of gentlemen, by talking slang. Where do they get it? How do they pick it up? From low newspapers, or from vulgar books? Surely not from low companions?
“We have heard one of these ladies, when her collar chanced to be pinned awry, say that it was put on drunk—also that her bonnet was drunk, meaning crooked on her head. When disconcerted, she was ‘floored.’ When submitting to do a thing unwillingly, ‘she was brought to the scratch.’ Sometimes ‘she did things on the sly.’ She talked of a certain great vocalist ‘singing like a beast.’ She believed it very smart and piquant to use these vile expressions. It is true, when at parties, she always had half a dozen gentlemen about her; their curiosity being excited as to what she would say next. And yet she was a woman of many good qualities; and one who boasted of having always ‘lived in society.’ ”
All sorts of ambiguities arise from this pernicious use of slang:—
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A SITUATION.
“Two young officers were travelling in the far West when they stopped to take supper at a small road-side tavern, kept by a very rough Yankee woman. The landlady, in a calico sun-bonnet, and bare feet, stood at the head of the table to pour out. She enquired of her guests, ‘if they chose long sweetening, or short sweetening in their coffee.’ The first officer, supposing that ‘long sweetening’ meant a large portion of that article, chose it accordingly. What was his dismay when he saw their hostess dip her finger deep down into an earthen jar of honey that stood near her, and then stir it (the finger) round in the coffee. His companion, seeing this, preferred ‘short sweetening.’ Upon which the woman picked up a large lump of maple sugar that lay in a brown paper on the floor beside her, and biting off a piece, put it into his cup. Both the gentlemen dispensed with coffee that evening. This anecdote we heard from the sister of one of those officers.”
A few other
SOLECISMS.
“We advise our New-England friends to eschew, both in speaking and writing, all Yankee phrases that do not convey the exact meaning of the words. For instance, to ‘turn out the tea,’ instead of to ‘pour it out.’ There can be no turn given, in this process, to the spout or handle of the tea-pot. On the contrary, it cannot pour well unless it is held straight. To ‘cut the eggs,’ instead of to beat them. The motion of beating eggs does not cut them. ‘Braiding eggs,’ is still worse. But we believe that this braiding is not the same as cutting. What is it?
“It is wrong to say that certain articles of food are healthy or unhealthy. Wholesome and unwholesome are the right words. A pig may be healthy or unhealthy while alive; but after he is killed and becomes pork, he can enjoy no health, and suffer no sickness.
“If you have been accustomed to pronounce the word ‘does’ as ‘doos,’ get rid of the custom as soon as you can. Also, give up saying ‘pint’ for ‘point,’ ‘jint’ for ‘joint,’ ‘anint’ for ‘anoint,’ &c. Above all, cease saying ‘featur, creatur, natur, and raptur.’
“In New England it is not uncommon to hear the word ‘ugly’ applied to a bad temper. We have heard, ‘He will never do for president, because he is so ugly.’ On our observing that we had always considered the gentleman in question, as rather a handsome man, it was explained that he was considered ugly in disposition.
“A British traveller, walking one day in a suburb of Boston, saw a woman out on a door-step whipping a screaming child. ‘Good woman,’ said the stranger, ‘why do you whip that boy so severely.’ She answered, ‘I will whip him, because he is so ugly.’ The Englishman walked on; but put down in his journal that ‘American mothers are so cruel as to beat their children, merely because they are not handsome.’
“No genteel Bostonian should call Faneull Hall, ‘Old Funnel,’ or talk of the ‘Quinsey market,’ instead of Quincy, or speak of ‘Bacon street,’ or ‘Bacon Hill.’ That place was so called from a beacon, or signal-pole with a light at the top, and never was particularly celebrated for the pickling and smoking of pork.
“The word ‘slump,’ or ‘slumped,’ has too coarse a sound to be used by a lady.
“When you have exchanged one article for another, say so, and not that you have ‘traded it.’ ”
In the lively chapter on conversation we meet with this unexpected admission:—
WOMAN’S MISSION.
“Generally speaking, it is injudicious for ladies to attempt arguing with gentlemen on political or financial topics. All the information that a woman can possibly acquire or remember on these subjects is so small, in comparison with the knowledge of men, that the discussion will not elevate them in the opinion of masculine minds. Still, it is well for a woman to desire enlightenment, that she may comprehend something of these discussions, when she hears them from the other sex; therefore let her listen as understandingly as she can, but refrain from controversy and argument on such topics as the grasp of a female mind is seldom capable of seizing or retaining. Men are very intolerant toward women who are prone to contradiction and contention, when the talk is of things considered out of their sphere; but very indulgent toward a modest and attentive listener, who only asks questions for the sake of information. Men like to dispense knowledge; but few of them believe that in departments exclusively their own, they can profit much by the suggestions of women. It is true there are and have been women who have distinguished themselves greatly in the higher branches of science and literature, and on whom the light of genius has clearly descended. But can the annals of woman produce a female Shakspeare, a female Milton, a Goldsmith, a Campbell, or a Scott? What woman has painted like Raphael or Titian, or like the best artists of our own times? Mrs. Damer and Mrs. Siddons had a talent for sculpture; so had Marie of Orleans, the accomplished daughter of Louis Philippe. Yet what are the productions of these talented ladies compared to those of Thorwaldsen, Canova, Chantrey, and the master chisels of the great American statuaries. Women have been excellent musicians, and have made fortunes by their voices. But is there among them a Mozart, a Bellini, a Michael Kelly, an Auber, a Boieldieu? Has a woman made an improvement on steam-engines, or on any thing connected with the mechanic arts? And yet these things have been done by men of no early education—by self-taught men. A good tailor fits, cuts out, and sews better than the most celebrated female dress-maker. A good man-cook far excels a good woman-cook. Whatever may be their merits as assistants, women are rarely found who are very successful at the head of any establishment that requires energy and originality of mind. Men make fortunes, women make livings. And none make poorer livings than those who waste their time, and bore their friends, by writing and lecturing upon the equality of the sexes, and what they call ‘Women’s Rights.’ How is it that most of these ladies live separately from their husbands; either despising them, or being despised by them?
“Truth is, the female sex is really as inferior to the male in vigour of mind as in strength of body; and all arguments to the contrary are founded on a few anomalies, or based on theories that can never be reduced to practice. Because there was a Joan of Arc, and an Augustina of Saragossa, should females expose themselves to all the dangers and terrors of ‘the battle-field’s dreadful array.’ The women of the American Revolution effected much good to their country’s cause, without encroaching upon the province of its brave defenders. They were faithful and patriotic; but they left the conduct of that tremendous struggle to abler heads, stronger arms, and sterner hearts.”
We can only say that the ability with which Miss Leslie urges all this goes far to refute her positions. No man certainly could state that better.
We must not overlook the chapter on “Conduct to Literary Women;” a rather startling intimation, by the way, of the rapid growth and importance of this enterprising class. The first sentence seems to imply that it is quite a matter of course that you must at once recognise the position of such a person:—
HOW TO TREAT A LITERARY LADY.
“On being introduced to a female writer, it is rude to say that ‘you have long had a great curiosity to see her.’ Curiosity is not the right word. It is polite to imply that, ‘knowing her well by reputation, you are glad to have an opportunity of making her personal acquaintance.’ Say nothing concerning her writings, unless you chance to be alone with her. Take care not to speak of her first work as being her best; for if it is really so, she must have been retrograding from that time; a falling off that she will not like to hear of. Perhaps the truth may be, that you yourself have read only her first work; and if you tell her this, she will not be much flattered in supposing that you, in reality, cared so little for her first book, as to feel no desire to try a second. But she will be really gratified to learn that you are acquainted with most of her writings; and, in the course of conversation, it will be very pleasant for her to hear you quote something from them.
“If she is a writer of fiction, and you presume to take the liberty of criticising her works, (as you may at her own request, or if you are her intimate friend,) refrain from urging that certain incidents are improbable, and certain characters unnatural. Of this it is impossible for you to judge, unless you could have lived the very same life that she has; known exactly the same people; and inhabited with her the same places. Remember always that ‘Truth is stranger than fiction.’ The French say—‘Le vrai n’est pas toujours le plus vraisemblable,’—which, literally translated, means that ‘Truth is not always the most truth-like.’ Also, be it understood that a woman of quick perception and good memory can see and recollect a thousand things which would never be noticed or remembered by an obtuse or shallow, common-place capacity.”
There is nothing more to be said, you will admit, after that. Our word upon it, the advice is worth taking. Never make the least demur to an authoress’s way of looking at things. The fate of Gil Blas, after his interview with the homily writing Archbishop, will be yours. “Be satisfied,” this is the advice of the Behaviour Book, “take her works as you find them!”
This chapter is a very curious one,, in passages such as the following, showing the position lady writers have taken—and the peculiar treatment which they have been subject to:—
WHAT YOU MUST NOT SAY TO AN AUTHORESS.
“There are persons so rude as to question a literary woman (even on a slight acquaintance) as to the remuneration she receives for her writings—in plain terms, ‘How much did you get for that? and how much are you to have for this? And how much do you make in the course of a year? And how much a page do you get? And how many pages can you write in a day?’
“To any impertinent questions from a stranger-lady concerning the profits of your pen, reply concisely, that these things are secrets between yourself and your publishers. If you kindly condescend to answer without evasion, these polite enquiries, you will probably hear such exclamations as, ‘Why, really—you must be coining money. I think I’ll write books myself! There can’t be a better trade,’ &c.
“Ignorant people always suppose that popular writers are wonderfully well-paid—and must be making rapid fortunes—because they neither starve in garrets, nor wear rags—at least in America.
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“Never ask one writer what is her real opinion of a cotemporary author. She may be unwilling to entrust it to you, as she can have no guarantee that you will not whisper it round till it gets into print. If she voluntarily expresses her own opinion of another writer, and it is unfavourable, be honourable enough not to repeat it; but guard it sedulously from betrayal, and avoid mentioning it to any one.
“When in company with literary women, make no allusions to ‘learned ladies,’ or ‘blue stockings,’ or express surprise that they should have any knowledge of housewifery, or needle-work, or dress; or that they are able to talk on ‘common things.’ It is rude and foolish, and shows that you really know nothing about them, either as a class or as individuals.
“Never tell an authoress that ‘you are afraid of her’—or entreat her ‘not to put you into a book.’ Be assured there is no danger.”
There is only one danger in writing these directions, that they may put some feeble minded and ill-intentioned people in the way of doing the very things which they are told not to do, and which they would never have thought of doing had they been left to themselves. But this is a misfortune incident to all moralizing, from Solomon downwards. To make a gentleman, the risk must be run of manufacturing a snob.
We have glanced, of course, only at the detachable passages of Miss Leslie’s book. It contains a world of sensible thinking and pleasant writing, of knowledge which all may be the wiser for, and by the practice of which the sum of human happiness may be made considerably larger than it is in the world at this moment.
A queer book, and yet full of good sense, and even good taste, is the volume ycleped Miss Leslie’s Behaviour Book, published by Peterson & Brothers, of Philadelphia. It is set forth as guide and manual for ladies as regards conversation, manners, dress, introductions, conduct in the street, at places of amusement, at table in public or private, letter writing, correct language, obligations to gentlemen, &c, &c, &c, in fact, the authoress addresses herself to the instruction of her fair countrywomen upon the whole routine of daily life, ordinary and extraordinary. A sufficiently vast and intricate subject; and yet one which Miss Leslie treats with such very thorough knowledge as to all essential points, that if her precepts were followed by all those for whose benefit they are written, it would be difficult to find a specimen of that very disagreeable and really unnatural creature—a vulgar, ill-bred woman. The comical aspect of the book is due to the naive and earnest manner in which the authoress enforces rules of daily life, which, to those who can appreciate its amenities, are taken for granted and acted upon as the mechanic acts upon his unconscious recognition of the laws of nature. Our readers cannot but be amused by some passages from this manual of good breeding, while the sound judgment and right feeling of others must win their hearty approval. We shall present them, hap hazard, as they come.
And first this very sensible advice about visiting.
Excuse yourself from accepting invitations from persons whom you do not like, and whose dispositions, habits, feelings, and opinions are in most things the reverse of your own. There can be no pleasure in daily and familiar intercourse where there is no congeniality. Such visits never end well; and they sometime produce irreconcilable quarrels, or at least a lasting and ill-concealed coolness. Though for years you may have always met on decent terms, you may become positive enemies from living a short time under the same roof; and there is something dishonourable in laying yourself under obligations and receiving civilities from persons whom you secretly dislike, and in whose society you can have little or no enjoyment.
By the way, and apropos, of one of the purposes of the book—to teach the correct words, we notice a word the correctness of which is less patent than its whimsicality, in this very true remark, a few pages further on. “A slight coolness, a mere offence on a point of etiquette, which, if let alone, would die like a tinder spark, has been fanned and blown into a flame by the go betweening of a so called mutual friend.” Would not “going between” have answered the purpose as well? A few pages after, “a china mug for teeth-cleaning” is bespoken. This reminds us of confectioners who advertise calves feet jelly, in consideration of the fact that they use more than one foot in the preparation of that dainty article.
How very American is this paragraph about the receiving of visits from gentlemen admirers, by a lady who is a guest at a friend’s house!
However delightful he may find the society of his lady-fair, he has no right to incommode the family with whom she is staying, by prolonging his visits to an unseasonable hour. If he seems inclined to do so, there is nothing amiss in his fair-one herself hinting to him that it is past ten o’clock. Also, there should be “a temperance” even in his morning calls. It is rude in a young lady and gentleman to monopolize one of the parlours nearly all the forenoon—even if they are really courting—still more if they are only pretending to court; for instance, sitting close to each other, and whispering on subjects that might be discussed aloud before the whole house, and talked of across the room.
In this direction, that the first essential of a toilet table, shall not be omitted, there peeps out at the end an exquisite little bit of femininity.
The toilet-table should be always furnished with a clean hair-brush, and a nice comb. We recommend those hair-brushes that have a mirror on the back, so as to afford the lady a glimpse of the back of her head and neck. Better still, as an appendage to a dressing-table, is a regular hand-mirror, of sufficient size to allow a really satisfactory view.
About introductions and their immediate consequences, Miss Leslie gives very good advice, as with regard to the manner in which they should be sought, and the distinct and unmistakeable voice in which they should be made, &c, &c. But soon she approaches the awful and, to the American mind, all important subject of English aristocracy, and discourses as follows:—
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 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.
Miss Leslie certainly justified her assertion that Americans are apt to make sad blunders in these things. Before venturing to speak ex cathedra upon this subject, she should have investigated it, and she would have found that in the British Peerish there are several more Marquessates than Dukedoms, and consequently as many more Marquises whose fathers were not Dukes. She would also have learned that the dignity of an earl (i. e, a count) is next to that of a marquis, and that the viscount ranks between the earl and the baron. She makes the same mistake afterwards (p. 326) in saying, “A duchess takes precedence of a marchioness, a viscountess of a countess,” &c. She could hardly have committed these blunders, and others about coats of arms (as that the younger branches of a family are entitled only to the family crest), had she followed the advice which she gives her readers “to look over a book of the British Peerage”. Alas! is our excellent republican authoress ignorant that the books most called for at the public libraries of New York and Boston, (the Astor, the Athenæum, &c.,) are British Peerages and books of heraldry? “It would be well,” Miss Leslie says, in a note, ”if all the public offices at Washington were furnished with copies of the British Peerage,” and naively adds, “perhaps they are.”
Passing from this unimportant matter, we notice as we turn the leaves the Americanism of “young lady” for maiden or unmarried lady. As for instance, “It is not customary for a young lady to make the first visit to an unmarried lady.” This tacit presumption that ll young women marry, and that when they marry they cease to be young, is noticeable. About the proprieties of omnibus riding, here is some advice which ought not to be forgotten or neglected. It is much needed.
If, on stopping an omnibus, you find that a dozen people are already seated in it, draw back, and refuse to add to the number; giving no heed to the assertion of the driver, that “there is plenty of room.” The passengers will not say so, and you have no right to crowd them all, even if you are willing to be crowded yourself—a thing that is extremely uncomfortable, and very injurious to your dress, which may, in consequence, he so squeezed and rumpled as never to look well again. None of the omnibuses are large enough to accommodate even twelve grown people comfortably; and that number is the utmost the law permits. A child occupies more than half the space of a grown person, yet children are brought into omnibuses ad libitum. Ten grown persons are as many as can be really well seated in an omnibus—twelve are too many; and a lady will always regret making the thirteenth—and her want of consideration in doing so will cause her to be regarded with unfavourable eyes by the other passengers. It is better for her to go into a shop, and wait for the next omnibus, or even to walk home, unless it is actually raining.
In regard to that important event in much American daily life, the Hotel Dinner, Miss Leslie gives the following advice, which is undeniably good, but some of which cannot be read without a smile.
In dressing for a hotel dinner, it is not well to adopt a full evening costume, and to appear as if attired for a hall; for instance, with a coloured velvet gown; or one of a splendid brocade; or a transparent gauze material over a satin; or with short sleeves and bare neck in cold weather; or with flowers or jewels in the hair. Such costumes should be reserved for evening parties. If worn at the table d’hote, it may be suspected you have no other place in which to display them. Your dress need not be more showy than you would wear when dining at a private house, particularly if you are a permanent boarder.
Many persons hold silver forks awkwardly, as if not accustomed to them. It is fashionable to use your knife only while cutting up the food small enough to be eaten with the fork alone. While cutting, keep the fork in your left hand, the hollow or concave side downward, the fork in a very slanting position, and your fore-finger extended far down upon its handle. When you have done cutting up what you are going to eat, lay aside your knife, transfer the fork to your right hand, and take a small piece of bread in your left. If eating any thing soft, use your silver fork somewhat as a spoon, turning up the hollow side that the cavity may hold the food. If engaged in talking, do not, meanwhile, hold your fork bolt upright, but incline it downward, so as to be nearly on a level with your plate. Remember, always, to keep your own knife, fork, and spoon out of the dishes. It is an insult to the company, and a disgrace to yourself, to dip into a dish any thing that has been even for a moment in your mouth. To take butter or salt with your own knife is an abomination. There is always a butter-knife and a salt-spoon. It is nearly as bad to take a lump of sugar with your fingers.
About the sugar, by the way, the authoress is in decided error. There is no more reason why a spoon or tongs should be used by a person in taking a lump of sugar for his own use, than in taking a peach or an apple, and among the best bred people in Europe, and we believe in this country, if occasion offers, the fingers are used as a matter of course. She makes a similar mistake also with regard to the use of the toothpick, the effect of which depends entirely upon the manner of the user. But to go on.
Never, while at table, (whether in public or private,) allow yourself to talk on painful or disgusting subjects. Avoid all discussions of sicknesses, sores, surgical operations, dreadful accidents, shocking cruelties, or horrible punishments.
This, like much else that is found in the book, reminds us of the direction that we remember having noticed in a similar volume, that young ladies, when they speak of having done anything much in earnest, should not say that they “went at it full chisel!” But even these rules are not superfluous for such young ladies and gentlemen as Miss Leslie refers to in these paragraphs.
We have seen a young lady, at a very fashionable house in one of our great cities, pull a dish of stewed oysters close to her, and with a table-spoon fish out and eat the oysters one at a time; audibly sipping up their liquor from the said dish.
We have seen a young gentleman lift his plate of soup in both hands, hold it to his mouth and drink, or rather lap it up. This was at no less a place than Niagara.
Is not that “no less a place than Niagara,” exquisite? So we heard a fair American seated at table in a boarding house, say to a young friend whom she was tutoring in les bienseances, “Why, I should not think of doing any other way, even if I were at the table of the St. Nicholas Hotel!”
But we must stop half-way in our glance through this very well meant and really very useful book. In a country like America, where there are no fixed and openly recognised social distinctions, and where the means for social enjoyment are easily acquired, there must be many persons to whom Miss Leslie’s instructions will be of great service, they seem queer and comical only to those who do not need them.
There is little of what is called Chesterfieldian politeness taught in this book; kind feeling and good sense are the bases of the courtesy that it inculcates. We venture to express the doubt, however, whether a very extensive purchase and perusal of it would be followed by any very noticeable improvement in general tone of the society which most needs its teachings. Good breeding is not to be learned from books, or to be taught in a day by any means. It is, unless in very exceptional cases, the result of instructions which began in early childhood, which were given to an apt pupil, and have been confirmed by constant intercourse with well-bred people.