Manners and Social Usages - Mrs John M. E. W. Sherwood (mobile ebook reader TXT) 📗
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Charles, and she said he was a beautiful gentleman, and Charles said
that Mary was a lovely lady; so it was quite natural that I should
try to bring them together,” etc., etc.
Still, in poetry we like the word lady. “If my lady loves me true,”
is much better than “if my woman loves me true” would be; so there,
again, we have the contradiction, for the Anglo-Saxon rule of using
the word “woman” when anything real or sincere in emotion is in
question is here honored in the breach. But this is one of the many
shadowy conflicts which complicate this subject.
The term “lady” is like the word “gentry” in England—it is elastic.
All persons coming within the category of “gentry” may attend the
Queen’s Drawing-room, yet it is well understood that birth, wealth,
association, and position give the raison d’�tre for the use of
such a privilege, and in that carefully guarded English society the
wife or daughters of an officer in the navy or in a line regiment
whose means are slender and whose position is obscure would not be
justified in presenting themselves at court. The same remark holds
good of the wives and daughters of clergymen, barristers, doctors,
authors, and artists, although the husband, if eminent, might attend
a lev�e if he wished. Yet these women are very tenacious of the
title of lady, and no tradesman’s wife would deny it to them, while
she would not, if ever so rich, aspire to be called a lady herself.
“I ain’t no lady myself, but I can afford to have ‘em as
governesses,” remarked a Mrs. Kicklebury on the Rhine. She was not
at all ashamed of the fact that she was no lady herself, yet her
compeer and equal in America, if she kept a gin-shop, would insist
upon the title of lady.
A lady is a person of refinement, of education, of fashion, of
birth, of prestige, of a higher grade of some sort, if we apply the
term rightly. She may be out of place through loss of fortune, or
she may have sullied her title, but a something tells us that she is
still a lady. We have a habit of saying, as some person, perhaps
well decked out with fortune’s favors, passes us, “She is not a
lady,” and every one will know what we mean. The phrase “vulgar
lady,” therefore, is an absurdity; there is no such thing; as well
talk of a white blackbird; the term is self-contradictory. If she is
vulgar, she is not a lady; but there is such a thing as a vulgar
woman, and it is a very real thing.
In England they have many terms to express the word “woman” which we
have not. A traveller in the rural districts speaks of a “kindly old
wife who received me,” or a “wretched old crone,” or a “saucy
lassie,” or a “neat maid,” etc. We should use the word “woman,” or
“old woman,” or “girl,” for all these.
Now as to the term “old woman” or “old lady.” The latter has a
pretty sound. We see the soft white curls, so like floss silk, the
delicate white camel’s-hair shawl, the soft lace and appropriate
black satin gown, the pretty old-fashioned manner, and we see that
this is a real lady. She may have her tricks of old-fashioned
speech; they do not offend us. To be sure, she has no slang; she
does not talk about “awfully jolly,” or a “ghastly way off;” she
does not talk of the boys as being a “bully lot,” or the girls as
being “beastly fine;” she does not say that she is “feeling rather
seedy to-day,” etc. No, “our old lady” is a “lady,” and it would be
in bad taste to call her an “old woman,” which somehow sounds
disrespectful.
Therefore we must, while begging of our correspondents to use the
word “woman” whenever they can, tell them not entirely to drop the
word “lady.” The real lady or gentleman is very much known by the
voice, the choice of words, the appropriate term. Nothing can be
better than to err on the side of simplicity, which is always better
than gush, or over-effort, or conceit of speech. One may be
“ignorant of the shibboleth of a good set,” yet speak most excellent
English.
Thackeray said of George the Fourth that there was only one reason
why he should not have been called the “first gentleman in Europe,”
and that was because he was not a gentleman. But of the young Duke
of Albany, just deceased, no one could hesitate to speak as a
gentleman. Therefore, while we see that birth does not always make a
gentleman, we still get the idea that it may help to make one, as we
do not readily connect the idea with Jeames, who was a “gentleman’s
gentleman.” He might have been “fine,” but not “noble.”
As for titles for married women, we have only the one word, “Mrs.,”
not even the pretty French “Madame.” But no woman should write
herself “Mrs.” on her checks or at the foot of her notes; nowhere
but in a hotel register or on a card should she give herself this
title, simple though it be. She is always, if she writes in the
first person, “Mary Smith,” even to a person she does not know. This
seems to trouble some people, who ask, “How will such a person know
I am married?” Why should they? If desirous of informing some
distant servant or other person of that fact, add in a parenthesis
beneath “Mary Smith” the important addenda, “Mrs. John Smith.”
When women are allowed to vote, perhaps further complications may
arise. The truth is, women have no real names. They simply are
called by the name of father or husband, and if they marry several
times may well begin to doubt their own identity. Happy those who
never have to sign but one new name to their letters!
CHAPTER LII. THE MANNERS OF THE PAST.
In these days, amid what has been strongly stated as “the prevailing
mediocrity of manners,” a study of the manners of the past would
seem to reveal to us the fact that in those days of ceremony a man
who was beset with shyness need then have suffered less than he
would do now in these days of impertinence and brass.
A man was not then expected to enter a room and to dash at once into
a lively conversation. The stately influence of the _minuet de la
cour_ was upon him; he deliberately entered a room, made a low bow,
and sat down, waiting to be spoken to.
Indeed, we may go farther back and imagine ourselves at the court of
Louis XIV., when the world was broadly separated into the two
classes—the noble and the bourgeois. That world which Moliere
divided in his dramatis personae into the courtier, the provincial
noble, and the plain gentleman; and secondly, into the men of law
and medicine, the merchant, and the shopkeeper. These divisions
shall be for a moment considered. Now, all these men knew exactly,
from the day when they reached ten years of age, how they were
expected to behave in the sphere of life to which they were called.
The marquis was instructed in every art of graceful behavior, the
bel air was taught him as we teach our boys how to dance, even
more thoroughly. The grand seigneur of those days, the man who
would not arrange the folds of his own cravat with his own hands,
and who exacted an observance as punctilious from his valets as if
he were the king himself, that marquis of whom the great Moliere
makes such fun, the courtier whom even the grand monarque liked to
see ridiculed—this man had, nevertheless, good manners. We see him
reflected with marvellous fidelity in those wonderful comedies of
the French Shakespeare; he is more than the fashion of an epoch—he
is one of the eternal types of human nature. We learn what a man
becomes whose business is “deportment.” Even despicable as he is in
“Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme”–flattering, borrowing money, cheating
the poor citizen, and using his rank as a mask and excuse for his
vices—we still read that it was such a one as he who took poor
Moliere’s cold hands in his and put them in his muff, when, on the
last dreadful day of the actor’s life (with a liberality which does
his memory immortal honor), he strove to play, “that fifty poor
workmen might receive their daily pay.” It was such a one as this
who was kind to poor Moliere. There was in these gens de cour a
copy of fine feeling, even if they had it not, They were polite and
elegant, making the people about them feel better for the moment,
doing graceful acts courteously, and gilding vice with the polish of
perfect manners. The bourgeois, according to Moliere, was as bad a
man as the courtier, but he had, besides, brutal manners; and as for
the magistrates and merchants, they were harsh and surly, and very
sparing of civility. No wonder, when the French Revolution came,
that one of the victims, regretting the not-yet-forgotten marquis,
desired the return of the aristocracy; for, said he, “I would rather
be trampled upon by a velvet slipper than a wooden shoe.”
It is the best definition of manners—“a velvet slipper rather than
a wooden shoe.” We ask very little of the people whom we casually
meet but that the salutation be pleasant; and as we remember how
many crimes and misfortunes have arisen from sudden anger, caused
sometimes by pure breaches of good manners, we almost agree with
Burke that “manners are of more importance than laws. Upon them, in
a great measure, the laws depend.”
Some one calls politeness “benevolence in trifles, the preference of
others to ourselves in little, daily, hourly occurrences in the
business of life, a better place, a more commodious seat, priority
in being helped at table,” etc.
Now, in all these minor morals the marquis was a benevolent man; he
was affable and both well and fair spoken, “and would use strange
sweetness and blandishment of words when he desired to affect or
persuade anything that he took to heart”—that is, with his equals.
It is well to study this man, and to remember that he was not always
vile. The Prince of Cond� had these manners and a generous, great
heart as well. Gentleness really belongs to virtue, and a sycophant
can hardly imitate it well. The perfect gentleman is he who has a
strong heart under the silken doublet of a perfect manner.
We do not want all the decent drapery of life torn off; we do not
want to be told that we are full of defects; we do not wish people
to show us a latent antagonism; and if we have in ourselves the
elements of roughness, severity of judgment, a critical eye which
sees defects rather than virtues, we are bound to study how to tone
down that native, disagreeable temper—just as we are bound to try
to break the icy formality of a reserved manner, and to cultivate a
cordiality which we do not feel. Such a command over the
shortcomings of our own natures is not insincerity, as we often find
that the effort to make ourselves agreeable towards some one whom we
dislike ends in leading us to like the offending person. We find
that we have really been the offender, going about with a moral
tape-measure graduated by ourselves, and measuring the opposite
party with a serene conceit which has
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