Books: The Laws of Etiquette
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A Gentleman >> The Laws of Etiquette
Let not any man imagine, that he shall easily acquire these
qualities which will constitute him a gentleman. It is
necessary not only to exert the highest degree of art, but to
attain also that higher accomplishment of concealing art. The
serene and elevated dignity which mark that character, are
the result of untiring and arduous effort. After the
sculpture has attained the shape of propriety, it remains to
smooth off all the marks of the chisel. "A gentleman," says a
celebrated French author, "is one who has reflected deeply
upon all the obligations which belong to his station, and who
has applied himself ardently to fulfil them with grace."
Polite without importunity, gallant without being offensive,
attentive to the comfort of all; employing a well-regulated
kindness, witty at the proper times, discreet, indulgent,
generous, he exercises, in his sphere, a high degree of moral
authority; he it is, and he alone, that one should imitate.
CHAPTER VI. LETTERS.
Always remember that the terms of compliment at the close of
a letter--"I have the honour to be your very obedient
servant," etc. are merely forms--"signifying nothing." Do not
therefore avoid them on account of pride, or a dislike to the
person addressed. Do not presume, as some do, to found
expectations of favour or promotion from great men who
profess themselves your obliged servant.
In writing a letter of business it is extremely vulgar to use
satin or glazed gold-edged paper. Always employ, on such
occasions, plain American paper. Place the date at the top of
the page, and if you please, the name of the person at the
top also, just above the 'Sir;' though this last is
indifferent.
In letters to gentlemen always place the date at the end of
the letter, below his name. Use the best paper, but not
figured, and never fail to enclose it in an envelope.
Attention to these matters is indispensable.
To a person whom you do not know well, say Sir, not 'Dear
Sir.' It formerly was usual in writing to a distinguished man
to employ the form 'Respected Sir,' or something of the kind.
This is now out of fashion.
There are a great many forms observed by the French in their
letters, which are necessary to be known before addressing
one of that nation. You will find them in their books upon
such subjects, or learn them from your French master. One
custom of theirs is worthy of adoption among us: to
proportion the distance between the 'Sir' and the first line
of the letter, to the rank of the person to whom you write.
Among the French to neglect attending to this would give
mortal offence. It obtains also in other European nations.
When the Duke of Buckingham was at the court of Spain, some
letters passed between the Spanish minister Olivez and
himself,--the two proudest men on earth. The Spaniard wrote a
letter to the Englishman, and put the 'Monsieur' on a line
with the beginning of his letter. The other, in his reply,
placed the 'Monsieur' a little below it.
A note of invitation or reply is always to be enclosed in an
envelope.
Wafers are now entirely exploded. A letter of business is
sealed with red wax, and marked with some common stamp.
Letters to gentlemen demand red wax sealed with your arms. In
notes to ladies employ coloured wax, but not perfumed.
CHAPTER VII. VISITS.
Of visits there are various sorts; visits of congratulation,
visits of condolence, visits of ceremony, visits of
friendship. To each belong different customs.
A visit and an insult must be always returned.
Visits of ceremony should be very short. Go at some time when
business demands the employment of every moment. In visits of
friendship adopt a different course.
If you call to see an acquaintance at lodgings, and cannot
find any one to announce you, you knock very lightly at the
door, and wait some time before entering. If you are in too
great a hurry, you might find the person drawing off a night-
cap.
Respectable visitors should be received and treated with the
utmost courtesy. But if a tiresome fellow, after wearying all
his friends, becomes weary of himself, and arrives to bestow
his tediousness upon you, pull out your watch with
restlessness, talk about your great occupations and the value
of time. Politeness is one thing; to be made a convenience of
is another.
The style of your conversation should always be in keeping
with the character of the visit. You must not talk about
literature in a visit of condolence, nor about political
economy in a visit of ceremony.
When a lady visits you, upon her retiring, you offer her your
arm, and conduct her to her carriage. If you are visiting at
the same time with another lady, you should take leave at the
same time, and hand her into her carriage.
After a hall, a dinner, or a concert, you visit during the
week.
Pay the first visit to a friend just returned from a voyage.
Annual visits are paid to persons with whom you have a cool
acquaintance, They visit you in the autumn, you return a card
in the spring.
In paying a visit under ordinary circumstances, you leave a
single card. If there be residing in the family, a married
daughter, an unmarried sister, a transient guest, or any
person in a distinct situation from the mistress of the
house, you leave two cards, one for each party. If you are
acquainted with only one member of a family, as the husband,
or the wife, and you wish to indicate that your visit is to
both, you leave two cards. Ladies have a fashion of pinching
down one corner of a card to denote that the visit is to only
one of two parties in a house, and two corners, or one side
of the card, when the visit is to both; but this is a
transient mode, and of dubious respectability.
If, in paying a morning visit, you are not recognized when
you enter, mention your name immediately. If you call to
visit one member, and you find others only in the parlour,
introduce yourself to them. Much awkwardness may occur
through defect of attention to this point.
When a gentleman is about to be married, he sends cards, a
day or two before the event, to all whom he is in the habit
of visiting. These visits are never paid in person, but the
cards sent by a servant, at any hour in the morning; or the
gentleman goes in a carriage, and sends them in. After
marriage, some day is appointed and made known to all, as the
day on which he receives company. His friends then all call
upon him. Would that this also were performed by cards!
CHAPTER VIII. APPOINTMENTS AND PUNCTUALITY.
When you make an appointment, always be exact in observing
it. In some places, and on some occasions, a quarter of an
hour's _grace_ is given. This depends on custom, and it is
always better not to avail yourself of it. In Philadelphia it
is necessary to be punctual to a second, for there everybody
breathes by the State-house clock If you make an appointment
to meet anywhere, your body must be in a right line with the
frame of the door at the instant the first stroke of the
great clock sounds. If you are a moment later, your character
is gone. It is useless to plead the evidence of your watch,
or detention by a friend. You read your condemnation in the
action of the old fellows who, with polite regard to your
feelings, simultaneously pull out their vast chronometers, as
you enter. The tardy man is worse off than the murderer. _He_
may be pardoned by one person, (the Governor); the unpunctual
is pardoned by none. _Haud inexpectus loquor._
If you make an appointment with another at your own house,
you should be invisible to the rest of the world, and
consecrate your time solely to him.
If you make an appointment with a lady, especially if it be
upon a promenade, or other public place, you must be there a
little before the time.
If you accept an appointment at the house of a public
officer, or a man of business, be very punctual, transact the
affair with despatch, and retire the moment it is finished.
CHAPTER IX. DINNER.
The hour of dinner has been said, by Dr. Johnson, to be the
most important hour in civilized life. The etiquette of the
dinner-table has a prominence commensurate with the dignity
of the ceremony. Like the historian of Peter Bell, we
commence at the commencement, and thence proceed to the
moment when you take leave officially, or vanish unseen.
In order to dine, the first requisite is--to be invited. The
length of time which the invitation precedes the dinner is
always proportioned to the grandeur of the occasion, and
varies from two days to two weeks. To an invitation received
less than two days in advance, you will lose little by
replying in the negative, for as it was probably sent as soon
as the preparations of the host commenced, you may be sure
that there will be little on the table fit to eat. Those
abominations, y'clept "plain family dinners," eschew like the
plague.
You reply to a note of invitation immediately, and in the
most direct and unequivocal terms. If you accept, you arrive
at the house rigorously at the hour specified. It is equally
inconvenient to be too late and to be too early. If you fall
into the latter error, you find every thing in disorder; the
master of the house is in his dressing-room, changing his
waistcoat; the lady is still in the pantry; the fire not yet
lighted in the parlour. If by accident or thoughtlessness you
arrive too soon, you may pretend that you called to inquire
the exact hour at which they dine, having mislaid the note,
and then retire to walk for an appetite. If you are too late,
the evil is still greater, and indeed almost without a
remedy. Your delay spoils the dinner and destroys the
appetite and temper of the guests; and you yourself are so
much embarrassed at the inconvenience you have occasioned,
that you commit a thousand errors at table. If you do not
reach the house until dinner is served, you had better retire
to a restaurateurs, and thence send an apology, and not
interrupt the harmony of the courses by awkward excuses and
cold acceptances.
When the guests have all entered, and been presented to one
another, if any delay occurs, the conversation should be of
the lightest and least exciting kind; mere common-places
about the weather and late arrivals. You should not amuse the
company by animated relations of one person who has just cut
his throat from ear to ear, or of another who, the evening
before, was choked by a tough beef-steak and was buried that
morning.
When dinner is announced, the inviter rises and requests all
to walk to the dining-room. He then leads the way, that they
may not be at a loss to know whither they should proceed.
Each gentleman offers his arm to a lady, and they follow in
solemn order.
The great distinction now becomes evident between the host
and the guests, which distinction it is the chief effort of
good breeding to remove. To perform faultlessly the honours
of the table, is one of the most difficult things in society:
it might indeed be asserted without much fear of
contradiction, that no man has as yet ever reached exact
propriety in his office as host, has hit the mean between
exerting himself too much and too little. His great business
is to put every one entirely at his ease, to gratify all his
desires, and make him, in a word, absolutely contented with
men and things. To accomplish this, he must have the genius
of tact to perceive, and the genius of finesse to execute;
ease and frankness of manner; a knowledge of the world that
nothing can surprise; a calmness of temper that nothing can
disturb, and a kindness of disposition that can never be
exhausted. When he receives others, he must be content to
forget himself; he must relinquish all desire to shine, and
even all attempts to please his guests by conversation, and
rather, do all in his power to let them please one another.
He behaves to them without agitation, without affectation; he
pays attention without an air of protection; he encourages
the timid, draws out the silent, and directs conversation
without Sustaining it himself. He who does not do all this,
is wanting in his duty as host; he who does, is more than
mortal.
When all are seated, the gentleman at the head of the table
sends soup to every one, from the pile of plates which stand
at his right hand. He helps the person at his right hand
first, and at his left next, and so through the whole.
There are an immensity of petty usages at the dinner table,
such as those mentioned in the story of the Abb, Delille and
the Abb, Cossen in the Introduction to this volume, which it
would be trifling and tedious to enumerate hers, and which
will be learned by an observing man after assisting at two or
three dinners.
You should never ask a gentleman or lady at the table to help
you to any thing, but always apply to the servants.
Your first duty at the table is to attend to the wants of the
lady who sits next to you, the second, to attend to your own.
In performing the first, you should take care that the lady
has all that she wishes, yet without appearing to direct your
attention too much to her plate, for nothing is more ill-bred
than to watch a person eating. If the lady be something of a
_gourmande,_ and in ever-zealous pursuit of the aroma of the
wing of a pigeon, should raise an unmanageable portion to her
mouth, you should cease all conversation with her, and look
steadfastly into the opposite part of the room.
In France, a dish, after having been placed upon the table
for approval, is removed by the servants, and carved at a
sideboard, and after. wards handed to each in succession.
This is extremely convenient, and worthy of acceptation in
this country. But unfortunately it does not as yet prevail
here. Carving therefore becomes an indispensable branch of a
gentleman's education. You should no more think of going to a
dinner without a knowledge of this art, than you should think
of going without your shoes. The gentleman of the house
selects the various dishes in the order in which they should
be cut, and invites some particular one to perform the
office. It is excessively awkward to be obliged to decline,
yet it is a thing too often occurring in,his country. When
you carve, you should never rise from your seat.
Some persons, in helping their guests, or recommending dishes
to their taste, preface every such action with an eulogy on
its merits, and draw every bottle of wine with an account of
its virtues. Others, running into the contrary extreme,
regret or fear that each dish is not exactly as it should be;
that the cook, etc., etc. Both of these habits are grievous
errors. You should leave it to your guests alone to approve,
or suffer one of your intimate friends who is present, to
vaunt your wine. When you draw a bottle, merely state its age
and brand, and of what particular vintage it is.
Do not insist upon your guests partaking of particular
dishes, never ask persons more than once, and never put
anything by force upon their plates. It is extremely ill-
bred, though extremely common, to press one to eat of
anything. You should do all that you can to make your guests
feel themselves at home, which they never can do while you
are so constantly forcing upon their minds the recollection
of the difference between yourself and them. You should never
send away your own plate until all your guests have finished.
Before the cloth is removed you do not drink wine unless with
another. If you are asked to take wine it is uncivil to
refuse. When you drink with another, you catch the person's
eye and bow with politeness. It is not necessary to say
anything, but smile with an air of great kindness.
Some one who sits near the lady of the house, should,
immediately upon the removal of the soup, request the honor
of drinking wine with her, which movement is the signal for
all the others. If this is not done, the master of the house
should select some lady. _He_ never asks gentlemen, but they
ask him; this is a refined custom, attended to in the best
company.
If you have drunk with every one at the table, and wish more
wine, you must wait till the cloth is removed. The decanter
is then sent round from the head of the table, each person
fills his glass, and all the company drinks the Health of all
the company. It is enough if you bow to the master and
mistress of the house, and to your opposite neighbour. After
this the ladies retire. Some one rises to open the door for
them, and they go into the parlour, the gentlemen remaining
to drink more wine.
After the ladies have retired, the service of the decanters
is done. The host draws the bottles which have been standing
in a wine cooler since the commencement of the dinner. The
bottle goes down the left side and up the right, and the same
bottle never passes twice. If you do not drink, always pass
the bottle to your neighbour.
At dinner never call for ale or porter; it is coarse, and
injures the taste for wine.
It was formerly the custom to drink _porter_ with cheese. One
of the few real improvements introduced by the "Napoleon of
the realms of fashion" was to banish this tavern liquor and
substitute _port._ The dictum of Brummell was thus
enunciated: "A gentleman never _malts,_ he _ports._"
A gentleman should always express his preference for some one
sort of wine over others; because, as there is always a
natural preference for one kind, if you say that you are
indifferent, you show that you are not accustomed to drink
wines. Your preference should not of course be guided by your
real disposition; if you are afflicted by nature with a
partiality for port, you should never think of indulging it
except in your closet with your chamber-door locked. The only
index of choice is fashion;--either permanent fashion (if the
phrase may be used), or some temporary fashion created by the
custom of any individual who happens to rule for a season in
society. Port was drunk by our ancestors, but George the
Fourth, upon his accession to the regency, announced his
royal preference for sherry. It has since been fashionable to
like sherry. This is what we call a _permanent_ fashion.
Champagne wine is drunk after the removal of the first cloth;
that is to say, between the meats and the dessert. One
servant goes round and places before each guest a proper-
shaped glass; another follows and fills them, and they are
immediately drunk. Sometimes this is done twice in
succession. The bottle does not again make its appearance,
and it would excite a stare to ask at a later period for a
glass of champagne wine.
If you should happen to be blessed with those rely nuisances,
children, and should be entertaining company, never allow
them to be brought in after dinner, unless they are
particularly asked for, and even then it is better to say
they are at school. Some persons, with the intention of
paying their court to the father, express great desire to see
the sons; but they should have some mercy upon the rest of
the party, particularly as they know that they themselves
would be the most disturbed of all, if their urgent entreaty
was granted.
Never at any time, whether at a formal or a familiar dinner
party, commit the impropriety of talking to a servant: nor
ever address any remark about one of them to one of the
party. Nothing can be more ill-bred. You merely ask for what
you want in a grave and civil tone, and wait with patience
till your order is obeyed.
It is a piece of refined coarseness to employ the fingers
instead of the fork to effect certain operations at the
dinner table, and on some other similar occasions. To know
how and when to follow the fashion of Eden, and when that of
more civilized life, is one of the many points which
distinguish a gentleman from one not a gentleman; or rather,
in this case, which shows the difference between a man of the
world, and one who has not "the tune of the time."* Cardinal
Richelieu detected an adventurer who passed himself off for a
nobleman, by his helping himself to olives with a fork. He
might have applied the test to a vast many other things. Yet,
on the other hand, a gentleman would lose his reputation, if
he were to take up a piece of sugar with his fingers and not
with the sugar-tongs.
* Shakspeare
It is of course needless to say that your own knife should
never be brought near to the butter, 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 God!" 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 assembled; 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 nobleman _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 assigned to passengers 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 assume 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 sex. 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
passengers are of the same standing with the women, and might
eject you from the window if you refuse to give place.