The books on etiquette will tell you, that on waiting on a lady into a carriage, or the box of a theater, you are to take off your hat; but such is not the custom among polite people in this country. The inconvenience of such a rule is a good reason against its observance in a country where the practice of politeness has in it nothing of the servility which is often attached to it in countries where the code of etiquette is dictated by the courts of monarchy. In handing a lady into a carriage, a gentleman may need to employ both his hands, and he has no third hand to hold on to his hat.
Cleanliness of person is a distinguishing trait of every well-bred person; and this not on state occasions only, but at all times, even at home. It is a folly to sit by the fire in a slovenly state, consoling oneself with the remark, "Nobody will call to-day." Should somebody call we are in no plight to receive them, and otherwise it is an injury to the character to allow slovenly habits to control us even when we are unseen.
Chesterfield inveighs against holding a man by the button, "for if people are not willing to hear you, you had much better hold your tongue than them." Button-holing is not a common vice, but pointing, nudging, hitting a man in the side with your fist, or giving him a kick of recognition under the table, are too common not to be noticed here as terrible breaches of deportment. Significant looks and gestures are equally objectionable, and must be avoided by all who desire to soar above positive vulgarity. I have often been annoyed by hearing a friend discourse on some person's failings or excellences, the person referred to being only known to the speaker. It is a bad rule to talk of persons at all, but more especially if the person spoken of is not known to all the listeners.
Do not offer a person the chair from which you have just risen, unless there be no other in the room.
Never take the chair usually occupied by the lady or gentleman of the house, even though they be absent, nor use the snuff-box of another, unless he offer it.
Do not lean your head against the wall. You will either soil the paper, or get your hair well powdered with lime.
Do not touch any of the ornaments in the houses where you visit; they are meant only for the use of the lady of the house, and may be admired, but not touched.
Lord Chesterfield, in his "Advice to his Son," justly characterizes an absent man as unfit for business or conversation. Absence of mind is usually affected, and springs in most cases from a desire to be thought abstracted in profound contemplations. The world, however, gives a man no credit for vast ideas who exhibits absence when he should be attentive, even to trifles. The world is right in this, and I would implore every studious youth to forget that he is studious when he enters company. I have seen many a man, who would have made a bright character otherwise, affect a foolish reserve, remove himself as far from others as possible, and in a mixed assembly, where social prattle or sincere conversation enlivened the hearts of the company, sit by himself abstracted in a book. It is foolish, and, what is worse for the absentee, it looks so. A hint on this subject is sufficient, and we do hint, that abstractedness of manner should never be exhibited; the greatest geniuses have ever been attentive to trifles when it so behooved them.
Affectation of superiority galls the feelings of those to whom it is offered. In company with an inferior, never let him feel his inferiority. An employer, who invites his confidential clerk to his house, should treat him in every way the same as his most distinguished guest. No reference to business should be made, and anything in the shape of command avoided. It is very easy by a look, a word, the mode of reception, or otherwise, to advertise to the other guests, "This is my clerk," or, "The person I now treat as a guest was yesterday laboring in my service;" but such a thing would lower the host more than it would annoy the guest. Before Burns had arrived at his high popularity, he was once invited by some puffed-up lairds to dine, in order that they might have the gratification of hearing the poet sing one of his own songs. Burns was shown into the servants' hall, and left to dine with the menials. After dinner he was invited to the drawing-room, and a glass of wine being handed to him, requested to sing one of his own songs. He immediately gave his entertainers that thrilling assertion of independence, "A man's a man for a' that," and left the moment he had finished, his heart embittered at patronage offered in a manner so insulting to his poverty.
People who have risen in the world are too apt to suppose they render themselves of consequence in proportion to the pride they display, and their want of attention toward those with whom they come in contact. This is a terrible mistake, as every ill-bred act recoils with triple violence against its perpetrators, by leading the offended parties to analyze them, and to question their right of assuming a superiority to which they are but rarely entitled.