We regret the custom of continuing to give military titles to militia officers. Foreigners are justly diverted at finding soi-disant generals and colonels among men who fill very subordinate stations in civil life—men that, however respectable in their characters, may be deficient in the appearance, manners, or education that should belong to a regular officer. This foolish practice can only be done away by the militia officers themselves (those that really are gentlemen—and there are many) magnanimously declining to be called generals, colonels, &c. except on parade occasions; and when actually engaged in militia duty. Let them omit these titles on their cards, and request that no letters be directed to them with such superscriptions; and that in introductions or in conversation they may be only addressed as plain Mr. It is still more absurd to continue these military titles long after they have ceased to hold the office,—and above all, to persist in them when travelling in foreign countries, tacitly permitting it to be supposed that they own commissions in the regular service.
English tourists (even when they know better) make this practice a handle for pretending, in their books, that the officers of the American army are so badly paid, or so eager to make additional money, that they exercise all sorts of trades, and engage in the humblest occupations to help themselves along. They tell of seeing a captain stitching coats, a major making shoes, a colonel driving a stage, and a general selling butter in market—sneeringly representing them as regular officers of the United States army. Is it true that we republicans have such a hankering after titles? If so, “reform it altogether.” And let one of the first steps be to omit the “Esq.” in directing a letter to an American citizen, for whom the title can have no meaning. In England it signifies the possessor of an estate in the country, including the office of justice of peace. In America, it means a magistrate only; who may live in a city, and own not an inch of ground anywhere. But why should all manner of men, of all trades, and professions, expect to see an “Esq.” after their name, when with reference to them, it can have no rational application?
An introduction should always be given in a distinct and audible voice, so that the name may be clearly understood. The purpose is defeated, if it is murmured over in so low a tone as to be unintelligible. And yet how often is this the case; for what reason it is difficult to divine. It is usual for the introducee to repeat the name of the introduced. This will prove that it has really been heard. For instance, if Mrs. Smith presents Miss Brook to Miss Miles, Miss Miles immediately says, “Miss Brook”—or better still—“Miss Brook, I am glad to meet you,” or something similar. Miss Miles then begins a talk.
If you introduce yourself to a lady whom you wish to know, but who does not know you, address her by her name, express your desire to make her acquaintance, and then give her your card. Replying that it affords her pleasure to meet you, she will give you her hand, and commence a conversation, so as to put you quite at ease after your self-introduction.
In introducing members of your own family, always mention, audibly, the name. It is not sufficient to say “my father,” or “my mother”—“my son,” “my daughter”—“my brother,” or “my sister.” There may be more than one surname in the same family. But say, “my father, Mr. Warton,”—“my daughter, Miss Wood”—or “my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Wood”—“my sister, Miss Mary Ramsay”—“my brother, Mr. James Ramsay,” &c. It is best in all these things to be explicit. The eldest daughter is usually introduced by her surname only—as “Miss Bradford”—her younger sisters, as “Miss Maria Bradford”—“Miss Harriet Bradford.”
In presenting a clergyman, put the word “Reverend” before his name—unless he is a bishop, and then, of course, the word “Bishop” suffices. The head of a college-department introduce as “Professor”—and it is to them only that the title properly belongs, though arrogated by all sorts of public exhibitors, mesmerists and jugglers included.
Where the company is large, the ladies of the house should have tact enough to avoid introducing and placing together persons who cannot possibly assimilate, or take pleasure in each other’s society. The dull, and the silly, will be far happier with their compeers. To a woman of talent, and a good conversationist, it is a cruelty to put her unnecessarily in contact with stupid, or unmeaning people. She is wasted and thrown away upon such as are neither amusing nor amusable. Neither is it well to bring together a gay, lively woman of the world, and a solemn, serious, repulsive dame, who is a contemner of the world and all its enjoyments. There can be no conversation that is mutually agreeable, between a real lady of true delicacy and refinement, and a so-called lady whose behaviour and talk are coarse and vulgar,—or between a woman of highly cultivated mind, and one who is grossly ignorant of every thing connected with books, and who boasts of that ignorance. We have heard a lady of fashion say, “Thank God, I never read.” The answer might well have have been, “You need not tell us that.”
In inviting but a small company, it is indispensable to the pleasure of all, that you ask none who are strikingly unsuitable to the rest—or whose presence will throw a damp on conversation. Especially avoid bringing into the same room, persons who are at notorious enmity with each other, even if, unhappily, they should be members of the same family. Those who are known as adversaries should be invited on different evenings.
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.