I will here enter my most emphatic protest against a practice of which ladies so justly complain,—the too-frequent rudeness of men in stationing themselves at the entrance of churches, concert-rooms, opera houses, etc., for the express purpose, apparently, of staring every modest woman who may chance to enter, out of countenance. No one possessed of true good-breeding will indulge in a practice so at variance with propriety. If occasion demands your thus remaining stationary upon the steps or in the portico of a public edifice, make room, at once, for ladies who may be entering, and avoid any appearance of curiosity regarding them. A similar course is suitable when occupying a place upon the steps, or at the windows of a pump-room at a watering-place, or of a hotel. Carefully avoid all semblance of staring at ladies passing in the street, alighting from a carriage, etc., and make no comment, even of a complimentary nature, in a voice that can possibly reach their ears. So, when walking in the street, if beauty or grace attract your attention, let your regard be respectful, and, even then, not too fixed. An audible comment or exclamation, addressed to a companion, a laugh, a familiar stare, are each and all, when any stranger, and more especially a woman, is the subject of them, unhandsome in the extreme.
Breakfasting one morning, at West Point, with an agreeable Portuguese, we chatted for some time over the newspapers and our coffee, as we sat within view of one of the most beautiful landscapes it has ever been my fortune to behold. At length our un-American indulgence in this respect, became the theme of conversation between us.
"Pardon me," said the elegant foreigner, "but though the Americans are very kind—a very pleasant people, they do not take enough of time for these things, at all. They do not only eat in a hurry, but they even pass their friends in the street, sometimes, without speaking to them! I remember last winter, in Philadelphia, where I was some months, I met one day, in Chestnut street, a gentleman whom I knew very well, and he passed me without speaking. I made up my mind at once, that this shall not happen again, so the next time I saw him coming, I looked into a shop window, or at something, and did not see him. He came to me and said—"Good morning, Mr. A——! what is the matter with you, that you do not speak to me?" or something like that. I answered, that he had cut me in the street (I think that is what you call it!) two or three days before, and that I never will permit myself to be treated in this manner. Then he said, that I must excuse him, that he must have been in business and did not see me, and so on. But this is not the way of a gentleman in my country!"
You must imagine for yourselves the double effect, lent to the words of my companion by his foreign action and imperfect pronunciation, and the slight curl of his dark moustache as he emphasized the words I have underscored.
"What a harum-scarum fellow that James Condon is!" exclaimed a young lady, in my hearing. "I had reason to repent declining to drive to the concert last night, I assure you! The moon, upon which I had counted, was obscured, and he not only hurried me along (though we had plenty of time, as I was quite ready when he came), at breathless speed, but actually dragged me over a heap of rubbish, in crossing the street, upon which I nearly tumbled down, though I had his arm. When we reached the place, I was so heated and flurried that I could not half enjoy the music, and this morning I find not only that my handsome new boots are completely spoiled, but that I have any quantity of lime upon the bottom of the dress I wore, and my pretty fan, which he must needs insist upon carrying for me, sadly broken!"
"I have seen everything and everybody I wish, in London, except the Duke of Wellington," said a sprightly lady whose early morning walk past Apsley House—the town residence of the Iron Duke—I was attending some years since, "every distinguished man, except the Hero of Waterloo. I hope I shall not lose that pleasure!"