"Cousin Maggie always says," remarked one of her auditors, "that Americans are the most truly polite men she has met"——
"Yes," returned the enthusiast, "though sometimes wanting in mere surface-polish—
'Where'er I roam, whatever lands I see,
My heart, untravelled, fondly turns to'——
my own dear, honored countrymen—more truly chivalrous, more truly just towards our sex, than the men of any other land! I never yet appealed to one of them for aid, for courtesy, as a woman, and as a woman should, in vain. And I never, scarcely, am so placed as to have occasion for kindness—real kindness—without receiving it, unasked. The other day, for instance, caught in a sudden shower, I stood waiting for a stage, 'down town,' in Broadway. There was such a jam that I was afraid to try and get into one that stopped quite near the sidewalk. A policeman, at that moment, asked me whether I wished to get in, and, holding my arm, stepped over the curb with me. 'I don't know what the ladies would do without the aid of your corps, sometimes, in these crowds,' said I.
"'If the ladies will accept our services, we are proud, madam,' answered he.
"'I am very glad to do so,' returned I; and well I might, for, at that instant, as I was on the point of setting my foot on the step of the omnibus, the horse attached to a cart next behind suddenly started forward, and left no space between his head and the door of the stage. I shrunk back, as you may imagine, and said I would walk, in spite of the rain. But the policeman encouraged me, and called out to the carman to fall back. At that instant, I observed a gentleman come out upon the step of the stage. With a single imperious gesture, and the sternest face, he drove back the horse, and springing into the omnibus, held the door open with one hand, and extended the other to me. To be sure, the policeman almost pinched my arm in two, in his effort to keep me safe, but I was, at last, seated with whole bones and a grateful heart, at the side of my brave, kind champion. As soon as I recovered breath, I was curious to see again the face whose expression had arrested my attention (of course, I did not wait for breath to thank him), and to note the external characteristics of a man who would impulsively render such service to a woman—like Charles Lamb—(dear, gentle Charles Lamb!) holding his umbrella over the head of a washerwoman, because she was a woman! Well, my friend was looking straight before him, apparently wholly unconscious of the existence of the trembling being he had so humanely befriended, with the most impenetrable face imaginable, and a sort of abstracted manner. Presently I desired to open the window behind me—still not quite recovered from my fright and flutter. Almost before my hand was on the glass, my courteous neighbor relieved me of my task. Again I rendered cordial thanks, and again, as soon as delicacy permitted, glanced furtively at the face beside me. Nothing to reward my scrutiny was there revealed; the same absorbed, fixed expression, the same seeming unconsciousness! But can you doubt that a noble, manly nature was veiled beneath that calm face and quiet manner—a nature that would gleam out in an instant, should humanity prompt, or wrong excite? And I could tell you numberless such anecdotes—all illustrative of my favorite theory."
"So could we all," said another lady, "I have no doubt, if we only remembered them."
"I never forget anything of that kind," returned Margaret. "It is to me like a strain of fine music, acted poetry, if I may use such a phrase. Such incidents make, for me, the poetry of real life, indeed! They inspire in my heart,
'The still, sweet music of humanity.'"
One magnificent moonlight night, while I was in Rome with your cousins and the W——s, a party was formed to visit the Coliseum. That whimsical creature, Grace, whom I had more than once detected in a disposition to fall behind the rest of the company, as we strolled slowly through the ruins, at length stole up to me, as I paused a little apart from the group, and twining her arm within mine, whispered softly: