No woman of my acquaintance has more tact than Mrs. Langtry. I will guarantee, that her use of it will win any man who may meet her. When she was last in New York a certain newspaper man was “cutting” her savagely. Did she horsewhip him after the manner of some indignant actress? Nay, nay! First she learned who he was, then she determined to meet him. Her manager invited the young man to dine with him at Delmonico’s, and the invitation was accepted. While at dinner the manager accidentally (?) saw Mrs. Langtry, at another table, in the same great dining-room and exclaimed,
“By Jove! There’s Mrs. Langtry! Would you like to meet her?” The scribe hesitated; then consented. “First, let me ask her permission,” adroitly continued the manager.
“I shall be delighted to meet him,” was the lady’s reply. Two moments later the scribe and the actress were in close conversation; the young man was invited to Langtry’s hotel; he walked down Broadway with her to the Hoffman House, and he knew a thousand men saw him and envied him. In the following week, his paper contained a beautiful article on Langtry. The question may be asked, “Was this tact or diplomacy?” But every one ought to know that mere diplomacy could never make a dramatic critic change his tone so startlingly.
But tact is not confined to incidents in the world’s eye. Several years ago, when that clever and beautiful young woman Mrs. James G. Blaine, Jr. (now Mrs. Dr. Bull), was greatly afflicted with rheumatism, her friend, Mrs. Kendal, the well known English actress, advised massage. Mrs. Blaine objected, she disliked the idea, but Mrs. Kendal won her over by calling every day and massaging the sufferer with her own hands.
Men can do the tactful thing as well as women, and it is to their credit that they often do it when they can’t imagine that any one will ever know of it but the beneficiary. One rainy day at Broadway and Twenty-third Street, an ill-clad, shivering fellow stood, probably he had nowhere in particular to go, and would rather look at people than think of himself and his condition. I saw a tall, stout man with an intellectual, kind face stop, hold his umbrella over the tramp, and engage him in conversation; it was a mean place to stand, too, for crowds were hurrying past the big policeman standing at the crossing. I dashed in front of the chap the instant the tall man left him.
“See what that man gave me!” he said, showing me a two dollar bill.
“It’s no wonder,” I replied; “that was Colonel Bob Ingersoll!”
“Hully gee!” the man exclaimed. “I’ve heard o’ him. And here’s what else he gave me—listen.” The Colonel had told him the story of “Nobody’s Dog,” as follows:—
“A poor brute of a dog entered a hotel with three travelers. ‘Walk in, gents,’ said the host heartily. ‘Fine dog, that; is he yours, sir?’
“‘No,’ said one of the men, and ‘No,’ ‘No,’ repeated the others.