A Gentleman

by Maurice Francis Egan

For a time it had become a fashionable “fad” to use the left hand as much as possible, in saluting to take off one’s hat with the left hand, to eat one’s soup with the left hand; but this is all nonsense. Not long ago, in New York, every “dude” turned up the bottoms of his trousers in all sorts of weather, because in London everybody did it. Other fads were the carrying of a cane, handle down, and the holding of the arms with the elbows stuck out on both sides of him. Another importation of the Anglomaniacs was the habit of putting American money into pounds, shillings, and pence, for people who had been so long abroad could not be expected to remember their own currency. Another pleasant importation is the constant repetition of “don’t you know.” But they are all silly fashions, that may do for that class of “chappies” whose most serious occupation is that of sucking the heads of their canes, or of reducing themselves to idiocy with the baleful cigarette, or considering how pretty the girls think they are—but not for men.

The rules held by sane people all over the English-speaking world are those one ought to follow, not the silly follies of the hour, which stamp those who adopt them as below the ordinary level of human beings.

Let us imagine that you have been sent to Washington on business. I take Washington because it is the capital of the United States, and, if you do the right thing according to social rules there, you will do the right thing everywhere else. So you are going to Washington, where you will see one of the most magnificent domes in the world and the very beautiful bronze gates of the Capitol, a building about which we do not think enough because it happens to be in our own country. If it were in Europe, we should be flocking over in droves to see it.

Some kind friend gives you a letter of introduction to a friend of his. You accept it with thanks, of course. It is unsealed, because no gentleman ever seals a letter of introduction. You read it and are delighted to find yourself complimented. Now, if you want to do the right thing, you will go to a good hotel when you get to Washington; a good hotel—a hotel you can mention without being ashamed of it. It will pay to spend the extra money. And if a woman comes into the elevator as you are going up to your room,—I would not advise you to take a suite of rooms on the ground-floor,—lift your hat and do not put it on again until she goes out. You will send your letter of introduction to your friend’s friend and wait until he acknowledges it.

But if you want to do the wrong thing, you will take the letter of introduction and your travelling bag and go at once to Mr. Smith’s house. You may arrive at midnight; but never mind that,—people like promising young folk to come at any time. If the clocks are striking twelve, show how athletic you are by pulling the bell out by the wires. When the members of the family are aroused, thinking the house is afire, they will be so grateful to you, and then you can ask for some hot supper. This pleasing familiarity will delight them. It will show them that you feel quite at home. It will ruin you eventually in the estimation of stupid people who do not want visitors at midnight—but you need not mind them, though they form the vast majority of mankind.

If you want to do the right thing, wait until Mr. Smith acknowledges your letter of introduction and asks you to call at his house. If the letter is addressed to his office, you may take it yourself and send it in to him. But you ought not to go to his house until he invites you. After he does this, call in the afternoon or evening—never in the morning, unless you are specially asked. A “morning call” in good society means a call in the afternoon. And a first call ought not to last more than fifteen minutes. Take your hat and cane into the parlor; you may leave overcoat and umbrella and overshoes in the hall. A young man who wants to act properly will not lay his cane across the piano or put his hat on a chair. The hat and stick ought to be put on the floor near him, if he does not care to hold them in his hands. If he leaves his hat in the hall, his hostess will think that he is going to spend the day in her house. But if she insists on taking his hat from him, it will not do to struggle for it. Such devotion to etiquette might make a bad impression. Good feeling and common-sense must modify all rules; and if one’s entertainers have the old-fashioned impressions that the first duty of hospitality is to grasp one’s hat and cane, let them have them by all means; but do not take the sign to mean that you are to stay all day. A quarter of an hour is long enough for a first call.

“You must have had a delightful visitor this morning,” one lady said to another. “He stayed over an hour. What did he talk about?” The other lady smiled sadly: “He told me how he felt when he had the scarlet fever, and all about his mother’s liver-complaint.”

Topics of conversation should be carefully chosen. Strangers do not want to see a man often who talks about his troubles, his illness, and his virtues. The more the “You” is used in general society and the less the “I,” the better it will be for him who has the tact to use it. There is no use in pretending that our troubles are interesting to anybody but our mothers. Other people may listen, but, depend upon it, they prefer to avoid a man with a grievance.

If the young man with the letter of introduction has made a good impression, he will probably be invited to dinner. And then, if he has been careless of little observances, he will begin to be anxious. Perhaps it will be a ceremonious dinner, too, where there will be a crowd of young girls ready to criticise in their minds every motion, and some older ladies who will be sure to make up their minds as to the manner in which he has been brought up at home or at college. And we must remember that our conduct when we get out into the world reflects credit or discredit on our homes or our schools.

If our young man is invited to luncheon, he will find it much the same as a dinner, except that it will take place some time between twelve and two o’clock; while a dinner in a city is generally given at six o’clock, but sometimes not till eight. The very fashionable hour is nine. In Washington the time is from six to eight. If the dinner is to be formal—not merely a family dinner—our young stranger will get an invitation worded in this way: