Therefore, we repeat, let us by all means have more manners—manners for street-car conductors and plumbers and elevator-men and the masses generally. Not even bank-clerks are altogether above reproach in this respect. We have had several rather regrettable experiences with bank-clerks—usually in connection with slight over-draughts. And yet bank-clerks are generally regarded as the budding Chesterfields of the financial world.
Talking of Chesterfield reminds us of that period in our development at which his "Letters" burst upon us as a brilliant and a guiding star. We were about sixteen, and our voice still oscillated between a squeaking treble and a booming bass. We were also having considerable difficulty in keeping our extremities decently within the compass of our clothes.
Our manners at that time were those of a breezy but well-intentioned caveman. No effete conventions for us!—no, sir, nothing but the simple, unaffected utterance of the heart. It was our aim to be a rough diamond, a fellow whose shaggy exterior concealed a beautiful soul, and whom people would come to understand and love after a long time—maybe, after we were dead. We could see ourself smiling peacefully in our padded coffin, while the family wept all over the oxidized-silver plate bearing our name and two dates—n-n-nothing m-m-more!
Perhaps this shaggy-breast-and-heart-of-gold business was not "getting across" as successfully as we had hoped. Perhaps we had grown weary of doing little acts of kindness and of love in a rude, untutored way. Or perhaps the time was merely ripe for a new phase of our social development. Anyhow, we one day picked up Lord Chesterfield's "Letters to My Son," and at a bound became a suave and graceful man of the world, concealing under a smile of wistful charm a cynical and disillusioned heart. Whatever might be the bitterness of our regrets, as befitted a man who had known life and women and had suffered, no shadow disturbed the serenity of our brow. We continued to smile and bow with the old nonchalant grace, as though it were roses, roses all the way. This was the impression we tried to convey, at any rate.
The family received our change of heart and manner in a spirit of levity against which our new ideals were not always proof—but you know the gentle way of families. Instead of teaching the young idea how to shoot, they are apt to suggest that it ought to go out and shoot itself. Naturally we suffered, and not unresentfully. In fact, we so far forgot ourself as to try to lick our younger brother—a very un-Chesterfieldian endeavor, and not entirely successful. He had a rushing style of fighting which—but there are bygones which had best be has-beens.
Of course, we have long since realized that it isn't wise to carry even so good a thing as manners to an over-elaborate extreme. Not long ago we had an instance of this—which brings us back to a street-car again. Wonderful how much one can learn in those humble but interesting conveyances! It was a crowded car, and we got up when a statuesque young woman in a very tight skirt stood right in front of us. We got up as gracefully as the movement of the car would permit, and hanging on a strap with the skill of long practice we adroitly removed our hat and bowed. We wanted to let her know that our action was the expression of a distant but chivalrous respect.
The statuesque young woman never quivered a hair of her expensive willow-plume, but stared penetratingly at a male collar-ad just over her head. Perhaps she had not seen us in her reverie. Perhaps the face of the young gentleman in the dreadfully conspicuous collar reminded her of someone she knew or loved or both—though we have never known any human being to look like those faces, and certainly would not think of loving him if he did.
Whatever the reason she certainly did not see us. We waited for a block or two, and then we made bold to touch her arm just above the chain of her beaded bag—it looked like something the Shah of Persia would wear.
"Madam," we said in our most mellow and flute-like tone, "won't you take this seat?"
She flashed on us a pair of large, dark pupils—belladonna, we presume—and said in a voice like the drip of an icicle in a cemetery, "I don't care to sit down."