Now it is the exactness of proportion, and what the painters call the good keeping of a picture, that in real life designate the well-bred man. It is that quiet exemption from unnecessary display or prominence, in any single feature of character, while all are beautifully sustained; it is that style of existence which in the Venus de Medicis makes her appear to the eye to enlarge as you approach near and more near that miracle of art; it is that nice adaptation of conduct to momentary occasion, dictated by a cool judgment, a determined will, perfect self-possession, and a kind heart; that mark the character and manners, and give a tranquil and yet pervading and an unforgotten charm to the intercourse of the true and well-born gentleman:
——'it is not in the power of monarchs
To make a Gentleman, which is a substance
Only begot of Merit.'
Count D'Orsay has this innate perception throughout his chapter on Conversation, and he has well illustrated it in that on Dress; indeed throughout his work he writes as from a Source: 'It is bad taste to dress in the extreme of fashion; and, in general, those only do so who have no other claim to distinction; leave it, in these times, to shopmen and pick-pockets. Avoid wearing jewelry, unless it be in very good taste, and then only at proper seasons. This is the age of Mosaic gold and other trash; and by dint of swindling, any one may become 'flashy' at a small expense. Recollect that every shop-boy can coarsely imitate your 'outward and visible sign' if he choose to save his money for that purpose. If you will stand out in 'high and bold relief,' endeavour to become eminent for some virtue or talent, that people may say, 'There goes the celebrated (not the notorious) Mr. So-and-so.' In the same chapter are some valuable hints on dress to the other sex, too applicable, alas! too applicable! As our life is not long enough to do anything but praise them, we beg to refer our fair readers to the work itself; the whole of which they may read with advantage, and we doubt not with pleasure. We were much struck by the noble author's chapter on Dinners in several of its passages, one or two of which we are disposed to cite. The following is eminently just: 'Well-bred people arrive as nearly at the appointed dinner hour as they can. It is a very vulgar assumption of importance purposely to arrive half an hour behind time; beside the folly of allowing eight or ten hungry people such a tempting opportunity of discussing your foibles.'
With us indeed, this 'vulgar assumption of importance' on an occasion of dinner is rarely imagined, and would never be tolerated at all; but we have among us some men of genius, (Heaven save the mark!) to whom the flight of time seems never to be a matter of account. We remember having had our whole dinner spoiled (except the game, which providentially was not put down) by one of this class to whom the entertainment was given; and when at last, after being sent for, he made his appearance two hours beyond time, he remarked very blandly, 'I thought the hour upon your card was five o'clock.' The clock was striking SEVEN while he spoke!—yet it was impossible to look into his face and not forgive him. But the annoyance of the guests is not much less than this to the host, when, as is too frequently the case with us, they are kept waiting on their part an unreasonable time beyond the hour fixed for the repast. They have arrived in due season, have paid their compliments, and are ready for your soup; and Time wears leaden wings until they are seated and occupied with it. It is also at all times to be considered, that Lunch is by no means in America a thing of course; and a man may easily, with the kindest intentions in the world, by mere want of punctuality in his establishment, disarrange the gastric juices of eight or ten of his best friends!!
'Nothing indicates a well-bred man more than a proper mode of eating his dinner. A man may pass muster by dressing well, and may sustain himself tolerably in conversation; but if he be not perfectly 'au fait,' dinner will betray him.' How true! How infallible has this criterion ever been! We were surprised at the following observation, coming from such a source: 'It is a matter of regret that table napkins are not considered indispensable in England; for with all our boasted refinement, they are far from being general. The comfort of napkins at dinner is too obvious to require comment, while the expense can hardly be urged as an objection. If there be not any napkins a man has no alternative but to use the table-cloth, unless (as many do) he prefer his pocket handkerchief—a usage sufficiently disagreeable.'
Shade of Grammont! can it be, that at any table in England at which this true gentleman, this accomplished nobleman 'observed of all observers,' this cynosure, could be induced to sit, there can remain such a vestige of barbarism as this want implies, and this high authority establishes? No table napkin! No 'alternative but the table-cloth or the pocket handkerchief!' Good Heavens! can it be a possible thing, that these 'haughty Islanders' should rail at us upon both shores, come over the sea and compose their 'Notes on America' at tables where they have been invited as honored guests, and friends, and then go home to deliver their venom, and make market-money out of their coarse detraction of the domestic manners of their hosts, and spitting-boxes alike of their stomachs and their printing-presses; and this at a time when it is their practice to defile, with their soiled fingers, the drapery that covers a board that should be sacred in the eyes of all Christian men, as it is in those of the Mussulman and the Moor! Oh England! England! and yet, Fatherland! Fatherland!—--to think, that from thy prolifick and exhaustless bosom, thou shouldest send forth, almost in the same season, to us, warmed into life and golden being, the gentle, the accessible, the illustrious Morpeth—whose visit hath left a trace of light along the path he trod upon our shores—and that the same Sun should, 'kissing carrion,' give motion from Thee to these maggots of a dead dog! that crawl their way across the same blue deep to mark us with their slime! But enough of this; at least we use napkins at our dinners throughout the Union, thank God!
Two other short extracts shall be made, in order to establish with our readers the author's right to the rank he holds in society:
'There is no better test of a man's claim to be considered 'a Gentleman,' than a scrutiny of his conduct in money transactions. A man may possess rank and fashion, and, by an assumed frankness of character, deceive the multitude; but the moment his purse is invaded, if he be not of the true caste, he will display the most contemptible meanness; he will take advantage of the liberal; evade, by every miserable subterfuge, the claims of those he dares not oppress, and unblushingly defy those unfortunate persons whose poverty is likely to prevent the due assertion of their rights. Such a man may possess station in society—he may be an 'élégant'—he may be a prince!—but if he be not honest, he is not a gentleman.'
'Gentility is neither in birth, manner, nor fashion—but in the Mind. A high sense of honor; a determination never to take a mean advantage of another; an adherence to truth; delicacy and politeness toward those with whom you may have dealings—are the essential and distinguishing characteristics of a Gentleman.'
The work concludes with an admirable and elaborate analysis of the Waltz; and it is with earnest pleasure that we recommend it as a whole to the readers of the Knickerbocker.
Since preparing the preceding notice for the press, the following Rules à la D'Orsay, adapted to the meridian of New-York, have been handed to us under the highest fashionable sanction, to be appended to the future American editions of this interesting production. We leave to the publishers the charge of arranging them under the various heads to which they respectively belong.