Though you may be a Nabob, or as rich as one, be not too anxious to parade your black servants before your friends, for both your sakes; they have, in general, two bad qualities—"stealing and giving odour."—Shakspeare, hem!
Never marry a widow (unless her first husband was hanged), or she will be always drawing unpleasant comparisons.
Never refuse a pinch of snuff, but do not become a snuff-taker: it is paying through the nose for a little pleasure.
Avoid argument with Ladies. In spinning a yarn among Silks and Satins, a man is sure to be Worsted.
It is common to speak contemptuously of tailors and dress-makers. This is bad taste; none but a rat would run down the sewers.
When a lady sits down to the pianoforte, always volunteer to turn over the leaves. To be able to read music is of no consequence, as you will know that she is at the bottom of a page when she stops short. If you turn over two leaves at once, you will probably have the secret thanks of most of the company.
When your friend enters the room instantly rise, and, though there may be half a dozen unoccupied chairs at hand, draw him with gentle force into your own. You will thus show the warmth of your friendship; for a damp seat may be as bad as a damp bed.
In driving out never make a lady treasurer of the turnpike trusts;—or, when you want twopence for a toll, you have to wait while the reticule string is snapped in two; then, out comes a lace-edged white muslin worked pocket-handkerchief, a pair of lemon-coloured kid-gloves, a smelling-bottle, a bunch of keys, and, to crown all, a five-shilling piece to change. All this time you are stuck fast in the jaws of a turnpike gate, the Brighton Quicksilver in your rear, driver raving at your back, leaders snorting over your shoulder.
Never plan a pic-nic, on pain of skulking about the town for six months after, dreading to meet, at every turn, the infuriated looks of the bereaved parents of half a dozen little innocents in white frocks and trousers, who have been washed away by an inundation; or to encounter the menacing glances of budding heroes, fierce in the rudiments of moustaches and chin-tufts, whose Celias and Delias have dropped into a decline through sitting on the damp grass at your instigation.
Never hesitate to take a friend with you when you go out to dinner. Disappointments are so frequent that the lady of the house may perhaps be glad of a spare gentleman to fill up a gap.