Our opinion is very much strengthened by the belief that many of our friends will assent to it, when we assert that no art requires in a greater degree the attention of a young man, on his entrance into life, than that of saying “Yes.” A man who deigns not to use this little word is a bulldog in society; he studies his own gratification rather than that of his friends, and of course accomplishes neither: in short, he deserves not to be called a civilized being, and is totally unworthy of the place which he holds in the creation.
Is not it right to believe the possible fallacy of one’s own opinion?—Yes. Is not it proper to have a due consideration for the opinion of others?—Yes! Is not it truly praiseworthy to sacri[Pg 30]fice our conviction, our argument, our obstinacy upon the shrine of politeness?—Again and again we answer—Yes! yes! yes!
Nothing indeed is to us more gratifying than to behold a man modestly diffident of the powers which Nature has bestowed upon him, and assenting, with a proper sense of his own fallibility, to the opinions of those who kindly endeavour to remedy his faults or to supply his deficiencies. Nothing is to us more gratifying than to hear from the lips of such a man that true test of a complying disposition—that sure prevention of all animosity—that immediate stop to all quarrels—that sweet, civil, complacent, inoffensive monosyllable—Yes!
Yet, alas! how many do we find who, from an affectation of singularity, or a foolish love of argument, do as it were expunge this admirable expression from their vocabularies. How many do we see around us, who are in the daily habit of losing the most advantageous offers, of quarrelling with strangers, and of offending their best friends,[Pg 31] solely because they obstinately refuse to call to their assistance the infallible remedy for all these evils, which is to be found in the three letters upon which we are offering a brief comment.
We are sure we are only chiming in with the opinion of other people, when we lament the manifold and appalling evils which are the sure consequences of this disinclination to affirmatives. To us it is really melancholy to look upon the disposition to contradiction by which some of our friends are characterized, to observe the manifest pride of some, the unreasonable pertinacity of others. Of a surety, if we are doomed at any future season to put on the yoke of wedlock, Mrs. L. and all the Masters and Misses L. shall be early instructed in the art of saying “Yes.”
Look into the pages of history! You will find there innumerable examples in support of our opinion. When the Greeks begged Achilles to pocket his affronts and make an end of Hector, he refused. Very well, we have no doubt he did all for the best; but we are morally sure that Patroclus would[Pg 32] not have been slain if Achilles had known how to say “Yes.” We all know how he cried about it when it was too late. To draw another illustration from the same epoch, how disastrous was the ignorance which Priam displayed of this art when a treaty was on foot for the restoration of Helen. Nothing was easier than to finish all disputes, to step out of all difficulties, by one civil, obliging, gentlemanly “Yes.” But he refused—and Troy was burned. What glorious results would a contrary conduct have produced! It would have prevented a peck of troubles both to the Greeks and the Etonians. It would have saved the Ancients ten years, and the Moderns twelve books, of bloodshed. It is almost unnecessary to allude to the imprudent, the luckless Hippolytus: he never would have been murdered by a marine monster if he could but have said “Yes;” but the word stuck in his throat, and he certainly paid rather dear for his ignorance.
“Yes,” cries a critic, “I agree with all this, but it’s all so old.” We assent to your opinion, my good friend, and will endeavour[Pg 33] to benefit by your suggestion. Come, then, we will look for illustrations among the characters of our own age.
There’s Lord Duretête, the misanthrope. He has a tolerable fortune, tolerable talents, and tolerable person. He plays a tolerable accompaniment on the flute, and a tolerable hand at whist. Yet, with all these tolerable qualifications, he is considered a most intolerable man. What is the reason of this seemingly anomalous circumstance? The reason is obvious—His Lordship can’t say “Yes.” This abominable ignorance of our favourite art interferes in the most trivial incidents of life; it renders him alike miserable and disagreable. “Will your Lordship allow me to prefix your name to a dedication?” says Bill Attic, the satirist. “I must go mad first,” says his Lordship. “Duretête! lend me a couple of hundreds!” says Sir Harry. “Can’t, ’pon honour!” says his Lordship. “You dear creature, you’ll open my ball this evening!” says Lady Germain. “I’ll be d—d if I do!” says his Lordship. See the catastrophe. Bill Attic lampoons him, Sir[Pg 34] Harry spits in his face, and Lady Germain votes him a bore. How unlucky that he cannot say “Yes!”
Look at young Eustace, the man of honour! He came up to town last year with a good dress, a good address, and letters of introduction to half a dozen great men. He made his bow to each of them, spent a week with each of them, offended each of them, and is now starving in a garret upon independence and cold mutton. What is the meaning of all this? Eustace never learned how to say “Yes!” “Virtus post nummos! Eh! young man?” says old Discount, the usurer. “I can’t say I think so,” said Eustace. “Here! Eustace, boy,” says Lord Fanny, “read over these scenes, and let me have your opinion! Fit for the boards, I think! Eh?” “You’ll excuse me if I don’t think they are,” says Eustace. “Well! my young friend,” cries Mr. Pliant, “we must have you in Parliament I suppose; make an orator of you! You’re on the right side, I hope?” “I should vote with my conscience, Sir,” says Eustace. See the finale. Eustace is[Pg 35] enlisted for life in the Grub Street Corps, where he learns by sad experience how dangerous it is to say “No” to the avarice of a usurer, the vanity of a rhymer, or the party spirit of a politician. How unlucky that he cannot say “Yes.”
Godfrey is a lover, and he has every qualification for the office except one. He cannot say “Yes.” Nobody, without this talent, should presume to be in love. “Mr. Godfrey,” says Chloe, “don’t you think this feather pretty?” “Absurd!” says Godfrey. “Mr. Godfrey!” says the lady, “don’t you think this necklace becoming?” “Never saw anything less so!” says Godfrey. “Mr. Godfrey,” says the coquette, “don’t you think I’m divine to-night?” “You never looked worse, by Jove!” says the gentleman. Godfrey is a man of fashion, a man of fortune, and a man of talent, but he will die a bachelor. What a pity! We can never look on such a man without a smile for his caprice and a tear for its consequences. How unlucky that he cannot say “Yes!”