Part 24

It has been well remarked that whoever imagines legitimate manners can be taken up and laid aside, put on and off, for the moment, has missed their deepest law. A noble and attractive every-day bearing comes of goodness, of sincerity, of refinement, and these are bred in years, not moments. It is the fruit of years of earnest, kindly endeavors to please. It is the last touch, the crowning perfection of a noble character; it has been truly described as the gold on the spire, the sunlight on the corn-field, and results only from the truest balance and harmony of soul.

Society has been apply compared to a heap of embers, which, when separated, soon languish, darken, and expire, but, if placed together, glow with a ruddy and intense heat, a just emblem of the strength, happiness, and security derived from society. The savage who never knew the blessings of combination, and he who quits society from apathy or misanthropic spleen, are like the separate embers, dark, dead, useless; they neither give nor receive heat, neither love nor are beloved.

From social intercourse are derived some of the highest enjoyments of life. Where there is a free interchange of opinion, the mind acquires new ideas, and, by a frequent exercise of its powers, the understanding gains fresh vigor. The true sphere of human virtue is found in society. This is the school of human faith and trials. In social, active life difficulties will perpetually be met with. Restraints of many kinds will be necessary, and studying to behave right in respect to these is a discipline of the human heart useful to others and improving to itself. It is good to meet in friendly intercourse and pour out that social cheer which so vivifies the weary and desponding heart. It elevates the feelings, and makes us all the better for the world.

Society is the balm of life. Should any one be entirely excluded from all human intercourse he would be wretched. Men were formed for society. It is one important end for which they were made rational creatures. No man was made solely for himself, and no man is capable of living in the world totally independent of others. The wants and weaknesses of mankind render society necessary for their convenience, safety, and support. God has formed men with different powers and faculties, and placed them under different circumstances, that they might be able to promote each others' good. Some are wiser, richer, and stronger than others that they may direct the conduct, supply the wants, and bear the burdens of others. Some are formed for one and some are formed for another employment, and all are qualified for some useful business, conducive to the general good of society. The whole frame and texture of mankind make it appear that they were designed to live in society. The longer men live in society the more terrible is the thought of being excluded from it.

Society is the only field where the sexes meet on the terms of equality, the arena where character is formed and studied, the cradle and the realm of public opinion, the crucible of ideas, the world's university, at once a school and a theater, the spur and the crown of ambition, the tribunal which unmasks pretensions and stamps real merit, the power that gives government leave to be, and outruns the Church in fixing the moral sense of the people.

Many young men fail for years to get hold of the idea that they are subject to social duties. They act as though the social machinery of the world were self-operating. They see around them social organizations in active existence. The parish, the Church, and other bodies that embrace in some form of society all men, are successfully operated, and yet they take no part nor lot in the matter. They do not think it necessary for them to devote either time or money to society. Sometimes they are apt to get into a morbid state of mind, which disinclines them to social intercourse. They become so devoted to business that all social intercourse is irksome. They go out to tea as if they were going to jail, and drag themselves to a party as to an execution. This disposition is thoroughly selfish, and is to be overcome by going where you are invited, always and at any sacrifice of mere feeling. Do not shrink from contact with any thing except bad morals. Men who affect your unhealthy mind with antipathy will prove themselves very frequently on mature acquaintance your best friends and wisest counselors.

It is to be noticed with what apparent ease some men enter society, and how others remain away always. Such are apt to think that society has not discharged its duties as to them. But all social duties are reciprocal. Society is far more apt to pay its dues to the individual than the individual to society. Have you, who complain of the cold selfishness of society, done any thing to give you a claim to social recognition? What kind of coin do you propose to pay in the discharge of the obligations which come upon you with social recognition? In other words, as a return for what you wish society to do, what will you do for society? Will you be a member of society by right or by courtesy? If you have so mean a spirit as to be content to be a beneficiary of society, to receive favors and confer none, you have no business in the social circle to which you aspire.

The spirit of life is society; that of society is freedom; that of freedom the discreet and modest use of it. A man may contemplate virtue in solitude and retirement; but the practical part consists in its participation and the society it hath with others; for whatever is good is better for being communicated. As too long a retirement weakens the mind, so too much company dissipates it. Too much society is nearly as bad as none. A man secluded from company can have none but the devil and himself to tempt him; but he that converses much in the world has almost as many snares as he has companions. The great object of society is refreshment of spirit. This is not to be obtained by luxury or by the cankerous habit of speaking against others, but by a bright and easy interchange of ideas on subjects which, even in their brightest and most playful aspects, are worthy to engage the thoughts of men.

There is an essential vulgarity in one phase of social life,—that which considers the welfare of the guest's stomach to be the essential part of the host's duty, and the great question of the guests to relate to the decorating of their own backs. Such views elevate nobody; they refine nobody; they inspire and instruct nobody; they satisfy nobody. This view loses sight of the great end and aim of society, which is to refine and elevate mankind, not to feed them upon dainties, or to enable them to show off good clothes. Dean Swift had a better relish for good society than for choice viands. When invited to the houses of great men he sometimes insisted upon knowing what persons he was likely to meet. "I don't want your bill of fare, but your bill of company."

It is this losing sight of the true end of society which causes it to present so many strange anomalies. Yet with all its defects it is well-nigh indispensable to one who would wield power and influence in the world's arena. There is no way to act out the promptings of your better nature, and to move men in the right direction, so potential as that offered to the social man. You can not move men until you show yourself one among them. You can not know their wants and needs until you have mingled with them. By refusing to cast your lot with others socially, you are as powerless to do good as the mountain peak is to raise tropical flowers.

It is the manner of some to forego meeting others socially. There will certainly come a time when they will regret it; for the human heart is like a millstone in a mill: When you put wheat under it, it turns and bruises the wheat into flour. If you put no wheat in it, it still grinds on; but then it grinds away itself. In society the sorrows and griefs of others are the object from which we extract the flour of charity and loving kindness; but to the hermit from society his own griefs and sorrows have the effect to render him cold and selfish. Man in society is like a flower-bud on its native stalk. It is there alone his faculties, expanded in full bloom, shine out; there only reach their proper use. "It is not safe for man to be alone." In the midst of the loudest vauntings of philosophy, nature will have her yearning for society and friendship. A good heart wants something to be kind to; and the best part of our nature suffers most when deprived of congenial society.

It becomes all men to seek the general good of society in return for the benefits they receive from it. Though the general good of society sometimes requires the individual members to give up private good for that of the public, yet it is always to be supposed that individuals receive more advantage than disadvantage from society, on the whole. Indeed, there is scarcely any comparison in this case. The public blessings are always immensely great and numerous. They are more in number than can be reckoned up, and greater in worth than can be easily described.

The most independent individuals in society owe their principal independence to society, and the most retired and inactive persons feel the happy influence of society, though they may seem to be detached from it. No man can reflect upon that constant stream of good which is perpetually flowing down to him from well-regulated society, without feeling his obligation to maintain and support it. Should this stream of happiness cease to flow, the most careless and indifferent would feel their loss, and feel a sense of their duty to uphold the good of society. Let the head of society cease to direct and the hands to execute, and the other members of the public body would soon find themselves in a forlorn and wretched state.

"The dignity of man into your hands is given, Oh keep it well, with you it sinks or lifts itself to heaven."

—SCHILLER.

Dignity denotes that propriety of mien and carriage which is appropriate to the different walks and ranks of life. In regard to our intercourse with men we should often reflect, not only whether our conduct is proper and correct, but whether it is urbane and dignified. Dignity of carriage is nearly always associated with high endowments; the reverse is, at any rate, true, that high endowments are associated with dignity. "A trifling air and manner bespeaks a thoughtless and silly mind," saith a Chinese proverb, "but a grave and majestic outside is, as it were, the palace of the soul."

True dignity is never gained by place, and never lost when honors are withdrawn. There may be dignity in a hovel as well as in a court; in one who depends on the sweat of his brow as well as one who is placed, by reason of his wealth, in a position of independence. In all ranks and classes it is equally acceptable and worthy of esteem. True dignity is without arms. It does not deal in vain and ostentatious parade. In proportion as we gratify our own self-esteem by a love of display we commonly forfeit to the same degree the respect of those whose good opinion is worth possessing. A dignified manner is not necessarily an imposing manner; for true dignity is but the outward expression of inherent worth of character, but an imposing manner is generally ostentatious in degree, and as such may be taken as an evidence of imposition. That dignity which seeks to make an ostentatious display is often only a veil between us and the real truth of things. It is only the false mask of appearance put on to conceal inherent defects.

The ennobling quality of all politeness is dignity. Have you not noticed that there are some persons who possess an inexpressible charm of manner—a something which attracts our love instantaneously, when they have neither wealth, position, nor talents? You will find that a dignity of manner characterizes their actions, and that a spirit of dignity hovers around them. On the other hand, have you not seen persons of wealth who were surrounded by luxury and all the comforts of affluence, yet, in lacking a spirit of dignity, lacked the essential to render their lives influential for good? Where there is an inherent want of dignity in the character, how many distinguished and even noble acquisitions are required to supply its place! But when a natural dignity of character exists, what a prepossession does it enlist in its favor, and with how few substantial and real excellencies are we able to pass creditably through the world!

There are three kinds of dignity which either adorn or deface human character. There is the dignity of etiquette and good manners, which is often of an artificial kind, and is a creature of rules and ceremonies, and not of the heart. The second is the dignity of pride and arrogance. This is a presumptuous dignity arising from self-conceit and egotism. It is thoroughly selfish in its nature. It is more a spirit of haughtiness and cold reserve than of true dignity. Then there is the dignity of compassion and kindness. This is that true dignity which ennobles life. It arises, not from selfishness, but from kindness of heart, and from a sense of the importance of life.

Some men find it almost impossible to discover the line which separates dignity from conceit. Dignity is a splendid personal quality if it be of the right sort. To possess it is to be above meanness, above cringing, above any thing that is low and unseemly. It holds up its head, even among poverty and outward shabbiness, and looks the world bravely in the face. It is innate manliness that outward garb can not change. But conceit is a very different quality, and its possessor is very far from being dignified, though he doubtlessly considers himself to be so. He looks upon himself as the grand center of his social system, and upon all others as satellites, whose particular business is to revolve around him. The assumption may not take shape in words, but it comes out in his manner all the same. Let him undertake to be amiable, and there is a sort of royal condescension; he takes the attitude of stooping rather than that of one reaching out friendly hands to his equals. All this would be offensive and somewhat exasperating were it not ridiculous. But we laugh in charitable good nature, and pity his absurdities. There is little use in trying to point them out to him. He is so hoodwinked by his overshadowing self-esteem that he can not see. True dignity does not consist in haughty self-assurance. In resolving to be dignified let us see to it that we strive for the true kind.

In counseling dignity we advise no spirit of cold hauteur and pride, but we do counsel such outward walk and conversations as shall become one who has a just appreciation of life and its possibilities. One who is always given to light and flippant remarks, and always assuming a free and easy style in his demeanor, can not carry such an impression of power as one who bears about him the impression of a man among men by his dignified and decorous bearing. True dignity exists independent of—

"Studied gestures or well-practiced smiles."

Its seat should be in the mind, and then it will not be found wanting in the manner. It is often strikingly and eloquently displayed in the bearings of those utterly unacquainted with the strict rules of etiquette. If one has a modest consciousness of his own worth, and a sincere desire to be of worth to others, he must necessarily display true dignity in his manner and bearing towards others.

Affability is a real ornament, the most beautiful dress that man or woman can wear, and worth far more as a means of winning favor than the finest clothes and jewels ever were. The exercise of affability creates an instantaneous impression in your behalf, while the opposite quality excites as quick a prejudice against you. So true is this that were we asked to name any one quality which, aside from mere mental powers, contributed largely to success, we would mention affability.

Apart from its worth as an agreeable trait of character, affability is a valuable commodity. Every one who has business to transact should add this to his stock in trade. It costs nothing, while it vastly facilitates trade and profit. There are business men and women who make fortunes simply by their affable and polite manners. Their wares or their services are no better, perhaps, than the stock in trade of their crusty neighbors; but having undertaken a business or adopted a profession, they are wise enough to know that whatever is to be done successfully must be done in a pleasing manner and with a good will.

Their acts appear to be based on the conviction that every body may be made a friend, which is every way preferable to acting as if every body were an intruder. They do not treat people as though they were in a hurry to be done with them, but as though they might be cultivated into an acquaintance and grow into a friend. To neglect the small courtesies of life is to insure neglect for yourself. And the reason that some persons are successful where others fail is that they invite strangers to become friends by civility, while the others repel even friends by the want of courtesy.

The world at best is extremely selfish. We are too much taken up with our own personal aims to notice how others are thriving. We little think how others may be wishing for some friendly recognition, how far with them the friendly shake of the hand may go. The world is full of suffering and sorrow, and it is at these seasons that kindly words come with far more than their usual force. The human heart was formed for sympathy as naturally as the flower for sunshine. Hence it is no wonder that the man of affable and kind manners should be the one who would make friends wherever he goes.

It is good to meet in friendly intercourse, and pour out that social cheer which so vivifies the weary and desponding heart. Give to all the hearty grasp and the sunny smile. They send sunshine to the soul, and make the heart leap as with new life and joy. Thus may we become brothers in every good word and deed, and peace and good-will spread in the world. We long for friendly intercourse, and when deprived of the society of others we pine and grow sick at heart, we become misanthropic and gloomy. The Summer of the heart changes to dreary Winter, and our lives seem overcast and gloomy.

We are not well enough acquainted each with each, and all with all. We are not social enough. We are not found often enough at one another's houses. We are especially delinquent in the duty of calling upon such as come among us and connect themselves with us. We do not welcome them, and seek to make their stay as pleasant as possible. We do not take the kindly notice we should of such as come to our places of public and social gatherings. This is wrong. It is incumbent on us as members of society to cultivate a spirit of affability, to strive to make all within our influence happy by our kind solicitude for their welfare. Says Daniel Webster: "We should make it a principle to extend the hand of fellowship to every man who discharges faithfully his duties and maintains good order, who manifests a deep interest in the general welfare of society, whose deportment is upright, and whose mind is intelligent, without stopping to ascertain whether he swings a hammer or draws a thread."

As there is nothing to be lost and so much to be gained by the exercise of affability, it is deeply to be regretted that so few use it. To be affable does not imply an indiscriminate taking into confidence, and imparting to third persons the secrets of your business, at the same time expecting to be informed of his. To do thus is mere simplicity, and is an utter disregard of all cautious rules. But the friendly conversation, the hearty grasp of the hand, the feeling of kindness and good-will which finds expression in the tones, the willingness to do a favor cheerfully,—these constitute true affability, which is not only of value to the possessor, but may almost claim a place among the Christian graces.

How many there are who are not in want of assistance of material things, but who are yearning for social recognition, who feel themselves shut out from intercourse with their fellow-beings by the spirit of selfishness which shows itself in a refusal of social privileges! It is so easy to become thoughtless in this matter that each one should strive against the feeling, and should constantly strive to make all around him feel that he recognizes in them the man or woman, an equal being with himself, and to meet them with kindness by no means devoid of dignity, but to let them see that he is moved by a spirit of good-will towards all, and desires, as far as possible, to do away with the distinction of rank or wealth, and to meet with them on the plane of equality.

In urging affability we do not ignore the fact that there are many to be found in every walk of life with whom the less one has to do the better, that you would as soon think of taking a serpent into the bosom of your family as some people who infest society. But this lamentable fact does not lessen the claims of affability, since, because you are fond of fruit, you are not required to eat indiscriminately all kinds of fruits, the good and also the bad, the nutritious as well as the poisonous, but you are to exercise a judicious elimination. So you are not required to be frank, open-hearted, and sociable with villains and blacklegs, the depraved and licentious. To do this is to sink yourself to their level. But a man may be a gentleman, and as such entitled to recognition, though his coat be not of broadcloth or of the most fashionable make. And a real lady, though clad in calico, is as worthy of frank and courteous treatment as though robed in silk and satins.

"Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not expressed in fancy; Rich, not gaudy, For the apparel oft proclaims the man."

—SHAKESPEARE.

As the index tells us the contents of books, and directs to the particular chapter, even so does the outward habit and superficial order of garment denote the spirit and demonstratively point out, like to a marginal note, the internal qualities of the soul.

We believe it to be the duty of all, young and old, to make their persons, as far as possible, agreeable to those with whom they are associated. If possible, dress yourself fine where others are fine, and plain where the apparel of others is plain. A man who finds himself badly dressed amongst well-dressed people feels awkward and ill at ease. He stammers and is confused in speech. He makes all manner of ridiculous blunders, and it is well-nigh impossible for him to assume that air of simple dignity which should characterize the bearing of a gentleman. But it should be remembered that this feeling should have nothing to do with dress proper; it is only when there is a manifest impropriety in the mode of dress. The dress should suit the time and the occasion. The man in his workshop or field, or the lady, busied with the household duties, should have no occasion to feel ill at ease, because not so finely dressed as the casual caller. Such a feeling should be instantly checked, since it is born of pride, not of an innate desire to please others.