Part 18

At a lecture, a special personal respect is due to the speaker. This is shown by a courteous attention and a general demeanor of interest and appreciation. If applause is merited, it should be given in a refined manner. The stamping of the feet is coarse, and the pounding of the floor with canes and umbrellas is as lazy as it is noisy. The clapping of hands is a natural language of delight, and, when skillfully done, is an enthusiastic expression of approbation. Some effort is being made to substitute the waving of handkerchiefs as a symbol of approval or greeting to a favorite speaker, but it is quite probable that this silent signal will not take the place of the more active demonstration of clapping the hands, except on very quiet and intellectual occasions.

Shall ladies join in applause? As a matter of fact, women seldom applaud, but not because propriety necessarily forbids; it is chiefly because the tight-fitting kid glove renders "clapping" a mechanical impossibility. Feminine enthusiasm is quite equal to it at times, as, for instance, when listening to a favorite elocutionist or violinist. There is no reason why ladies may not "clap," if they can. It certainly is quite as lady-like and orderly as for them to give vent to their enthusiasm, as many do, in audible exclamations of "Too sweet for anything!" "Just too lovely!" etc., all of which might have been "conducted off" at the finger-tips if hand-clapping had been a feasible medium of expression.

Applause may be a very effective and graceful exponent of gentlemanly appreciation if given with discrimination; but if too ready and frequent, it ceases to have any point, and becomes commonplace. While a man of taste will applaud heartily on occasion, he will refrain from extravagant and continuous clapping.

The observance of the proprieties of time, place, and occasion are nowhere more urgent than at church. Much of the liberty that is granted on secular occasions is entirely out of place in church.

While quiet greetings may be exchanged at the church door, or in the outer vestibules, before and after service, it is not decorous to chat sociably along the aisles, or hold a gossiping conference in whispers with some one in the neighboring pew. I have in mind one woman, who ought to have known better, whose sibilant utterances--just five pews distant--came to be a regular part of the five minutes' pause immediately before the service began. Her conversation was usually directed to another woman, who, likewise, should have known better than to listen. The silent vault of the church roof echoed to the vigorous whispering up to the instant that the clergyman began, in low monotone, "The Lord is in His holy temple"--a fact which the whisperer had obviously forgotten--"let all the earth keep silence before Him"--an injunction which she never seemed to be able to remember from week to week.

It is one of the worst violations of good form to behave with levity in church. To devout people the church is the place for meditation and prayer, and nothing should be allowed to disturb the restful calm that is sought within its sacred walls. A well-bred agnostic will respect the religious sentiments of other people, whatever his own beliefs or disbeliefs in matters theological. If no higher law is recognized, at least every one will regard the etiquette of the case, which requires that the demeanor of every one within the walls of the church shall be reverent.

It is proper to dress plainly and neatly for church; to enter the portal quietly, to walk up the aisle in a leisurely but direct way, and be seated at once with an air of repose. If cushions or books require rearranging, it should be done with as little effort as possible. Every movement should be quiet, and the rattling of fans and of books in the rack, and "fidgeting" changes of position should be avoided. The movements in rising, sitting, and kneeling should be deliberate enough for grace, and cautious enough to avert accidents, like hitting the pew-railings, knocking down umbrellas, or kicking over footstools. No sounds but the inevitable rustle of garments should attend the changes of posture during the service. Not unfrequently several canes and as many hymn-books clatter to the floor with each rise of the congregation, because of somebody's nervous haste. Children are often responsible for these little accidents, and of course are excusable, but they should be early taught to observe caution in these little matters.

The clergyman should have the undivided attention of his hearers. During the lesson and the sermon, one should watch the face of the reader, or speaker, and give to the minister all the inspiration that an earnest expounder may find in the face of an intelligent listener. It is probably thoughtless, not intentional, disrespect--but still disrespect--for a person to spend "sermon time" studying the stained-glass windows or the symbolical fresco, interesting as these things may be.

The singing of the choir may be good; if so, one should not listen to it with the air of a connoisseur at a grand concert. Or the singing may be very poor; that fact should not be emphasized by the scowling countenance of the critic in the pews. A mind absorbed in true devotion does not measure church singing by secular standards. The spirit may be woefully lacking in the most artistic rendition: it may be vitally present in the most humble song of worship. While we may with righteous indignation condemn the sacrilege of a spiritless or irreverent singing of the sublime service of the church, it is very bad form to sneer at the earnest and sincere work of a choir whose "limitations," in natural gifts or culture, render their work somewhat commonplace. It is good form to respect all that is honest in religion, and to reserve sharp criticism for the shams and hypocrisies that cast discredit on the church.

A regular "pew-owner" in a church should be hospitable to strangers, and cheerfully give them a place in his pew, offering them books and hymnals, and aiding them to follow the service if they seem to be unaccustomed to its forms. At the same time it is only fair to say that this duty becomes a heavy tax on generosity and patience when, as in some very popular churches, a floating crowd of sight-seers each Sunday invade the pews, to the serious discomfort of the regular occupants. People who attend church as strangers should remember that they do so by courtesy of the regular attendants. A broad view of the church opening its doors to all the world is theoretically true, but practically subject to provisos. A church visitor who observes much the same care not to be intrusive which good form would require him to observe if visiting at a private house, will usually be rewarded with a polite welcome.

The stranger attending church should wait at the foot of the aisle until an usher conducts him to a seat, as the usher will know where a stranger can be received with least inconvenience to others in the pew. The stranger should not take possession of family hymn-books, or fans, or select the best hassock, or otherwise appropriate the comforts of the pew, unless invited to do so by the owner, whose guest he is, in a sense. If attentions are not shown him, he must not betray surprise or resentment, nor look around speculatively for the hymn-book that is not forthcoming. If the service is strange to him, he should at least conform to its salient forms, rising with the congregation, and not sitting throughout like a stolid spectator of a scene in which he has no part.

The head should be bowed during the prayers, and the eyes at least cast down, if not closed. To sit and stare at a minister while he is praying is a grotesque rudeness worthy of a heathen barbarian, yet one sometimes committed by the civilized Caucasian. The incident may escape the knowledge of the well-mannered portion of the congregation, who are themselves bowed in reverent attitude; but the roving eye of some infant discovers the fact, and it is at once announced; and worst of all, the child unconsciously gets an influential lesson in misbehavior in church from the "important" man who thus disregards the proprieties.

BEARING AND SPEECH

Physical culture may be a "fad," but its aesthetic results are conceded. The graceful control of the body is the basis of a fine manner.

It is an opinion of long standing that children should be taught to dance in order to develop grace of movement. Yet dancing, merely, gives but a limited training of the muscles compared with the all-round exercise now taken in gymnasiums and classes for physical culture. It is recommended that all who are deficient in "manner," or who suffer an embarrassing self-consciousness because of their awkwardness of pose or movement, should take a course of training under an intelligent teacher, until every muscle learns its proper office. With the self-command which this training gives, ease of manner and dignity of bearing follow naturally; to say nothing of the serenity of mind that lies back of all this pleasing exterior.

The effect of this bodily grace is to prepossess the beholder. First impressions are received through the eye. Before a word is spoken, the pose and carriage convey a significant announcement of character and breeding.

A thorough practical knowledge of elocution and constant application of its principles to conversational utterances are requisite to refined speech. Errors in pronunciation, hasty and indistinct enunciation, the dropping out of entire syllables in curt phrasing, are common faults of careless people who know better, and who would be very much chagrined to find themselves accounted to be as ignorant as their speech might indicate them to be.

A varied vocabulary used with discrimination indicates intelligence and culture. A single word uttered may reveal grace, or betray awkwardness. In the social interchange, one must not only suit the action to the word, but equally suit the word to the action. Careless speech often belies civil intentions.

Say "Thank-you," not "Thanks,"--a lazy and disrespectful abbreviation. If you say "Pardon me," let your manner indicate a dignified apology. "I beg your pardon," is sometimes only the insolent preface to a flat and angry contradiction. In most phrases of compliment, the words derive their real significance from the manner of the speaker.

There is a difference of opinion as to whether people of social equality should add "Sir" and "Ma'am" to the responses "Yes" and "No"; and especially, whether children should be taught to do so. The English fashion--largely copied by Americans--does not favor it. Certainly, children can learn to say "Yes" and "No" with the courteous manner that implies all that the added "Sir" might convey. But, are not some young Americans too ready to take advantage of this permitted lapse of verbal deference? And, back of the verbal lapse is there not a distinct lapse of the deference itself? It might be well to begin to counteract this irreverent tendency of the age, by cultivating a more respectful and appreciative spirit. Then, the polite word will come spontaneously to the lips. It will be a matter of morals, essentially: of manners, incidentally.

Deplorable as a heedless curtness of speech is, it is hardly more unpleasant than the artificial mincing of words that some children are drilled into (or learn by imitation of their elders). This superficial effusiveness, supposed to be "pretty" manners, is related more to subjective vanity than to objective courtesy. Not allowed to say "Sir," they substitute the name or title of the person addressed,--which, when introduced occasionally and unobtrusively, is a graceful personal recognition; but when overdone, as too often observed, the constant iteration of "Yes, Mr. Brown,"--"No, Mrs. Black," etc., grows to be a maddening exposition of precocious affectation.

Having observed the vagaries of this fashion in phrasing for several years, I have come to the conclusion that the plain "Sir" of former times,--which, to the "well-brought-up" child, was a practical application of the Fifth Commandment,--is much to be preferred to the fussy elaboration of personal address that has superseded it. Indications at present are, that the old-fashioned "Sir" and "Madam" are coming into their own again, among truly courteous people.

But whatever the fickle fashion of the hour may be, it is important to enforce the truth that the spirit of words and deeds is the essence of good manners. If this right spirit be lacking, no words can fill the blank. If an ugly spirit dwells within, no word of compliment can veil its evil face.

But though the good spirit be there, with all its generous impulses and kindly feeling, it needs the concrete expression; otherwise, its very existence may remain unknown. "A man that hath friends must show himself friendly." Pose, bearing, facial expression, the winning smile,--all these are silently eloquent; but, to convey the perfect message from soul to soul, there must be added the "word fitly spoken."

SELF-COMMAND

A theme for a volume! Briefly, it is the mark of a well-disciplined mind to be able to meet all emergencies calmly. Though china break, and gravy spill, the hostess and the guest must not allow the accident to ruffle their perfect serenity of manner. Nor is it merely a point of etiquette to be thus self-controlled. Serious accidents sometimes happen, like the igniting of fancy lamp-shades or filmy curtains, and then the calm poise of a well-bred man becomes of practical value to himself and others. A habit of keeping cool--formed originally for good manners' sake--may save one's life in some crisis of danger.

Control of temper is one of the most valuable results of training in the etiquette of calm behavior. Manifestations of ill-temper may be the occasional outburst of a spirit that dwells under the shadow of an ancestral curse, but which in its better moments grieves in sackcloth and ashes over its yielding to wild, ungovernable impulse. Such people are often generous and self-sacrificing in the main, though causing so much sorrow and disaster to others by these occasional whirlwinds of passion. In all that delicacy of feeling and usual regard for "the amenities" indicate, they are "well-bred." To say that they are not is as ungenerous as to criticise the conduct of the insane. But habitual, cold-blooded, and willful ill-temper--the trade-mark of unmitigated selfishness--is indisputably ill-bred. Whatever the tendency, temperament, or temptation, good form requires the cultivation and the exhibition of good humor and a disposition to take a cheerful and generous view of people and things.

This calm serenity does not mean weakness or moral cowardice. The dignity that forbids one to be rude also forbids one to endure insolence. A gentleman may scathe a liar in plain unvarnished terms, and yet not lose a particle of his own repose of manner; and the higher his own standards are, the more merciless will be his denunciation of what he holds to be deserving of rebuke. But through it all, he has his own spirit well in hand, under curb and rein. The ominous calm of a well-bred man is a terror to the garrulous bully. It is "the triumph of mind over matter."