Chapter II: Part 2

The selection of good English does not necessarily imply either a stilted monotony of speech, or a tiresome affectation. It is simply elegance and naturalness. There is no reason why any person, however humble his station in life, should not hope to speak his native language correctly. It is an accomplishment which is not expensive. In its acquirement one does not require high-priced teachers. It demands only care and attention. Be critical of yourself. Watch your sentences. Get your companions to correct your slips of the tongue. Say over correctly the troublesome sentence until the mistake becomes impossible. Listening to well educated persons and reading the best literature are both of great assistance in this direction, especially if we offer to both the sincere flattery of imitation. Our literature teems with masterpieces of style. To read them consistently is to imbibe a certain facility of diction.

There are many persons who, while they do not violate the rules of technical grammar, habitually indulge in slang, hyperbole, and in many "weeds of speech" which should be pulled up promptly and cast aside. A great many boys and girls, and even some older persons, imagine that the use of slang lends piquancy and force to their conversation. Slang is always an element of weakness. It is bad enough in a man, but in women it is far more questionable. It is not the expression of the refined. To the cultivated taste it is discordant.

Another fault prevalent among girls is the habit of hyperbole. Perfectly, awfully, nice, and splendid, are the four most overworked words, and awfully is the most abused of them all. It is strange, the hold this word has secured in the vocabulary of girls who, in almost all other respects, are considerate in their use of English. Persons are called awfully good, awfully bad, awfully clever, awfully stupid, awfully nice, awfully jolly and awfully kind. It is made to do duty on all occasions and under all circumstances, as though it were the only adverb admissible in good society. Among adjectives, splendid easily ranks as the most popular. To many, everything is splendid, whether it is a flower, a sunset, a dinner, a football game, a friend, a sermon, or a book. Then we are continually hearing that certain things are _perfectly_ splendid, _perfectly_ lovely, _perfectly_ hateful, _perfectly_ glorious, _perfectly_ magnificent and _perfectly_ sweet. How word-stricken society would do without these expressions it is difficult to determine, yet certain it is that the woman who deals recklessly in superlatives demonstrates forthwith that her judgment is dominated by her impulses, that her opinions are of doubtful reliability, and her criticisms valueless.

In a recent number of one of the popular magazines Prof. Brander Matthews has an article on the prevailing indifference in regard to the proper use of words. The points which he emphasizes are these:

The gentleman is never indifferent, never reckless in his language. The sloven in speech is quite as offensive as a sloven in manner and dress. The neat turning of a phrase is as agreeable to the ear as neatness of person is to the refined taste. A man should choose his words at least as carefully as he chooses his clothing; even a hint of the dandy is not objectionable, if it be but a hint. It is even better to go to the extreme of fastidiousness than to indulge the opposite extreme of negligence.

The art of writing letters is but another phase of the same matter. Indeed it is but conversation carried on with the pen, when distance or circumstances prevent the easier method of exchanging ideas by spoken words. It is an art which should be faithfully cultivated by those who desire to please. In social life, in business, in almost every other circumstance of life, we find our pen called into requisition. Yet while it is an almost indispensable accomplishment, it is one which is pitifully neglected. The art of letter-writing is becoming obsolete; that is, the art of writing such letters as enriched the epistolary literature of a former generation. This is unfortunate, as there is nothing that will so stimulate thought, and bring into activity, practical, every-day niceties of phrase as the exercise of this art. Constant drill in letter-writing will tend to take from one's vocabulary words which have no place there, and will accomplish quite as much as any other means to broaden, beautify, and to refine the language at our command, as well as to train the mind to exact habits of thinking. A further important consideration is the charm which "a gem of a letter" has for the delighted recipient.

The indispensable requisites of a good letter are neatness of chirography, simplicity, and grammatical correctness. Defects in any one of these particulars are scarcely pardonable. We cannot all be pretty writers, but we can all write legibly and give to the page the appearance of neatness. Scribbling is inexcusable.

"A scribbled page points to a scribbling mind, while clear, legible handwriting is not only an indication of clear thinking, but a means and promoter of accurate thought. Indeed, simply as a business proposition, one cannot afford to become a slovenly penman."

"And who," says _The Philadelphia Record_, "does not know the charm of a gracefully worded, legibly written letter, with its wide margins, its clear, black ink and dainty stationery? An art, indeed, is the writing of such a missive; an art which it behooves every woman to cultivate. A hastily written line betraying signs of carelessness, and scrawled on an indifferent sheet of paper is a poor compliment, indeed, to the receiver, and elicits anything but flattering comments upon the writer."

Careless speech is quite bad enough, but the charm of the speaker may be so great as to disarm criticism. The letter, however, the written word, stands on its own merits; "what is writ is writ." There is no graceful vivacity to plead for the writer; no coquetry of manner to distract the glance of the reader from the errors coldly set forth in black and white. Observe, then, the utmost care in inditing an epistle, whether to a friend or foe or to a lover. Never send forth a letter in undress, so to speak, scarcely more than you would present yourself _en dishabille_ before your most formal acquaintances. The one is almost as flagrant as the other.

TACT IN CONVERSATION.

_"Ask only the well about their health."_

_Discretion in speech is more than eloquence._
BACON.

_Brilliancy in conversation is to the company what a lighted
candle is to a dark room--it lightens the whole of it. But every
now and then some unskilful person, in attempting to clip the
wick to make it brighter, snuffs it out._
JAMES C. BEEKS.

Seldom does there occur in society any lapse so astonishing as the uncomfortable remarks innocently made by men and women to each other. Some persons who are careful and considerate in other respects, seem to have a woeful lack of that quality which we call tact. They wish to be pleasing; they would not for the world intentionally say or do anything to injure or wound the sensitiveness of a friend; yet they are continually saying those "things that would better have been left unsaid."

_Harper's Bazar_ mentions some of these speeches which have no excuse for being.

"What a dear little fellow that is!" said a caller to the mother of a three-year-old.

"He is a great comfort to us," replied the mother, stroking the child's long curls.

"Yes; I should think so. He is not pretty, is he? His hair is so beautiful now that at the first glance one would call him pretty. But if you imagine how he will look when those golden curls are cut off, you will see that he will be a very plain child."

Said another woman to an acquaintance: "Mrs. A., I hope you will pardon me for saying that I think I never saw a more beautiful piece of lace than the flounce on the gown that you wore to the Assembly Ball last week. I said to my husband afterward that if Mr. A. should fail again and lose everything, as he has done once or twice already, you could sell that lace and easily get a good price for it."

The same woman, while making a visit of several weeks, said to her hostess, as the time of her departure drew near: "I always think that the nicest thing about making a visit is the returning to one's home. One's family are always so glad to see one, and there is always great luxury to me in getting back to my own house, where I can do what I please, say what I please, and order what I want to eat."

Again, there are people who seem to think that it is their mission to puncture every person's infirmity with whom they come in contact. They study to speak disagreeably. They corner you in the social circle, and talk about the subject they know to be most disagreeable to you, and talk in a tone sufficiently loud to be heard by all the other persons in the room. If you have made a blunder they reveal it. If you have been unsuccessful in any of your undertakings they are sure to inquire about it, even to details. They unroll your past and dilate upon your future. They put you on the rack every time you meet them and there is an instinctive recoil when you perceive their approach.

"We all know these persons," says _Zion's Herald_, "the persons who always utter the unsuitable word, who make themselves generally disagreeable, who never, apparently, try to make a pleasing impression upon others, but who delight to sting and wound."

Are we not all acquainted with the neighbor mentioned in this quotation: "As a brief and sharp tormentor, as a nail in the boot, a rocker for the shins on a dark night, or a sharp angle for the ulnar nerve, Mrs. R----, our neighbor, excels all persons I ever saw. I am quite sure if she could disturb a corpse by whispering to it that its shroud was ill-fitting, and the floral gifts were not what had been expected, she would do it."

If you are a woman have you not more than once gone out for a walk with some other woman who is never satisfied with your appearance?

She gives your gown a pull, saying: "This dress never did fit you; it isn't at all becoming to you, why didn't you wear your other one?" You soon begin to feel uncomfortable, and to wish you were at home again. Your bonnet may be never so becoming, or your new jacket may fit you to perfection, but she never mentions either. She notices only defects; she sees all that is disagreeable. Such persons always leave an uncomfortable feeling behind them when they leave you.

Sarcasm is not a quality to be cultivated by either sex. Men do not like it in women. It may be amusing when it is directed against another, but there is always a lurking fear that it may some time be directed against one's self. Sarcasm is a rank weed, that, once sprouted, grows and grows, choking out the little plants of kindness, forethought and consideration, until it overruns the garden of the mind, dominating and controlling every thought with a disagreeable, pungent odor that cannot be eradicated.

The sarcastic girl is not fascinating, for she is not a pleasing companion. She is too sharp to be agreeable. She may possess talent above the average of her acquaintances; she may be able to talk in half a dozen different languages; she may be as beautiful as a Greek statue; but men fight shy of her. Sarcasm is not wit, though wit may be sarcastic. One may be bright and say all manner of clever things without hurting the feelings of others by keen, knife-edged opinions that are full of bitterness and teeming with gall.

The tactful person does not make the mistake of talking too much about himself. While we are young, at least, we are very interesting to ourselves, and we are likely to imagine that all the world is interested in our opinions, prejudices and tastes. But though this may be true of our dearest friends, it is not true as far as other people are concerned.

"Without question," says the _Magnet_, "our conversation must be based upon what we have experienced in one way or another. But that does not make it necessary for us to talk continually about ourselves. If we should examine carefully the things we say to the merest acquaintances, we would be astonished, oftentimes, to see that we assume an interest in ourselves which we have no right to expect." People who are ill are likely to make indiscriminate claims upon sympathy, entertaining strangers as well as friends with detailed descriptions of their latest symptoms, and the doctor's latest remedies. Some of us who have not the excuse of illness, impose on the persons we meet by obliging them to listen to a great deal of personal information which may be of interest to ourselves, and possibly to those who love us very dearly, but scarcely to any one else.

Several years ago the _Christian Union_ related this incident: The social occasion was a dinner. One of the guests was a woman who had passed middle life; good taste, ample means, with womanly grace and natural refinement, made her an addition to any circle. The hostess of the occasion was a woman who prided herself on her ability to meet the requirements of her station. She had no doubt as to her fitness in any social capacity, but her friends had not the same unquestioning faith in her tact.

The gentle guest found to her delight that she was assigned to the care of the son of an old school friend, and inwardly thanked her hostess for the consideration and thoughtfulness which made it possible for her to hear from her friend, whom she had not met in years. The guests were no sooner seated at the table than the hostess leaned toward the young man, and, in a voice perfectly audible to the entire company, said: "Never mind, Bob, I will do better for you next time."

For one minute there was perfect silence, the lady and her escort alike appalled by what had been said; but the kindliness of the guest overcame the embarrassing moment by calling the attention of the young man to the roses on the table, which, she said to him with a smile, were great favorites of his mother when she was in school. This broke the ice. The hostess was perfectly unconscious that she had been guilty of any rudeness. Her intention was to be particularly polite to the young man; first to assure him that he would be her guest again, and, secondly, that she would then have a rosebud to assign to his care. The amusing part was that the young man greatly admired his mother's friend, and had frequently been her guest on his visits to the city.

It is difficult to imagine how a woman could move in society to any extent and remain capable of such a blunder, and yet we have all passed through similar experiences at the hands of people whose social experience should render such tactlessness impossible. There comes to mind now an imposing woman, who prided herself on the fact that she always said just what she thought. At a reception, she filled the room by her manner; it was impossible to continue oblivious of her presence.

Bowing affably to her acquaintances, she sailed--for women of this type do not walk--up to a modest little lady whose health, she had heard, was declining, and in a loud voice exclaimed: "What have you been doing to yourself? You have aged fifteen years since last I saw you!" Not unkind by intention, she was but practising her system of saying just what she thought, and she was constantly urging upon her friends the propriety of this course; but what an unbearable place our world would be if we all followed this example of inane and inconsiderate bluntness.

So the woman who is always finding in you resemblances to some other person whom she has met, creates many of the uncomfortable experiences of social life, and when she thinks it interesting to exploit the character of your prototype, dwelling upon the mental and physical defects, she becomes unbearable. Yet society has, as yet, found no sure way to eliminate her.

Such infelicities are not the outcrop of unkindness so much as of a certain ineptitude or lack of _savoir faire_. Such people feel constrained to do their share of the talking, but have not acquired tactfulness in selecting the topic, nor alertness to avoid the pitfalls--both of which traits may by sedulous self-training be acquired by any one in whom, unhappily, they are not innate.

In one of these instances bad manners were the natural expression of the woman, because her impulse was selfish; for it is certainly true that a person of truly unselfish nature will not offend by making personal remarks. Manners are the expression of the heart, and the man or woman who lives mentally in kindly, thoughtful relations with fellow men and women will refrain from expressing the thought which might possibly give offence. There is no mystery in social grace. It is remembering other people in their several relations to us. The woman who is a social success is not the one who has for her purpose in life so much the desire merely to please, but the one whose desire, rather, is to make others happy. One is a polite purpose; the other is a fine type of unselfishness that makes impossible the utterance of unwelcome truths to the chagrin of anyone encountered in the casual personal contact that we term society.

Holmes gave us some good advice when he said: "Don't flatter yourselves that friendship authorizes you to say disagreeable things to your intimates. On the contrary, the nearer you come into relation with a person, the more necessary do tact and courtesy become."

THE COMPLIMENT OF ATTENTION.

_"Were we as eloquent as angels we should please some people more
by listening than by talking."_

_"A good listener is as needful to a witty talker as steel to
flint. It is the sharp contact of the two which makes the sparks
fly."_

There are certain amenities attending social intercourse with which we are all familiar, yet we are constantly forgetting to put them into practice. In no respect is this forgetfulness more noticeable than in conversation, and especially in connection with what may be called "the compliment of attention."

If you despair of becoming a good talker you can, at least, make yourself a good listener, and that is something not to be despised. There are apt to be more good talkers than good listeners, and, although to say so may sound paradoxical, the better you listen, the greater will be your reputation as a conversationalist.

In the opinion of the cynical Rochefoucauld, the reason why so few persons make themselves agreeable in conversation, is because they are more concerned about what they are themselves going to say, than what others are saying to them.

If you have read "Nicholas Nickleby," you remember Mrs. Nickleby tells how remarkable Smike was as a converser. She entertained poor Smike for several hours with a genealogical account of her family, including biographical sketches, while he sat looking at her and wondering what it was all about, and whether she learned it from a book or said it from her own head.

Said a writer in the _Chicago Herald_: "What is there, indeed, more colloquial than an intelligent countenance, eagerly intent upon one while telling a story? What language can be compared to the speaking blush or flashing eye of an earnest listener? It was Desdemona, with greedy ear devouring his discourse, who won Othello's heart. He told his wondrous story, and she listened--that only was the witchcraft he had used."

It is said of Sir Walter Scott that, although one of the best talkers in the world, he was also the best listener. With the same bland look he would watch, throughout an entire evening, the lips of his garrulous tormentor ignorantly discoursing on Greek epigrams, or crassly dilating on the intricacies of a parliamentary debate.

It was said of Madame Recamier that she listened most winningly, and this was one secret of her wonderful power to charm.

We have all heard the story of Madame de Stael, who, by a clever stratagem, was introduced to a deaf mute at a party. She talked to him the whole evening, and afterward declared that never before had she met so intelligent a listener and so fine a conversationalist.

Do you remember the story told by Sterne in "The Sentimental Journey"?

He had been represented to a French lady as a great wit and an engaging converser, and the lady was impatient for an introduction that she might hear him talk.

They met, and, writes Sterne: "I had not taken my seat before I saw she did not care a sou whether I had any wit or no. I was to be convinced that she had. I call heaven to witness I never once opened the door of my lips."

The lady afterward said she never in her life had a more improving conversation with a man.

Many other instances might be mentioned derived from both fact and fiction, to show how attentive listening may enhance the delights of conversation, and that one may sometimes gain a reputation for conversational powers by exercising one's ear instead of one's tongue.

"A frequent caller at my home," said a lady, "is a capital story-teller, always instructive and pleasing; but she is a poor listener. When my part of the conversation comes in, her manner is depressing. I feel embarrassed, my words become tangled, my memory leaves me, and I hurry to close my remarks, conscious of having made a weak argument, although I had a point when I began. My friend loses her easy manner when I speak, becomes restless, and breaks in upon me before I have fairly begun. Her unresponsive eyes tell me as plainly of her superiority as though she had written it in black and white."

Clergymen, teachers, and public speakers understand and appreciate better than others "the compliment of attention." Embarrassing, indeed, is it to anyone who is talking to observe signs of weariness and inattention on the part of one's hearers. Those not accustomed to stand before an audience seldom realize that a speaker feels and understands, without conscious endeavor, the attitude toward him of every member of his audience. The good listener inspires and encourages him, while the restless, inattentive auditor is a thorn in the flesh, irritating and distracting.

At the close of a lecture given a few years ago in a town in Maine, the lecturer--who was a state superintendent of schools--turned to the writer and asked:

"Who are those two ladies dressed in black, standing there by the window?"

After telling him their names the writer said, "Why do you ask?"

The lecturer replied: "They have been of great help to me all the evening. They are delightful listeners. They appeared to appreciate so thoroughly everything I said that I seemed to be talking especially for their benefit."

"That girl," said a teacher, pointing to an attractive young lady just leaving the school-room, "is the most restful pupil I ever had in my school. She is so gentle in her demeanor, so thoughtful and so attentive during recitations, that one cannot help loving her. No matter how restless the other members of the school become, she is always giving the closest attention. If one could have an entire school like her, teaching would be a delight; but she is one among fifty."

We gain many things besides the good will of others, by being good listeners, even though we must sometimes submit to be bored to an unlimited degree without interrupting the speaker, or responding in any other way than by "nods and becks and wreathed smiles."

"Open your mouth and shut your eyes and see what heaven will send you," says the old maxim; but, "shut your mouth and open your eyes," has been suggested as much more sensible advice under some circumstances.

"But," you say, "we are told that Samuel Johnson, Tennyson and Macaulay, and many other great thinkers, usually monopolized the conversation when they were in company, and their friends delighted to listen to them. Surely they gave but little heed to 'the compliment of attention.'" Very true, but no doubt they would have been sometimes more agreeable to the company if they had been more considerate of the wishes of other people. Great men are great in spite of their weaknesses, not because of them. We can forgive unpleasant propensities in a genius more easily than in the average mortal, and as almost all of us are average mortals, without a trace of anything akin to genius, we cannot afford to dispense with any of those qualities which help to make us pleasing to others. We should remember that there was but one Macaulay--a man who could talk brilliantly on almost all subjects--and notwithstanding his brilliancy, his friends admitted that he was often something of a bore.

A very useful lesson may be learned from a little story which appeared some years ago in _The Youth's Companion_:

George Paul, a young civil engineer, while surveying a railway in the Pennsylvania hills, met a plain, lovable little country girl, and married her. After a few weeks he brought her home to his family in New York, and left her there while he returned to camp.

Marian had laid many plans to win the affections of her new kinsfolk. She had practiced diligently at her music; she was sure they would be pleased to hear her stories of her beautiful sister and her brother; she imagined their admiration of her new blue silk gown and winter bonnet. But the Pauls, one and all, were indifferent to her music, her family and her gowns. They gave "George's wife" a friendly welcome, and then each went on his or her way, and paid no more attention to her.

After the first shock of disappointment Marian summoned her courage.

"If I have nothing to give them, they have much to give me," she thought, cheerfully. She listened eagerly when Isabel sung, and her smiles and tears showed how keenly she appreciated the music. She examined Louisa's paintings every day with unflagging interest, discussed every effect, and was happy if she could help mix the colors or prepare the canvas. She questioned grandma about her neuralgia, advised new remedies, or listened unwearied to the account of old ones day after day. When Uncle John, just returned from Japan, began to describe his adventures, Marian was the only auditor who never grew tired nor interrupted him.

After a two hours' lecture, in which her part had been that of a dumb, bright-faced listener, Uncle John declared that George's wife was the most intelligent woman he had ever met.

When George came home the whole family was loud in her praises. She was a fine musician; she had unerring taste in art; she was charming, witty and lovable. But George soon saw that she had won them unconsciously--not by displaying her own merits, but by appreciating theirs.

This is a true story in fact, but the truth of its meaning is repeated wherever a woman is found who has that quality called charm. She may be plain or even deformed, but she will win friendship and love.

Many an attractive girl would save herself much anxiety and vain effort on her entrance into the world of society, if she understood that society, so called, is composed of individuals, the most of whom desire not to find the beauty, the wit, the talent of others, but to elicit the cordial recognition by others, of their own.

THE VOICE.

_"Tender tones prevent severe truths from offending."_

_"There are tones which set commonplace words apart, and give them
lights and deeps of meaning, just as one fine emotion idealizes
and exalts a homely face."_

_"There is no power of love so effective as a kind voice. A kind
hand is deaf and dumb. It may be rough in flesh and blood, yet do
the work of a soft heart, and do it with a soft touch. But there
is no one thing that love so much needs as a sweet voice to tell
what it means and feels."_

In our efforts to please, while much depends upon what we say, quite as much depends upon how we say it. The influence of a pleasing voice is wonderful; who has not felt its charm?

It has been said that the greatest defect in the American woman is her voice, and while this may not be strictly true, there are heard in conversation at home and abroad many voices more unpleasant than necessary--more harsh, more rasping.

A woman's voice may imply good breeding, or the reverse, and in estimating the power of feminine charms, a pleasing voice should be placed very near the head of the list. Is it not strange, then, that so little effort is made to remedy defects in vocal expression?

We cultivate the voice for singing and for elocutionary effects, but little is done for the average boy or girl by way of training the voice for the everyday effect. Only a few can sing well enough to give pleasure to others, but we all talk every day of our lives, and often the quality of our voice speaks more significantly than the words we utter. A sympathetic tone will often win us a friend, though what we say may be of little importance. Purity of accent plays a great part in the art of charming, and it has been truly said that "a woman may be ugly, old, without distinction or instruction, but if she have a soft, insinuating, mellow-toned voice, she will charm as much as her more beautiful sister."

A telephone operator in a place near New York was on a certain Christmas the recipient of checks for five, ten and a hundred dollars, a diamond pin, a dress pattern, and eight boxes of confectionery; although she was known to the donors only by her gentle voice, by the deference of its tone, by her readiness to accommodate, and by her office number as one of the operators.

Why is it that we regard vocal training and oral expression as something to be confined wholly to the specialists? We think such training is needed by public speakers and readers, and by all who intend to make a professional use of the voice, but we do not appreciate its value for the average man or woman.

"What should we think," says _Expression_, "of a woman who dresses in the richest of apparel, who is extremely careful of every point of dress, but who speaks with a nasal twang and throaty tone, and makes no effort to correct the fault? We know that this is often the case. Why is not the inconsistency corrected? Why is there no endeavor to improve the voice and make it beautiful and winning? What a sensitiveness people exhibit about going abroad with a smudge on the face; but, alas! there is little sensitiveness regarding a smudge on one's voice.

The truth is that voice culture should not be confined to the few, but should become a prescribed branch of the education of boys and girls generally. Not alone are the voices of the women too often unmelodious, but those of the men also need attention. A fine voice may be of inestimable value to a man. The majority of the celebrated orators have been aided by the possession of a good voice, along with the knowledge requisite to enable them to employ it effectively. Mr. Lecky says that O'Connell's voice, rising with a melodiously modulated swell, filled the largest auditoriums and triumphed over the wildest tumult, while at the same time it conveyed every shade of feeling with the most delicate flexibility.

Mr. Gladstone's voice is said to have had the musical quality and the resonance of a silver trumpet; while William Pitt, who was a ruler in Parliament at the age of twenty-one, possessed a voice of masterful power yet of a wonderful sweetness.

Webster's voice, on the occasion of his reply to Senator Dickinson, was so commanding, so forceful, that one of his listeners said he felt all the night as if a heavy cannonade had been resounding in his ears.

Garrick used to say that he would give one hundred guineas if he could say "Oh" as Whitefield would say it.

"But," you declare, "nature has not given us voices like the voices of those celebrated men, and we must be content with what we have."

While nature may not have bestowed upon us their melodious voices, we can do much to improve our own. A study of biography will inform us that many of the most successful speakers, whether actors or orators, have been men and women possessing some native defect of speech or figure which they resolutely mastered by patient, persevering application. We all know of Demosthenes' impediment of speech, and are familiar with the story of his months of struggle and his final success.

Savonarola, when he first spoke in the cathedral at Florence, was considered a failure, on account of his wretched voice and awkward manner. Phillips Brooks, one of the greatest preachers America has produced, was told by his college president that the ministry was out of the question for him because of his nervousness and the defects of his speech.

It would be easy to multiply instances to show that the most awkward body and the roughest voice may be brought under control. In fact, where the voice is imperfect and the man is obliged to make a determined effort to master it, he attains by this means, a mental vigor and an emotional strength and a flexibility of voice and mind, as well as a command over the body, which render his delivery in the highest degree effective.

Again, it is not sufficient that we have naturally a melodious voice; we must know how, or else learn how, to use it. There must be feeling and expression in one's tones. If we wish to express cordiality, words are futile unless the voice sounds the feeling we wish to express. We need to learn how to modulate the voice so as to make it a true reflex of the mind and mood. Unless it tells of sincerity, apologies fail to convince of a contrite spirit. Unless it conveys confidence, protestations are in vain; yet the very tone of one's voice may allay bitterness, though one may stumble over the words of an apology. If, then, one recognizes the fact that his voice is colorless and devoid of feeling, though his heart be warm, let him at once apply himself to remedying the defect.

Listen to your own voice when speaking, and note the harsh, strident tones, and the imperfect inflection, and correct them. Many girls speak in a nervous, jerky, rapid way, beginning a sentence and repeating a portion of it two or three times before completing it. Some speak in high, shrill tones which are not only displeasing but positively irritating because discordant. Some speak too fast, while others, going to the opposite extreme, simply drawl. These are defects which can be corrected, and, by correcting them we add measurably to our power to charm.

If you do not understand the imperfections of your tone productions, or the faults in your manner of speaking, or if you have trouble in correcting them, go to one who does know, and who is as sensitive to the speaking voice as he is to the singing voice. It may cost you something to do this, but it will be money judiciously expended. You take music lessons, both vocal and instrumental, and you do not consider the money expended for such lessons as wasted even though you have no intention of going upon the stage in opera or of becoming a professional pianist. You study music as an accomplishment. Why then should you not give some time, and if need be, a little money for the purpose of perfecting your speaking voice, if by so doing you can make yourself more agreeable to others. You may not be called upon very often to sing or play for other people, but you will talk every day and many times each day, and the voice is "the agent of the soul's expression."

"The art of singing," says _The Boston Herald_, "strange to say, does not include the art of speaking, for some very fine singers have harsh and unmusical voices in conversation. But with all the training now given to the rising generation, voice education should be considered. Take the rasp and the hardness out of your sons' and daughters' speech, and give them another grace with which to conquer society."

The importance of what we say and how we say it, has never been more clearly or pointedly expressed than in this quotation from an American writer: "A man may look like a monkey and yet turn out to be a philosopher; a man may dress like a vagabond, and yet have the intuitions of a scholar and a gentleman. The face, the expression of the eye, the dress, the manner even, may all be deceptive, but the voice and speech of men and women classify them infallibly."

GOOD MANNERS.

_Life is not so short but that there is always time for
courtesy._
EMERSON.

_"Politeness is real kindness kindly expressed. This is the sum
and substance of all true politeness. Put it in practice and all
will be charmed with your manner."_

_Young men generally would doubtless be thoroughly astonished
if they could comprehend at a single glance how greatly their
personal happiness, popularity, prosperity, and usefulness
depend on their manners._
J. G. HOLLAND.

In attracting others to us the value of a pleasing manner cannot be estimated. It is like sunshine. We feel it at once, and we are attracted to the person who possesses it.

"Give a boy address and accomplishments," said Emerson, "and you give him the mastery of palaces and fortunes wherever he goes; he has not the trouble of earning or owning them: they solicit him to enter and possess."

Much has been written upon this subject. Indeed, so much has been said, and said so well, that there will be little attempt to do anything else in this chapter than to bring together some of the best thoughts of the best authors.

The men and women who have accomplished great things in the world have, as a rule, understood the value of politeness, and have acted in accordance with that knowledge. You can, possibly, recall a very few exceptions, but these were persons great in spite of their lack of courtesy, and they would have been even greater had they practiced the art of gentle manners.

The Duke of Marlborough, whose general education was in some respects sadly neglected, had so irresistible a charm of manner that he swayed the destinies of nations. Mirabeau, who was unattractive in person, won by his politeness the good will of all with whom he came in contact. There has been no time in the history of the world when good manners counted for more than they do at the present time. In fact, to-day more than ever before a man is dependent for success upon his personality. Good manners often bring to one many things that wealth cannot procure, and "politeness has won more victories than powder."

"No one," says an American writer, "who has any appreciation of grace and beauty in nature or in art can fail to recognize the charm of fine manners in an individual. We rejoice in them as we do in a lovely sunset view, or a beautiful piece of architecture, or a fascinating poem, for their own sake and for what they express; but even beyond this they have another attraction in the magnetic power they exert upon all beholders in setting them at ease, in sweeping away shyness, awkwardness and restraint, and in stimulating them to the expression of whatever is best worth cherishing within them."

It is undoubtedly true that the presence of fine manners, whether it be in the home or the social circle, in the workshop or the counting-room, in the visit of charity or the halls of legislation, has an immediate effect in reproducing itself, in diffusing happiness, in developing the faculties, and in eliciting the best that is in everybody.

Surely there is no quality that a girl or a woman can possess which recommends her more favorably to the good opinion of others than that of uniform courtesy and good manners.

William Wirt's letter to his daughter on the "small, sweet courtesies of life," contains a passage from which a deal of happiness may be learned. "I want to tell you a secret. The way to make yourself pleasant to others is to show them attention. The whole world is like the miller at Mansfield, who cared for nobody--no not he, because nobody cared for him. And the whole world would serve you so, if you gave them the same cause. Let everyone, therefore, see that you do care for them by showing them the small courtesies in which there is no parade, whose voice is still to please; and which manifest themselves by tender and affectionate looks, and little acts of attention, giving others the preference in every little enjoyment at the table, walking, sitting, or standing."

Young men who wish to make their way in the world cannot afford to forget that there is not in all the world a talisman of such potent magic as the irresistible spell of a charming manner. While in some cases it seems innate, it can, in a great measure, be acquired. Yet a careful observer of the young men of the present generation cannot fail to notice a tendency, on the part of some at least, to disregard the small courtesies of life--the intangible, yet very perceptible little things which make the man a gentleman. Some people even contend that outward manner is a secondary consideration if the head is well stored with knowledge, and that if a young man has the faculty to get on in the world, it is a matter of very little importance if he have not the manners of a Chesterfield. That this idea is prevalent is accounted for by the great number of well-educated men--men of ability and power--who, clever and with no lack of brains, are painfully deficient in good breeding. With no intentional lapses they are awkward, presuming, and even vulgar.

"In most countries," says the _Toronto Week_, "an educated man and a gentleman are almost synonymous terms. On this side of the Atlantic they by no means always apply to the same man. Educational advantages are within the reach of all classes of people--even persons who have missed the benefit of home training for their manners, or who have not numbered cultured persons among their acquaintances. Such persons by native ability and hard work often attain to high positions of honor and trust in the various professions, and win for themselves the title of 'self-made.'

"Yet because a man by his brains, energy, and pluck carves out his own fortune, putting himself in a prominent position, is it not very desirable that he should also cultivate the courtesies of life so that the talent be not hidden by roughness and uncultivated bearing."

We frequently meet college students--especially from the smaller colleges--good, honest, earnest, ambitious fellows, who are working hard to make their way in the world. They are poor, and have come from homes where the stern realities of gaining a livelihood have left, apparently, no time for culture; where the table manners are but little better than those of the logging camp, and where the graces of refined speech and manners have never even taken root. They may take never so high a rank in their college studies, may pursue the work preparatory to a profession with never so much diligence, yet they will always be handicapped by their ignorance of those embellishments so necessary to social, and even business, success. They find themselves continually placed at a disadvantage, and their lack of social training is responsible for failures which might have been avoided.

Because a man is a successful lawyer he is not justified in saying that he can be his own tailor, or that ill-fitting clothes, if belonging to him and of his own make, are as suitable as those of a good cut. So it is with the intellectual giant who takes no heed of his manners. He may learn much from less talented persons, who are, nevertheless, his superiors in many respects. Desirable as it may be for a young man to shun the extravagance of the aesthete, and to despise the shams of society, he cannot afford to neglect the courtesies of life; and he does well who, while devoting his energies to mathematics and the classics, pays attention to the improvement of his manners. It is while young that manners are formed; the most strenuous efforts will not wholly eradicate in after life the awkward habits formed in youth.

The young man who is ambitious, upon whom Dame Fortune is already turning a dawning smile, should pause and think about this matter. Some time he may be rich; some time he may aspire to a high position in society or in public life, and he should begin early to fit himself for the proud position he means to occupy.

The outward address of a man has no little influence upon his success in business. The polite attention and readiness to meet every reasonable, and often unreasonable, demand of his customers, on the part of A. T. Stewart, when he opened his narrow linen store on Broadway, was almost as important a factor in his rapid success in securing business as his remarkable quickness in discovering changes in the market, and in adapting his goods to the taste and necessities of his patrons. This marked self-restraint and politeness of manner he retained to the last.

It is strange that every business man does not appreciate the commercial value of politeness. The writer knows a clerk who is employed in a drug store in one of the largest towns of Maine. So polite is he in his attentions to customers, so willing to be helpful, so pleasing in his manner, with that restraint and quietness which mark the gentleman and destroy every trace of effusion, that he has made himself invaluable to his employer. It is reported that, more than once, his friends have urged him to establish a business of his own, but his employer, realizing his value in attracting and holding customers, has turned him from the idea by a generous increase of salary. Thousands of clerks and thousands of professional and business men could greatly increase their earning power by closer attention to the accepted rules of courtesy.

Some people excuse a roughness of manner by saying that they detest affectations of all kinds, that they love the truth, that they are perfectly frank and outspoken. Such people pride themselves upon their naturalness, and on the ground of frankness they will wound by rude language, will insult you, and defend their awkwardness and ill-breeding by the plea of "natural manners." Naturalness is not always commendable. If nature has not invested us with those qualities which are pleasing to others, we should try to improve upon nature. The plainest truths may be conveyed in civil speech, and it is better to "assume a virtue if you have it not." To object to politeness on the ground that its language is sometimes unmeaning and expressed for effect, is as foolish as it would be to object to the decoration of our parlors or the wearing of good clothes.

In the ordinary compliments of good society there is no intention to deceive. Polite language is pleasant to the ear, and soothing to the heart, while rough words are the reverse, and while they may not always be the result of bad temper, they are quite likely to cause it.

The motive for politeness should not be the desire to shine, or to raise one's self into society supposed to be better than one's own. The cultivation of good manners is not merely a means to the gratification of personal vanity, but it is a duty we owe not only to other people but to ourselves; a duty to make ourselves better in every respect than we are. Indeed, the true spirit of good manners is so nearly allied to that of good morals that they seem almost inseparable.

"Did you ever think how invisible is the armor of defence afforded by perfect politeness?" asks _Harper's Bazar_. "Neither man, woman nor child can resist it. The quick tempered Irish maid who loses her hold on her tongue so easily and 'answers back' with a hot retort is abashed when her mistress meets her with quiet courtesy. The angry person, off guard and saying what he really does not mean, is foiled by the self-control of his interlocutor, who has not, for an instant, forgotten the gracious manner of good breeding."

Politeness is, perhaps, instinctive with some, but with the majority it is a matter of training, of the slow and careful discipline of voice and eye and carriage. Under this training all the angles of personal vanity and self-consciousness are rubbed off, the person becomes adorned with grace, ease, simplicity and gentleness, and what may seem to the untrained observer as the perfection of naturalness may be simply the perfection of culture.

Very sensitive persons who suffer acutely from fancied slights can save themselves many wounds by always being as scrupulous in giving as they are in exacting courtesy. To suffer one's self to perpetrate a rudeness is to lay one's self open to the same. In nothing should we be less economical than in politeness. It should lead us to prompt and generous acknowledgment of every kindness, to responsive thanks when a gift, however small, is brought to our door. It should oblige us to listen with patient attention even to the person whose conversation is not entertaining, to sit apparently absorbed when in public we are present at concert or lecture. This defensive armor, so smooth, so polished, so easily worn, will make our intercourse with society agreeable.

The fact is, that when we come in contact with human beings anywhere and in any occupation, we are quite likely to get in return just what we give.

A man who is always the gentleman seldom meets with rebuffs from even the most unpolished and crude. The employer who uses kind words with his workmen, usually gets kind words in return.

DRESS.

_"No woman is ugly who is well dressed."_
SPANISH PROVERB.

_For the apparel oft proclaims the man._
HAMLET.

_I believe in dress. I believe that God delights in beautiful
things, and as he has never made anything more beautiful than
woman, I believe that that mode of dressing the form and face
which best harmonizes with her beauty is that which pleases him
best._
J. G. HOLLAND.

As the author of this volume is a man, this chapter on dress is, of course, written from a man's point of view. He knows very well that, were he to attempt to write scientifically of woman's clothes he would be lost. No one but a woman can do that. The man who tried it would soon find himself bewildered by a maze of technical terms and expressions which seem absolutely necessary to describe exactly what is meant. Possibly, however, the author can take a broad, mental grasp of the subject apart from and above the pretty finesse with which feminine writers would treat the subject. Clothes are the woman's weapons, one of the resources of civilization, with which woman marches forth to the conquest of the masculine world, and the writer wishes to estimate from the man's standpoint just how much the silks, the laces, the ribbons and the velvets have to do in influencing the masculine heart.

What one wears is accepted as an index of one's character. Whether this is as it should be or not, yet it is true; and we all feel, more or less, that coarseness or refinement finds visible expression in apparel as in no other way. "Surely," says _The Boston Journal_, "nothing so intensifies the personality as the clothes one wears; through association they become a part of us, help to identify us, even in some peculiar, reactionary way, serve to control our mental states."

Many women will tell you that their most infallible cure for weariness and the blues is to go and dress up in one of their prettiest gowns. Many men will tell you that a clean shave, clean linen, and a fresh suit of clothes are most reviving and soothing in their effect upon the psychical as well as the physical man.