The American Gentleman's Guide to Politeness and Fashion / or, Familiar Letters to his Nephews

LETTER V.

MANNER—PRACTICAL DIRECTIONS.

My dear Nephews:

Though good breeding is always and everywhere essentially the same, there are phases of daily life, especially demanding its exhibition. Manner in the street is one of these.

Even in hours most exclusively devoted to business, do not allow yourself to hurry along with a clouded, absent face and bent head, as if you forever felt the foot of the earth-god on your neck! Carry an erect and open brow into the very midst of the heat and burden of the day. Take time to see your friends, as they cross you in the busy thoroughfares of life and, at least by a passing smile or a gesture of recognition, give token that you are not resolved into a mere money-making machine, and both will be better for this fleeting manifestation of the inner being.

During business hours and in crowded business-streets no man should ever stop another, whom he knows to be necessarily constantly occupied at such times, except upon a matter of urgent need, and then if he alone is to be benefited by the detention, he should briefly apologize and state his errand in as few words as possible.

But the habit of a cheerful tone of voice, a cordial smile, and friendly grasp of the hand, when meeting those with whom one is associated in social life, is not to be regarded as unimportant.

If you do not intend to stop, when meeting a gentleman friend, recognize him as you approach, by a smile, and touching your hat salute him audibly with—"Good morning, sir," or "I hope you are well, sir," or (more familiarly), "Ah, Charley!—good morning to you." But don't say, "How d' ye do, sir," when you cannot expect to learn, nor call back as you pass, something that will cause him to linger, uncertain what you say.

If you wish to stop a moment, especially in a thoroughfare, retain the hand you take, while you retire a little out of the human current; and never fall into the absurdity of attempting to draw a tight or moistened glove while another waits the slow process. It is better to offer the gloved hand as a rule, without apology, in the street.

If you are compelled to detain a friend, when he is walking with a stranger, briefly but politely apologize to the stranger, and keep no one "in durance vile" longer than absolute necessity requires. When thus circumstanced yourself, respond cheerfully and courteously to the apologetic phrase offered, and, drawing a little aside, occupy yourself with anything beside the private conversation that interrupts your walk. Sometimes circumstances render it decorous to pass on with some courteous phrase, to step into some neighboring bookseller's, etc., or to make a rapid appointment for a re-union. Cultivate the quick discernment, the ready tact, that will engender ease of manner under those and similar circumstances requiring prompt action.

Never leave a friend suddenly in the street, either to join another, or for any other reason, without an apology; the briefest phrase, expressed in a cordial tone, will suffice, in an emergency.

Upon passing servants, or other inferiors in station, whom you wish to recognize, in the street, it is a good practice, without bowing or touching the hat, to salute them in a kindly voice.

When you meet a gentleman whom you know, walking with one or more ladies, with whom you are not acquainted, bow with grave respect to them also.

Politeness requires that upon meeting ladies and gentlemen together, with both of whom one is acquainted, that one should lift the hat as he approaches them, and bowing first to the ladies, include the gentleman in a sweeping motion, or a succeeding bow, as the case permits. Should you stop, speak first to the lady, but do not offer to shake hands with a lady in full morning costume, should your glove be dark-colored or your hand uncovered. Again lift your hat to each, in succession of age or rank, as a substitute for this dubious civility, with some playful expression, as "I am sorry my glove is not quite fresh, Mrs.——, but you need no assurance of my being always the most devoted of your friends" or "admirers," or "Really, Miss——, you are so beautifully dressed, and looking so charmingly, that I dare not venture too near!" And as you part, again take your hat quite off, letting the party pass you, and on the wall side of the street, if that be practicable.

In the street with other men, carefully give that precedence to superior age or station which is so becoming in the young, by taking the outer side of the pavement, or that nearer the counter current, as circumstances may make most polite. When you give, or have an arm, carefully avoid all erratic movements, and keep step, like a well-trained soldier!

Towards ladies, in the streets, the most punctilious observance of politeness is due. Walking with them, one should, of course, assume the relative position best adapted to protect them from inconvenience or danger, and carefully note and relieve them from the approach of either. In attending them into a store, &c., always give them precedence, holding the door open from without, if practicable. If compelled to pass before them, to attend to this courtesy, say, "allow me," or "with your permission," etc. Meeting ladies, the hat should be taken off as you bow, and replaced when you have passed, or, if you pause to address them, politely raised again as you quit them.

When you are stopped by a lady friend in the street, at once place yourself so as best to shield her from the throng, if you are in a crowd, or from passing vehicles, etc., and never by your manner indicate either surprise or embarrassment upon such an occasion. Allow her to terminate the interview, and raise your hat quite off as you take leave of her.

When a stranger lady addresses an inquiry to you in the street, or when you restore something she has inadvertently dropped, touch your hat ceremoniously, and with some phrase or accent of respect, add grace to a civility.

If you have occasion to speak more than a word or two to a lady whom you may meet in walking, turn and accompany her while you say what you wish, and, taking off your hat, when you withdraw, express your regret at losing the further enjoyment of her society, or the like.

If you wish to join a lady whom you see before you, be careful in hurrying forward not to incommode her (or others, indeed), and do not speak so hurriedly, or loudly, as to startle her, or arrest attention, and should you have only a slight acquaintance with her, say, as you assume a position at her side, "With your permission, madam, I will attend you," or "Give me leave to join your walk, Miss——" etc.

Of course, no well-bred man ever risks the possibility of intrusion in this way, or ever speaks first to a lady to whom he has only had a passing introduction. In the latter case, you look at a lady as you advance towards her, and await her recognition.

Speaking of an intrusion, you should be well assured that you will not make an awkward third before you venture to attach yourself to a lady and gentleman walking together, though you may even know them very well; and the same rule holds good in a picture-gallery, rococo-shop, or elsewhere, when two persons, or a party, sit or walk together.

Every man is bound by the laws of courtesy, to note any street accident that imperils ladies, and at once to hasten to render such service as the occasion requires. Promptitude and self-possession may do good service to humanity and the fair, at such a juncture.

Should you observe ladies whom you know, unattended by a gentleman, alighting from or entering a carriage, especially if there is no footman, and the driver maintains his seat, at once advance, hold the door open, and offer your hand, or protect a dress from the wheel, or the like, and bowing, pass on, all needed service rendered; or, if more familiarity and your own wish sanction it, accompany them where they may chance to be entering.

No general rule can be laid down respecting offering the arm to ladies in the street. Where persons are known and reside habitually, local custom will usually be the best guide. At night, the arm should always be tendered, and so in ascending the multiplied steps of a public building, etc., for equally obvious reasons. For similar cause, you go before ladies into church, into a crowded concert-room, etc., wherever, in short, they are best aided in securing seats, and escaping jostling, by this precedence of them. When attending a stranger lady, in visiting the noted places of your own city, or the like, and when one of a party for a long walk, or of travellers, it may often be an imperative civility to proffer the arm. To relatives, or elderly ladies, this is always a proper courtesy, as it is to every woman, when you can thus most effectually secure her safety or her comfort.

Do not forget, when walking with elderly people, or ladies, to moderate the headlong speed of your usual step.

I will here enter my most emphatic protest against a practice of which ladies so justly complain,—the too-frequent rudeness of men in stationing themselves at the entrance of churches, concert-rooms, opera houses, etc., for the express purpose, apparently, of staring every modest woman who may chance to enter, out of countenance. No one possessed of true good-breeding will indulge in a practice so at variance with propriety. If occasion demands your thus remaining stationary upon the steps or in the portico of a public edifice, make room, at once, for ladies who may be entering, and avoid any appearance of curiosity regarding them. A similar course is suitable when occupying a place upon the steps, or at the windows of a pump-room at a watering-place, or of a hotel. Carefully avoid all semblance of staring at ladies passing in the street, alighting from a carriage, etc., and make no comment, even of a complimentary nature, in a voice that can possibly reach their ears. So, when walking in the street, if beauty or grace attract your attention, let your regard be respectful, and, even then, not too fixed. An audible comment or exclamation, addressed to a companion, a laugh, a familiar stare, are each and all, when any stranger, and more especially a woman, is the subject of them, unhandsome in the extreme.

Breakfasting one morning, at West Point, with an agreeable Portuguese, we chatted for some time over the newspapers and our coffee, as we sat within view of one of the most beautiful landscapes it has ever been my fortune to behold. At length our un-American indulgence in this respect, became the theme of conversation between us.

"Pardon me," said the elegant foreigner, "but though the Americans are very kind—a very pleasant people, they do not take enough of time for these things, at all. They do not only eat in a hurry, but they even pass their friends in the street, sometimes, without speaking to them! I remember last winter, in Philadelphia, where I was some months, I met one day, in Chestnut street, a gentleman whom I knew very well, and he passed me without speaking. I made up my mind at once, that this shall not happen again, so the next time I saw him coming, I looked into a shop window, or at something, and did not see him. He came to me and said—"Good morning, Mr.A——! what is the matter with you, that you do not speak to me?" or something like that. I answered, that he had cut me in the street (I think that is what you call it!) two or three days before, and that I never will permit myself to be treated in this manner. Then he said, that I must excuse him, that he must have been in business and did not see me, and so on. But this is not the way of a gentleman in my country!"

You must imagine for yourselves the double effect, lent to the words of my companion by his foreign action and imperfect pronunciation, and the slight curl of his dark moustache as he emphasized the words I have underscored.

"What a harum-scarum fellow that James Condon is!" exclaimed a young lady, in my hearing. "I had reason to repent declining to drive to the concert last night, I assure you! The moon, upon which I had counted, was obscured, and he not only hurried me along (though we had plenty of time, as I was quite ready when he came), at breathless speed, but actually dragged me over a heap of rubbish, in crossing the street, upon which I nearly tumbled down, though I had his arm. When we reached the place, I was so heated and flurried that I could not half enjoy the music, and this morning I find not only that my handsome new boots are completely spoiled, but that I have any quantity of lime upon the bottom of the dress I wore, and my pretty fan, which he must needs insist upon carrying for me, sadly broken!"

"I have seen everything and everybody I wish, in London, except the Duke of Wellington," said a sprightly lady whose early morning walk past Apsley House—the town residence of the Iron Duke—I was attending some years since, "every distinguished man, except the Hero of Waterloo. I hope I shall not lose that pleasure!"

"You may have that pleasure now, madam!" exclaimed a gentleman, passing us and rapidly walking forward, in whose erect figure and very narrow brimmed hat, I at once recognized the object of my companion's hitherto unsatisfied curiosity.

Strolling in Kensington Park, during that same morning, and at an hour too unfashionably early for a crowd, with my fair charge, I drew her gently aside, as she leaned on my arm, from some slight obstruction in our path, which she did not observe, and which might otherwise have incommoded her.

"Really Colonel Lunettes," said she, "your watchful politeness reminds me of my dear father's. You gentlemen of the old school so much surpass modern beaux in courtesy! I well remember the last walk I had in Broadway with papa, before we sailed. Mrs.W—— and I were making a morning visit, quite up town for us Brooklynites—in Union Place, upon a bride, when who should also arrive but papa. When we took leave, he accompanied us, and finding that we had taken a fancy to walk all the way to the ferry, insisted upon going with us—only think, at his age, and so luxurious in his habits, too! As he is a little hard of hearing, and likes always to talk with Mrs.W——, who is a great favorite of his, I insisted upon his walking between us—that I might have his arm, and yet not interfere with his conversation. This, of course, brought me on the outside. But I cannot describe to you the watchful care he had for me, all the way. At the slightest crowding he held me so firmly—saw every swerve of the vehicles towards us, and would hold my dress away from every rough box or so, that lumbered the sidewalk, and every now and then he would say—'Minnie, wouldn't you be more comfortable on my other arm? I am afraid you will be hurt there!' At the Brooklyn ferry he was to leave us, as he could not go over to dine that day. Seeing a crowd at the door of the office, he hastened a little before us to pay the fare, and then saw us safely through the press, taking leave of me as politely as of Mrs. W——. 'What an elegant gentleman your father is!' cried out Mrs.W——, as soon as he was gone, 'he always reminds me of the descriptions we read of the chivalrous courtesy of knights of olden time; it is like listening to a heroic ballad to be with him, and receive his politeness.' I know you won't laugh at me, Colonel, when I say that the memory of that simple incident is still as fresh in my heart, as though no ocean voyage and long travel had come between; and I can truly say that I was prouder of my cavalier attendant that day, than I ever was of all the young men together, who ever walked Broadway, with me." The tremulous tones, the glistening eyes, and the glowing cheeks of the fair young speaker attested the truth of her filial boast, and I—but you must draw your own morals!

Presently we resumed our chat, and the theme of the moment together.

"I well recollect," said my companion, in the course of our discussion, "the impression produced upon me, in my girlhood, by the manners of a young gentleman, who was my groomsman at the wedding of a young friend. Some of the lessons of good breeding taught me by his example, I shall never forget, I think. I was the most bashful creature in the world at that time, and he quite won my heart by the politeness with which he set me at ease, at once, when he came to take me away in a carriage to join my young friends. But that was not the point: the next morning after the wedding, we were all to attend the 'happy pair' as far as Saratoga, on their wedding-tour; that is, the bridesmaids and bridesmen. At Schenectady, we were put into an old-fashioned car, divided into compartments. Just as we were about to start, a singularly tall, gaunt, Yankeefied-looking elderly woman scrambled into our little box of a place, and seated herself. We were fairly off, before she seemed fully to realize the trials of her new position. She did not say, in the language of the popular song,

but she looked as though she feared having fallen among the Philistines; and, I am ashamed to say that some of our merry party made no scruple of privately amusing themselves with her peculiarities of dress and manner. Mr.Henry, however (my groomsman), addressed some polite remarks to her, in so grave and respectful a manner as soon to convince her of his sincerity, and as carefully watched the sparks that fell upon her thick worsted gown, as those that annoyed the rest of us. At the first stopping-place, you may be very sure that the unwilling intruder was in haste to change her seat.

"'Do you wish to get out, madam!' inquired Mr. Henry; 'allow me to help you;' and bounding out, he assisted her down the high step, as carefully and respectfully as though she were some high dame of rank and fashion. I am afraid that, though I did not actually join in the merriment of my thoughtless friends, I deserved the sting of conscience that served to fasten this little incident so firmly in my remembrance. Perhaps I was, for this reason, the more impressed by another proof of the ever-ready politeness of this gentleman, who made such an impression upon my girlish fancy. We dined at Ballston, on our way to Saratoga, and after dinner, I asked Mr. Henry, with whom, in spite of my first awe of his superiority of years and polish, I began to feel quite at ease, to run down with me to one of the Springs, for a glass of water, before we should resume our journey. So he good-naturedly left the gentlemen (now I know that he may have wished to smoke) together at the table, and accompanied me. But now for my dÉnoÛment. Just as we were in a narrow place, between a high, steep bank and the track, the cars came rushing towards us. In an instant, quicker than thought, Mr.Henry had transferred me from the arm next the cars—because more removed from the edge of the bank—to the other arm, thus placing his person between me and any passing danger, and with such a quiet, re-assuring manner! You smile, Colonel—but, really—well, you see what an impression it made upon my youthful sensibilities!"

"Oh, girls, such a charming adventure as I had this evening!" exclaimed Margaret, as a bevy of fair young creatures clustered together before the fire in a drawing-room where I was seated after dinner, with my newspaper. My attention was arrested by the peculiar animation with which these words were pronounced, and I glanced at the group, over the top of my spectacles. They reminded me of so many brilliant-hued butterflies, in their bright-colored winter dresses, and with their light, wavy motions as they settled themselves, one on a pile of cushions, others on a low ottoman, and two pretty fairies on the hearth-rug, each uttering some exclamation of gratification at the prospect of amusement.

"Now, don't expect anything extraordinary or dreadful, you silly creatures; I have no 'hair-breadth 'scapes by land or sea' to entertain you with. Can't one have a 'charming adventure,' and yet have nothing to tell?"

"But do tell us all there is to tell, dear Miss——. Do, please, this very moment," entreated one of the fairies, linking her arms around her companion, and mingling her golden ringlets with the darker locks of the head upon which her own lovingly rested. And a little concert of similar pleadings followed. This prelude over, the tantalizing adventuress began:

"Before I went over to New York this morning, I wrote a little note to Mary Bostwick, telling her all about our arrangements for the Christmas-tree, and charging her not to fail to come to us on Christmas eve, and all about it, for fear that, as I had so much to accomplish, I might not be able to go up to Twenty-third street, and return home in time to meet you all here. My plan was to keep it until I was decided, and then, if obliged to send it, to put it in one of the City Express letter-boxes. Well, by the time I was through with all my important errands, it was time for me to turn my steps homeward. So, happening last at Tiffany's, to get the—I mean, I asked at Tiffany's for one of the places where a box is kept in that neighborhood, and was told that there was one in a druggist's, quite near—just above. Hurrying along, I must have passed the place, and stopped somewhere not far below 'Taylor's,' to see exactly where I was. Time was flying, and it was really almost growing dark; so I ventured to inquire of a gentleman who was passing, though an entire stranger, for the druggist's. "'I think it is below, near the Astor House,' said he, with such an appearance of interest as to embolden me to mention what I was in search of.

"'If that is all,' he replied, 'I dare say there is one nearer. Let me see,' glancing around, 'I think there is one on the opposite corner—I will see.'

"'I have no right to give you that trouble, sir,' said I.

"'Yes you have—it is what every man owes to your sex.'

"'You are very good, sir; but I am sure I can make the inquiry for myself.'

"'No, it is a tavern, where you cannot properly go alone! Remain here, and I will ascertain for you.'

"Before I could repeat my thanks, the gentleman was half across the street.

"Hoping to facilitate matters, I followed him to the opposite pavement, and stood where he would observe me upon coming out of the door I had seen him enter. I held the note and my porte-monnaie ready in my hand.

"'There is a box here,' said my kind friend, returning, 'if you will intrust me with your letter, I will deposit it for you.'

"'You are very good, sir; I would like to pay it,' I answered, opening my porte-monnaie.

"He took the letter quickly, and prevented my intended offer of the postage so decidedly, that I did not dare insist. But, by this time, I really could not refrain from the expression of more than an ordinary acknowledgment:

"'I have to thank you, sir,' said I, 'not only for a real kindness to a stranger, but for a pleasant memory, which I shall not soon lose. Such courtesy is too unusual to be soon forgotten! 'How far one little candle sometimes throws its rays!'—many thanks and good evening, sir!'

"I had still one more errand in Canal street, but I stayed on the 'unfashionable side' of the street, and went up, to avoid the awkwardness of re-crossing with the gentleman, and the possibility of imposing any further tax upon his politeness—bless him! I wasn't half as weary after I met him, and my heart has been in a glow ever since!"

"Bravo!" "Bravissimo!" echoed round the room, in various waves of silvery sound.

"Is that all, Miss——?" inquired the only boy of the party, unless you except the approach to second childhood ensconced behind the newspaper, and now acting the amiable part of reporter, for your benefit.

"All, unless I add that I occasionally glanced cautiously over, to catch the form of my kind friend, as I hurried along, that I might not again cross his path; but I did not 'calculate' successfully after all; for, as I ran across Broadway, at Canal street corner, he was a little nearer than I had expected. I bowed slightly, and hurried on:—but wasn't it beautiful? Such chivalrous sentiments towards women: 'It is what we all owe your sex!' And his manner was more expressive than his words—so gentle and quiet! No stage effect"——

"But you quoted Shakespeare," insinuated a pretty piece of malice on the ottoman.

"I couldn't help it, if I did! I was surprised out of the use of ordinary language by an extraordinary occasion. If you are going to ridicule me, I shall be sorry I told you; for it is one of the pleasantest things that has happened to me in a great while! There was I, in my incognito-dress, as I call it, weary and pale, nothing about me to attract interest, I am sure! I wish such men were more common in this world, they would elevate the race!"

"I declare, cousin Maggie, you are growing enthusiastic! I haven't seen such beaming eyes and such a brilliant color for a long time! Was this most gallant knight of yours a young gentleman, may I ask?"

The lady thus questioned seemed to reflect a moment before she replied:

"If you mean to inquire whether he was a whiskered, moustached ÉlÉgant, not a bit of it! I should not have addressed such a man in the street. On the contrary, he was"——

"Married, I am afraid!" interrupted pretty mischief on the ottoman, giggling behind her next neighbor.

"I dare say he may have been," pursued the narrator, quietly. "No very young man, even if he had wished to be polite to a stranger neither young nor beautiful, which is very doubtful, would have exhibited the graceful self-possession and easy politeness of this gentleman:—he was, probably, going to his home in the upper part of the city after a business-day. As I remember his dress, though, of course, I had no thought about it at the time, it was the simple, unnoticeable attire of an American gentleman when engaged in business occupations—everything about him, as I recall his presence, was in keeping—unostentatious, quiet, appropriate! I shall long preserve his portrait in my picture-gallery of memory, and I am proud to believe that he is my own countryman!"

"Cousin Maggie always says," remarked one of her auditors, "that Americans are the most truly polite men she has met"——

"Yes," returned the enthusiast, "though sometimes wanting in mere surface-polish—

'Where'er I roam, whatever lands I see,
My heart, untravelled, fondly turns to'——

my own dear, honored countrymen—more truly chivalrous, more truly just towards our sex, than the men of any other land! I never yet appealed to one of them for aid, for courtesy, as a woman, and as a woman should, in vain. And I never, scarcely, am so placed as to have occasion for kindness—real kindness—without receiving it, unasked. The other day, for instance, caught in a sudden shower, I stood waiting for a stage, 'down town,' in Broadway. There was such a jam that I was afraid to try and get into one that stopped quite near the sidewalk. A policeman, at that moment, asked me whether I wished to get in, and, holding my arm, stepped over the curb with me. 'I don't know what the ladies would do without the aid of your corps, sometimes, in these crowds,' said I.

"'If the ladies will accept our services, we are proud, madam,' answered he.

"'I am very glad to do so,' returned I; and well I might, for, at that instant, as I was on the point of setting my foot on the step of the omnibus, the horse attached to a cart next behind suddenly started forward, and left no space between his head and the door of the stage. I shrunk back, as you may imagine, and said I would walk, in spite of the rain. But the policeman encouraged me, and called out to the carman to fall back. At that instant, I observed a gentleman come out upon the step of the stage. With a single imperious gesture, and the sternest face, he drove back the horse, and springing into the omnibus, held the door open with one hand, and extended the other to me. To be sure, the policeman almost pinched my arm in two, in his effort to keep me safe, but I was, at last, seated with whole bones and a grateful heart, at the side of my brave, kind champion. As soon as I recovered breath, I was curious to see again the face whose expression had arrested my attention (of course, I did not wait for breath to thank him), and to note the external characteristics of a man who would impulsively render such service to a woman—like Charles Lamb—(dear, gentle Charles Lamb!) holding his umbrella over the head of a washerwoman, because she was a woman! Well, my friend was looking straight before him, apparently wholly unconscious of the existence of the trembling being he had so humanely befriended, with the most impenetrable face imaginable, and a sort of abstracted manner. Presently I desired to open the window behind me—still not quite recovered from my fright and flutter. Almost before my hand was on the glass, my courteous neighbor relieved me of my task. Again I rendered cordial thanks, and again, as soon as delicacy permitted, glanced furtively at the face beside me. Nothing to reward my scrutiny was there revealed; the same absorbed, fixed expression, the same seeming unconsciousness! But can you doubt that a noble, manly nature was veiled beneath that calm face and quiet manner—a nature that would gleam out in an instant, should humanity prompt, or wrong excite? And I could tell you numberless such anecdotes—all illustrative of my favorite theory."

"So could we all," said another lady, "I have no doubt, if we only remembered them."

"I never forget anything of that kind," returned Margaret. "It is to me like a strain of fine music, acted poetry, if I may use such a phrase. Such incidents make, for me, the poetry of real life, indeed! They inspire in my heart,

'The still, sweet music of humanity.'"

One magnificent moonlight night, while I was in Rome with your cousins and the W——s, a party was formed to visit the Coliseum. That whimsical creature, Grace, whom I had more than once detected in a disposition to fall behind the rest of the company, as we strolled slowly through the ruins, at length stole up to me, as I paused a little apart from the group, and twining her arm within mine, whispered softly:

"Do, dear Uncle Hal, come this way with me for a few moments!"

Yielding to the impulse she gave me, we were presently disengaged from our companions, and, leaning, as if by mutual agreement, against a pillar.

"What a luxury it is to be quiet!" exclaimed your cousin, with a sigh of relief. "How that little Miss B—— does chatter! Really it is profanation to think or speak of common things to-night, and here!"

"Well, my fair Epicurean," returned I, "since

——'Silence, like a poultice comes
To heal the blows of sound,'

you shall reward me for my indulgence in attending you, by repeating some of Byron's apropos lines, for me as we stand here"—

"At your pleasure, dear uncle."

Presently she began, in a subdued tone, as if afraid of disturbing the dreams of another, or as if half listening while she spoke to the tread of those

'Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time;'

but gradually losing all consciousness, save that of the inspiration of the bard, our fair enthusiast reached a climax of eloquence with the words—

'The azure gloom
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume
Hues which have words, and speak to ye of Heaven,
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument,'—

and she stretched out her arm, with an impulsive gesture, as she spoke. I perceived a sudden recoil, at the instant, of her dilating form, and, before I could devise an explanation, heard the words, "You are my prisoner, madam," and discovered a gentleman standing in the deep shadow of the pillar, close at her side, busily endeavoring to disentangle the fringe of her shawl from the buttons of his coat.

I remembered, afterwards, having noticed in passing, sometime before, a shadowy figure standing with folded arms and upturned face, half lost in the deep shadow of a pillar, apparently quite unconscious of the vicinity of the chattering ephemera fluttering by his retreat. I at once surmised that Grace and I had approached from the other side, and inadvertently stationed ourselves near this Æsthetical devotee—so near that your cousin, in the excitement of her eloquence, had fastened a lasso upon the dress of the stranger.

"You are my prisoner, madam," he said, in French. The words were simple enough, not so apposite but that many an one might have uttered them under similar circumstances. Yet they were replete with meaning, conveyed by the subtle aid of intonation and of manner. The most chivalrous courtesy, the most exquisite refinement, were fully expressed in that brief sentence.

"I have no fears either for my purse, or my life," returned the quick-witted lady thus addressed, aiding in the required disentanglement.

"You need have none," rejoined the gentleman, "though the laws of chivalry entitle me to demand a goodly ransom for so fair a prize"—glancing politely towards me.

"Accept, at least, the poor guerdon of this token of my thanks," said the enthusiast of the moment, tendering a beautiful flower, which was opportunely loosened from her bosom by the slight derangement of her dress.

"It will be a treasured memento," answered the stranger, receiving the proffered gift with graceful respect, and, bowing with the most courtly deference, he walked rapidly away, as loth, by lingering one needless moment, to seem intrusive.

"What a voice!" exclaimed Grace, as the retreating figure disappeared behind the fragment of a fallen column, "blithe as the matin tone of a lark, and"——

"Clear as the note of the clarion that startled you so upon the Appian Way, the other day," I suggested, "and indeed, I am not sure that there was not a little tremor in your fingers, this time, my brave lady, and that you did not hold just a little tighter fast the arm of your old uncle."

"What nonsense, Uncle Hal!—could anything be more delicately reassuring—admitting that I was startled, at first,—than the whole bearing of the gentleman?"

"Should you know him again?" I questioned.

"I think I should, were it only by the diamond he wore," she replied, with a little laugh at the woman's reason. "Did you observe it uncle, as his macintosh was opened by the pulling of that silly fringe—really it might grace the crescent of Dian herself, on a gala-night—it was a young star! but I also saw his face distinctly as he raised his hat."

Well, now for the dÉnoÛment of my story—for every romantic adventure should properly have a dÉnoÛment.

As we were all riding on the Campagna a few days afterwards, the usual intimation was given of the approach of the cortÉge of the Pope. Of course we went through the mummery of withdrawing, while the poor old man was hurried along in his airing. Standing thus together, a party of gentlemen rode rapidly up, and, recognizing some of our party, joined us.

Scarcely were the usual greetings over, when Grace, reining her horse near me, said, in a low tone: "Uncle, there is the 'bright particular star' of the other night in the Coliseum; I know I am not mistaken."

And so it proved—the polished, graceful stranger was not a Prince incognito, not even an acreless count, whose best claim to respect consisted in hereditary titles and courtly manners, but a young American artist, full of activity, enthusiasm and genius, who had not forgotten to give beauty to the casket, because it enshrined a gem of high value.

Apropos of gems—I afterwards learned that the superb brilliant he always wore on his breast was a token of the gratitude of a distinguished and munificent patron and friend, for whom this child of feeling and genius had successfully incarnated all that was earthly of one loved and lost.

We subsequently became well acquainted with our gifted countryman, and a right good fellow he proved. We met him constantly in society, while at Florence—the Italian Paradise of Americans, as Miss—— always called it—where his genial manners, the type of a genial nature, made him a general favorite, as well with natives as foreigners.

Soon after he was named to me that day on the Campagna, your cousin, who had again moved from my side, turned her face towards us. The movement arrested the attention of my companion—he glanced inquiringly at me.

"I think I am not mistaken, sir; have we not met before?" and the same exquisite courtesy illumined his face that had so impressed me previously. "May I ask the honor of a presentation to my sometime prisoner?"

"Really, sir," I overheard Grace confessing, in her sprightliest tones, as, the two parties uniting for the nonce, we all rode on together; "really, sir, I remember to have been secretly rejoiced at having left my heart, watch, and other valuables, safely locked up at home, when I found myself in such a dangerous-looking neighborhood."

"And I still indulge the regret that my profession did not fully entitle me to retain possession, not only of the shawl, which, no doubt, was a camel's hair of unknown value, but of the embodied poetry it enwrapped."

"You seem quite to overlook the fact that I was guarded, like a damsel of old, by a doughty knight."

I wish I could half describe the dextrous twirl of the moustache, and the quickly-shadowed brow that suddenly transformed that luminous and honest face into that of the dark, moody brigand, as, fumbling in his bosom the while, as about to unsheath a dagger, he growled, in mock-heroic manner—"It were easy to find means to silence such an opponent, with such a reward in view!"

The merry laugh with which Grace received this sally, proved that she, at least, liked the versatility of manner possessed by her gallant attendant.

Touching the electric chain of memory, causes another link to vibrate, and I am reminded of my promise, made in a former letter, to tell you about the American girl whose beautiful arm threw Powers into raptures.

You will, perhaps, recollect that I alluded to my having met abroad the heroine of the cornelian pÂtÉ anecdote. I assure you, I had ample occasion, more than once, to be proud of my lovely countrywoman, in the most distinguished European circles—and by that term I do not refer to distinction created by mere rank. But to my tale:

One day, during our mutual sojourn in her well-named Italian "Paradise," Miss——, and her father, in accordance with a previous arrangement, called at my lodgings, to take me with them to a dinner at the Palace de ——.

"I propose, as we have purposely come early, Col. Lunettes, in the hope of finding you at leisure, that we shall drop in at Powers' studio, a few minutes; it is in our direct way, and he will be there, as I happen to know. I so wish to know your impression of papa's bust."

While I was enjoying a chat with the presiding genius of the scene, a little apart from a group gathered about some object of peculiar interest, a sudden glow of enthusiasm lighted his eye, as with Promethean fire.

"Heavens, what an arm!" exclaimed Powers. "Oh, for the art to petrify it!" he added, with an expressive gesture, the furore of the artist rapidly enkindling.

Following the direction of his glance, I beheld what might well excite admiration in a less discriminating spectator. The velvet mantle that had shrouded the gala dress of Miss—— having fallen from her shoulders, disclosed the delicate beauty of the uncovered arm and hand, which she was eagerly extending towards the marble before her.

"Remain just as you now stand, for a moment," said I, "and let me see what I can do for you."

"Miss——," I asked, advancing towards my fair friend, "will you let me invite your attention to this new study? It is entitled 'The Artist's Prayer,' and is supposed to impersonate the petition, 'Petrify it, O, ye gods!'"

Of course, this led to a brief and laughing explanation.

"Happily, no earthly Powers can achieve that transformation!" exclaimed the Lucifer of the Coliseum, who was present, "but all will join in the entreaty that we may be permitted to possess an imitation of so beautiful an original."

I am not permitted to disclose the secrets of the inner temple; but many of you will yet behold the loveliness that so charmed the lovers of art, moulded into eternal marble.

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