Cardinal Newman made a famous definition and description, both in the same paragraph, of a gentleman. “It is almost,” he said, in his “Idea of a University,” “a definition of a gentleman to say he is one who never inflicts pain.” And this truth will be found to be the basis of all really good manners. Good manners come from the heart, while etiquette is only an invention of wise heads to prevent social friction, or to keep fools at a distance. Nobody but an idiot will slap a man on the back unless the man invites the slap by his own familiarity. It seems to me that the primary rule which, according to Cardinal Newman, makes a gentleman is more disregarded in large schools than anywhere else. There is no sign which indicates ignorance or lack of culture so plainly as the tendency to censure, to jibe, to sneer,—to be always on the alert to find faults and defects. On the other hand, a true gentleman does not censure, if he can help it: he prefers to discover virtues rather than faults; and, if he sees a defect, he is silent about it until he can gently suggest a remedy.

The school-boy is not remarkable for such reticence. And this may be one of the reasons why he has the reputation of being selfish, ungrateful, and sometimes cruel. He is not any of these things; he is, as a rule, only thoughtless. It has been said that a blunder is often worse than a crime; and thoughtlessness sometimes produces effects that are more enduringly disastrous than crimes. Forgetfulness among boys or young men is thoughtlessness. If an engineer forget for a moment, his train may go to RUIN. If a telegrapher forget to send a message, death may be the result; but neither of them can acquire such control over himself that he will always remember, if he does not practise the art of thinking every day of his life. It is thoughtfulness, consideration, that makes life not only endurable, but pleasant. As Christians, we are bound to do to others as we would have them do to us. But as members of a great society, in which each person must be a factor even more important than he imagines, we shall find that, even if our Christianity did not move us to bear and forbear from the highest motives, ordinary prudence and regard for our own comfort and reputation should lead us to do these things. The Christian gentleman is the highest type: he may be a hero as well as a gentleman. Culture produces another type, and Cardinal Newman thus describes him. The Cardinal begins by saying that “it is almost a definition of a gentleman to say he is one who never inflicts pain. This description,” he continues, “is both refined and, as far as it goes, accurate. The gentleman is mainly occupied in merely removing the obstacles which hinder the free and unembarrassed action of those about him; and he concurs with their movements rather than takes the initiative himself. The benefits may be considered as parallel to what are called comforts or conveniences in arrangements of a personal nature: like an easy-chair or a good fire, which do their part in dispelling cold or fatigue, though nature provides both means of rest and animal heat without them. The true gentleman in like manner carefully avoids whatever may cause a jar or a jolt in the minds of those with whom he is cast,—all clashing of opinion or collision of feeling, all restraint or suspicion or gloom or resentment,—his great concern being to make every one at their ease or at home. He has his eyes on all the company: he is tender towards the bashful, gentle toward the distant, and merciful towards the absurd; he can recollect to whom he is speaking; he guards against unreasonable allusions or topics which may irritate; he is seldom prominent in conversation, and never wearisome. He makes light of favors which he does them, and seems to be receiving when he is conferring. He never speaks of himself except when compelled, never defends himself by a mere retort; he has no ears for slander or gossip, is scrupulous in imputing motives to those who interfere with him, and interprets everything for the best. He is never mean or little in his disputes, never takes unfair advantage, never mistakes personalities or sharp sayings for arguments, or insinuates evil which he dare not say out. From a long-sighted prudence he observes the maxim of the ancient sage, that we should ever conduct ourselves towards our enemy as if he were one day to be our friend.”

The Cardinal’s definition of a gentleman does not end with these words: you can find it for yourself in his “Idea of a University,” page 204. It will be found, on examination, to contain the principles which give a man power to make his own life and that of his fellow-beings cheerful and pleasant. And life is short enough and hard enough to need all the kindness, all the cheerfulness, all the gentleness, that we can put into it.

If a friend passes from among us, one of the most enduring of our consolations is that we never gave him needless pain while he lived. And who can say which of our friends may go next? He who sits by you to-night, he who greets you first in the morning, may suffer from a hasty word or a thoughtless act that you can never recall.

It is in the ordinary ways of life that the true gentleman shows himself. He does not wait until he gets out of school to pay attention to the little things. He begins here, and he begins the moment he feels that he ought to begin. Somebody once wrote that the man who has never made a mistake is a fool. And another man added to this, that a wise man makes mistakes, but never the same mistake twice. A gentleman at heart may blush when he thinks of his mistakes, but he never repeats them. It is a mistake made by thoughtless young people to stand near others who are talking. It is a grave sin against politeness for them to listen, as they sometimes do, with eyes and ears open for fear they should miss any of the words not intended for them. The young man thus engaged is an object of pity and contempt. Politeness may prevent others from rebuking him publicly, but it does not change their opinion of him, nor does it enter their minds to excuse him on the plea that he “didn’t think.”

It does not seem to strike some of you that the convenience of those who work for you ought to be considered, and that unnecessary splashings of liquids and dropping of crumbs and morsels of food is the most reprehensible indication of thoughtlessness.

We often forget that criticism does not mean fault-finding. It means rather the art of finding virtues; and after any private entertainment, at which each performer has done his best for his audience, it is very bad taste to point out all the defects in his work: you may do this at rehearsal, but not after the work is done; you may discourage him by touching on something that he cannot help. A friend of mine once played a part in Box and Cox, but on the day after the performance he was much cast down by the comments in one of the daily papers. “Mr. Smith,” the critic said, “was admirable, but he should not have made himself ridiculous by wearing such an abnormally long false nose.” As the nose happened to be Mr. Smith’s own, he was discouraged. Criticism of music especially, unless it be intelligent, is likely to make the critic seem ignorant. For instance, there was on one occasion on a musical programme a ballade by Chopin in A flat major. The young woman who played it on the piano was afterwards horrified to find herself described as having sung a lively ballad called “A Fat Major”! The musical critic had better know what he is talking about or be silent. No, no, gentlemen, let us not be censorious about the efforts of those who do their best for us; and good-fellowship—what the French call esprit de corps—ought to show itself in our manners. Anybody can blame injudiciously, but few can praise judiciously. At college boys especially must remember that the college is part of ourselves, and that any reproach on our alma mater is a reproach on ourselves. Its reputation is our reputation, and the critically censorious student will find that, in the end, it is the wiser course to dwell on the best side of his college life. The world hates a fault-finder: he will soon see himself left entirely alone with those acute perceptions that help him to find out all that is bad in his fellow-creatures and nothing that is good. To be a gentleman, one must be tolerant, and, above all, grateful.

In the world outside there are many kinds of entertainment. We disposed of the dinner-party in a preceding page. One’s conduct anywhere must be guided by good sense and the usages of the occasion. At a concert, for instance, the main object of each person present is to hear the music. Anything that interferes with this is a breach of good manners. To chatter during a song or while a piece of music is played shows selfish disregard for the comfort of others and a contemptible indifference to the feelings of the performer. Music may be a great aid to conversation, but conversation is no assistance to music; and people who go to a concert do not pay for their tickets to hear somebody in the next seat tell his private affairs in a loud voice. There are some human creatures who seem to imagine that they may reveal everything possible to their next neighbor in a crowded theatre without being heard by anybody else. There is an old anecdote, but a true one, of a very fashionable lady in Boston who attended an organ recital in the Music Hall there. She was supposed to be an amateur of classical music, but her reputation was shattered by an unlucky pause in the tones of the organ. The music ceased unexpectedly, and the only sound heard was that of her voice, soaring above the silence and saying to her friend, “We FRY ours in LARD.” Her reputation was ruined in musical circles. One goes to a concert or an opera to listen, not to talk. It is only the vulgar, the ostentatious, the ignorant, that distinguish themselves in public places by a disregard of the rights of others. To enter a concert-room late and to interrupt a singer, to enter any public hall while a speaker is making an address, is to excite the disapproval of all well-bred people. Sir Charles Thornton, for a long time British minister at Washington, was noted for his care in this particular: he would stand for half an hour outside the door of a concert-room rather than enter while a piece of music was in progress.

Weddings, I presume, may be put down under the head of entertainments. The etiquette of the assistants is very simple. A wedding invitation requires no answer: a card sent by mail and addressed to the senders of the invitation, who are generally the father and mother of the bride, is quite sufficient. It is unnecessary to say that it is not proper during a marriage ceremony to stand on the seats of the pews in order to get a good look at the happy pair. A tradition exists to the effect that a man during a wedding ceremony once climbed on a confessional. It is added, too,—and I am glad of it,—that he fell and broke his neck. But there is no knowing what some barbarians will do: watch them on Sundays, chewing toothpicks, standing in ranks outside of the churches, and believing that the ladies are admiring their best clothes.

My list of entertainments would be incomplete without the dancing party. St. Francis de Sales says of dancing, that a little of it ought to go a great way. Society ordains that every man shall learn to dance; but if he can talk intelligently, society will forgive him for not dancing. Dancing, after all, is only a substitute for conversation; and, properly directed, it is a very good substitute for scandal, mean gossip, or the frivolous chatter which makes assemblies of young people unendurable to anybody who has not begun to be afflicted with softening of the brain.

Public dances—dances into which anybody can find entrance by paying a fee—are avoided by decent people. A young man who has any regard for his reputation will avoid them; and as nearly every young man has his way to make in the world, he cannot too soon realize how the report that he frequents such places will hurt him; for, as I said, there are no secrets in this world,—everything comes out sooner or later.

It is no longer the fashion for a young man to invite a young woman to accompany him to a dance, even at a private house. He must first ask her mother. This European fashion has—thank Heaven!—reached many remote districts of late, where young people hitherto ignored the existence of their parents when social pleasures were concerned. The young girl who doesn’t want the “old man to know” had better be avoided. And in the best circles young women are not permitted to go to the theatre or to dances without a chaperon,—that is, the mother or some elderly lady is expected to accompany the young people. This, of course, makes trips to the theatre expensive; but the young man who cannot afford to take an extra aunt or mother had better avoid such amusements until he can.

As to whether you are to take part in the round dances or not, that will be settled by your confessor: I have no right to dictate on that subject. But if you are invited to a dance, pay your respects to your hostess first, and say something pleasant. You must remember that she intends that you shall be useful,—that you shall dance with the ladies to whom she introduces you, and that you shall not think of your own pleasure entirely, but help to give others pleasure by dancing with the ladies who have no partners. In a word, you must be as unselfish in this frivolous atmosphere as on more serious occasions. When the refreshments are served, you must think of yourself last. If you want to gorge yourself, you can take a yard or two of Bologna sausage to your room after the entertainment is over. A young man over twenty-one should wear an evening suit and no jewelry at a dance. Infants under that age are supposed to be safely tucked in bed at the time the ordinary dance begins.

At a dance or at any other entertainment no introduction should be made thoughtlessly. If a gentleman is presented to a lady, it should be done only after her permission has been asked and received. And the form should be, “Mrs. Jones, allow me to present Mr. Smith.” A younger man should always be introduced to an older man, one of inferior position to one of superior position. If you are introducing a friend to the mayor of your city, you ought not to say, “Let me introduce the Mayor to you.” On the contrary, the form should be “Mr. Mayor, allow me to present my friend Mr. Smith.”

On being introduced to a lady, it is not the fashion for a man to extend his hand,—for hand-shaking on first introduction is a thing of the past. If the lady extends her hand, it is proper to take it; but the pump-handle style is no longer practised, except perhaps in some unknown wilds of Alaska. After a man is introduced to a lady and he meets her again, he must not bow until she has bowed to him. In France the man bows first; in America and England we give that privilege to the woman. An American takes his hat entirely from his head when he meets a lady; a foreigner raises it but slightly, but he bows lower than we do. In introducing people, we ought always to be careful to give them their titles, and to add, if possible, the place from which they come. If Mr. Jones, of Chicago, is introduced to Mr. Robinson, of New York, the subject for conversation is already arranged. We know what they will talk about. If the wife of the President introduced you to him, she would call him the President; but if you addressed him, you would call him “Mr. President,” as you would address the mayor of a city as “Mr. Mayor.” Mrs. Grant was the only President’s wife who did not give her husband his title in introductions: she called him simply and modestly, “Mr. Grant.”

An English bard sings: