heart, who is strong enough to keep the quality
in some subjection, and can forbid it to interfere
with the strength and sincerity of his nature.
Now, in the first of these two characters politeness
is valuable, not only because the man would
probably be none the greater, but something the
less, if it were wanting, but because in society
as we have constituted it, or indeed as it must
necessarily be, circumstances occur, and occur
continually, when his politeness is positively
useful to the community. With the second man
the quality in question is valuable as an exquisite
decoration engrafted on a structure of itself
splendid and beautiful.

All this time we are of course talking of
marked politeness. There is common politeness,
there is marked politeness, and there is
excessive politeness. Common politeness is soon
disposed of: it is a necessary of (social) life. If
a man be seated, and see a lady standing by his
side, to offer his chair is common politeness—
unless, indeed, he be a cripple, and then it is
common politeness for him to explain that he is
so. In the same way the individual who has been
so unfortunate as to grind his boot-heel into the
heart of your corn, is only commonly polite when
he expresses his regret for the circumstance. As
to marked politeness, the qualities most likely to
be interfered with by it would be sincerity and
justice. Now, there are occasions when a man
may allow his marked politeness to modify the
first of these, though none when it should interfere
with the second. When a man asks you to
dine with him, to meet an individual whom you
detest, it would not be commonly polite in you
to say that you hate his friend, and, therefore,
will not go: so you write word that you are
"engaged." In the same way you are
sometimes obliged to accept a bidding to an
entertainment which you abhor the thought of, yet,
common politeness compels you to say that you
are "happy" to avail yourself of the invitation.
Suppose, again, that you have asked a party of
friends to dinner, and that an intimate friend, not
among the invited, calls while you are dressing,
it will be merciful though cowardly to tell him
through your servant that you are not at home.
There are, again, many noble acts which are
nothing if we take credit for them, and which
depend for their value on the manner in which
they are done. Suppose you were engaged to
take part in some social meeting, to which you
really looked forward eagerly, and that when the
time came you found that your duty kept you at
home with some friend or relative who needed a
companion, the value of your heroic act in giving
up the gratification would be much lessened by
your acknowledging the real motive of your
staying at home, it would then be a marked
instance of kindness and politeness to pretend
you did not want to go, to say that you
would give anything to get out of the engagement:
in a word, to allege any reason for your
act except the true one.

He who should draw out a code of polite
manners, and bind himself to abide by it, might
render himself an intensely agreeable member
of society, but at some sacrifice of genuineness,
and individuality of character. To what
would such a code bind him. It is part of the
ideal of this perfectly polite gentleman that he
should be "armed at all points," that he should
be, in one sense beyond the reach of misfortune,
or accident; that is to say, that no single thing
that could possibly happen should deprive him of
his serenity, or make him uncourteous even for a
moment. He has, for instance, just received
from Messrs. Dobson and Co., in St. James's-
street, a very beautiful service of glass, which
by some awkward movement you, his guest,
manage to bring with a mighty crash to the
ground; now at this crisis our ideal gentleman
must so utterly ignore the loss he has sustained
that he is to be wholly and solely occupied with
the question whether you have cut your fingers,
or been in any way hurt by the broken glass.
Suppose even a more trying case. Suppose you
are staying in the house of this ideal personage.
Suppose he lends you one of his horses in order
that you may enjoy a little equestrian exercise,
that you let the animal down, and bring him
home — he must be a valuable horse, and a
favourite of his master's with his knees cut;
whatever agony our friend may, and must, feel in his
inmost soul at what has happened, it must not
find expression so much as in the movement of
a feature. His whole anxiety must be about you.
Are you hurt? were you thrown? are your nerves
upset? are you shaken? what will you take?—
James, take that horse round to the stable, and
send for Mr. Splint as quickly as possible, that
is all the notice taken of the accident itself.

This is the man of marked politeness. The
man of common politeness says, " Oh dear, dear,
how very unfortunate! Dear, dear, I shouldn't
have minded if it had been one of the others, but
—well, it can't be helped, I hope you wern't hurt
yourself — now, you're not to make yourself
unhappy, my dear fellow, about it, these things
will happen. — James, lead that horse round
carefully, poor thing; send off a messenger at once
for Mr. Splint, and wait till I come round to the
stables to examine the exact extent of the mischief."

As to the man of excessive politeness, he will
not allude to the horse at all. " My dear friend,"
he will say, "how exceedingly distressed I am
to think that you should meet with so unpleasant
a contretemps! I wouldn't have had you run
such a risk for the world. I am quite sure you
must have been hurt and terribly shaken. I
insist upon seeing you to your room, and—
Henry, bring a glass of Curaçoa at once, or
brandy; would you like brandy better now?"
and this excessively polite gentleman having
expressed himself thus, will presently retire to
some secret place, where he will give vent to his
feelings in a volley of strange oaths.

But, consider how delightful a truly polite man
renders himself by means of that tact which he