the very pink of politeness in a neighbour's drawing-
room, become nothing better than boors at
the family fireside, where there is no one to
dazzle or to win.

The perfection of manner alone, even if it
go no deeper than the outside, is a charm
beyond that of mere beauty. The one is the
result of education—that is, intellectual and
spiritual ; the other is only the raw material—a
natural gift, not won but bestowed, and,
though attracting personal love, reflecting no
honour. What we mean by a thorough gentle-
man or a high-bred lady is one who has no
veneer of company manners, but whose whole
nature is so penetrated with the self-respect of
courtesy, that nothing coarser can be shown
under any provocation. This is an immense
power in those who possess it. Nothing
weakens a righteous cause so much as
intemperate language in supporting it; and nothing
tells more against a good principle than bad
manners in those who uphold it. When men
swear and fume, and use hard names, and make
themselves generally disagreeable and insulting,
it does not signify to the aggrieved in what
cause or in whose service they are so
comporting themselves. Human nature is but a
weak vessel for holding justice at the best, and
we may be sure that the natural inclination
of most people would be against the cause
advocated by such unpleasant adherents.

Speaking broadly, and from the widest stand-
point of national characteristics, we would
say that the Italians, of all European nations,
have most of this solid courtesy throughout;
not a stately, but a good-tempered courtesy—by
no means chivalrous in the way of the stronger
protecting the weaker, and for self-respect
keeping watch and ward over the fiercer enemies
within the soul, but rather deferential, as
assuming that every one is better than
themselves. When an Italian does give way to
passion he is dangerous ; but when in a good
fair-sailing humour nothing can well exceed
the almost feminine sweetness of his courteous
demeanour. The French have a coarser core,
that comes through the veneer on occasions
when you touch their self-love or their jealousy ;
and the core of French discourtesy is
very coarse indeed when really got at. We
English have not a very fine veneer at any
time, and the rougher grain below even that
not over-polished surface rubs up without
much trouble. But then we pride ourselves on
this rough grain of ours, and think it a mark
of honesty to let it ruffle up at the lightest
touch. Indeed, we despise anything else,
and have hard names for a courtesy that is
even what the Americans call "clear grit"
throughout; while as for that which is only
veneer, stout or slender, there is no word of
contempt too harsh for the expression of our
opinion thereanent.

We are so far right, in that company manners
put on for show and not integral to the
character, nor worn in daily life, are an
abomination to souls understanding the beauty of
truth. But we need not be so frightfully
severe against all kinds of surface smoothness
as we are, and condemn the polish of material
and the seeming of veneer as sins identical
with each other. In this confusion of cases we
are wholly wrong and unjustifiable; the one
being a virtue attained only as an ultimate
grace and by immense labour—the fruitage of a
long and well cultivated garden ; the other
being just so much poonah-painting, or
potichomania, or wax-fruit show—got at with no
trouble at all—pretence and pretentiousness,
and nothing more.

What can be more detestable than the things
we see and hear at times from gentlefolks,
whose gentlehood is in name, and appearance,
and style of living, and the banker's book, rather
than in anything more substantial ? Take the
woman who rates her children and flouts her
husband when they are alone, but who is all
smiles and suavity to the people next door,
whom she despises—the girls, who are snappish
and peevish to each other, but who put on
their sweetest graces for the benefit of young
Corydon and his sisters, diligently ironing
down those rugged seams of theirs while
turning the smooth side outermost, that young
Corydon may think the stuff all of a piece
throughout, with no jagged joinings anywhere
—papa, who comes home "as cross as
the cats," as the Irish say, letting the home
life go shabby and slipshod for want of a little
of the courtesy he bestows so lavishly on his
guests, not a man of whom he likes, nor a
woman of whom he fancies—" the boys," who
make their sisters feel the full weight of
masculine insolence and neglect, while to their
sisters' friends they are everything that is
chivalrous and devoted, as "boys" should be—
can anything be less of the substance of
gentlehood than these? And yet how often we
meet with them in the world! Each of these
represents a distinct section of the coarse core
veneered—just so much plausible hypocrisy
covering up an inner sin, as a silken coat hides
ragged linen—just so much domestic misery
that might be avoided if folks cared more for
reality than for show, and thought the solid
pudding of happiness better worth having than
the frothed cream of praise. The fiddle is
hung up behind the house door in too many
homes, and suavity is laid aside with the dress
suit. And yet it would seem by the merest
common-sense calculation, that as home is
the place where we live and where nine-tenths
of our days are passed, home happiness and
family peace are far in advance of any
outside pleasures or barren social reputation,
and should be the possessions we ought most
to cultivate. But common-sense calculations
have very little to do with the arrangement
of our affairs. We lay aside our company
manners with our company coats, and make
ourselves what we call "comfortable" at home ;
that is, we give way to any natural peevishness
of temper we may have, and suffer ourselves to
go slipshod and unpleasant, both in mind and