A Dissertation on the Folly of Indistinct Introduction and Kindred Topics
There seems to be a growing tendency on the part of the average American toward what I may be pardoned for calling the anonymous or incognito introduction. This introduction generally starts off in a fortissimo strain that if kept up throughout the recital would herald the names of both parties to the uttermost parts of the earth. Then the piano and diminuendo strain comes.
That is the reason we are acquainted with so many people whose names we do not know. A man steps up to you in a crowd somewhere in one of those quiet little town meetings where it is a mark of great conversational genius to talk steadily onward without using the mind, and says: "Pardon me, I want to make you two people acquainted. You ought to know each other. You are both friends of mine. Mr. _________, Mr. _________. There, now you are acquainted!"
Why a man should write a long letter and write it plainly, signing it at the end with a name that would have bothered Daniel to decipher, is more than I can understand. It is the same style of peculiarity as the anonymous introduction exactly. I may be a little careless about my penmanship while writing in a great hurry, trying to keep up with my surging thoughts, but I most always sign my name so that it can be deciphered. I have written letters where the signature was the only thing that was absolutely beyond the possibility of doubt. But if a man signs his name so that you can write to him and ask him what the balance of his letter was about, it is better than a long beautifui letter from unknown and unknowable person. In the latter case you are left to kick the empty air.
Some day when I get more time I am going to prepare a long, treatise upon etiquette and deliver it to the American people, illustrated by one of those stereopticons. Etiquette has been a life-long study for me. It is a thing that has engrossed my attention from my earliest boyhood, and it shows. itself at once in my polished manners and easy running carriage.
At table especially our American people need a great deal of training. Wherever I go I am struck with our sad need of careful training. As a country we need careful instructions in our manners, more especially at hotels. Only the other day, at the table d'hote, I heard a man ask for half a dozen buckwheat cakes, and when they came to him he moistened the tips of his fingers in a finger-bowl and ran over the cakes as he would a roll of currency if he was the assistant cashier in a National bank. Another man at the same table was asked to pass the pepper- box and he took it with his thumb on the bottom and his two first fingers on the top, just as he had been in the habit of moving a stack of chips from the ace to the deuce, no doubt for years.
So we as a people crowd our vocations to the front and we are not able to banish our trades and professions even at table. We should try to overcome this, and there are many other features of our national etiquette which we need to change. Only last week I saw a fine-looking young man sit at a hotel table combing his mustache with his fork, and while in a brown study the fork slipped out of the mustache and plunged with a sickening jab into his eye. We cannot be too careful in our intercourse with men to avoid all appearance of evil.
Etiquette always marks the true gentleman and makes him an object of curiosity, especially at a hotel. When you see a gentleman with whom you are not acquainted you should look upon him with genteel horror and shudder two times in rapid succession. This will convince a stranger that you have been reared with the greatest care and that your parents have taken special pains not to allow you to associate with vulgar people.
I started out to say a few words about the folly of indistinct introductions and wappy-jawed signatures, but I have wandered away, as I am apt to do, and I apologize, hoping that the genial and rosy-cheeked reader as she sits in her boudoir, on this glorious morning, looking more like a peri than any thing else I can think of, will forgive me. – By Bill Nye, in N. Y. Mercury, 1893
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