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seemed literally to be cultivated as one of the fine arts, to use De Quincey's phrase; and the city, if less libidinous, was probably more blood-stained than Sodom or Gomorrah. Yet, in a short time, by the vigor and decision of one man, this hideous state of things was entirely changed; and through Havana then, as through England under Alfred, or through Geneva now, the most gently nurtured woman could walk at midnight with a female attendant, unscared and unharmed. One night a murder was committed, and Tacon, the Chief of Police, heard in the morning that the perpetrator was still at large. He summoned the prefect of the department in which the crime was committed. "How is this, sir? a man murdered at midnight, and the murderer not yet arrested?" "May it please your Excellency, it is impossible. We do not even know who it is." Tacon saw the officer was lying. "Hark you, sir. Bring me this murderer before night, or I'll garrote you to-morrow morning." The officer knew his man, and the assassin was forthcoming.

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Prepare yourselves for the world as the athletæ used to do for their exercises; oil your mind and your manners to give them the necessary suppleness and flexibility; strength alone will not do. — CHESTERFIELD.

"The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil

His want in forms, for fashion's sake,
Will let his coltish nature break

At seasons through the gilded pale."

The courtesies of a small and trivial character are the ones which strike deepest to the grateful and appreciating heart. It is the picayune compliments which are the most appreciated; far more than the double ones which we sometimes pay. - HENRY CLAY.

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MONG the qualities of mind and heart which conduce to worldly success, there is no one the importance of which is more real, yet which is so generally underrated at this day by the young, as courtesy, that feeling of kindness, of love for our fellows, which expresses itself in pleasing manners. Owing to that spirit of self-reliance and self-assertion, and that contempt for the forms and conventionalities of life, which our young men are trained to cherish, they are too apt to despise those delicate attentions, those nameless and exquisite tendernesses of thought and manner, that mark the true gentleman, Yet history is crowded with examples showing that, as in literature, it is the delicate, indefinable charm of style, not the thought, which makes a work immortal, as a dull actor makes Shakespeare's grandest passages flat and unprofitable, while a Kean enables you to read them "by flashes of lightning," so it is the bearing of a man toward his fellows which oftentimes, more than any other circumstance, promotes or obstructs his advancement in life. We may complain, if

we will, that our fellow-men care more for form than substance, for the superficies than the solid contents of a man; but the fact remains, and it is the clew to many of the seeming anomalies and freaks of fortune which surprise us in the matter of worldly prosperity.

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No doubt there are a few men who can look beyond the husk or shell of a fellow-being- his angularities, awkwardness, or eccentricity-to the hidden qualities within; who can discern the diamond, however incrusted; but the majority are neither so sharp-eyed nor so tolerant, and judge a person by his appearance and demeanor more than by his substantial character. Daily experience shows that civility is not only one of the essentials of high success, but that it is almost a fortune of itself, and that he who has this quality in perfection, though a blockhead, is almost sure to get on where, without it, even men of high ability fail. "Give a boy address and accomplishments," says Emerson," and you give him the mastery of palaces and fortunes wherever he goes; he has not the trouble of earning or owning them; they solicit him to enter and possess.' Among strangers a good manner is the best letter of recommendation; for a great deal depends upon first impressions, and these are favorable or unfavorable according to a man's bearing, as he is polite or awkward, shy or self-possessed. While coarseness and gruffness lock doors and close hearts, courtesy, refinement, and gentleness are an open sesame" at which bolts fly back and doors swing open. The rude, boorish man, even though well meaning, is avoided by all. Even virtue itself is offensive when coupled with an offensive manner. Hawthorne, himself a shy man, used to say: "God may forgive sins, but awkwardness has no forgiveness in heaven or earth." Manners, in fact, are minor morals, and a rude man is generally assumed to be a bad man. "You had better," wrote Chesterfield to his son, "return a dropped fan genteelly than give a thousand pounds awkwardly; and you had better refuse a favor gracefully than grant it clumsily. . . . All your Greek can never advance you from secretary to envoy, or from

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envoy to ambassador; but your address, your air, your manner, if good, may."

What a man says or does is often an uncertain test of what he is. It is the way in which he says or does it that furnishes the best index of his character. It is by the incidental expression given to his thoughts and feelings by his looks, tones, and gestures, rather than by his deeds or words, that we prefer to judge him, for the simple reason that the former are involuntary. One may do certain deeds from design, or repeat certain professions by rote; honeyed words may mask feelings of hate, and kindly acts may be performed expressly to veil sinister ends; but the "manner of the man" is not so easily controlled. The mode in which a kindness is done often affects us more than the deed itself. The act itself may have been prompted by one of many questionable motives, as vanity, pride, or interest; the warmth or coldness with which the person who has done it asks you how you do, or grasps your hand, is less likely to deceive. The manner of doing anything, it has been truly said, is "that which marks the degree and force of our internal impression; it emanates most directly from our immediate or habitual feelings; it is that which stamps its life and character on any action; the rest may be performed by an automaton." A favor may be conferred so grudgingly as to prevent any feeling of obligation, or it may be refused so courteously as to awaken more kindly feelings than if it had been ungraciously granted.

Hazlitt observes truly that an author's style is not less a criterion of his understanding than his sentiments. "The same story told by two different persons shall, from the difference of the manner, either set the table in a roar, or not relax a feature in the whole company. . . . One of the most pleasant and least tiresome of our acquaintance is a humorist, who has three or four quaint witticisms and proverbial phrases, which het always repeats over and over, so that you feel the same amusement with less effort than if he had startled his hearers with a succession of original conceits. Another friend of ours, who

never fails to give vent to one or two real jeux-d'esprit every time you meet him, from the pain with which he is delivered of them, and the uneasiness he seems to suffer all the rest of the time, makes a much more interesting than comfortable companion. If you see a person in pain for himself, it naturally puts you in pain for him. The art of pleasing consists in being pleased. To be amiable is to be satisfied with one's self and others."

The same principle is vividly illustrated by an anecdote told by Henry Ward Beecher in a recent lecture. In the early Abolition days two men went out preaching, one an old Quaker and another a young man full of fire. When the Quaker lectured, everything ran along very smoothly, and he carried the audience with him. When the young man lectured, there was a row, and stones, and eggs. It became so noticeable, that the young man spoke to the Quaker about it. He said, "Friend, you and I are on the same mission, and preach the same things; and how is it that while you are received cordially, I get nothing but abuse?" The Quaker replied, "I will tell thee. Thee says, 'If you do so and so, you shall be punished,' and I say, 'My friends, if you will not do so and so, you shall not be punished.' They both said the same thing, but there was a great deal of difference in the way they said it.

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Politeness has been defined as benevolence in small things. A true gentleman is recognized by his regard for the rights and feelings of others, even in matters the most trivial. He respects the individuality of others, just as he wishes others to respect his own. In society he is quiet, easy, unobtrusive ; putting on no airs, nor hinting by word or manner that he deems himself better, wiser, or richer than any one about him. He is never "stuck up," nor looks down upon others because they have not titles, honors, or social position equal to his own. He never boasts of his achievements, or angles for compliments by affecting to underrate what he has done. He prefers to act, rather than to talk; to be, rather than to seem; and, above all things, is distinguished by his deep insight and sympathy,

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