Democratic Sentinel, Volume 8, Number 8, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 March 1884 — A Lesson in Good Breeding. [ARTICLE]

A Lesson in Good Breeding.

The following story has its moral: An elderly gentleman started across a broad street. Three young ladies, all abreast, started at the same moment from the other side. The sprinkler had made pools of mud on either side of the crossing. The old gentleman stepped clear to the edge, but the young woman in front of him literally bore down on him with no idea that he would not plunge his fresh-polished gaiter into the slop on the right of the dry crossing. The old man looked at the mud, he looked at the young lady, and then he waited until she was within easy reach of him, when he gently but firmly taking her hands in his, held her, and said, in a low tone: “My dear young lady, I cannot step into the mud. I would give you the way if it was necessary—any gentleman would. But it is not necessary, because you and your companions could walk single file and not force anybody off. Always remember that while it is the duty of a gentleman to be polite and chivalrous to ladies, it is a woman’s duty to be considerate, and not make his deference a self-sacrifice.” At first the girl was amazed, dumbfounded. Then she tried to twist herself, loose, but the gentleman was firm as a rock, and held her perfectly still until he had finished his neat and needful little address. At its close the lady rushed off through the thin mud crying with mortification, elbowing herself through the small crowd who had been detained on the crossing-stones at their sides.—Terpsichore.

A Demigod Even in His Night Clothes. It seems that the first patient of Dr. Holcombe, of New York, was Daniel Webster. Stopping at a hotel in the White Mountains, he was asked by Fletcher Webster to call at a certain room, as his father was sick and wished to see a physician. Entering the room the doctor found this extraordinary man wrapped in a sheet, sitting in a large arm chair, and apparently absorbed in deeply meditating a bronze Napoleon at St. Helena. This colloquy followed: W.—Are you the doctor ? H.—l am, sir. W.—You look very young. H.—l am very young. W.—Where were you educated?* H.—ln New York and Berlin. Have just returned from abroad. W.—Were you among the mountains? H.—Yes. I traveled in Switzerland. W. —Did you ascend Mont Blanc? H. —Half way only. It reminded me of you. W.—l’m suffering greatly from rheumatism or gout. Can you dp anything for me. H. —I know nothing whatever about either disorder. Have a case. W. —I like your candor, young man; you may try what you can do to relieve my pain. The solemnity and sepulchral tones of the great expounder must be remembered to make this interview impressive. Dr. Holcombe had never seen so grand a man. He was a demigod, even in his night clothes. It is a good lesson—though it may be a hard one—for a man who has dreamed of literary fame and of making himself rank among the world’s dignitaries by such means, to step aside out of the nan»w circle in which his claims are recognized, and to find how utterly devoid of significance, beyond that circle, is all that he achieves and all he aims at. —Nathaniel Hawthorne. We can best destroy slanderers by [ living lives whose luster dims their disparagements,—Dr* Monro*