Why should Mr. Abraham Hayward have felt it his duty (he put it that way) to tell Mr. Frederick Locker that the “London Lyrics” were “overrated”?  “I have suspected this,” comments the poet, whose least noticeable characteristic was vanity; “but I was none the less sorry to hear him say so.”  Landor’s reply to a lady who accused him of speaking of her with unkindness, “Madame, I have wasted my life in defending you!” was pardonable as a repartee.  It was the exasperated utterance of self-defence; and there is a distinction to be drawn between the word which is flung without provocation, and the word which is the speaker’s last resource.  When “Bobus” Smith told Talleyrand that his mother had been a beautiful woman, and Talleyrand replied, “C’etait donc Monsieur votre pere qui n’etait pas bien,” we hold the witticism to have been cruel because unjustifiable.  A man should be privileged to say his mother was beautiful, without inviting such a very obvious sarcasm.  But when Madame de Stael pestered Talleyrand to say what he would do if he saw her and Madame Recamier drowning, the immortal answer, “Madame de Stael sait tant de choses, que sans doute elle peut nager,” seems as kind as the circumstances warranted.  “Corinne’s” vanity was of the hungry type, which, crying perpetually for bread, was often fed with stones.

It has been well said that the difference between a man’s habitual rudeness and habitual politeness is probably as great a difference as he will ever be able to make in the sum of human happiness; and the arithmetic of life consists in adding to, or subtracting from, the pleasurable moments of mortality.  Neither is it worth while to draw fine distinctions between pleasure and happiness.  If we are indifferent to the pleasures of our fellow creatures, it will not take us long to be indifferent to their happiness.  We do not grow generous by ceasing to be considerate.

As a matter of fact, the perpetual surrender which politeness dictates cuts down to a reasonable figure the sum total of our selfishness.  To listen when we are bored, to talk when we are listless, to stand when we are tired, to praise when we are indifferent, to accept the companionship of a stupid acquaintance when we might, at the expense of politeness, escape to a clever friend, to endure with smiling composure the near presence of people who are distasteful to us,—­these things, and many like them, brace the sinews of our souls.  They set a fine and delicate standard for common intercourse.  They discipline us for the good of the community.

We cannot ring the bells backward, blot out the Civil War, and exchange the speed of modern life for the slumberous dignity of the Golden Age,—­an age whose gilding brightens as we leave it shimmering in the distance.  But even under conditions which have the disadvantage of existing, the American is not without gentleness of speech and spirit.  He is not always in a hurry.  He is not always