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Where, then, does altruism appear in its simplest form? Whenever one of us comes into the presence of another there occurs a subtle change of personal attitude to which I give the name of Manners. We do not act or speak precisely as if alone. In all our bearing there is a marked adjustment of one personality to another. I take on the color of him before whom I stand. I feel his psychological conditions and square myself accordingly. That is, I at once perceive that he and I are not quite independent. An acknowledgment of a certain community between us must be established before either of us can be at ease. Such acknowledgment may have a wide or narrow scope, but it will always imply regard for another for his own sake and not merely regard for my sake.

One would expect that the words which name a relation so normal and dignified would be words suggestive of honor. Strangely enough, they are all depreciatory. I have sought for a word to describe the consideration of man by man which would be colorless, that neither praised nor blamed, but simply fixed attention on the fact. No such word do I find. A blot of disparagement is on them all. I choose Manners as on the whole the least objectionable.

Pass them briefly in review. When I say a man is kind in Manners, do I not suggest that there may be a contrast between his outward bearing and his inner heart? Or shall we call the relation one of Propriety, as Adam Smith does in his masterly discussion of this moral situation? Propriety always stirs aversion, because it implies that we have had little share in establishing the standard employed. It has been set up outside us and still we are subjected to it. How exasperated a child is when told to behave properly! Why should he care for Propriety? Or shall we say Civility? It is a scrimping, meagre word, announcing that only so much consideration is shown as decency requires. When we hear a man say, “John was civil to me,” our thought continues: “Was that all? Did he go no further than that?” How would Politeness do? More than Manners it hints at insincerity and conduct that hopes to gain something for itself. Beware of a polite man. He is likely to use you for his own ends. Might we then talk of Good Breeding? When any one calls me well-bred he praises my parents, not me. The excellence on which I pride myself has apparently come from their training. What shall we say of Courtesy? That it is a term of dignity, but suggests stooping. The one with whom I deal is accounted my inferior. Or Gentlemanliness? To call a young fellow a gentleman makes his heart throb. Yet the word does not escape a certain limitation. It uses the standard of a particular set, “our crowd.” If my conduct does not accord with their usages, I am not a gentleman. The word lacks universality.

By such questionable terms our language names the beautiful relation I am now to set forth. Since Manners is on the whole the least stained word among them, the one most nearly neutral, I adopt it, but I shall read into it much more meaning than people generally intend. To cover its full meaning I am obliged to frame a statement so burdened with details that it will hardly be recognized as anything commonly called Manners. But it shall be explained clause by clause, and I ask my reader to watch whether I have introduced anything into it which might be omitted or omitted anything which should have been introduced. The definition runs thus: By Manners I mean such a voluntary conformity to a code of conduct as, within a fixed field of intercourse, insures to each person the least offense and a due opportunity of self-expression. Four elements are here named as belonging to Manners. I will take them up separately and in order.

In the first place Manners assume a settled code, a social arrangement generally agreed to. They are essentially systematic, not impulsive and incidental. An exclamation of joy uttered when I am happy may or may not be consistent with good manners. That depends on how fully it has been rationalized. I am expected to act to-day as I should wish to act to-morrow. Expression must keep in view the whole personality. Moreover, I must know how other people act and bring my action into measurable conformity with theirs. If I am frequently doing what nobody else does, I am sure to be thought rude. I am expected to understand what the social code demands. Perhaps the word “code” is too formal. It pictures a committee drawing up a plan of behavior. Of course no such committee exists. Yet an agreement there has been, a tacit understanding, of how we are to behave to one another. Any one ignorant of this understanding, or neglectful of it, is reckoned boorish and unfit for mannerly intercourse. That usage and not my own liking should direct my bearing toward others. To do something just because I like to shows me uncivilized. My commonest actions should be socialized. They are expected to express something more than my separate self, namely, my conjunct self, showing accordance with myself at other times and also accordance with the persons around me.

Is it well or usual to have these understandings written down? Are manuals of manners useful, teaching us just how to behave in this and that situation? Such books exist, but I believe few would willingly be caught reading one. Formal codes are not what we want. They are not fine enough. They study moral situations too mechanically, with too little regard for personality. From them one might pick up a few useful warnings about certain bad habits not previously noticed; but a man who followed such a manual exactly would nowhere be a welcome guest.

Conformity to a standard, however, is far from the whole of manners. Were it so, the place to find good manners would be the State Prison. A clear code is established there. Each man is told precisely what he is to do throughout the entire day. For that reason we are hardly justified in speaking of convict manners at all. A prison permits no expression of the individual life, and a second condition of good manners was “voluntary conformity to a social code.” While every child should be trained to know how those who are wisest and kindest are accustomed to meet the little circumstances of daily intercourse, still that child’s actions are worthless if they do not bear his own stamp. Is not this what we mean by a vulgar man? His manners are not an expression of himself, but of somebody else. Other men have obliterated him. An evident copy is all that remains. Fine manners play around the correct modes, departing from them here and there in little niceties. So far is the code from fettering individuality that it becomes the channel for its easiest outgo. A graceful gentleman is enviable in his freedom. He is at home anywhere. Every situation has been thought out by society beforehand. With its conclusions he has been long acquainted and in his own way swiftly adapts them to the delicate occasion at hand. There is no surprise, no awkwardness, no loss of dignity. The separate self is not altogether suppressed, but is present everywhere in the service of the conjunct.

There appears in the definition, however, a phrase which clogs it: “Within a fixed field of intercourse.” Why is this necessary and what does it mean? Manners need to be adjusted to different occasions. Those that are suitable to the shop do not fit the evening party. When we meet for the exchange of commodities or meet to exchange good wishes and general good cheer, we approach one another from different angles, and our manners should reflect them appropriately. When again we meet for discussion, the social situation is so peculiar that nothing less than a written code, a Cushing’s Manual, will insure freedom for all. Left to themselves, each person would speak as often as feeling prompted. But such rude manners are not allowed. No one must speak without appealing to the chairman and receiving his permission by word or nod. If a person opposing me in debate makes statements which strike me as absurd and intended to mislead, I am not at liberty to characterize them so. Debate could not proceed on such terms. Every one must be respectful and conform to a parliamentary standard. Such a standard would be out of place in the home. But much of the beauty of human intercourse arises from noticing these differences in the field and, with full knowledge of what is customary, adapting our manners freshly to what the occasions require.

But readers will already be asking, “Why all this pomp and circumstance? What object can make us willing to accept such constraint instead of approaching one another as we happen to feel.” That object was the fourth point in my definition: Manners are accepted “in order to insure to each person the least offense and a due opportunity for self-expression.” Expression is dear to all. At least to me it is always a pleasure to give another a piece of my mind. This may not be a pleasure to that other. If, then, we are to be social beings, there must be some security that when I am enjoying speech I cause no disturbance to others. Accordingly, the chief object of manners is a negative one, to avoid offense, to put every one at ease. Suppose the contrary; suppose A. B. asks me to meet a group of his friends; suppose I have a fancy for colored waistcoats and dress of fantastic design; suppose me not inclined to subordinate my taste to that of others, but simply to dress as I please. Should I not come as an intruder and disturber, preventing my fellow guests from thinking of anything but me? I should not be invited again to that house. To avoid such scenes we willingly accept a common costume, which nobody was ever known to admire. We go out in the evening garbed in black. We know then what to expect, securing ourselves against shock and curbing the self-asserter. That turbulent ego is the chief obstacle to society. Better give up much that is of value if we can thus be brought to conduct which shows consideration for all around.

The other part of the aim of manners, self-expression, is subordinate though desirable. Living alone, we are small; in contact with our fellow men, we enlarge ourselves. Trouble is worth taking for such a purpose. But there are dangers. Society is possible only where mutual consideration is shown. To be a social person one must be altruistically minded, continually studying another’s comfort. I am talking with two or three old friends about some experiences of our youth, when John Smith joins us. We go on talking, and soon all the company except John Smith bursts into laughter. He naturally feels shut out and we perceive that we have been rude. Manners are devised to stop such painful feelings. We leave outside social walls whatever cannot be shared by all alike.

I have been expounding here something so familiar that it is seldom mentioned or even thought of, but is usually taken as a matter of course. Yet surely it is important to perceive how wide is the extent of altruism. It is nothing occasional, calling for exceptional heroism. It is commonplace, spread all around us, attending the most elementary processes of existence. We never approach one another as separate beings, but are called on wherever we meet to put each other at ease, whatever may be the cost to ourselves. Well does Bentham write: “Good breeding is that deportment on occasions of inferior, and, when separately taken, of trivial importance by which those acts are abstained from which give annoyance to others. It is to this negative or abstinential branch of benevolence that most of the laws of good breeding are to be referred.” Christ in offering the Golden Rule seems not to be urging unusual conduct, but rather to suggest that we carry out consistently and as a plan of life a principle inwrought into the very structure of our being. We are made conjunctive. Any attempt to exhibit the varieties of altruism must take this beautiful fact as its starting-point.

No one has set forth more clearly the scope and delicacy of manners than Adam Smith in those chapters of his Moral Sentiments which treat of Propriety. He asks what feelings may properly be expressed in company and what others, equally natural, the well-mannered man suppresses. The general principle is that those which have their root in specific circumstances of the individual, as, for example, the physical experiences, should be kept in the background. A gentleman does not talk of his toothache or recent cold, nor does he show his strong appetite at table. While recognizing that all may properly be interested in his intended marriage, he dwells on the intensity of his affection only to the lady herself. These are matters relating to the separate self, while manners give expression only to what all can share. Our ardent personal passions, even when entirely justified, often need to be flattened down before they can be fit to express. Manifestations of the social passions, kindness and pity, are seldom improper. These give a double opportunity for sympathy. We share the feelings both of the sufferer and the humane speaker. But the emotions that terminate in ourselves, like joy and grief, require care. On the whole, Smith thinks we may count on sympathy with our small joys and large griefs. Happiness is something delightful to share, at least until it becomes so great as to awaken envy. And though it is disagreeable to hear of petty annoyances, which a gentleman passes lightly by, serious misfortune is so much a part of the common lot that all will sympathize in hearing of it and be pleased that they have in this instance escaped. The death of a relative may not improperly put its mark on our very clothing, but it is indecent to speak of our vexations from servants and children.

Here, then, we see human society reposing on a widely distributed and systematized altruism. Mutual consideration is here the rule. The apostle states it admirably: “Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others.” The separate self is allowed no place; the conjunct self is the only person recognized. Surely, any one who undertakes to examine the varieties of altruism must begin with these beautiful and little-noticed moralities.

Begin, but not end here. For while I believe all that has thus far been said is true, I see so much else to be true that I devote a section of this chapter to a criticism of manners. Wherein do manners fail to embody altruism completely? In three respects: they are trivial, self-protective, and enfeebling. The study of these deficiencies will show us the way to altruism of a higher kind.

The triviality of manners requires no long demonstration. All must have felt it and, probably enough, have been surprised at my counting such matters deserving of a place in a serious ethical discussion. It is as if I had devoted a section to brushing the hair. Many things more or less connected with the comfort of daily life we do not talk or think much about, and such are manners—never good until they become instinctive. They express merely our superficial relations with our fellows, our outward behavior, our acts and not our motives. The man of considerate manners may be inwardly considerate, too; but he may be the very reverse and have shaped his conduct with a view to social success. Indeed, it may truly be said that manners become more prominent as the occasions of human intercourse diminish in importance. Organized “society,” in which manners flourish, is treated as of little consequence by the sober body of the community. This, then, is the first defect of manners when regarded as an embodiment of altruism: they are of limited range and do not necessarily involve the whole man.

But they are open to a graver objection. They are fundamentally self-protective. If my first account of them were the whole truth, society people would be the least selfish of mankind. That is not their reputation, for manners are, after all, grounded in distrust of our fellow man. I said that the chief aim of manners was to avoid offense; that is, we anticipate being offended when we meet, and take precautions against it. The need of such precautions against the turbulent ego I have shown already. Until I can be sure that people will not shock me by tasteless attire and heavy talk, that they will not unload on me what concerns only themselves, that they will not be tedious, didactic, or intrusive, in short, that they will be trained to play the social game for general enjoyment rather than individual gain, I shall keep away from company. Manners express these doubts. They preserve an interval between me and those who might press too near. Emerson says of them that they are a contrivance of the wise for keeping fools at a distance. No doubt they may also express affection and pleasure in humankind. I only assert that this is not necessarily their meaning. They may be mere social safeguards, restraints to which each of us submits in Hobbistic fashion in order to protect ourselves.

But there is one further point in our disparagement of manners. He who accepts the code, indorses, and practises it, finds himself in the long run enfeebled. Accordingly, a healthy nature is always a little restive under manners. The child rebels against being taught how to behave. He wants to behave as nature prompts. When full of glee he would laugh aloud, but is told that loud laughter in company is not proper. Is there not danger that the continual check which manners put on exuberant nature may, in the process of rubbing off social excrescences, rub off much of nature too? How large will be the “due opportunity for self-expression” in a society whose prime aim is “the avoidance of offense”? It must be remembered that checking expression checks thought. We do not develop strong interests when moving among those who stare if we mention them. In company, people may grow quick, clever, neat in repartee, compliment, and paradox, but they do not become reflective, solid in judgment, distinctive in individual taste. Such things come more readily in isolation. It is wise advice George Herbert gives:

“By all means use sometimes to be alone.

Salute thyself. See what thy soul doth wear.

Dare to look in thy chest, for ’tis thine own,

And tumble up and down what thou find’st there.

Who cannot rest till he good fellows find

He shuts up house, turns out of doors his mind.”

The fact is that in bidding us all the time to be regardful of others, manners make too sharp a division between the conjunct and the separate self; and it is disastrous to each to be set up to the exclusion of the other. In detachment the conjunct self grows empty, the separate self surly and brutish. They belong together. When either has been unduly emphasized, it is wholesome to give the other a chance. Society, the special field for the cultivation of manners, would soon be sterile soil were it not abandoned during lenten intervals and summers in the country. After meeting a multitude of people and being obliged to adjust ourselves to only such matters as all can understand, what a relief it is to be in the open fields, social conventions dropped, responsibilities forgotten, and no regard for others marking our words, acts, or dress!

And now we see why all the words which name the ingenious system of man’s best approach to man contain a tinge of evil. Every one is a disparaging term, though meant for praise. Politeness, courtesy, good breeding, propriety, decency, civility—manners is the best of the long list, for it states with less of praise or blame the mutual consideration expected whenever person meets person. But it is not altogether clean. It lingers on the outside and so suggests triviality, suspicion of our neighbor, and the enfeebling of originality. That these baser qualities are not inherent in manners is true enough. A well-mannered man may have a friendly soul. But he may have one of an opposite sort. Manners, therefore, though altruistic in form, are not necessarily altruistic in matter. They can, accordingly, be regarded as only the beginning of our inquiry. No human society, it is now evident, can be formed without recognizing the altruistic principle; but in manners that principle may be employed as naturally for an egoistic as for an altruistic purpose. What we are in search of is a situation in which a man sincerely prefers another’s good to his own.