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Two friendly people, both disposed to smile,

       Who meet, like others, every little while,

       Instead of passing with a pleasant bow,

       And "How d' ye do?" or "How 's your uncle now?"

      Impelled by feelings in their nature kind,

       But slightly weak and somewhat undefined,

       Rush at each other, make a sudden stand,

       Begin to talk, expatiate, and expand;

       Each looks quite radiant, seems extremely struck,

       Their meeting so was such a piece of luck;

       Each thinks the other thinks he 's greatly pleased

       To screw the vice in which they both are squeezed;

       So there they talk, in dust, or mud, or snow,

       Both bored to death, and both afraid to go!

       Your hat once lifted, do not hang your fire,

       Nor, like slow Ajax, fighting still, retire;

       When your old castor on your crown you clap,

       Go off; you've mounted your percussion cap.

      Some words on LANGUAGE may be well applied,

       And take them kindly, though they touch your pride.

       Words lead to things; a scale is more precise—

       Coarse speech, bad grammar, swearing, drinking, vice.

       Our cold Northeaster's icy fetter clips

       The native freedom of the Saxon lips;

       See the brown peasant of the plastic South,

       How all his passions play about his mouth!

       With us, the feature that transmits the soul,

       A frozen, passive, palsied breathing-hole.

       The crampy shackles of the ploughboy's walk

       Tie the small muscles when he strives to talk;

       Not all the pumice of the polished town

       Can smooth this roughness of the barnyard down;

       Rich, honored, titled, he betrays his race

       By this one mark—he's awkward in the face;—

       Nature's rude impress, long before he knew

       The sunny street that holds the sifted few.

       It can't be helped, though, if we're taken young,

       We gain some freedom of the lips and tongue;

       But school and college often try in vain

       To break the padlock of our boyhood's chain

       One stubborn word will prove this axiom true—

       No quondam rustic can enunciate view.

      A few brief stanzas may be well employed

       To speak of errors we can all avoid.

       Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope

       The careless lips that speak of so'ap for soap;

       Her edict exiles from her fair abode

       The clownish voice that utters ro'ad for road

       Less stern to him who calls his coat a co'at,

       And steers his boat, believing it a bo'at,

       She pardoned one, our classic city's boast,

       Who said at Cambridge mo'st instead of most,

       But knit her brows and stamped her angry foot

       To hear a Teacher call a root a ro'ot.

      Once more: speak clearly, if you speak at all;

       Carve every word before you let it fall;

       Don't, like a lecturer or dramatic star,

       Try over-hard to roll the British R;

       Do put your accents in the proper spot;

       Don't—let me beg you—don't say "How?" for "What?"

       And when you stick on conversation's burs,

       Don't strew your pathway with those dreadful urs.

      From little matters let us pass to less,

       And lightly touch the mysteries of DRESS;

       The outward forms the inner man reveal—

       We guess the pulp before we cut the peel.

      I leave the broadcloth—coats and all the rest—

       The dangerous waistcoat, called by cockneys "vest,"

       The things named "pants" in certain documents,

       A word not made for gentlemen, but "gents;"

       One single precept might the whole condense

       Be sure your tailor is a man of sense;

       But add a little care, a decent pride,

       And always err upon the sober side.

      Three pairs of boots one pair of feet demands,

       If polished daily by the owner's hands;

       If the dark menial's visit save from this,

       Have twice the number—for he 'll sometimes miss.

       One pair for critics of the nicer sex,

       Close in the instep's clinging circumflex,

       Long, narrow, light; the Gallic boot of love,

       A kind of cross between a boot and glove.

       Compact, but easy, strong, substantial, square,

       Let native art compile the medium pair.

       The third remains, and let your tasteful skill

       Here show some relics of affection still;

       Let no stiff cowhide, reeking from the tan,

       No rough caoutchoue, no deformed brogan,

       Disgrace the tapering outline of your feet,

       Though yellow torrents gurgle through the street.

      Wear seemly gloves; not black, nor yet too light,

       And least of all the pair that once was white;

       Let the dead party where you told your loves

       Bury in peace its dead bouquets and gloves;

       Shave like the goat, if so your fancy bids,

       But be a parent—don't neglect your kids.

      Have a good hat; the secret of your looks

       Lives with the beaver in Canadian brooks;

       Virtue may flourish in an old cravat,

       But man and nature scorn the shocking hat.

       Does beauty slight you from her gay abodes?

       Like bright Apollo, you must take to Rhoades—

       Mount the new castor—ice itself will melt;

       Boots, gloves, may fail; the hat is always felt.

      Be shy of breastpins; plain, well-ironed white,

       With small pearl buttons—two of them in sight—

       Is always genuine, while your gems may pass,

       Though real diamonds, for ignoble glass.

       But spurn those paltry Cisatlantic lies

       That round his breast the shabby rustic ties;

       Breathe not the name profaned to hallow things

       The indignant laundress blushes when she brings!

      Our freeborn race, averse to every check,

       Has tossed

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