Is Polite Society Polite? and Other Essays — Key Ideas to Explore
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klin was much admired at the court of Louis XVI. Jay and Jefferson and Morris and Adams found their manners good enough to content the highest European society. They were educated men; but besides book-learning, and above it, they had been bred to have the thoughts and, more than all, the feelings of gentlemen.
The assumption of special merit, either by an individual or a class, is not polite. We notice this fault when some dressy young lady puts on airs, and struts in fine clothes, or condescends from an elegant carriage. Elder women show it in hardness and hauteur of countenance, or in unnecessary patronage.
But we allow classes of people to assume special merit on false grounds. It may very easily be shown that it requires more talent and merit to earn money than to spend it. Yet, by almost common consent of the fashionable world, those who inherit or marry money are allowed to place themselves above those who earn it.
If this is the case so far as men are concerned, much more is it the case with women. Good society often feels itself obliged to apologize for a lady who earns money. The fact, however explained, is a badge of discredit. She could not help it, poor thing! Her father failed, or her trustee lost the investments made for her. He usually does. So she has--oh, sad alternative!--to make herself useful.
Now in America the judgment of the Old World in this respect has come to be somewhat reversed. We do not like idle inheritors here; and so the moneyed aristocracy of our country is a tolerably energetic and industrious body. But in the case of womankind, I could wish to see a very different standard adopted from that now existing. I could wish that the fact of an idle and useless life should need apology--not that of a laborious and useful one. Idleness is a pregnant source of demoralization to rich women. The hurry and excitement of fashionable engagements, and the absorbing nature of entirely selfish and useless pursuits, such as dancing, dress, and flirtation, cannot take the place of healthful work. Dr. Watts warns us that
Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do.
And Tennyson has some noble lines in one of his noblest poems:--
I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, You pine among your halls and towers; The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these.
As I am speaking of England, I will say that some things in the constitution of English society seem to tend to impoliteness.
The English are a most powerful and energetic race, with immense vitality, cruelly divided up in their own country by absolute social conditions, handed down from generation to generation. So a sense of superiority, more or less lofty and exaggerated, characterizes the upper classes, while the lower partly rest in a dogged compliance, partly indulge the blind instinct of reverence, partly detest and despise those whom birth and fate have set over them. In England, people assert their own rank and look down upon that of others all the way from the throne to the peasant's hut. I asked an English visitor, the other day, what inferior the lowest man had,--the man at the bottom of the social pile. I answered him myself: "His wife, of course."
Where worldliness gives the tone to character, it corrupts the source of good manners, and the outward polish is purchased by the inward corruption of the heart. The crucial experiment of character is found in the transition from modest competency to conspicuous wealth and fashion. Most of us may desire this; but I should rather say: Dread it. I have seen such sweetness and beauty impaired by the process, such relinquishment of the genuine, such gradual adoption of the false and meretricious!
Julia Ward Howe opens this 1895 collection by recalling a conversation with Theodore Parker, who told her that "the great desire of the age is for vocal expression." That desire shaped these essays, which were first delivered as lectures to clubs and summer schools across the United States. Howe writes with a sense of the "limitations which such audiences necessarily impose," yet the pieces retain a conversational directness. The title essay, written for the New England Women's Club of Boston, sets up a central tension: the gap between the promise of polite society and its actual practice. Howe does not offer a simple indictment; instead, she probes the contradictions embedded in social rituals, using her own experience as a public woman to ground her observations.
A Public Voice in a Private Era
Howe's preface situates her essays within a specific historical moment. She notes that when she first considered lecturing, "no names of women were found in the lists of lecture courses." The few women who did speak publicly—Lucy Stone, Lucretia Mott, Antoinette Brown Blackwell—were associated with temperance, antislavery, or the pulpit. Howe, by contrast, says her "thoughts ran upon the importance of a helpful philosophy of life." This distinction matters: she positions herself not as an activist but as a philosophical essayist, yet she cannot escape the gender politics of her era. The very act of a woman mounting a lecture platform was itself a challenge to polite expectation. Howe acknowledges this implicitly by naming her predecessors and marking her own path as different from theirs. The essays that follow are thus doubly framed: they are arguments about society, and they are performances of a woman claiming intellectual authority in a culture that often denied it.
Greece Revisited: A Feast of Contrasts
In "Greece Revisited," Howe describes a banquet given in her honor by Cretan chiefs at Phaleron. The scene is deliberately layered: a Homeric lamb roast served at a hotel reached by railway; a French-style soup that the Greeks claim originated with them; formal toasts followed by coffee and cordials. Howe notes that the chiefs stood during the official part of the interview but sat afterward, a small detail that signals the negotiation between ceremony and ease. She quotes a Greek newspaper's report that her spoken Greek "brought tears to the eyes of the heroes," many of whom had fought alongside her husband decades earlier. The essay weaves together personal memory, national politics, and cultural translation. Howe is acutely aware of her own limitations—she calls her Greek "limited"—yet she uses the episode to reflect on how hospitality, language, and shared history can bridge distances. The feast becomes a microcosm of the larger question posed by the collection: what makes social interaction genuinely polite, as opposed to merely formal?
The Halfness of Nature and the Limits of Evidence
The essay "The Halfness of Nature" (partially excerpted) suggests a philosophical interest in dualities and incompleteness. Howe's title implies that nature, or human understanding of it, is only partial. The surviving text does not reveal her full argument, but the phrase resonates with the collection's recurring concern with gaps: between intention and behavior, between public and private selves, between the ideal of polite society and its reality. Howe's method is to circle around these gaps rather than to fill them. She offers observations—a dinner party, a lecture hall, a political meeting—and lets the contradictions stand. Readers familiar with her other work will recognize a mind trained in transcendentalist habits of thought, but the essays resist easy synthesis. The fragmentary nature of the excerpts mirrors the book's own structure: a set of occasional pieces that do not build to a single thesis but instead accumulate perspectives. This makes the collection less a systematic treatise than a series of experiments in social observation.
Howe's essays reward attention to their framing devices: the prefaces, the quoted newspaper accounts, the asides about audience expectations. She is a careful observer of her own position as a speaker and writer. Readers may find it useful to track how she moves between first-person anecdote and general reflection, and to note where she lets a detail—a toast, a meal, a Greek phrase—carry more weight than explicit argument. The collection does not resolve the question its title poses, but it offers a series of vivid, particular answers.
In her essay, Howe muses on what true politeness might be, and I often think of that gentle riddle while shelving. It reminds me of the quiet, knowing laughter found in The Works of Thomas Hood; Vol. 02 (of 11) Comic and Serious, in Prose and Verse, With All the Original Illustrations — Inside the Classic, where wit hides a similar, sympathetic heart. Both authors spoke to their rooms full of listeners, then, and now speak only to us.
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