SOCIAL RECIPROCITY.

BY

MRS. M. L. RAYNE.

LEASANT words, bows and

smiles are the "small change of the world of fashion, and make up the sum of social reciprocity. Without these, the gay assembly would be as dismal as the funeral march.

They are not confined to one

set or division of society, but are

universal wherever a company has

gathered, and the pleasant greeting is responded to by the cordial welcome. These small, sweet courtesies bind a nation together as firmly as the edicts of legislation. They are the unwritten laws, which command. alike the king and the subject.

It is related of a certain philosopher, that he desired to carry the beautiful courtesy of ball-rooms and assemblies into the practical atmosphere of every-day life. Accordingly, he greeted all whom he met with a genial smile of recognition, in order to put his theory to a test. The result was most disasHe soon found himself involved in a series of difficulties. His intentions had been good and his theory admirable, but he was in advance of his time. The people upon whom

trous.

he smiled were accustomed to blank stares, or grim looks from strangers. They regarded his smiles as insults to their intelligence, and questioned the sanity of the venturesome philosopher. They were like the Englishman who was such a stickler for conventionality that he preferred to drown, rather than be rescued by a man to whom he had not been formally introduced.

The sun shines upon the earth, and the earth responds with an outburst of bud and bloom. All nature is reciprocal. Something bright or beautiful is continually offered to us, and, if our eyes are not holden that we can not see, we reach out eager hands to draw the treasure to us, and in return we give smiles thanks - our heart's best hospitality. Sometimes we do not see the angel holding the crown: it is when we are groping for worthless jewels in the mire of selfishness and worldliness, and the reciprocal chord in our natures is silent to the sweep of angel fingers. But it never fails, if we seek Heavenly recognition. How many rare and jeweled opportunities we lose by our own churlishness, it would indeed be impossible to estimate. Congenial souls pass each other by, and no gleam of social reciprocity escapes from their zealously guarded windows to awaken recognition. They look into each other's faces with unseeing eyes or stern repelling glances, and each passes by on the other side. The unwritten law has decreed that they can not recognize each other without the formality it has designed for their protection. And the social law is right. But it shows our intelligence at fault, our reason less protective than instinct, and the whole code of social education weak where it should be strong.

"What is he worth?" we ask of a new acquaintance. Not, what is he worth in character, in intellect, in moral equipoise, in all the integral forces that go to make up a perfect manhood; but what is he worth financially? How much money has he?

Is he the owner of a fine house, a handsome equipage, a luxurious table? If he has all these, we want to know him.

He may possess all these, and yet be poor indeed; but here the law of social reciprocity gives to him, in exchange for his vulgar wealth, the infinite riches of learning and genius. He invites learning to sit at his feast. Goodness and worth enjoy social distinction at his bidding, and endow him with a semblance of their own virtues. Beauty presides at his banquets. Every guest brings some grace of character or accomplishment in return for a lavish hospitality. It may be only a smile, but it is worn like a flower in the button-hole of occasion, and gracefully fulfils its mission.

The waves of social reciprocity mean something more than the ebbing and flowing of the flood-tide of society. The flotsam and jetsam are rich with the affluent overflow of its deeps. Each one bears some treasure away—a pearl in the oyster-shell of treasure-trove-a word-a look-as souvenir of the occasion.

"Why should we invite that dowdy Miss Blank?" enquires some leader of the social world. "She is in our set, of course, but she dresses like a fright, and has no style. I cannot imagine what people see in her that is attractive!"

Miss Blank is duly invited, however, and, unconscious of any social criticism, takes much pleasure in accepting, and as all social events are surprise parties in some sense, takes her contribution to the feast with her. It is her voice. It charms and soothes, it flatters and bewilders, it makes friends for her wherever she goes. It is low and sweet, an excellent thing in woman. Some one asks her to sing. A few stop to listen, but the majority, with the license of society, babble on with their small talk. Then it ceases, and there is rapt attention. It is only an old song, that every one has heard, but it brings back to hearts that are arid the sound of the rain on the roof,

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the memory of a mother's good-night kiss, the prayer that was
lisped at her knee. Then it rises, clear, jubilant, and the
sweet, regretful pain is gone, the tension broken, and the spell
removed. Song and singer are of the earth again, but they
have given to each a foretaste of heaven. And they never
think of Miss Blank again as a dowdy, or without style. This
is what she gave her hosts in return for their entertainment.
It is related of Adelaide Phillips, a singer eminent in her
profession, that she was once invited to a musical com-
posed of amateurs, who sung, for her delectation, their most
ambitious airs. When it came to Miss Phillips' turn to sing,
she seated herself at the piano, and sung "Kathleen Mavour-
neen" with such thrilling sweetness that the young Irish girl,
who was setting the supper table in the next room, forgot all
her plates and spoons, and, thowing herself into a chair, sobbed
as if her heart would break-a reciprocal emotion that the
accomplished singer declared was the greatest compliment
ever paid her.

Longfellow, in speaking of his friend Prescott, the historian, said: "There is Prescott, always pleasant and merry." And again, "My last remembrance of him is a sunny smile." Could there be a more beautiful souvenir of an absent friend than the memory of a "sunny smile?" And the smile that challenges reciprocity comes from the heart, or it would chill with its unresponsive glow, like the snow on the crests of the frozen glaciers. There is no courtesy so perfect as the native tact of a good heart. In the warmth of sunshine that comes from such a source, the sternest nature dissolves and becomes congenial. We might all wish to deserve the eulogy contained in these four lines:

"It was only a glad 'good morning,'

As she passed along her way,

But it left the morning's glory
Over the livelong day."

The "morning's glory" is nature's highest perfection expressed in a simple greeting.

A prosperous business man, who had catered to the public for many years, and was prominent in his profession, was asked what incident had made the most lasting impression upon him. As he had feasted civic dignitaries and titled opulence, it was supposed he would recur to these. But he answered that giving a breakfast to a poor working girl, who had lost her purse, was the only thing of importance he could recall.

"I can never forget the look of sweet humility with which she said 'I can not pay; I can only thank you, and pray for you.' Her voice was like that of a little child saying its evening prayer, and I felt that it was she who was giving and I who was receiving." And this goes far to verify the poet's words.

"A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coat-of-arms."

How beautifully has Sydney Smith remarked that "Manners are the shadows of virtues." A portentous frown can raise a storm in the most serene social atmosphere. Its own reflection will cloud the fairest skies, and ruffle the most tranquil waters. It is useless to apologize for a rude, surly, disagreeable nature, by assuming that it is the mask to a good heart. Any goodness that emanates from such an exterior is only a tardy apology dictated by selfishness. A good heart never prompts its possessor to incivility. True politeness is considerate and reciprocal. "A beautiful behavior," said Emerson," is better than a beautiful form." There are people, meeting us constantly in society, who always see us in full dress and on guard. We are using our company voices, our company manners, taken off and put on with our company