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Beerbohm, Max, Sir, 1872-1956

"Yet Again"

It is a not less complicated
thing than is the art of acting, or of nursing the sick, and needs for
the acquirement of it a not less laborious preparation.
Is it worth the trouble? Certainly the trouble is not taken. The
`finishing school,' wherein young ladies were taught to be graceful,
is a thing of the past. It must have been a dismal place; but the
dismalness of it--the strain of it--was the measure of its
indispensability. There I beg the question. Is grace itself
indispensable? Certainly, it has been dispensed with. It isn't
reckoned with. To sit perfectly mute `in company,' or to chatter on at
the top of one's voice; to shriek with laughter; to fling oneself into
a room and dash oneself out of it; to collapse on chairs or sofas; to
sprawl across tables; to slam doors; to write, without punctuation,
notes that only an expert in handwriting could read, and only an
expert in mis-spelling could understand; to hustle, to bounce, to go
straight ahead--to be, let us say, perfectly natural in the midst of
an artificial civilisation, is an ideal which the young ladies of to-
day are neither publicly nor privately discouraged from cherishing.
The word `cherishing' implies a softness of which they are not guilty.
I hasten to substitute `pursuing.


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