“Howd’y “People.
It is an enlivening sight to see ships accosting each other in mid-ocean, to witness the speedy greetings of railway men as their trains whirl in opposite directions, to watch the recognitions of friends and acquaintances as a parading organization of any kind passes through crowded streets. It is quite as interesting, to a lover of humanity, when any interchange of friendly inquiries is made, from the farmer's halloo out of a rattling wagon to the judge's dignified salutation as he passes the congressman. All sorts of genuine greetings are charming. They testify of brotherhood. They perpetuate good feeling. They are the seed pearls of social intercourse.
Men have risen to a fair measure of regard who have known and exhibited nothing of all this. They walk down street with eyes on the ground. Their thoughts are introverted. You may as well bow to the ice-cart or dart a salutation toward a strolling cow. They may have friends and acquaintances, but if so, they are for home consumption solely. The street is their spiritual dormitory.
To other men, a walk down town is the finest opportunity of their day. What children's clamor breaks forth at sight of them! What smiles anticipate their coming and linger behind them! Their walk is a royal progress, since "there's nothing so kingly as kindness." It is a day's benediction to have met them.
Their salutation may not be cultured or even correct. It may be a mere "Howd'y." But the "Howd'y" is one that my Lord Chesterfield might have studied to his despair. It is the concentration of a summer soul. It is jovial in the etymological sense of the word; that is, it is Jovelike, godlike. It is full, frank, free. It is flung out on the air with an abandonment of good fellowship such as only a nobleman of the Kingdom can possess.
The reserve that prevents these hearty greetings is little better than the selfishness that does not desire the power to give them. Indeed, reserve is a form of selfishness, and is to be cured by the same medicines. Every true man sees in every other man a brother, and how can he do less for a brother than say "Howd'y"?
Of course, if there is time for more,—time, for instance, for "How do you do?"—so much the better. But "Howd'y" is much in little. It has all of a life in it, when it is well said, hailing all of another life. And the best of it is that whatever it means at first, it comes to mean, as life wags on, ever blessedly more and more.