William Rodney Herring

My friend Greg the other day in the forgotten context of some conversation pointed out the small irony that the city has somehow got the stereotype of being a rude place with all the busy-ness and congestion. But of course our whole notion of politeness is based (etymologically, at the very least) on the concept of the polis--or so it would seem. As I paused to look this up, I discovered that in fact polite derives from the Latin word (politus) meaning to polish (hence: to be polite is to be polished--to be well-mannered). Here's the etymological explanation from the OED, whose link is too complex to be of any use.

[<classical Latin politus, past participle of polire to smooth, to polish (see POLISH v.), also as adjective in figurative senses (of people, their manners, or their appearance, or of writings or activities) polished, elegant, accomplished, refined, cultivated, courteous. Cf. Old French, Middle French, French poli smooth, shiny (c1160), (of words) careful, well-chosen (late 12th cent.), (of words) cultured (1580), (of a people or country) civilized (1681), (of a person) courteous, well-mannered (1694), Old Occitan polit (of a word in a poem) well-chosen (c1160), smooth, shiny (13th cent.), Catalan polit (14th cent.), Spanish pulido polished (literally and figuratively), refined (late 13th cent.), Italian polito smooth, shiny, (of writing or speech) well-chosen, polished, refined (a1327).

I guess two points are worth making. (1) there's a note under the etymology for policy that suggests that the confusion of the roots has led to semantic blurring over the years. (2) we could probably make the same link between civil and civis, though of course being civil is a little less difficult for an actor (and a little less comforting for the recipient), so it doesn't really matter what the roots of polite are--there's a link between politeness and the cosmopolis.

Anyway, since all my "empirical" evidence revolves around my reading, I could only refer to The Minister's Charge. And so: Asked whether he likes Boston or his home of Willoughby Pastures better, Lemuel Barker answers that the city at least is the better place to be "friendless and homeless," since "if any one happens to find out that you're in trouble, there's ten times as much done for you in the city as there is in the country." Barker's interlocutor, the newspaper editor Evans, wonders if "that's because there are ten times as many to do it," but Lemuel doesn't think that's the entire explanation. Instead, he says that "It's because they've seen ten times as much trouble, and know how to take hold of it better." That is, the mere witnessing of suffering, to Lemuel's mind, makes people more sympathetic. (Maybe Rorty was right.) If true, then it makes sense that people living in larger population densities would be a little kinder. And indeed, Barker's experience bears out this correlation, as he tells Sewell at another moment, "There isn't half the sympathy in the country that there is in the city" (299).

But of course the city's not exactly utopia, so when Evans prompts Barker to critique "city folks," the young man says, "Well, they're too aristocratic." Put the other way round, as Lemuel concedes to Sewell, "you find in the country...a greater equality of social condition." Sewell pushes further: "People are more on a level, and have fewer artificial distinctions." While it's not entirely surprising that the agrarian countryside (in the very midst of industrial capitalism) experiences less rigidly stratified class positions, this is a fascinating juxtaposition to me: the kinder, gentler city (as long as you remain in your given station) vs. the egalitarian but less sympathetic country.

More could be said...but not tonight.