CHAPTER XXII.

_Assigning Guests at Dinner--The Boston fashion dying out--The

approved Manner--Going in to Dinner--Time to be spent at

table--Table Decoration--Too many flowers in bad taste--Simplicity

the best style--Queen Victoria’s table--Her Dinner served at 8:15,

but she eats her best meal at_ 2 P.M.--_Being late at Dinner a

breach of good Manners--A Dinner acceptance a sacred Obligation--A

Visite de digestion._

The Boston fashion adopted here for years, of one’s finding, on entering

the house in which he was to dine, a small envelope on a silver salver

in which was inclosed a card bearing on it the name of the lady assigned

to him to take in to dinner, though still in use, is, however, going out

of fashion. We are returning to the old habit of assigning the guests in

the drawing-room.

In going in to dinner, there is but one rule to be observed. The lady of

the house in almost every case goes in last, all her guests preceding

her, with this exception, that if the President of the United States

dines with you, or Royalty, he takes in the lady of the house, preceding

all of the guests. When no ladies are present, the host should ask the

most distinguished guest, or the person to whom the dinner is given, to

lead the way in to dinner, and he should follow all the guests. The

cards on the plates indicate his place to each one. By gesture alone,

the host directs his guests to the dining-room, saying aloud to the most

distinguished guest, “Will you kindly take the seat on my right?”

The placing of your guests at table requires an intimate knowledge of

society. It is only by constant association that you can know who are

congenial. If you are assigned to one you are indifferent to, your only

hope lies in your next neighbor; and with this hope and fear you enter

the dining-room, not knowing who that will be. At the table conversation

should be crisp; it is in bad taste to absorb it all. Macaulay, at a

dinner, would so monopolize it that the great wit, Sydney Smith, said he

did not distinguish between monologue and dialogue.

When the President of the United States goes to a dinner, all the guests

must be assembled; they stand in a horseshoe circle around the _salon_;

the President enters; when the lady of the house approaches him, he

gives her his arm, and they lead the way to the dining-room, the

President sitting in the host’s place, with his hostess on his right. On

arriving at the house where he is to dine, if the guests are not all

assembled, he remains in his carriage until he is notified that they are

all present. No one can rise to leave the table until the President

himself rises. If he happens to be deeply interested in some fair

neighbor, and takes no note of time, the patience of the company is

sadly tried.

On entering a _salon_ and finding yourself surrounded by noted or

fashionable people, you are naturally flattered at being included; if

the people are unnoted, you are annoyed. The surprise to me is that in

this city our cleverest men and politicians do not oftener seek society

and become its brilliant ornaments, as in England and on the Continent

of Europe. Disraeli, Mr. Gladstone, Lord Palmerston, all were in society

and were great diners out. In fact, all the distinguished men of Europe

make part and parcel of society; whilst here, they shirk it as if it

were beneath their dignity. They should know that there is no power like

the social power; it makes and unmakes. The proverb is that, “The way to

a man’s heart is through the stomach.”

Now as to the length of a good dinner. Napoleon the Third insisted on

being served in three-quarters of an hour. As usual here we run from one

extreme to another. One of our most fashionable women boasted to me that

she had dined out the day before, and the time consumed from the hour

she left her house, until her return home, was but one hour and forty

minutes. This is absurd. A lover of the flesh pots of Egypt grumbled to

me that his plate was snatched away from him by the servant before he

could half get through the appetizing morsel on it. This state of things

has been brought about by stately, handsome dinners, spun out to too

great length. One hour and a half at the table is long enough.

A word about the decoration of the table. In this we are now again

running from one extreme to the other. A few years ago, the florist took

possession of the table, and made a flower garden of it, regardless of

cost. Now, at the best dinners, you see perhaps in the centre of the

table one handsome basket of flowers; no _bouquets de corsage_ or

_boutonnières_; the table set with austere simplicity; a few silver

dishes with bonbons and _compotiers_ of fruit, that is all. Now,

nothing decorates a dinner table as flowers do, and of these I think the

_Gloire de Paris_ roses, the Rothschild rose, and Captain Chrystie’s the

most effective. A better result is produced by having all of one kind of

flower, be it roses, or tulips, or carnations.

It is now the fashion to have the most superb embroidered table-cloths

from Paris, in themselves costing nearly a year’s income. But it is to

be remembered that thirty years ago we imported from England the fashion

of placing in the centre of the table a handsome piece of square scarlet

satin, on which to place the silver. At the dinner the eye should have a

feast as well as the palate. A beautifully laid table is very effective.

I have seen Her Majesty’s table at Windsor Castle all ready for her. I

have heard her footmen, in green and gold, re-echo from hall to kitchen

the note that “dinner is served,” and then I was told to go; but I saw

all I wanted to see. Her six footmen placed their hands on the little

velvet Bishop’s cap, which covered the lion and the unicorn in frosted

gold on the cover of her six _entrée_ dishes; as dinner was announced,

this velvet cap was removed. The keeper of her jewel room has a large

book of lithographs of just the pieces of gold plate that are to

decorate Her Majesty’s table on different occasions, all regulated by

the rank of her guest. Her Majesty, in the time of Prince Albert, dined

at 8:15. Her head _chef_ informed me then that her real dinner was eaten

at 2 P.M., with the Prince of Wales, and it was for this he exercised

his talent. At eight and a quarter she took but soup and fish.

It is to be borne in mind that a host or hostess cannot be too courteous

or gracious to their guests; and again, that guests in being late at

dinner oftentimes commit a breach of politeness. Apropos of this, whilst

in Paris one of our Ministers to the French Court related to me the

following anecdote, illustrating true French politeness. His daughter

arrived late at the dinner of a high personage. When her father

remonstrated, she replied, “Did you not see that one of the family

arrived after us?” The next day our Minister heard that the Duchess,

with whom he had dined, had sent her daughter out of the room to come in

after them, to relieve them of any embarrassment at being late.

Another point has had some discussion. At a large dinner, where the only

lady is the hostess, should she rise and receive each guest? This is

still a vexed question. Again, at a large dinner of men, is it incumbent

on every one present to rise on the entrance of each guest? On one

occasion I failed myself to do this, not thinking it necessary. The

distinguished man who entered said afterwards that I had “slighted him.”

It was certainly unintentional. In a small room, if all get up, it must

create confusion.

If you intend to decline an invitation to dinner, do so at as early a

date as possible. A dinner invitation, once accepted, is a sacred

obligation. If you die before the dinner takes place, your executor must

attend the dinner. (This is not to be taken literally, but to illustrate

the obligation.) The person to whom the dinner is given takes in the

hostess, if she is present, going in first with her; that is, if it is

only men (no ladies present but the hostess). Should there be ladies, he

still takes in the hostess, but then follows all the guests; going in

with the hostess after all the guests. The only exception to this rule

is where the President of the United States, or Royalty dines with you.

In England, in the note of invitation to dinner, you are never asked _to

meet any one_ but Royalty. The distinction of rank makes the reason for

this obvious. If Royalty dines with you, at the top of the note of

invitation, in the left hand corner, it is written: “To meet His Royal

Highness,” or other Royalty. Our custom is otherwise. It is to invite

you to meet Mr. Robinson, or Mrs. Robinson, or Mr. and Mrs. Robinson.

This is accepted and approved by all in this country, for in this way

you are privileged to invite, at a day’s notice, any number of guests;

for one sees it is to meet a stranger, temporarily here; a sufficient

reason for so short a notice to a large dinner; besides which you have

it in your power to pay the stranger or strangers a compliment in a

pointed way, by making them or him the honored guest of that dinner.

If you propose accepting, your note of acceptance should be sent the day

after the invitation has been received. After dining at a ladies’ dinner

it is obligatory that you leave your card at the house where you have

dined, either the next day or within a day or two. This is called, by

the French, a _visite de digestion_. In England, this custom is dying

out, for men have not the time to do it.

I would here compare society to a series of intersecting circles; each

one is a circle of its own, and they all unite in making what is known

as general society. Meeting people at a large ball is no evidence of

their being received in the smaller circles. What the French call the

_petit comité_ of good society is the inmost circle of all, but,

naturally, it is confined to a very few. Meeting a person constantly at

dinner, at the most exclusive houses, should be sufficient evidence to

you that he or she is received everywhere, and if you find people

persistently excluded from the best houses at dinners, you may be

satisfied that there is some good reason for it.

When you introduce a man into the sanctuary of your own family, it is

supposed by a fiction to be the greatest compliment you can pay him; but

do not be misled by this, for there is nothing more trying to the guest

than to be the one outsider. A friend of mine invariably refuses such

invitations. “Why,” said he, “my dinner at home is sufficiently good; I

am called out with my wife,--both of us compelled to don our best

attire, order the carriage, and go to see and be with, whom? A family

whose members are not particularly interesting to us.” Men with whom you

are only on a business footing you should dine at your Club, and not

inflict them on your family.

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