Punch (16.1849)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

239

MR. BROWN'S LETTERS TO A YOUNG MAN
ABOUT TOWN.

a word about dinners.

nglish Society, my beloved Bob,
has this eminent advantage over ail
other—that is, if there be any so-
ciety left in the wretched distracted
old European continent—that it is
above all others a dinner-giving
society. A people like the Germans,
that dines habitually, and with what
vast appetite I need not say, at one
o'clock in the afternoon—like the
Italians, that spends its evenings in
Opera boxes—like the French, that
amuses itself of nights with eau
sucree and intrigue—cannot, believe
me, understand Society rightly. I
love and admire my nation for its
good sense, its manliness, its friend-
liness, its morality in the main—
and these I take it are all expressed
in that noble institution, the dinner.

The dinner is the happy end of
the Briton's day. We work harder
than the other nations of the earth.
We do more, we live more in our
time, than Erenchmen or Germans.
Every great man amongst us likes
his dinner, and takes to it kindly.
I could mention the most august
names of poets, statesmen, philo-
sophers, historians, judges, and
divines, who are great at the dinner-
table as in the field, the closet, the
senate, or the bench. Gibbon
mentions that he wrote the first two volumes of his history whilst a
placeman in London, lodging in St. James's, going to the House of
Commons, to the Club, and to dinner every day. The man flourishes
under that generous and robust regimen ; the healthy_energies of society
are kept up by it; our friendly intercourse is maintained ; our intellect
ripens with the good cheer, and throws off surprising crops, like the
fields about Edinburgh, under the influence of that admirable liquid,
Claret. The best wines are sent to this country therefore: for no
other deserves them as ours does.

when I have been better entertained, as far as creature comforts go,
man by men of very low church principles; and one of the very
best repasts that ever I saw in my life was at Darlington, given by a
Quaker.

Some of the best wine in London is given to his friends by a poet of
my acquaintance. All artists are notoriously fond of dinners, and invite
you, but not so profusely. Newspaper-editors delight in dinners on
Saturdays, and give them, thanks to the present position of Literature,
very often and good. Lear Bob, I have seen the mahoganies of
many men.

Every evening between 7 and 8 o'clock, I like to look at the men
dressed for dinner, perambulating the western districts of our city.
I like to see the smile on their countenances lighted up with an
indescribable self-importance and good humour; the askance glances
which they cast at the little street-boys and foot-passengers who eye
their shiny boots; the dainty manner in which they trip over the
pavement on those boots, eschewing the mud-pools and dirty crossings;
the refreshing whiteness of their linen; the coaxing twiddle which they
give to the ties of their white chokers—the caress of a fond parent to
an innocent child.

I like walking myself. Those who go in cabs or Broughams I have
remarked, somehow, have not the same radiant expression which the
pedestrian exhibits. A man in his own Brougham has anxieties about
the stepping of his horse, or the squaring of the groom's elbows, or
a doubt whether Jones's turn-out is not better ; or whether something
is not wrong in the springs ; or whether he shall have the Brougham
out if the night is ramy. They always look tragical behind the glasses.
A cab diner-out lias commonly some cares, lest his sense of justice
should be injured by the overcharge of the driver (these fellows are not
uncommonly exorbitant in their demands upon gentlemen whom they
set down at good houses); lest the smell of tobacco left by the last
occupants of the vehicle (five medical students, let us say, who have
chartered the vehicle and smoked cheroots from the London University
to the play-house in the Haymarket) should infest the clothes of Tom
Lavender who is going 1o Lady Rosemary s ; lest straws should stick
unobserved to the glutinous lustre of his boots—his shiny ones, and he
should appear in Lives's drawing-room like a poet with a tenui
avena, or like mad Tom in the play. I hope, my dear Bob, if a straw
should ever enter a drawinsc-room in the wake of your boot, you will
not be much disturbed in mind. Hark ye, in confidence; I have

seen-■ * in a hack cab. There is no harm in employing one.

There is no harm in anything natural, any more.

I cannot help here parenthetically relating a story which occurred
in my own youth, in the year 1S15, at the time when I first made my
own entree into society (for everything must have a beginning, Bob;
and though we have been gentlemen long before the Conqueror, and
have always consorted with gentlemen, yet we had not always attained
that haute voice of fashion which has distinguished some of us subse-
quently); I recollect, I say, in 1815, when the Marquis of Sweet-
bread was good enough to ask me and the late Mr. R,uffles to

am a dmer out, and live in London. 1 protest, as 1 look back at ; dm tQ meet j>RINCK Schwartzenberg and the Hetman Platoff.

md is filled llTjmES was a man a good deaj afe0at town in those days, and certainly
in very good society

with manly respect and pleasure. How good they have been! how
admirable the entertainmcnls ! how worthy the men !

Let me, without divulging names, and with a cordial gratitude,
mention a few of those whom I have met and who have all done their duty.

Sir, I have sat at table with a great, a world-renowned statesman.
I watched him during the progress of the banquet—lam at liberty to
say that he enjoyed it like a man.

On another day, it was a celebrated literary character. _ It was beau-
tiful to see him at his dinner : cordial and generous, jovial and kindly,
the great author enjoyed himself as the great statesman—may he long
give us good books and good dinners!

Yet another day, and I sat opposite to a Right Reverend Bishop. My
Lord, I was pleased to see good thing after good thing disappear before
you ; and t hink no man ever better became that rounded episcopal apron.
How amiable he was ! how kind ! He put water into his wine. Let us
respect the moderation of the Church.

And then the men learned in the law: how they dine ! what hospi-
tality, what splendour, what comfort, what wine ! As we walked away

very gently in the moonlight, only three days since, from the--'s.

a f riend of my youth and myself, we could hardly speak for gratitude :
'" Dear Sir,"—we breathed fervently, " ask us soon again." One never
has too much at those perfect banquets—no hideous headaches ensue,
or horrid resolutions about adopting Hevalenta Arabicafor the future—■
but contentment with all the world, light slumbers, joyful waking to
grapple with the morrow's work. Ah, dear Bob, those lawyers have
great merits. There is a dear old judge at whose family table, if I could
see you seated, my desire in life would be pretty nearly fulfilled. If you
make yourself agreeable, there you will be in a fair way to get on in the
world. But you are ayouth still. Youths go to balls : men go to dinners.

Doctors, again, notoriously eat well; when my excellent friend
Sanorado takes a bumper, and saying, with a shrug and a twinkle of
his eye, " Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor," losses off the
wine, I always ask the butler for a glass of that bottle.

The inferior clergy, likewise, dine very much and well. I don't know

1 was myself a young one, and thought Ruffles was rather inclined
to patronise me : which I did not like. " I would have you to know, Mr.
Ruffles," thought I, " that, after all, a gentleman can but be a gentle-
man ; that though we Browns have no handles to our names, we are
quite as well-bred as some folks who possess those ornaments—and in
fine 1 determined to give him a lesson. So when he called for me in
the harkney-coach at my lodgings in Swallow Street, and we had driven
under the porte-cochere of Sweetbread House, where two tall and
powdered domestics in the uniform of the Sweetbreads, viz. a spinach-
coloured coat, with waistcoat and the rest of a delicate yellow or
melted-butter colour, opened the doors of the hall—what do you think,
Sir, 1 did ? In the presence of these gentlemen, who were holding on
at the door, I offered to toss up with Ruffles, heads or tails, who
should pay for the coach ; and then purposely had a dispute with the
poor Jarvey about the fare. Ruffles's face of agony during this trans-
action I shall never forget. Sir, it was like the Laocoon. Drops of
perspiration trembled on his pallid brow, and he flung towards me looks
of imploring terror that would have melted an ogre. A better fellow
than Ruffles never lived—he is dead long since, and I don't mind
owning to this harmless little deceit.

A person of some note—a favourite Snob of mine (to use the words
of a somewhat coarse writer who previously contributed to this
periodical)—I am told, when he goes to dinner, adopts what he con-
siders a happy artifice, and sends his cab away at the corner of the
street; so that the gentleman in livery may not behold its number, or
that lord with whom he dines, and about whom he is always talking, may
not be supposed to know that Mr. Smith came in a hack-cab.

A man who is troubled with a shame like this, Bob, is unworthy of any
dinner at all. Such a man must needs be a sneak and a humbug,
anxious about the effect which he is to produce : uneasy in his mind :

* Me. Brown's MS. hero contains a name of such prodigious dignity out of th«
P—r—ge, that we really do not dare to print it.