"At these primitive tea-parties the utmost propriety and dignity of deportment prevailed. No flirting or coquetin gambu of old ladies, nor hoyden chattering and romping of young ones, no self satisfied struttings of wealthy gentlemen with their brains in their pockets, nor amusing conceits and monkey divertisements of smart young gentlemen with no brains at all. On the contrary, the young ladies seated themselves demurely in their rush-bottomed chairs, and knit their own woolen stockings, nor ever opened their lips except to say "yaw, mynherr," or "yaw, yaw, Vrouw," to any question that was asked them, behaving in all things like decent, well educated damsels. As to the gentlemen, each of them tranquilly smoked his pipe, and seemed lost in contemplation of the blue and white tiles with which the fire-places were decorated, wherein sundry passages of scripture were piously portrayed."
But it was in New England that the tea-party reached its highest importance as a social function, and in the New England of more than a century ago. Then and there were the weightiest themes of religion and philosophy of such enthralling interest and so interwoven with the practical affairs of men, that they were familiarly discussed all the way from the pulpit and desk to the household and tea-table, and were liable to be brought forward at the table of the artisan, the farmer, or the shopkeeper, as well as at that of the scholar. Every reader of early New England history or New England fiction must be aware of this fact. The presence of the "minister." so far from discouraging these discussions, usually stimulated them, and lent them additional interest. Instances of such gatherings and conversations, of typical New England tea-parties, may be found in Mrs. Stowe's Minister's Wooing.
The "tea-table" will always live in name and in association, and we trust in reality, as an essential feature of family life, even though the nature of the repast has greatly changed. The pleasantest part of the working-day in former years was the occasion when the family, drawn together by common interests and sympathies, after the heavier tasks of the day were completed, gathered around the table whose crowning symbol of good cheer was the familiar and homely old tea-pot. From this fairy godmother flowed forth a spirit of kindly toleration and genial good humor.
A quiet fireside, a snug corner, and a singing tea-kettle, were potent sources of enjoyment to young as well as old folks, in those days when the kitchen was not turned entirely over to alien hands.
The tea-kettle and the hearth-stone may be pushed back out of sight or even quite banished from the household, by modern metropolitan life and enforced changes; but under the influence of old associations and traditions, they will surely return in time with recurring cycles of sentiment or of fashion.
Five o'clock Tea is but an attempt to revive an old custom, and for those whom fortune has favored with leisure for social amenities at that hour, it furnishes an agreeable and informal occasion for exchange of courtesies and for harmless gossip or even more dignified "conservation."
A correspondent of the New York Sun recently gave an account of actual or impending changes in the social customs of Paris, which have a bearing upon this branch of our subject. He writes that the English five o'clock tea having been adopted by Parisians several years ago, and being found to interfere with the still fashionable 7 o'clock dinner, an effort was recently made to revive the ancient mid-day dinner, say at 2 o'clock. In some cases, the difficulty was met by taking tea at five o'clock, and serving a substantial supper late in the evening.
When we desire to get away for a time from our modern conventional ideas and restraints, and indulge in a bit of homely healthy sentiment, we may fall back on such utterances as the following, from Dicken's Cricket on the Hearth:
"Now it was, you observe, that the Kettle began to spend the evening. Now it was, that the Kettle, growing mellow and musical, began to have irrepressible gurglings in its throat, and to indulge in short vocal snorts, which it checked in the bud, as if it hadn't quite made up its mind yet, to be good company. Now it was, that after two or three such vain attempts to stifle its convivial sentiments, it threw off all moroseness, all reserve, and burst into a stream of song so cosy and hilarious as never maudlin nightingale yet formed the least idea of." . . .
"So plain, too! Bless you, you might have understood it like a book—better than some books you and I could name, perhaps. With its warm breath gushing forth in a light cloud which merrily and gracefully ascended a few feet, then hung about the chimney- corner as its own domestic Heaven, it trolled its song with that strong energy of cheerfulness, that its iron body hummed and stirred upon the fire, and the lid itself, the recently rebellious lid—such is the influence of a bright example— performed a sort of jig, and clattered like a deaf and dumb young cymbal that had never known the use of its twin brother." . . .