"At last, hurried steps are heard, and the door opening briskly, Mr. Jackson (the host) in person appears, who excuses himself for his delay on account of some business, which, he says, kept him; he shakes your hands, both at once, in each of his, and tells you dinner is served; and then you offer your arm to Mrs. Jackson, I take that of the timid eldest daughter, and we descend to the ground floor, to the dining-room, which, like the two drawing-rooms, is everywhere the same, in form, size, and situation. You can hardly fail to observe all the brilliant plate, not only on the table but also on the sideboard, where trays of every size, goblets, covers, plates, and other objects of the same metal are ranged against the wall; this display puts one in mind of a silversmith's shop.
"The table is out of all proportion long; each end is occupied, the one by Mr. Jackson, who undertakes to serve the fish and to carve the large joints (such as an immense turbot, and then an enormous piece of roast beef); the other end by madame, who, having placed you on her right, and me on her left, begins to serve the soup; she will afterwards ask you to carve the everlasting boiled fowls, à la sauce blanche. As for the French ragouts, which are ranged lengthwise down the table in covered dishes, be careful and avoid them; I recommend it as a friend. You have accepted soup, and I see that you are astonished to find little côtelettes, bones, forced meat balls, etc., swimming about; the cayenne pepper and other hot spices cause you to make a grimace, whilst they burn your throat; never mind! eat some turbot, you will find it excellent.
"You must now bravely 'screw your courage to the sticking place;' you are nailed to that chair for the space of two hours and a half at least, without any chance of conversation, except only a few interrupted words, each person speaking occasionally in a low tone to his or her neighbour. The burly Mr. Crack, to whom Mrs. Jackson introduced us, has, as yet, only opened his mouth for the purpose of endeavouring to satisfy his extraordinary appetite; this, however, appears to be labour in vain; he is placed in the middle of the table, and fills the place of two persons, whilst he eats enough for four. As to that soi-disant élégant—that little personage placed next to Miss Maria, who cannot turn his head because of his stiff black stock which keeps it in prison—you will guess by his ridiculous affectation and exaggerated politeness to his neighbours to what sphere he belongs; particularly when, during the dessert, on her asking him the favour to give her an orange, he will take it up between two spoons, one in each hand, his elbows raised and his fingers extended. The only speech which you will have heard him utter was when good Mr. Jackson cried out, after emptying his glass, 'After all, the climate of England is the best in the world!' and he rejoined, 'It is unquestionably true!' Thus pass two hours! However, at last the cloth is removed, and we continue round the well-rubbed or polished mahogany table. At this point of the entertainment Mr. Jackson makes us a bow, pronouncing at the same time a few indistinct words; we all return his bow. This, after dinner, is a regular custom—a sort of agimus tibi gratias, which is thus said in abridgment.
"The table is now covered with crystal, fruit, and flowers, and wine decanters; these are first arranged in battle array before the host; and, at his signal, made by pushing the first round, they begin their promenade of the table, one gentleman sliding them along to the next; the ladies take a little, taste the fruit, and, having occupied some moments in putting on their white gloves, rise, following the example of Mrs. Jackson; we all do the same, but only to conduct them to the door of the room. Here, however, the force of habit makes you forget the recommendation I had given you—you try to escape; but a hand retains you by the tail of your coat; it is that of Mr. Jackson, who observes to you that you have still a bottle of claret to finish with him. Mr. Crack, too, had made a polite effort to rise on the departure of the ladies, but his own weight reseated him; he has now got to the raisins and preserved fruits, etc.
"After another mortal hour a servant enters, and announces that the tea and coffee are taken upstairs; we ascend. Mrs. Jackson advances to us immediately, she asks if we play or sing, and tells us how amiable we should be to do so—this is a request rarely addressed to an Englishman, one is too sure of a reply in the negative. Mrs. Jackson appears very much astonished that neither you nor I can satisfy her in this respect; and, after many protestations in order to convince her, she makes a sign to Miss Dorothy, the great musician of the family, who opens the piano, places her two feet on both the pedals, and begins a confused din, under which the instrument itself seems to suffer. When she has finished you will be much embarrassed to tell me whether it was an adagio, a waltz, or a quadrille which she has favoured us with. But, never mind; like great Mr. Crack, who is seated in his armchair, digesting his dinner, you cry out, 'Delightful!' This is all that is required.
"At length midnight is nearly arrived, and ceremony and restraint, the nous ne savons que faire, still reigns at Mrs. Jackson's; having wished them good-night, let us go!"
In No. XVI. of the Original, September 2, 1835, in an article on the "Art of Dining," there are the following criticisms on contemporary dining, which show that some of the sore points were known then:—
"It appears to me that nothing can be better contrived to defeat its legitimate end than a large dinner-party in the London season—sixteen, for instance. The names of the guests are generally so announced that it is difficult to hear them; and, in the earlier part of the year, the assembling takes place in such obscurity that it is impossible to see. There is often a tedious and stupefying interval of waiting, caused perhaps by some affected fashionable, some important politician, or some gorgeously decked matron, or, it may be, by some culinary accident. At last comes the formal business of descending into the dining-room, where the blaze of light produces by degrees sundry recognitions; but many a slight acquaintance is prevented from being renewed by the chilling mode of assembling. In the long days the light is more favourable, but the waiting is generally more tedious, and half the guests are perhaps leaving the Park when they ought to be sitting down to dinner.
"At table intercourse is prevented as much as possible by a huge centre piece of plate and flowers, which cuts off the one half of the company from the other, and some very awkward mistakes have taken place in consequence, from guests having made personal observations upon those who were actually opposite to them. It seems strange that people should be invited to be hidden from one another. Besides the centre piece, there are usually massive branches to assist in interrupting communication; and perhaps you are placed between two persons with whom you are not acquainted, and have no community of interest to become so.
"When the company is arranged, then comes the perpetual motion of the attendants, the perpetual declining of what you do not want, and the perpetual waiting for what you do, or a silent resignation to your fate. To desire a potato, and to see the dish handed to your next neighbour, and taking its course in a direction from you round an immense table, with occasional retrograde movements and digressions, is one of the unsatisfactory occurrences which frequently take place; but, perhaps, the most distressing incident in a grand dinner is to be asked to take champagne, and, after much delay, to see the butler extract the bottle from a cooler, and hold it nearly parallel to the horizon, in order to calculate how much he is to put into the first glass to leave any for the second. To relieve him and yourself from the chilling difficulty, the only alternative is to change your mind and prefer sherry, which, under the circumstances, has rather an awkward effect. These and an infinity of minor evils are constantly experienced amidst the greatest displays, and they have, from sad experience, made me come to the conclusion that a combination of state and calculation is the horror of horrors. Some good bread and cheese and a jug of ale, comfortably set before me and heartily given, are heaven and earth in comparison.