Half the public dinners are attended by women nowadays, and yet women did not even dine at the tables of their lords and masters in the eighteenth century. They then took a back seat. Now in the twentieth century women with common interests bind themselves together into societies, recognising that “union is strength,” and they too follow the tradition of ages, and preserve the sacred English habit of organising dinners.
Is there any more thoroughly British custom, institution, or act of national feeling, than a dinner? Heroes, potentates, benefactors to mankind, are given a mighty Guildhall feast by the Chief Representative of our great capital—the mightiest in the world. Other nations hold banquets, but with them wreaths and ribbons are more to the fore than turtle soup and barons of beef.
One public dinner that afforded me personally special pleasure was given by the New Vagabond Club, on my return from my first visit to Mexico, when a great compliment was paid me. Following their custom, the Vagabonds had singled out two writers of recent books to be honoured. The one, Sir Gilbert Parker, as author of his great novel The Right of Way, as their guest, and myself in the chair, because Mexico as I saw It was kindly considered (to quote the cards of invitation) “one of the best travel-books of the year.” We numbered three hundred. Modesty forbids repetition of the speeches. Obituary notices and speeches are always laudatory.
At another New Vagabond Dinner held at the Hotel Cecil, I remember being much amused by a young officer of the Königin Augusta Garde in Berlin, who was my guest. We had barely taken our seats when a deep sonorous voice roared forth:
“Pray, silence for his Lordship the Bishop of ——.”
“What a splendid voice that gentleman has,” exclaimed my German friend.
“It is the toast-master,” I replied.
“Toast?” he said, “but that is something to eat,” and before further explanation was possible the Bishop began to say grace, and everyone stood up.
“Is this the King’s health?” asked the Baron, lifting his empty glass.
“No, it’s grace,” I answered.