CHAPTER XVIII.

ACCIDENTAL OR RURAL INVITATIONS.

A PHILOSOPHER of the nineteenth century has very judiciously observed that, in society, it is necessary to know how to avoid three things—namely, a civic comedy, a concert of amateurs, and a dinner without ceremony.

As regards the two first, the evil resulting from them is not without a remedy; all that is necessary is to stop your eyes and ears with your hands. It is different, however, with respect to the third; as one cannot stop the appetite unless by means of a good meal, we ought in charity to put our readers on their guard against an abuse, or rather a calamity, which, in Egypt, and in the time of good Master Potiphar, would have passed for an eighth plague, if it had been known. The question is simply of those kinds of impromptu dinners, known commonly by the name of potluck, dinners, without ceremony, kind of make shift dinners, rural dinners, and what the French call repas sur le pouce, &c. which are frequently neither more nor less than a. real friendly mystification.

We might still class in the list of accidental invitations,—wedding dinners, christenings, breakfasts, burial suppers;—but we shall confine ourselves here solely to those invitations truly unexpected, which are made in the country, and which it is agreed upon to call rural meals.

It is not when the sun, running through the scorching signs of Leo and Virgo, darts upon you his absorbent rays, that you ought to look for invitations, where a dinner upon the grass is the only object. The excessive heat would then do away with the pleasures which you propose to enjoy:—those of enjoying all the delights of the promenade, and of tasting, in the most unlimited sense, the pleasures of the country,—the less so, as you might be able to do this, were you even living in a town, and from which you could only absent yourself but seldom, and then only for a short time.

It is only in the months of June and July that such an invitation, under every consideration, is truly agreeable; earlier, the verdure of the fields is not sufficiently developed; later, it begins to grow yellow; while, at that time, it is in the highest splendour of vegetable beauty. The leaves, even those of the most tardy trees, have taken their increase, and afford a cool and agreeable shade; the grass, which has reached its greatest height, will never present us with a softer or better furnished carpet; the greater part of the flowers are reigning in all their lustre; and the rose, which is known as the queen of all, is never more fresh, nor is its vermillion red in greater splendour and perfection.

Try all you can, then, to get invited, during the months of June and July, to those rural dinners, you, who, tired with being pent up in dark dining-rooms, or at obscure eating houses, breathe, during your meals, no other atmosphere than that of the kitchen, if you wish to renovate nature, and particularly the appetite, by a salutary exercise, and to refresh in some measure your organs by drawing in those beneficent emanations which are exhaled from vegetables, at this season of the year, which is truly that of happiness and pleasure. But in order to enjoy all these advantages, it is not necessary that you should get yourself dragged thither in a travelling box, and almost hermetically closed, from about some hundred paces from the outskirts of the town, where the air is more unwholesome than in the centre of the capital, from being, as it is, composed of the most putrid exhalations, from various causes; besides, travelling in an overloaded coach is not changing air, and is at most but changing place.

The appetite, the first of blessings here below, for an individual accustomed to be invited, must be purchased at some trouble, and would even deserve to be so at some sacrifice. The rich man scarcely knows what appetite is because he does not give it time to grow, and he does nothing to recall it; if he excites it, it is by artificial means, often prejudicial to his health, for which, Nature, almost always,, sooner or later, punishes him, for having encroached upon her rights by endeavouring to walk in her footsteps.

It is not, therefore, in a hackney coach, a cabriolet, or a chaise-cart, nor even in an elegant landau, that you ought to repair to the place of invitation for a rural dinner, but on foot, unless the distance be too great. Ladies alone, and the provisions, have the privilege of, being carried to the appointed place. A veritable rural repast ought to take place in the open air, where there should be no other table than the rich verdure of nature; no other seats than the turf, enamelled with flowers; no other shelter than the trees, whose verdant branches ought to be so interwoven, as not to deprive you of daylight, but at the same time sufficiently so to protect you from the scorching rays of the sun. It is then in the midst of a forest of wood, with thickly tufted trees, where a rural feast ought to be held; every thing ought to be transported thither in large baskets, which we will suppose is a cold dinner, but which, the fire of good wine, your amiable pleasantries, and Anacreontique couplets will not be long in warming. The zest of your enjoyment and your wit ought to be allied to every thing, to render the dinner exquisite though even in itself it should not be worth much.

The Amphitrion, or father of the feast, ought, nevertheless, not to depend too much upon you; he should, beforehand, make an abundant provision of well-selected articles, so that the cold pies, ham, and poultry, dried tongues, Westphalia sausages, pastry, &c. be all packed up in a safe manner; that the wines, such as Burgundy, Roussillon, and Champagne, which give courage to the most timid, and love to the most indifferent, arrive upon the spot safe and sound; that cheering and beneficent Mocha, which facilitates the most laborious digestion, and that half-a-dozen of the best and most fashionable liqueurs, still more powerful, arrive with the guests; and that they be immediately placed in cold water, to keep them cool in the mean time, till they are ready to disappear in the stomachs of the party. Mirth and cheerfulness will not be long in following them; animating conversation, and declarations still more tender, will still be listened to with more eagerness and attention.

A little bal champêtre, at the expense of folly, will doubtless succeed this rural entertainment, over which simple Nature has presided: and you will afterward return home, replete with the sentiment of happiness, esteeming yourself well rewarded at having so joyfully satisfied your appetite, and in the firm resolution of devising other means of getting yourself invited to similar entertainments in the months of June and July.

We shall conclude this chapter with the following admonitions to every host who would render himself agreeable, according to his means, in a plain, economical. John Bull sort of a way. His guests, we are sure, would always find more satisfaction and pleasure at such a table than at the most splendid profusion, at the expense either of his or his family’s happiness:—

1. If you all sorts of persons would engage,

Suit well your eatables to every age.

2. Crowd not your table—let your numbers be

Not more than sev’n, and never less than three.

3. Next, let your discretion moderate your cost,

And when you treat, three courses be the most.

Let never fresh machines your pastry try,

Unless grandees or magistrates are by—

Then you may put a dwarf into a pie.

Or, if you’d fright an alderman and mayor,

Within a pasty lodge a living here;

Then midst their gravest furs shall mirth arise,

And all the guild pursue with joyful cries.

4. Clog not your constant meals, for dishes few

Increase the appetite, when choice and new.

Even they who will extravagance profess,

Have still an inward hatred for excess.

5. The fundamental principle of all,

Is what ingenious* cooks the relish call;

For when the market sends in loads of food,

They are all tasteless till that makes them good.

Besides, ’tis no ignoble piece of care,

To know for whom it is you would prepare:

You’d please a friend, or reconcile a brother;

A testy father, or a haughty mother:

Would mollify a judge, would cram a squire,

Or else some smiles from court you may desire:

Or would perhaps some hasty supper give,

To show the splendid state in which you live.

Pursuant to that interest you propose,

Must all your wines and all your meats be chose.

Let men and manners every dish adapt,

Who ‘d force his pepper where his guests are cl—pt?

6. When straiten’d in your time, and servants few,

You’ll rightly then compose an Ambigue.

When first and second course, and your dessert,

All in one single table have their part;

From such a vast confusion, ’tis delight

To find the jarring elements unite,

And raise a structure grateful to the sight.

7. ’Tis the dessert that graces all the feast,

For an ill end disparages the rest:

A thousand things well done, and one forgot,

Defaces obligation by that blot.

Make your transparent sweetmeats timely rise,

With Indian sugar and Arabian spice;

And let your various creams enriched be,

With swelling fruit just ravish’d from the tree.

Let plates and dishes be from China brought,

With lively paint and earth transparent wrought.

The feast now done, discourses are renew’d,

And witty arguments with mirth pursued;

The cheerful master, midst his jovial friends,

His glass to their best wishes recommends.

The grace cup follows to his sovereign’s health,

And to his country peace and wealth.

Performing then the piety of grace,

Each man that pleasea reassumeshis place;

While at his gate from such abundant store,

He show’rs his godlike blessings on the poor.

And, as a further wind-up to this chapter, we annex the following extract, from the same source; let those appreciate it who may. It contains some excellent practical truths, which it would be well for some people to turn to some practical account. They would guard many an honest and generous heart—not less so because there may be a native weakness, and inherent bonhomie, which exposes it to imposition, deceit, and insult—from being deceived by flattery and want of sincerity. It will also serve as a check to vanity and ambition on the other side; and show the fulsomeness of aspiring to a morbid reputation for qualities which might be acquired through more praiseworthy and lasting channels:—

Some do abound with such a plenteous store,

That if you ‘ll let them treat, they ‘ll ask no more

And, ’tis the vast ambition of the soul,

To see their port admired and table full.

But then, amidst that cringing fawning crowd,

Who talk so very much, and laugh so loud,

Who with such grace his honour’s actions praise;

How well he fences, dances, sings, and plays;

Tell him his liv’ry ‘s rich, his chariot fine;

How choice his meat—how delicate his wine.

Surrounded thus, how should the youth descry

The happiness of friendship from a lie?

Friends eat with caution when sincere,

But flattering impudence is void of care;

So at an Irish funeral appears,

A train of drabs with mercenary tears,

Who, wringing of their hands with hideous moan.

Know not his name for whom they seem to groan;

While real grief with silent steps proceeds,

And love unfeigned with inward passion bleeds.

HARD FATE OF WEALTH! were lords, as butchers,

They from their meat would banish all the flies.

The Persian kings, with wine and massy bowl,

Search’d to the dark recesses of the soul:

That so laid open, no one might pretend,

Unless a man of worth, to be their friend;

But now the guests their patrons undermine,

And slander them for giving them their wine.

Great men have dearly thus companions bought;

Unless by these instructions they ‘ll be taught,

They spread the net, and will themselves be caught.

HORACE’S INVITATION OF TORQUATUS TO SUPPER,

IMITATED.*

(From Dr. King to Dr. Lister.)

Conceiving this to be the most proper place to introduce this appropriate morceau, we shall give it, with some trifling orthographical exceptions, as we find it in the original:—

If Belville can his generous soul confine,

To a small room, few dishes, and some wine,

I shall expect my happiness at nine.

Two bottles of smooth palm, or Angou white,

Shall give a welcome, and prepare delight.

Then for the Bordeaux you may freely ask,

But the champagne is to each man his flask.

I tell you with what force I keep the field,

And if you can exceed it, speak—I’ll yield.

The snow-white damask ensigns are display’d,

And glittering salvers on the sideboard laid.

Thus we ‘ll disperse all busy thoughts and cares,

The genral’s counsels, and the statesman’s fears;

Nor shall sleep reign in that precedent night.

Whose joyful hours lead on the glorious sight,

Sacred to British worth on Blenheim’s fight.

The blessings of good fortune seem refus’d,

Unless sometimes with gen’rous freedom us’d,

’Tis madness, not frugality, prepares

A vast excess of wealth for squandering heirs.

Must I of neither wine nor mirth partake,

Lest the censorious world should call me rake?

Who, unacquainted with the gen’rous wine.

E’er spoke bold truths, or fram’d a great design?

That makes us fancy every face has charms;

That gives us courage, and that finds us arms:

See care disburthen’d, and each tongue employ’d,

The poor grown rich, and every wish enjoy’d.

This [’ll perform, and promise you shall see

A cleanliness from affectation free;

No noise, no hurry, when the meat’s set on;

Or when the dish is chang’d, the servants gone:

For all things ready, nothing more to fetch;

Whate’er you want is in the master’s reach.

Then for the company, I‘ll see it chose,

Their emblematic signal is the ROSE.

If you of Freeman’s raillery approve,

Of Cotton’s laugh, and Warner’s tales of love,

And Ballar’s charming voice may be allowed,

What can you hope for better from a crowd?

But I shall not prescribe, consult your ease,

Write back your men, and number as you please;

Try your back stairs, and let the lobby wait,

A stratagem in war is no deceit.

A TALE OF THE TABLE.

The passion for imitation, for doing as other people do, however foolish, or even contemptible, it may be, is so prevalent, that there is hardly a single person who mixes in the world capable of resisting the impulse he feels to make himself completely ridiculous upon particular occasions. There are a thousand ways in which men may expose themselves by imitation; and few exhibit themselves in a more laughable light than those who are fond of giving entertainments, especially to people who figure in a superior style of life.

The author went, a few days ago, to spend his Christmas Holydays with a friend at his house, in a village not many miles from London. The master of this villa—for every dwelling removed from the metropolis but half a mile, is dignified with that appellation—is a tradesman, and actually keeps a retail shop in town; but as his wife and family are too genteel to breathe the vulgar air of the city, he hired this house, and fitted it up in a tasty manner (as he calls it), that he might enjoy his friends out of the smoke and bustle of London. Among these friends (as they stand in his catalogue), is a man of family, with a title, who is very distantly related to his wife, and who now and then sends for her and the children to dine with him and his lady, when they are denied to every body else—these cousins of theirs not being fit, in their opinion, to be introduced to their company. They do not look upon my shopkeeper as any body, though they always treat him with two courses and a dessert, to keep up their consequence, and to lord it over him, hoping to make him ready to expire with envy at the sight of such a number of elegant dishes and exquisite wines which they had to set before him. Now and then, however, the housekeeper, knowing that no person of rank could possibly be admitted when a man just come from behind the counter was at table, ordered a cold dish, left on the preceding day untouched, or something very common, to nil up a vacant corner on the table.

While they were endeavouring to confound our cousins one day with their grandeur, and to make them stare, they were extremely disappointed; for they had not only the astonishing impudence to sit quite at their ease in their presence, but even presumed to invite them to dinner with them. At first they hesitated, in consequence of their surprise at the freedom which my tradesman took to put himself upon an equality with people of their rank; but, upon his being entirely unembarrassed by the refusal, and repeatedly pressing them, they began to impute the apparent vanity in him to its true motive, the want of being better acquainted with the rules of propriety, and thought they might enjoy some diverting scenes by complying with his entreaties, from the exposure of his vulgarities, as the town was empty, and nothing going forward capitally ridiculous in their own line.

In compliance, therefore, with their cousin’s invitation, these people of fashion agreed to eat a bit of mutton with them in the Christmas week, as they had then few elegant visits to make, and as few elegant diversions that excited their attention. This prodigious favour being granted, the mistress of the villa, as soon as she was informed that such guests were to dine with her, began to make preparations for their reception; and finding that the village did not afford variety enough for an entertainment fit for such personages, the husband was commissioned to send down from London fish, purchased at an exorbitant price, a turkey and chine, reindeer tongues, and several other costly things for the palate; while Mrs. Busy and her family set themselves to make jellies, syllabubs, cakes, and sweetmeats, &c. in such abundance, that one would have imagined they were preparing a Lord Mayor’s feast: and so eager were they to have every thing right, that from the excess of their anxiety on this extraordinary occasion, almost every thing was wrong. When they had procured a sufficient number of eatables, their next care was concerning the place in which they were to be eaten. A warm debate ensued, that lasted near two hours and a half, in which the disputants could not determine upon the apartment that would be most eligible for the occasion, the parlour or the dining-room.

This debate, between man and wife, was carried on with such vigour and volubility, that we may safely say, with Mrs. Mincing, “I really thought they would have fought!” They did not indeed absolutely come to blows, but I am not sure whether the conjugal conflict of that day will not lay the basis of a separation.

Mrs. Busy insisted upon the parlour as being the most proper room to dine in. On the other hand, Mr. Busy strenuously contended for the dining-room as the fittest place, from the very name, by which it is distinguished from every other room in the house, as well as from its size. The parlour, he affirmed, was not large enough to afford them elbow-room. The lady, however, by mere dint of vociferation, gained her point; the cloth, therefore, was ordered to be laid in the parlour.

Upon reckoning up the dishes which were to make the first course, the belligerents found, after all, that they had not a table large enough for the purpose. Mrs. Busy was for having one purchased imimediately in London, and sent down; but Mr. Busy, who began to feel the expense of entertaining’ great people, said that a couple of small tables set close together would not be noticed when they were covered with the cloth. This proposal being assented to, though with great reluctance, no cloth was found of sufficient size. Mr. Busy then proposed the junction of two cloths, to which Mrs. B. strongly objected, as a mean and shabby mode of proceeding; declaring that a tablecloth could be no loss, and might be wanted on other occasions; a new cloth was, therefore, procured. But new difficulties arose; they soon found that they had not knives and forks enough for so many changes; they also found that they wanted a few dozen more plates; the wineglasses were pronounced old-fashioned, and an additional number of bottle-stands were to be provided, which, with mugs, jugs, trays, and tankards, required almost as much money as the new-furnishing their house.

While these expensive necessaries were being sent backwards and forwards, the operations within doors went on very indifferently; the jellies were not clear, the creams turned to cards and whey, the sweatmeats were ropy, from the present badness of the sugar; in short, the wines were cloudy, the ale was muddy, and there was nothing hut finding fault and disputing for a whole week, in every part of the family; so that the quarrels alone, setting aside the enormous sums appropriated to the projected entertainment, made every body exceedingly uncomfortable.

The long-expected day at length arrived; a day of dressing, cookery, hurry, and confusion—every body concerned in it seemed to be out of his element. As great people never dine early, the dinner was ordered at four o’clock, that is, two hours later than usual. This new regulation affected the subterraneous part of the family in a very sensible manner—their hunger produced anger, and this anger was not a little increased, as they waited full three quarters of an hour after the time appointed; they were obliged to put back the spits, and to take the saucepans off the fire, while the fricandeaux, ragouts, and mock-turtle, &c. were stewing till they lost all their flavour.

At length, when the whole dinner was completely spoiled, Sir John, my Lady, and Miss P., an honourable friend of her ladyship’s, with Captain S., a creature of the baronet, arrived in a vis-á-vis, and a chariot, attended by such a retinue, that Mrs. Busy’s maid and boy, with the people they had hired to assist in the kitchen, soon found there would not be victuals enough for the lower gentry, and sent out for a large leg of mutton, to be roasted, with potatoes, for the servants; at which they all turned up their noses, while the great folks, in the parlour, sniffed in their turn.—My lady exclaimed,—”Lard, Mr. Busy! how came you to put yourself to so much trouble and expense:” declaring, at the same time, she could never make a tolerable dinner without half a dozen things at least; making all the while signs of disgust at Miss P., and calling for brandy and water every third mouthful. Sir John and the captain tossed down half-pint bumpers of Madeira, till their ‘wit began to burn;’ and from the brisk circulation of the spirituous liquors before them, they soon drank themselves into an inflamed state.

No sooner had the ladies endeavoured to settle their heads with a dish of coffee (which they freely declared, had not the least flavour in the world); they ordered their carriages; and having sufficiently convinced their entertainers, by indubitable tokens of contempt, that they heartily despised them for pretending to make a dinner for them, drove off, laughing loudly at the bustle they had occasioned in the tradesman’s family; saying, and very justly, that such people deserved all the ridicule they brought upon themselves, by attempting things so entirely out of their sphere—so totally out of the reach of their abilities.

When their fashionable guests were gone, Mr. and Mrs. Busy began to reproach each other for the depredations which the entertainment of the day had occasioned, and for the sums expended in support of it. However, as they bad not been able to eat much at dinner, in consequence of their attention to Sir.John and my Lady, (the latter of whom, declared more than once, that it had made her sick to see the mistress of the house thrust her great, red, greasy fist into the dish; and, that for her part, she always helped every body with a spoon, and in her gloves,) they unanimously agreed to collect the fragments of the feast together, and to make the most of them at supper. As for myself, being surfeited with the over-acted delicacy of the baronet and his corps, and sorry to see my foolish friends attempt to put themselves on a footing with people whom they should have most cordially despised, I returned to my own apartment, with the determination never to give the greatest friend I had in the world any thing better than a beef-steak, or a mutton-chop, with a hearty welcome—or none at all.

* I hope it will not be taken ill by the wits that I call my cooks by the title of ingenious; for I cannot imagine why cooks may not be as well read as any other persons. I am sure their apprentices, of late years, have had very great opportunities of improvement; and men of the first pretences to literature have been very liberal, and sent in their contributions very largely; they have been very serviceable, both to spit and oven; and, for these twelve months past, while Dr. Wotton and his modern learning was defending piecrust from scorching, his dear friend, Dr. Bentley, with his Phalaris, has been singing of capons. Not that this was occasioned by any superfluity, or tediousness of their writings, or mutual commendations; but it was found out by some worthy patriots, to make the labours of the two Doctors, as far as possible, to become useful lo the public.—Art of Cookery, 2d edit.

* Epist 5, lib. 1.