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FEW subjects were more popular with the caricaturists of the last century than the public dinnertable. Collectors of prints and etchings must be familiar with the scenes of the festive board which afforded such infinite scope for the humorous fancy of the artist. Dinners and the people who eat them were satirised unmercifully. Public personages noted for the conviviality of their tastes were presented under the thinnest of disguises in the full enjoyment of the bottle and the haunch. tended cheeks, noses of a superb mulberry hue, and hue, and paunches swollen to the last limits of endurance, betokened the zeal with which they had ministered to the wants of that insatiable deity profanely known as "Number One." The floor strewn with the fragments of port bottles, broken plates, and rejected viands, spoke of the ardour of the attack; while from the walls of the apartment plethoric diners of the previous generations were pourtrayed as looking down in approval on the religious observance of the customs which themselves had handed down.

It is perhaps not unworthy of note that subjects of this kind have not attracted equal attention among the comic artists of the present day.

Even the so-called satirical journals have sought in other directions for the subject-matter of their cartoons and verbal portraits. The dinner-table is let alone; and why?

Is it because we have ceased to dine in public? On the contrary, until within the last year or two, when the scarcity of money has forced gourmands of all classes to satisfy themselves more easily with the dishes of the family cook, public dinners were never known in such multiplied variety.

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And even at this moment, when the universal cry is that money is as tight as it can be, God bless you," it is remarkable upon how slight a pretext the appetising art of M. le Chef is called into requisition, and the champagne fetched up from the dusky recesses of the cellar.

The only answer is that we dine more moderately, with less of gluttony, less of wine-bibbing, less of riotous extravagance, than in the days gone by. We have certainly not been cured of our propensity for good living; and public dinners enjoy perhaps greater popularity to-day than at any pre

vious time.

Dining, as distinguished from the supply of bare necessity, is in fact a thoroughly English institution. The love of it is universal as the love of horseflesh; it is found running right through what has been graphically called a vertical section of society. The directors of a company meet for the transaction of a little special business; and very fatiguing are these snug little commercial meetings to the gentlemen who take part in them, demanding that lunch "the barest trifle, a mere

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snack, you know"-should be served in the adjoining room. we glance down through the social grades till we come to the labouring classes, we find workmen at their annual holiday, with only a few hours to devote to feasting in the whole year, punctiliously going through all the solemn forms of a regular banquet, with the usual toasts from that of "Her Gracious Majesty," down to "Our able and esteemed Secretary, long may he be spared to us." We propose to deal more particularly with the institution of dining as it is found in perfection in its historic home, where the fabled aldermen do congregate.

The city is no less the centre of conviviality than of of commerce. There are certain famous taverns, hotels, and restaurants around which cling traditions of an age of festivities. The older houses especially-their names will occur to many possess reputations which extend wherever the pleasures of good living are held in esteem. This one is known to every gourmand in the country as famous for its turtle soup; that one has a name for choice brands of wine; and this, again, is fondly remembered for the peculiar excellences of a pasty, the verv memory of which shall cause the eye to roll and the mouth to water.

Presumably there are few persons confessing to a weakness for a good dinner who have not, at some time or another, dined in public in the City. Everybody abuses City dinners, and everybody has fished for an invitation. Probably the quantity of abuse which is heaped upon the practice is in inverse ratio to the amount of success attendant upon the efforts to procure a ticket; and we know there are times when the moral enormity of assisting at a City

dinner presents itself in an unusually strong light.

Many different aspects arise under which it is possible to look at the custom of eating one's dinner in public. In the first place there is the social aspect. Public dinners are, to a certain extent, instruments for the promotion of social and friendly intercourse. This is a consideration which ought not to be lightly held in seasons when the pressure of daily life tends more and more to exclude men from the society of their fellows. It is the argument urged in favour of public festivals by many who are no friends of gluttony, that, were it not for the opportunity of their two or three feasts in the year, they would become strangers to their oldest friends. Then there are the social reunions of countrymen in London-the "United Brethren of Scotland," or "the Friends of Old Ireland," would know little of each other but for the occasion of their annual festival. Public charities would become mere abstractions to many of their subscribers if it were not for the chance afforded at the yearly dinner of hearing the chairman's statement of affairs. Many men know the charity to which they subscribe only as an aggregate of so many good fellows whom they meet at dinner once in the twelve months.

do not know what Livery dinners really are. But in order that public dining should assist in the spread of social communion, it is surely necessary that the diners should be constantly greeted by new faces instead of being confronted month after month, year after year, by a monotony of too familiar counte

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nances. "I've dined in this 'ere hall, in this 'ere seat for a matter o' fifty years," said a very ancient stager to his neighbour in the gratified tones of one who was unbosoming the story of a life spent in the public service. The old gentleman (who, by the way, carried out purple in the face before the cheese came on), was proud to number his years by the dinners he had eaten under the portraits which hung above him of his father and grandfather, who had doubt. less fed even to the purple stage before him.

But it is quite possible to make a fair and honest case for the City Companies in regard to the frequency and magnificence of their entertainments. They claim, and with justice, that they are the representatives of ancestors who from time immemorial have been the dispensers of hospitality in the city of London. Even at this day they occupy a position similar to that held by the first nobleman of a county. The duke has innumerable calls upon his liberality which the eminence of his station obliges him to respond to. His castle is the centre of hospitality in the neighbourhood; he must at certain periods keep open house, and offer the resources of his establishment to his guests. So the guilds of the City are to the trading classes of London what the nobleman and the county families are to the County population. Certain high duties devolve upon them of keeping up traditions of banquetingduties which one is bound to say

are fulfilled with sumptuous exactness. A dinner with one of the best Companies is an event in the life of any ordinary person. Indeed, the exclusiveness of these entertainments is such that the securing of a card of invitation by a complete outsider is almost an impossibility. Royal personages, statesmen, and dignitaries of the Church are the frequent guests of the master and wardens. The male members of our royal family have shown themselves particularly partial to dining in public, a fact which some consider goes far to account for the popularity which they enjoy. The last Duke of Cambridge, father of the Commander-in-Chief, was a noted bon vivant, and so free from princely preju dices in his dining that he would take the chair at any charity festival, and drink his burgundy with democratic relish.

With regard, by the way, to the livery companies, it is interesting to note the number of M.P.'s who are just now lending their dignity to grace the dinner-tables of these bodies. The fact, taken in conjunction with that other fact of the inquisitiveness which is arising as to the amount of disposable funds in the keeping of the companies, has a certain significance of its own: a significance which is increased by the earnestness with which the master, in proposing the "Houses of Parliament, coupled with the name of our honoured guest, the member for," expresses his hope that, "should any question arise in that august body which you represent, as to the use we make of the great wealth at our disposal, you, sir, will know how to resent such improper curiosity." (Loud applause from all liverymen.)

The social argument, we have said, may be pushed too far. Public dinners serve well the pur

pose of keeping alive friendships which are already formed, but it is remarkable how little they fulfil the functions of making strangers acquainted with one another. Placed between two persons whom you don't know, and who don't betray the least desire to know you, you are as completely isolated as though you were dining, solus, on the top of the monument, or in the middle of Sahara. The comicality of such a situation is only equalled by its distress. Your neighbours address themselves only to their viands (and to the waiter) ignoring your presence as entirely as though you were an extra pepper-box. You will be very careful, moreover, in the efforts which you make to draw one or other of your sphinx-like companions from their reserve. With the best intentions in the world you might tread upon a moral, a political, or a religious corn of such extreme sensibility that the owner would tingle with pain and suppressed indignation during the rest of the evening, rendering all possibility of conversation absurd. It would be repellant, for instance, to receive in reply to a tentative inquiry, "Have you seen Mr Irving and Miss Terry in the Lady of Lyons?" a frigid rejoinder from the one on your right that he was a "Christian man, and never went to such places," and immediately afterwards to learn of him further from the one on the left that he was a leading light amongst the Evangelicals, who would consider you a lost sheep henceforth. Such people really ought to wear some badge of their opinions, which would prevent the innocent blind from running against them in this way.

There is nothing so hopelessly dismal as to find oneself in the midst either of a party of old friends who talk persistently upon

subjects of interest only to themselves, or of a group who talk to everybody about everything.

And this leads up to a second consideration of public dinners as curious examples of the willingness of Englishmen to submit to voluntary boredom. For there is no question that it is possible to be more intolerably bored at the dinner-table than anywhere else. People put themselves to endless trouble to secure invitations, but, to judge by the expression of relief which overspreads their faces when dinner is over, and the last toast given, their labours would seem to have met with an incomplete reward. The reason partly is that with some men dining is a duty; it is expected of them as much as the appearance in the family pew on Sunday. So they exert themselves to go; and swallow the regulation quantity of soup, and drink the Queen, and make the time-honoured joke in the toast they are called upon to give, and are very heartily glad when the whole affair is over. Solemnity is the true, if anomalous, character of a good many City feasts-gorgeous in their display, and profuse in their delicaciesa solemnity which is made the more apparent by the avowedly festive character of the proceedings. From this the transition is natural to a third aspect, under which we may turn to view the festive boards of the City-the gluttonous aspect. And here we may at once range ourselves on the side of the diners, and pronounce in favour of the moderation which attends all public ceremonies of a festive character. Gluttony is a blemish of the past; it expired in the three-bottle heroes. It is not of course intended to claim for each individual member of any public dinner party that he eats his dinner wholly and unexceptionally like a gentleman and a Christian;

but this much is to be insisted upon with emphasis, that, whereas gormandising was the distinguishing characteristic of the dinners of the past, it is now the exception which can only be brought home to a few particular cases. Eating in public is marked by as much good taste and decency as the meals in a well-ordered family. The dishes are so numerous and varied that one may choose his favourite morsel and dine with the frugality of an ascetic; and the very abundance of good things necessitates moderation. Public functionaries whom duty takes as many as five nights of the week to the festive board, are often amongst the most frugal of livers. Abstention becomes second nature when one's usual dinner consists of from twenty to thirty courses. A recent Lord Mayor, no ascetic, drank no wine during his year of office. His predecessor had a mutton chop always placed before him when he dined in public. Both Lord Mayor and sheriffs, half of whose official reign consists in eating dinners (there is a good deal of real work in the other half, though) are always attended by their own servants, whose duty it is to see that their masters dine as comfortably and regularly as is compatible with public feasting. Abstention, or at any rate, moderation, is indeed the general rule. The same with the use of wine. A tipsy diner is a curiosity, and where found will usually turn out to be a friend brought in by a regular member, who has profited by the unwonted opportunity. The popular idea prevails that charity dinners are occasions of unlimited gluttony to the men who attend them; but this again is a falsity. As a matter of fact, many of those who go to charitable festivals find a dinner little superior to that which they have left at home, and are there, as we have already

said, for motives of interest in the charitable institution, or in the hope of meeting old friends. Many subscribers prefer to send their guinea, and dine at home, sending a clerk, who acts as a willing substitute. The question is often put, "Why, then, not spend the money on the charity, instead of on the dinner?" Well, in some exalted sphere in which charities could be worked without the assistance of human machinery, the possibility of this might be allowed. But as we have to carry on our charitable institutions by the aid of human beings, we must be content to take all the ordinary human agencies along, and reconcile ourselves to the fact that we have not yet arrived at that perfect state in which the ideas of charity and feasting shall be inseparably divorced.

But the individual gourmand is not yet an extinct being. There are few dinner-tables which his presence does not offend. The waiters know him of old: they scent him from afar. He is acquainted with the excellences and the defects in the cookery of every tavern of note in the city. He knows the quality of every dish upon the menu: there is no mystery for him in the most incomprehensible of French names. He takes his seat at the table with the manner of one who has a great duty before him, and who intends fulfilling it to the uttermost. He opens his menu, places it against the decanter in front of him, and tucks his napkin under his chin. By these preliminaries you may know him; and it will be well that you should recognise him at the first so as to spare yourself the trouble of trying to engage him in conversation; for he is there not to talk but to eat. Running his eye down the card, he ticks his favourite dishes, and, buttonholing the waiter, begins to worry him forthwith.