All public dinners in London, from the Lord Mayor’s annual banquet at
Guildhall, to the Chimney-sweepers’ anniversary at White Conduit House;
from the Goldsmiths’ to the Butchers’, from the Sheriffs’ to the
Licensed Victuallers’; are amusing scenes. Of all entertainments of
this description, however, we think the annual dinner of some public
charity is the most amusing. At a Company’s dinner, the people are
nearly all alike—regular old stagers, who make it a matter of business,
and a thing not to be laughed at. At a political dinner, everybody is
disagreeable, and inclined to speechify—much the same thing,
by-the-bye; but at a charity dinner you see people of all sorts, kinds,
and descriptions. The wine may not be remarkably special, to be sure,
and we have heard some hardhearted monsters grumble at the collection;
but we really think the amusement to be derived from the occasion,
sufficient to counterbalance even these disadvantages.
Let us suppose you are induced to attend a dinner of this
description—‘Indigent Orphans’ Friends’ Benevolent Institution,’ we
think it is. The name of the charity is a line or two longer, but never
mind the rest. You have a distinct recollection, however, that you
purchased a ticket at the solicitation of some charitable friend: and
you deposit yourself in a hackney-coach, the driver of which—no doubt
that you may do the thing in style—turns a deaf ear to your earnest
entreaties to be set down at the corner of Great Queen-street, and
persists in carrying you to the very door of the Freemasons’, round
which a crowd of people are assembled to witness the entrance of the
indigent orphans’ friends. You hear great speculations as you pay the
fare, on the possibility of your being the noble Lord who is announced
to fill the chair on the occasion, and are highly gratified to hear it
eventually decided that you are only a ‘wocalist.’
The first thing that strikes you, on your entrance, is the astonishing
importance of the committee. You observe a door on the first landing,
carefully guarded by two waiters, in and out of which stout gentlemen
with very red faces keep running, with a degree of speed highly
unbecoming the gravity of persons of their years and corpulency. You
pause, quite alarmed at the bustle, and thinking, in your innocence,
that two or three people must have been carried out of the dining-room
in fits, at least. You are immediately undeceived by the
waiter—‘Up-stairs, if you please, sir; this is the committee-room.’
Up-stairs you go, accordingly; wondering, as you mount, what the duties
of the committee can be, and whether they ever do anything beyond
confusing each other, and running over the waiters.
Having deposited your hat and cloak, and received a remarkably small
scrap of pasteboard in exchange (which, as a matter of course, you
lose, before you require it again), you enter the hall, down which
there are three long tables for the less distinguished guests, with a
cross table on a raised platform at the upper end for the reception of
the very particular friends of the indigent orphans. Being fortunate
enough to find a plate without anybody’s card in it, you wisely seat
yourself at once, and have a little leisure to look about you. Waiters,
with wine-baskets in their hands, are placing decanters of sherry down
the tables, at very respectable distances; melancholy-looking
salt-cellars, and decayed vinegar-cruets, which might have belonged to
the parents of the indigent orphans in their time, are scattered at
distant intervals on the cloth; and the knives and forks look as if
they had done duty at every public dinner in London since the accession
of George the First. The musicians are scraping and grating and
screwing tremendously—playing no notes but notes of preparation; and
several gentlemen are gliding along the sides of the tables, looking
into plate after plate with frantic eagerness, the expression of their
countenances growing more and more dismal as they meet with everybody’s
card but their own.
You turn round to take a look at the table behind you, and—not being in
the habit of attending public dinners—are somewhat struck by the
appearance of the party on which your eyes rest. One of its principal
members appears to be a little man, with a long and rather inflamed
face, and gray hair brushed bolt upright in front; he wears a wisp of
black silk round his neck, without any stiffener, as an apology for a
neckerchief, and is addressed by his companions by the familiar
appellation of ‘Fitz,’ or some such monosyllable. Near him is a stout
man in a white neckerchief and buff waistcoat, with shining dark hair,
cut very short in front, and a great, round, healthy-looking face, on
which he studiously preserves a half sentimental simper. Next him,
again, is a large-headed man, with black hair and bushy whiskers; and
opposite them are two or three others, one of whom is a little
round-faced person, in a dress-stock and blue under-waistcoat. There is
something peculiar in their air and manner, though you could hardly
describe what it is; you cannot divest yourself of the idea that they
have come for some other purpose than mere eating and drinking. You
have no time to debate the matter, however, for the waiters (who have
been arranged in lines down the room, placing the dishes on table)
retire to the lower end; the dark man in the blue coat and bright
buttons, who has the direction of the music, looks up to the gallery,
and calls out ‘band’ in a very loud voice; out burst the orchestra, up
rise the visitors, in march fourteen stewards, each with a long wand in
his hand, like the evil genius in a pantomime; then the chairman, then
the titled visitors; they all make their way up the room, as fast as
they can, bowing, and smiling, and smirking, and looking remarkably
amiable. The applause ceases, grace is said, the clatter of plates and
dishes begins; and every one appears highly gratified, either with the
presence of the distinguished visitors, or the commencement of the
anxiously-expected dinner.
As to the dinner itself—the mere dinner—it goes off much the same
everywhere. Tureens of soup are emptied with awful rapidity—waiters
take plates of turbot away, to get lobster-sauce, and bring back plates
of lobster-sauce without turbot; people who can carve poultry, are
great fools if they own it, and people who can’t have no wish to learn.
The knives and forks form a pleasing accompaniment to Auber’s music,
and Auber’s music would form a pleasing accompaniment to the dinner, if
you could hear anything besides the cymbals. The substantials
disappear—moulds of jelly vanish like lightning—hearty eaters wipe
their foreheads, and appear rather overcome by their recent
exertions—people who have looked very cross hitherto, become remarkably
bland, and ask you to take wine in the most friendly manner
possible—old gentlemen direct your attention to the ladies’ gallery,
and take great pains to impress you with the fact that the charity is
always peculiarly favoured in this respect—every one appears disposed
to become talkative—and the hum of conversation is loud and general.
‘Pray, silence, gentlemen, if you please, for _Non nobis_!’ shouts the
toast-master with stentorian lungs—a toast-master’s shirt-front,
waistcoat, and neckerchief, by-the-bye, always exhibit three distinct
shades of cloudy-white.—‘Pray, silence, gentlemen, for _Non nobis_!’
The singers, whom you discover to be no other than the very party that
excited your curiosity at first, after ‘pitching’ their voices
immediately begin _too-too_ing most dismally, on which the regular old
stagers burst into occasional cries of—‘Sh—Sh—waiters!—Silence,
waiters—stand still, waiters—keep back, waiters,’ and other exorcisms,
delivered in a tone of indignant remonstrance. The grace is soon
concluded, and the company resume their seats. The uninitiated portion
of the guests applaud _Non nobis_ as vehemently as if it were a capital
comic song, greatly to the scandal and indignation of the regular
diners, who immediately attempt to quell this sacrilegious approbation,
by cries of ‘Hush, hush!’ whereupon the others, mistaking these sounds
for hisses, applaud more tumultuously than before, and, by way of
placing their approval beyond the possibility of doubt, shout
‘_Encore_!’ most vociferously.
The moment the noise ceases, up starts the toast-master:—‘Gentlemen,
charge your glasses, if you please!’ Decanters having been handed
about, and glasses filled, the toast-master proceeds, in a regular
ascending
scale:—‘Gentlemen—_air_—you—all charged? Pray—silence—gentlemen—for—the
cha-i-r!’ The chairman rises, and, after stating that he feels it quite
unnecessary to preface the toast he is about to propose, with any
observations whatever, wanders into a maze of sentences, and flounders
about in the most extraordinary manner, presenting a lamentable
spectacle of mystified humanity, until he arrives at the words,
‘constitutional sovereign of these realms,’ at which elderly gentlemen
exclaim ‘Bravo!’ and hammer the table tremendously with their
knife-handles. ‘Under any circumstances, it would give him the greatest
pride, it would give him the greatest pleasure—he might almost say, it
would afford him satisfaction [cheers] to propose that toast. What must
be his feelings, then, when he has the gratification of announcing,
that he has received her Majesty’s commands to apply to the Treasurer
of her Majesty’s Household, for her Majesty’s annual donation of 25_l._
in aid of the funds of this charity!’ This announcement (which has been
regularly made by every chairman, since the first foundation of the
charity, forty-two years ago) calls forth the most vociferous applause;
the toast is drunk with a great deal of cheering and knocking; and ‘God
save the Queen’ is sung by the ‘professional gentlemen;’ the
unprofessional gentlemen joining in the chorus, and giving the national
anthem an effect which the newspapers, with great justice, describe as
‘perfectly electrical.’
The other ‘loyal and patriotic’ toasts having been drunk with all due
enthusiasm, a comic song having been well sung by the gentleman with
the small neckerchief, and a sentimental one by the second of the
party, we come to the most important toast of the evening—‘Prosperity
to the charity.’ Here again we are compelled to adopt newspaper
phraseology, and to express our regret at being ‘precluded from giving
even the substance of the noble lord’s observations.’ Suffice it to
say, that the speech, which is somewhat of the longest, is rapturously
received; and the toast having been drunk, the stewards (looking more
important than ever) leave the room, and presently return, heading a
procession of indigent orphans, boys and girls, who walk round the
room, curtseying, and bowing, and treading on each other’s heels, and
looking very much as if they would like a glass of wine apiece, to the
high gratification of the company generally, and especially of the lady
patronesses in the gallery. _Exeunt_ children, and re-enter stewards,
each with a blue plate in his hand. The band plays a lively air; the
majority of the company put their hands in their pockets and look
rather serious; and the noise of sovereigns, rattling on crockery, is
heard from all parts of the room.
After a short interval, occupied in singing and toasting, the secretary
puts on his spectacles, and proceeds to read the report and list of
subscriptions, the latter being listened to with great attention. ‘Mr.
Smith, one guinea—Mr. Tompkins, one guinea—Mr. Wilson, one guinea—Mr.
Hickson, one guinea—Mr. Nixon, one guinea—Mr. Charles Nixon, one
guinea—[hear, hear!]—Mr. James Nixon, one guinea—Mr. Thomas Nixon, one
pound one [tremendous applause]. Lord Fitz Binkle, the chairman of the
day, in addition to an annual donation of fifteen pounds—thirty guineas
[prolonged knocking: several gentlemen knock the stems off their
wine-glasses, in the vehemence of their approbation]. Lady, Fitz
Binkle, in addition to an annual donation of ten pound—twenty pound’
[protracted knocking and shouts of ‘Bravo!’] The list being at length
concluded, the chairman rises, and proposes the health of the
secretary, than whom he knows no more zealous or estimable individual.
The secretary, in returning thanks, observes that _he_ knows no more
excellent individual than the chairman—except the senior officer of the
charity, whose health _he_ begs to propose. The senior officer, in
returning thanks, observes that _he_ knows no more worthy man than the
secretary—except Mr. Walker, the auditor, whose health _he_ begs to
propose. Mr. Walker, in returning thanks, discovers some other
estimable individual, to whom alone the senior officer is inferior—and
so they go on toasting and lauding and thanking: the only other toast
of importance being ‘The Lady Patronesses now present!’ on which all
the gentlemen turn their faces towards the ladies’ gallery, shouting
tremendously; and little priggish men, who have imbibed more wine than
usual, kiss their hands and exhibit distressing contortions of visage.
We have protracted our dinner to so great a length, that we have hardly
time to add one word by way of grace. We can only entreat our readers
not to imagine, because we have attempted to extract some amusement
from a charity dinner, that we are at all disposed to underrate, either
the excellence of the benevolent institutions with which London
abounds, or the estimable motives of those who support them.