EVENING PARTIES.
Having made out a list of the persons you intend to invite, proceed to
write the notes; or have them written in a neat, handsome hand, by an
experienced calligrapher. Fashion, in its various changes, sometimes
decrees that these notes, and their envelopes, shall be perfectly plain,
(though always of the finest paper,) and that the wax seals shall of
course be very small. At other times, the mode is to write on embossed
note paper, with bordered envelopes, secured by fancy wafers,
transparent, medallion, gold or silver. If the seals are gold or silver,
the edges or borders of the paper should be also gilt or silvered.
Sometimes, for a very large or splendid party, the notes are engraved
and printed on cards. Consult the Directory, to obtain the _exact_
address of those to whom you send them.
These invitations may be transmitted by one of the City post-offices;
first putting a stamp on each. Let the stamps be such as will leave
nothing additional to be paid by the receiver. If they go through the
United States Post-Office, the carrier will require another cent for
each, beside the stamp. In Philadelphia, Blood’s Dispatch Post may be
trusted, as to punctuality, (if faithfully put into the letter-box at
the proper time;) and there is no cost but that of the penny stamp which
you put on yourself.
Another way is to send round the notes by a reliable servant-man of your
own; or to engage, for this purpose, one of the public waiters that are
hired to attend at parties. The notes are usually sent either eight,
seven, or six days before the party—if it is to be very large, ten days
or two weeks. In the notes, always specify not only the day of the week,
but also the day of the month, when the party is to take place. It is
very customary now to designate the hour of assembling, and then the
company are expected to be punctual to that time. People, _really
genteel_, do not go ridiculously late. When a ball is intended, let the
word “Dancing” be introduced in small letters, at the lower left-hand
corner of the note.
For a bridal party, subsequent to a wedding, the words now used are
thus—
MR. AND MRS. S. M. MORLAND,
At Home, on Thursday evening, Sept. 22, 1853.
Their residence must be given beneath, in a corner, and in smaller
letters.
Oblong slices of plumb-cake, iced all over, are now sent round in very
pretty white card-board boxes, exactly fitting each slice, covered on
the inside with lace-paper, and an engraved card of the bride and groom
laid on the top of the cake. These boxes (to be had at the fancy
stationers,) are of various prices; some of them are very elegant and
costly.
At wedding-parties, it is usual for the bride and bridesmaids to appear
in exactly the same dresses they wore at the marriage; all of them
ranged in their respective stations before the company begin to arrive.
When the marriage-guests are not too numerous, it is customary to have
all the company shown into the largest parlour, when they first arrive;
the folding-doors being closed between. Meanwhile, the bride and groom,
bridesmaids and groomsmen, with the heads of the family, arrange
themselves in a line or a semi-circle; the most important personages in
the centre, with the clergyman in front of them. When all is ready, the
doors are thrown open, the guests advance, and the ceremony begins. When
it is over, and the bride is receiving the compliments of her friends,
we hope the silliest woman present will not go up and ask her the
foolish question, “If she does not feel already like an old married
woman?”
A crowd at a wedding is now obsolete. We once heard of a marriage in a
great family, where the company was so numerous that all the doors were
blocked up, and quite inaccessible; and the bride could only make her
entrance by being taken round outside, and lifted through a back
window—the groom jumping in after her.
Dancing at weddings is old-fashioned. A band of music playing in the
hall is of no use, as on such occasions no one listens to it, and some
complain of the noise. We think a marriage in church is not as fine a
spectacle as may be imagined. The effect is lost in the size of the
building, and broken up by the intervention of the aisles and pews; the
wedding guests seated in the latter, and the former occupied by people
out of the street, coming in to see the show. And this they will do, if
not forcibly excluded; particularly idle boys, and nurse-maids with
children, all trying to get as near the altar as possible.
If the bride and groom are to set out on a journey immediately after the
ceremony, it is best for her to be married in a handsome
travelling-dress—new for the occasion, of course. This is often done
now. She can reserve the usual wedding costume for her first party after
returning home.
In preparing for a party, it is well (especially if you have had but
little experience yourself,) to send for one of the _best_ public
waiters, and consult with him on the newest style of “doing these
things.” A respectable coloured man will be found the most efficient for
this purpose. He can also give you an idea of the probable expense. We
do not, of course, allude to magnificent entertainments, such as are
celebrated in the newspapers, and become a nine days’ wonder; and are
cited as costing, not hundreds, but thousands of dollars.
In case the required waiter should be pre-engaged, it is well to send
for, and consult him, a week or two before your party.
We knew a lady who, some years ago, sent for Carroll, (a very excellent
mulatto man, well known in Philadelphia,) to officiate at a projected
party. Carroll, in very polite terms, expressed that he was engaged for
that identical evening to attend at a ball. “Then,” said the lady, “you
must try to furnish me with some one else, in your place. Where is
Bogle?” “I know Bogle can’t come,” answered Carroll; “he is bespoke that
night for a wedding.” “Shepherd, then?” said the lady; “see if you
cannot send me Shepherd.” “As to Shepherd,” replied Carroll, “he is sick
in his bed, and like to keep so.” “Where is Solomon King, then?” pursued
the lady; “Solomon King will do very well.” “Indeed, ma’am,” answered
Carroll, “I don’t think Solomon King will suit you now, any how; he’s
taken very much to drink, and besides he’s dead!”
Apropos to the talk of coloured people.—We were told by a southern lady,
that one of her girls being dressed for an entertainment given by a
neighbour to the servants, came to her, and said: “Mistress, Becky has
come for me to go with her; and she says _her_ mistress has gave her two
grand words to say at the party.—Now, I want you to give _me_ two words
that shall beat Becky’s; for I know you are a heap smarter than _her_
mistress.”
“Tell me the words given by Becky’s mistress,” said my informant.
“Yes, ma’am.—One is _Desdemona_, and one is _Cataplasm_!”
No doubt, Becky, in some way, contrived to say them both.
In engaging your presiding genius, it is well to desire him to come on
the morning of the party; he will be found of great advantage in
assisting with the final preparations. He will attend to the silver, and
china, and glass; and see that the lamps are all in order, and that the
fires, coal-grates, furnaces, &c., are in proper trim for evening. He
will bring with him (at whatever hour you indicate,) his “young men,” as
he calls them; (if coloured youths, they are too genteel to answer to
the name of boys;) and these are his apprentices that he has in training
for the profession.
One of these men should be stationed in the vestibule, or just within
the front door. On that evening, (if not at other times,) let this door
be furnished with a lamp, placed on a shelf or bracket in the fan-light,
to illumine the steps, and shine down upon the pavement, where the
ladies cross it on alighting from the carriages. If the evening proves
rainy, let another man attend with an umbrella, to assist in sheltering
them on their way into the house. The ladies should all wear over-shoes,
to guard their thin slippers from the damp, in their transit from the
coach to the vestibule.
At the top, or on the landing-place, of the first staircase, let another
man be posted, to show the female guests to their dressing-room; while
still another waiter stays near the gentlemen’s room till the company
have done arriving.
In the apartment prepared as a fixing-room for the ladies, two or more
women should be all the evening in attendance; both rooms being well
warmed, well lighted, and furnished with all that may be requisite for
giving the last touches to head, feet, and figure, previous to entering
the drawing-room. When ready to go down, the ladies meet their gentlemen
in the passage between the respective dressing-rooms; the beaux being
there already, waiting for the belles, who must not detain them long—men
being very impatient on these, and all other occasions.
If any lady is without an escort, and has no acquaintances at hand to
take her under their wing, she should send for the master of the house
to meet her near the door, and give her his arm into the drawing-room.
He will then lead her to the hostess, and to a seat. Let her then bow,
as a sign that she releases him from farther attendance, and leaves him
at liberty to divide his civilities among his other guests.
In the ladies’ room, (beside two toilet glasses with their branches
lighted,) let a Psyche or Cheval glass be also there. Likewise, a
hand-mirror on each toilet to enable the ladies to see the back of their
heads; with an ample supply of pins, combs, brushes, hair pins, &c.; and
a work-box containing needles, thread, thimble, and scissors, to repair
accidents to articles of dress. Let there be bottles of fine eau de
cologne, and camphor and hartshorn, in case of faintings. Among the
furniture, have a sofa and several foot-stools, for the ladies to sit on
if they wish to change their shoes.
The women attending must take charge of the hoods, cloaks, shawls,
over-shoes, &c.; rolling up together the things that belong to each
lady, and putting each bundle in some place they can easily remember
when wanted at the breaking up of the assembly.
It is now the custom for the lady of the house (and those of her own
family,) to be drest rather plainly, showing no desire to eclipse any of
her guests, on this her own night. But her attire, though simple, should
be handsome, becoming, and in good taste. Her business is, without any
bustle or apparent officiousness, quietly and almost imperceptibly to
try and render the evening as pleasant as possible to all her guests;
introducing those who, though not yet acquainted, ought to be; and
finding seats for ladies who are not young enough to continue standing.
The custom that formerly prevailed in the absurd days of crowds and
jams, when dense masses were squeezed into small apartments, of removing
every seat and every piece of furniture from the room, is now obsolete.
A hard squeeze is no longer a high boast. Genteel people no longer go to
parties on the staircase, or in the passages. The ladies are not now so
compressed that nothing of them is seen but their heads; the sleeves,
skirts, &c., undergoing a continual demolition down below. We knew of a
lady, who, at a late hour, went to a crowded party in a real blonde
dress, which was rubbed entirely off her before she reached the centre
of the room, and it was hanging about her satin skirt in shreds, like
transparent rags dissolving into “air—thin air!” For this blonde she had
given two hundred dollars; and she was obliged to go home and exchange
its tatters for a costume that was likely to last out the evening.
In houses where space is not abundant, it is now customary to have
several _moderate_ parties in the course of the season, instead of
inviting all your “dear five hundred friends” on the self-same night.
When the hour of assembling is designated in the notes of invitation,
(as it always should be,) the guests, of course, will take care to
arrive as nearly as possible about that hour. At large parties, tea is
usually omitted—it being supposed that every one has already taken that
beverage at home, previous to commencing the business of the toilette.
Many truly hospitable ladies still continue the custom, thinking that it
makes a pleasant beginning to the evening, and exhilarates the ladies
after the fatigue of dressing and arriving. So it does. For a large
company, a table with tea, coffee, and cakes, may be set in the
ladies-room, women being in attendance to supply the guests with those
refreshments before they go down. Pitchers of ice-water and glasses
should also be kept in this room.
If there is no tea, the refreshments begin with lemonade, macaroons,
kisses, &c., sent round soon after the majority of the company has come.
If there _is_ tea, ice-water should be presented after it, to all;
otherwise, there will be much inconvenience by numerous ladies
despatching the servants, separately, to bring them some.
After a little time allotted to conversation, music is generally
introduced by one of the ladies of the family, if she plays well;
otherwise, she invites a competent friend to commence. A lady who can do
nothing “without her notes,” or who cannot read music, and play at
sight, is scarcely enough of a musician to perform in a large
company—for this incapacity is an evidence that she has not a good ear,
or rather a good memory for melody—or that her musical talent wants more
cultivation. A large party is no time or place for practising, or for
risking _attempts_ at new things, or for vainly trying to remember old
ones.
Some young ladies rarely sit down to a piano in any house but their own,
without complaining that the instrument is out of tune. “It is a way
they have.” We have known a fair amateur to whom this complaint was
habitual, and never omitted; even when we knew that, to provide against
it, the piano had really been tuned that very day.
The tuning of a harp immediately before playing is sometimes a very
tedious business. Would it not be well for the harpist to come a little
earlier than the rest, and tune it herself previous to their arrival?
And let her deem _that_ tuning sufficient for a while, and not repeat
the operation more than once again in the course of the evening,
especially in the midst of her first piece. However delicate may be her
own ear, or exquisitely fastidious her own taste, she may be assured
that few of her audience would detect any deficiency, if she only went
quietly on, and did not herself imply that deficiency.
Unless a gentleman is himself familiar with the air, let him not, on
“mounting guard beside the piano,” volunteer to turn over the pages for
the lady who is playing. He will certainly turn them over too soon or
too late, and therefore annoy and confuse her. Still worse, let him not
attempt to accompany her with his voice, unless he is an excellent
musician, or accustomed to singing with her.
For the hearers to crowd closely round the instrument, is smothering to
the vocalist. Let them keep at a proper distance, and she will sing the
better, and they will hear the better. It is so rude to talk during a
song, that it is never done in company; but a little low conversation is
sometimes tolerated in the adjoining room, during the performance of one
of those interminable pieces of instrumental music, whose chief merit
lies in its difficulty, and which (at least to the ears of the
uninitiated,) is rather a bore than a pleasure. We have read a French
novel, in which the only child of a farmer has just come home from a
provincial boarding-school, and the seigneur, or lord of the manor, has
volunteered a visit to these his respected tenants. The mother, amidst
all the bustle of preparing a great dinner for the occasion, comes in to
remind Annette that if the seigneur should ask her to play for him, she
is to curtsey very low, and thank him for the honour. “And then,
Annette,” adds the good old dame, “be sure to play that tune which your
father and I hate so much!”
By the bye, it is very old-fashioned to return thanks to a lady for her
singing, or to tell her she is very kind to oblige the company so often.
If she is conscious of really singing well, and sees that she delights
her hearers, she will not feel sensible of fatigue—at least till the
agreeable excitement of conscious success is over.
It is ill-mannered, when a lady has just finished a song, for
another lady to exclaim in her hearing—“Mary Jones sings that
delightfully!”—or—“How charmingly Susan Smith gives us that ballad!”
Let the glories of Mary Jones and Susan Smith rest, for that
evening, within the limits of their own circle.
Do not ask any lady for a song that has already been sung on this very
evening by another person.
People who have no idea of music sometimes make strange blunders in
their requests. We know of a female who, at a large party, hearing a
young lady accompany her voice on the national instrument of Spain,
became very urgent to have the Battle of Prague performed on the guitar.
It is sometimes fashionable, when the company is not too large for what
is called “a sitting party,” to vary the amusements of the evening by
introducing some of the numerous plays or games which are always the
delight of fine children, and which, by way of variety, frequently
afford much diversion to adults. It is not necessary that all these
plays should become “a keen encounter of the wits,” or that all the
players should be persons of talent. But it is certainly desirable that
the majority of the company should have some tact, and some quickness of
parts; that they should have read some books, and mixed somewhat with
the world—otherwise, they will not be clever even at playing plays.
Those who are incapable of understanding, or entering into the spirit of
a play, would do well to excuse themselves from joining in it, and
prefer sitting by as spectators. Many young ladies can play nothing
beyond “How do you like it?” and are not great at that—saying, when the
question is put to them—“Me! I am sure I don’t know how I like it—can’t
you pass me by?” You may as well take her at her word, pass her by, and
proceed on to her next neighbour; for if she _does_ concoct an answer,
it will probably, if the word is “_brush_,” be liked “to sweep the
hearth with;” or if “_Hat_” is the word, it will be liked “_of
Beaver_”—or something equally palpable.
Such plays as _The Lawyer_, and _The Secret Word_, are very entertaining
in good hands, but complete failures when attempted by the dull or
illiterate. The amusing game of Proverbs had best be given up for that
evening, if, on trial, it is found that few of the ladies have any
knowledge of those true, though homely aphorisms, that have been aptly
called “the concentrated wisdom of nations.”
We know a very ingenious gentleman who, in playing the Secret Word,
contrives to introduce that word in some very short and very humorous
anecdote.
A family, on one side of European origin, made a visit to the
transatlantic continent, where they found, still living in a certain
great city, a relative connected with an ancient branch of nobility.
This rendered them more genteel than ever—and when, covered with glory,
they returned to this poor republic of ours, the names of nobles, and
even of princes, with whom they had associated, were “familiar in their
mouths as household words.” At a party where these personages were so
engaged in talking, that they forgot to keep the run of the plays; a new
game was commenced by a young gentleman slipping out of the room, and
then returning with a very lugubrious visage, and announcing, in a
melancholy tone, the death of a certain monarch, whom all the company
were immediately to unite in lamenting loudly, on pain of paying
forfeits unless they steadily persisted in their dismal faces. On the
sad intelligence being proclaimed—“The king of Bohemia is dead!”—one of
our travelled ladies mistaking it for a solemn truth, turned to her
daughter with—“Ah! Caroline! did you hear that? The dear good king of
Bohemia, who was so kind to us whenever we attended his court!” “Oh!
mamma!” replied Caroline, putting her handkerchief to her eyes—“the news
is really heart-breaking. He paid us so much attention all the time we
were in ——, in his dominions. It will be long before we cease grieving
for the king of Bohemia.”
The gentleman who brought this deplorable news also had recourse to
_his_ handkerchief, and slipped out into the hall to indulge his mirth;
and several others slipped out after him for the same purpose. No one,
however, undeceived these ladies, and for several days at their morning
calls they continued to mourn for the king of Bohemia.
Conundrums[18] afford infinite diversion at a small party, provided the
company, like Billy Black’s cat, “almost always gives up.” Long guessing
occupies too much time; a commodity of which we Americans seldom have
any to spare.
Early in the Mexican war, a premium was awarded in Philadelphia for a
very clever conundrum, alluding to a certain “Bold Dragoon” at Palo
Alto. “In what manner did Captain May cheat the Mexicans?” “He charged
them with a troop of horse which they never got?”
Our confectioners, in making up the _bon bons_ called “_secrets_,”
instead of enfolding with the sugar-plumb a printed slip containing a
contemptible distich, would do well to have good conundrums printed,
(with the answer,) and enclosed in the ornamented papers. They would
certainly be more popular than the old-fashioned mottoes—such, for
instance, as
“My heart, like a candle of four to the pound,
Consumes all the day, and no comfort is found.”
Yet the above is one of the least bad. Most of these mottoes are so flat
as to be not even ridiculous.
At a dancing party, the ladies of the house decline joining in it, out
of politeness to their guests, till towards the latter part of the
evening, when the company begins to thin off, and the dancers are
fatigued.
We admire a charming girl, who, in her own house, being asked to dance
by an agreeable man, has the self-denial to say to him—“Being at home,
and desirous that my friends shall share as much as possible in the
enjoyments of the evening, I would rather refrain from dancing myself.
Let me present you to Miss Lindley, or to Miss Darwood; you will find
either of these young ladies a delightful partner.”
These amiable refusals we have heard from our amiable and unselfish
young friends, and such, we hope, are heard often in what is _truly_
“the best society.”
Ladies who are strangers in the place, are, by courtesy, entitled to
particular attention from those who know them.
We have sometimes seen, at a private ball, the least attractive woman
dancing every set, (though acquitting herself very ill,) while handsome
and agreeable ladies were sitting still. The mystery was solved on
finding that the lady of the house carried her ultra benevolence so very
far, as to make a business of procuring partners all the time for this
unlovely and unprepossessing female, lest she should feel neglected. Now
a certain portion of this officiousness is highly praiseworthy, but too
much of it is a great annoyance to the victimized gentlemen—especially
to those who, as a backwoodsman would say, are certainly “some
pumpkins.”
Even the most humane man, whatever may be the kindness of his heart,
would rather not exhibit himself on the floor with a partner _ni jeune
ni jolie_, who is ill-drest, looks badly, moves ungracefully, can
neither keep time to the music nor understand the figure, and in fact
has “no dancing in her soul.” If, with all the rest, she is dull and
stupid, it is cruel for any kind friend to inflict her on a gentleman as
a partner. Yet such things we have seen.
On one occasion we threw away a great deal of good pity on a youth, whom
we thought had been inveigled into quadrilling with a lady who made the
worst figure we ever saw in a ball-room. We afterwards learned that he
had actually solicited the introduction; and we saw that he devoted
himself to her all the remainder of the evening. She was a rich heiress.
Self-knowledge is a rare acquirement. But when a lady _does_ suspect
herself to be deficient in all the essential qualifications of a
ball-room, she should give up dancing entirely, and be magnanimous
enough always to excuse herself positively, when asked to dance;
especially if verging on “a certain age.” Let all “trippings on the
light fantastic toe” be left to the young and gay.
A deformed woman dancing is “a sorry sight.” She should never consent to
any such exhibition of her unhappy figure. She will only be asked out of
mere compassion, or from some interested and unworthy motive. We are
asked—“Why should not such a lady dance, if it gives her pleasure?” We
answer—“It should _not_ give her pleasure.”
When a lady is so unfortunate as to have a crooked or misshapen person,
it is well for her to conceal it as much as possible, by wearing a
shawl, a large cape, a mantilla, a long sacque, (not a polka jacket;)
and on no account a tight-bodied pelisse; or still worse, a spencer—than
which last, nothing is more trying to the form of the waist, except a
riding-habit.
We saw Frederika Bremer at an evening assemblage, and she was so
judiciously attired, that her personal defects did not prevent her from
looking really well. Over a rich black satin dress, she wore a long
loose sacque of black lace, lined with grey silk. From beneath the short
sleeves of her sacque, came down long wide sleeves of white lace,
confined with bracelets round her fair and delicate little hands. Her
throat was covered closely with a handsome collar of French embroidered
muslin, and her beautiful and becoming cap was of white lace, white
flowers, and white satin ribbon—her light hair being simply parted on
her broad and intellectual forehead. With her lively blue eyes, and the
bright and pleasant expression of her countenance, no one seemed to
notice the faults of her nose, mouth, and complexion—and those of her
figure were so well concealed as to be scarcely apparent. And then her
lady-like ease, and the total absence of all affectation, rendered her
graceful and prepossessing. True it is, that with a good heart and a
good mind no woman can be ugly; at least, they soon cease to be so
considered, even if nature has been unkind to them in feature, figure,
and complexion. An intelligent eye, and a good humoured mouth, are
excellent substitutes for the want of regular beauty. Physiognomists say
that the eye denotes the mind, and the mouth indicates the heart.
Now as a deformed lady may render herself very agreeable as a good
conversationist, we repeat that she has no occasion to exhibit the
defects of her person by treading the mazes of a cotillion, or above
all, in going down a country dance, should those “never-ending, still
beginning” performances come again into fashion. Young men say that an
ugly, misshapen female, who waltzes, or joins in a polka, or redowa, or
mazurka, deserves the penitentiary.
We deprecate the practice of keeping the small children of the family up
all the evening, running and scampering in every one’s way, or sleeping
about on the chairs and sofas, and crying when wakened up to be carried
to bed. Would it not be much better to have them sent to bed at their
usual time? We knew two well-trained little boys, who submitted
obediently to go to bed at their customary hour, on the night of their
mother’s party, of which they had seen nothing but the decorations of
the parlours. They told their parents next morning, that still they had
a great deal of pleasure, for after the carriages began to arrive, they
had lain awake, and “heard every ring.”
At a large party, or at a wedding, there is generally a supper-table;
lemonade and cakes having been sent round during the evening. The host
and hostess should see that _all_ the ladies are conducted thither, and
that none are neglected, particularly those that are timid, and stand
back. It is the business of the host to attend to those himself, or to
send the waiters to them.
If the party is so large that all the ladies cannot go to the table at
once, let the matrons be conducted thither first, and the young ladies
afterwards. If there is a crowd, it is not unusual to have a cord (a
handsome one, of course,) stretched across the door of the supper-room,
and guarded by a servant, who explains that no more are to pass till
after that cord is taken down. Meanwhile, the younger part of the
company amuse themselves in the adjacent rooms. No lady should take the
liberty of meddling with the flowers that ornament the table, or of
secreting “good things” to carry home to her children.
Apropos to flowers.—The stiff, hard bouquets are now obsolete, where the
flowers (stripped of their natural green leaves,) were tied _en masse_
on a wooden skewer, against a flat back-ground of cedar sprays. The more
elegant arrangement is revived of arranging them in a full round
cluster, with a fair portion of their real leaves; the largest and
finest flowers in the centre, (large white ones particularly); those of
middle size next; and the light, long, and branchy sprays and tendrils
at the extremities, the smallest near the bottom of the bouquet, which
is not so large and massy as formerly, but more graceful and select. The
bouquet may be carried on the young lady’s arm, suspended to a long and
handsome white ribbon tied in a bow—a _coloured_ ribbon will disturb the
effect of the flowers. There should be nothing to interfere with their
various and beautiful tints.
At a ball, let no _coloured_ chalks or crayons be used for the floor.
They will rub off on the white shoes of the ladies, and spoil them.
When, instead of _setting_ a supper-table, refreshments are handed round
to the ladies, the fashion has long since gone by of a gentleman walking
beside each waiter, and “assisting the ladies.” It is now found that if
the articles are properly arranged, and of the proper sort, the ladies
can much more conveniently help themselves, and with less risk of
staining or greasing their dresses. Unless the gentleman was “a
thorough-going party-man,” and stereotyped as such, he often committed
rather vexatious blunders, particularly if he was not _au-courant_ to
the new improvements, and accustomed to being “at good men’s feasts;” or
rather, at _women’s good feasts_. One evening at a party, we saw an
“ingenuous youth,” whose experience in that line must have been rather
limited, officiously undertake the portioning out to the ladies of a
composition hitherto quite new to himself. This was “a trifle,” being
the contents of a very large glass bowl, filled with macaroons, &c.,
dissolved in wine, &c., with profuse layers of custard, sweetmeats, &c.,
and covered in at the top with a dome of whipt cream heaped high and
thick over the whole. The pea-green youth assisted the ladies to nothing
but saucers of froth from the top, thinking that was the right way. At
last, the mulatto man, whose superior tact must have been all this time
in a state of suffering, explained to the novice in trifles, that a
portion of all the various contents of the glass bowl should be allotted
to each saucer. “That!” said the surprised doer of honours, “I thought
all that was only the grounds!” The coloured man relieved him by taking
the silver server round a second time to all the ladies, who had
hitherto missed the sediment of the syllabub.
At a summer evening party, the refreshments are of a much lighter
description than at a winter entertainment; consisting chiefly of
ice-creams, water-ices, fresh fruit, lady-cake, and almond sponge-cake.
Also strawberry or raspberry charlottes, which are made by arranging in
glass bowls slices of cake cut in even and regular forms, and spread
thickly over with the fruit mashed to a jam with white sugar—the bowls
being heaped with whipt cream.
The dresses of the ladies are of clear muslin, or some other light
material, and without any elaborate trimming. The hair is simply
arranged—curls being inconvenient in warm weather; and the only head
ornaments are ribbons, or _real_ flowers.
At summer evening parties the veranda is always put into requisition,
being cooler than any part of the house.
At summer dinner-parties, let the dessert be served in another and
cooler apartment; the company quitting the dining-room as soon as they
have done with the meats, &c. The beauties of the dessert appear to
greater advantage, when seen all at one view on a fresh table.
We will introduce a minute account of a very fashionable English
dinner-party, obtained from a friend who was one of the guests. It may
afford some hints for the routine of an elegant entertainment, _à
l’Anglais_, in our own country.
The guests were twenty-four in number, and they began to assemble at
half past seven, punctually. They were received in the library, where
the host and hostess were standing ready to receive them, introducing
those who were strangers to each other. When all had arrived, the butler
entered, and going up to the lady of the house, told her in a low voice
that “dinner was served.” The hostess then arranged those that were not
previously acquainted, and the gentlemen conducted the ladies to the
dining-room; the principal stranger taking the mistress of the house,
and the master giving his arm to the chief of the female guests. In
England, these arrangements are made according to the rank of the
ladies—that of the gentlemen is not considered. A duchess takes
precedence of a marchioness, a viscountess of a countess, a baroness of
a baron_et_’s lady, &c.,—for a baron is above a baronet. Going into the
dining-room, the company passed by the butler and eight footmen, all of
whom were stationed in two rows. The butler was drest entirely in
black—the footmen in their livery. According to a new fashion, they may
now wear long gaiters. White kid gloves are indispensable to the
footmen.
The table was set for twenty-six—and standing on it were elegant gilt
candelabras. _All_ the lights were wax candles. Chandeliers were
suspended from the ceiling. In the middle of the table was a magnificent
plateau, or centre ornament of gold; flowers surmounted the summit; and
the circular stages below were covered with confectionery elegantly
arranged. On each side of the plateau, and above and below, were tall
china fruit-baskets. In the centre of each basket were immense
pine-apples of hot-house growth, with their fresh green leaves. Below
the pine-apples were large bunches of purple and white hot-house grapes,
beautifully disposed, with leaves and tendrils hanging over the sides of
the baskets. Down each side of the whole long table, were placed large,
round, saucer-shaped fruit-dishes, heaped up with peaches, nectarines,
pears, plumbs, ripe gooseberries, cherries, currants, strawberries, &c.
All the fruits not in season were supplied from hot-houses. And
alternating with the fruit were all the _entreméts_ in covered dishes,
placed on long slips of damask the whole length of the table. All the
plate was superb. The dinner-set was of French china, gilt, and painted
with roses. At every plate was a caraffe of water, with a tumbler turned
down over it, and several wine-glasses. The napkins were large. The
side-board held only the show-silver and the wine. The side-tables were
covered with elegant damask cloths. On these were ranged, laid along in
numerous rows, the knives, forks, and spoons to be used at dinner. The
dessert-spoons were in the form of hollow leaves, the stems being the
handles. They were beautifully engraved in tasteful patterns. The
fruit-knives had silver blades and pearl handles. There were two soups
(white and brown,) standing on a side-table. Each servant handed the
things in his white kid gloves, and with a damask napkin under his
thumb. They offered (mentioning its name in a low voice,) a plate of
each soup to each guest. After the soup, Hock and Moselle wine were
offered to each guest, that they might choose either. A dish of fish was
then placed at each end of the table—one was salmon, the other turbot.
These dishes were immediately taken off to be helped by the servants,
both sorts of fish being offered to each person. Then the appropriate
sauce for the fish—also cucumbers to eat with the salmon. No castors
were on the large table, but they were handed round by the servants.
Directly after the fish came the _entrémets_, or French dishes. The wine
following the fish was Madeira and Sherry.
Afterwards, a saddle or haunch of Welsh mutton was placed at the
master’s end of the table, and at the lady’s end a boiled turkey. These
dishes being removed to the side-tables, very thin slices of each were
handed round. The poultry was not dissected—nothing being helped but the
breast. Ham and tongue was then supplied to those who took poultry; and
currant-jelly to the eaters of mutton. Next came the vegetables, handed
round on dishes divided into four compartments, each division containing
a different sort of vegetable.
Next, two dishes of game were put on—one before the master of the house,
and the other before the mistress. The game (which was perfectly
well-done,) was helped by them, and sent round with the appropriate
sauce. Then, placed along the table, were the sweet things—charlottes,
jellies, frozen fruit, &c. A lobster salad, drest and cut up large, was
put on with the sweets. On a side-table were stilton and cream cheese,
to be eaten with the salad. After this, port wine—the champagne being
early in the dinner. Next the sweets were handed round. With the sweets
were frozen fruits—fruits cut up, and frozen with isinglass-jelly, (red,
in moulds.)
Next, a dessert plate was given to each guest, and on it a ground glass
plate, about the size of a saucer. Between these plates was a
crochet-worked white doyly, of the size of the under-plate; the
crochet-work done with thread, so as to resemble lace. These doylies
were laid under the ground-glass plate, to deaden the noise of their
collision. Then was brought from the side-table a ground-glass plate of
ice-cream, or water-ice, which you took in exchange for that before you.
The water-ice was frozen in moulds, in the form of fruit, and suitably
coloured. The baskets containing the fruit were then removed to the
side-tables, where the servants had silver scissors, with which they
clipped off small bunches of the grapes, and the green tops of the
pine-apples, and a portion of the flesh of the fruit. The middle part
was then pared and sliced. On each dessert plate was placed a slice of
pine-apple, and small bunches of white and blue grapes. After the grapes
and pine-apples were thus handed round, the dishes of the other fruits
were then offered successively to every guest. After the ground-glass
and doylies, there was no farther change of plates.
After sitting a while over the fruit, the lady of the house gives the
signal, by looking and bowing to the ladies on each side, and the ladies
at this signal prepare to retire. The gentlemen all rise, and remain
standing while the ladies depart—the master of the house holding the
door open. The servants then all retire, except the butler, who remains
to wait on the gentlemen, while they linger awhile (not more than a
quarter of an hour,) over the fruit and wine.
CHAPTER XXIV.
MISCELLANIES.
It may be well to caution our young friends against certain bad
practices, easily contracted, but sometimes difficult to relinquish. The
following are things not to be done:—Biting your nails. Slipping a ring
up and down your finger. Sitting cross-kneed, and jogging your feet.
Drumming on the table with your knuckles; or, still worse, tinking on a
piano with _your fore-finger only_. Humming a tune before strangers.
Singing as you go up and down stairs. Putting your arm round the neck of
another young girl, or promenading the room with arms encircling waists.
Holding the hand of a friend all the time she sits beside you; or
kissing and fondling her before company. Sitting too closely.
Slapping a gentleman with your handkerchief, or tapping him with your
fan. Allowing him to take a ring off your finger, to look at it.
Permitting him to unclasp your bracelet, or, still worse, to inspect
your brooch. When these ornaments are to be shown to another person,
always take them off for the purpose. Pulling at your own ringlets, or
your own ear-rings—or fingering your neck ribbon. Suffering a gentleman
to touch your curls. Reading with a gentleman off the same book or
newspaper. Looking over the shoulder of any person who is reading or
writing. Taking up a _written_ paper from the table, and examining it.
To listen at door-cracks, and peep through key-holes, is vulgar and
contemptible. So it is to ask children questions concerning their
parents, though such things are still done.
If you mean that you were angry, do not say you were “mad.”—“It made me
so mad”—“I was quite mad at her,” are phrases not to be used by people
considering themselves genteel. Anger and madness are not the same, or
should not be; though it is true that ungoverned rage, is, sometimes,
carried so far as to seem like insanity.
Enter into no freaks of fashion that are silly, unmeaning, and
unlady-like; even if they _have_ been introduced by a belle, and
followed by other belles. Commit no absurdity because, a public singer
or dancer has done so in her ignorance of good behaviour. During the
Jenny Lind fever, there were young ladies who affected to skuttle into a
drawing-room all of a sudden, somewhat as the fair Swede came skuttling
in upon the concert stage, because in reality she knew not how to make
her entrance gracefully. Other demoiselles twined and waved about, with
body, head, and eyes, never a moment quiet. This squirming (as it was
called) originated in a very bad imitation of Fanny Elssler’s dancing
motions. At one time there were girls at parties, who stood on one foot,
and with the other kicked up their dresses behind, while talking to
gentlemen. This fashion began with a celebrated beauty who “dared do any
thing.” Luckily, these “whims and oddities” are always of short
duration, and are never adopted by young ladies of good taste and
refinement.
Do not nod your head, or beat time with fan or foot while listening to
music.
Never at a party consent to accompany another lady in a duet, unless you
are accustomed to singing with her. Still worse—do not volunteer to
“assist” her in a song that is not a duet. Each voice will interrupt and
spoil the other. A lady who sings by ear only, cannot accompany one that
sings by note.
One of the most horrible sounds imaginable is that produced by several
fine voices all singing different songs. This cats’ concert (as
school-girls call it) results in a shocking and yet ludicrous discord,
equally frightful and laughable. And yet all the performers are singing
individually well. Try it.
Raising a window-sash, in cold weather, without first ascertaining if
the rest of the company are, like yourself, too warm. Leaving the
parlour door open in winter—a perpetual occurrence at hotels and
boarding-houses.
Talking so loudly that you can be heard all over the room. Or so low
that you cannot be heard at all, even by those who are conversing with
you. This last fault is the worst. To talk with one who has a habit of
muttering unintelligibly, is like trying to read a letter illegibly
written.
Using too often the word “madam” or “ma’am,” which in fact, is now
nearly obsolete in familiar conversation. In the old French tragedies
the lovers addressed their mistresses as “madam.” But then the stage
Alexander wore a powdered wig, and a laced coat, knee-breeches, and a
long-skirted waistcoat; and Roxana figured in a hoop-petticoat, a
brocade gown, a flowered apron, and a towering gauze cap. The frequent
use of “sir” is also out of fashion. “Yes, ma’am,” “No, ma’am,” “Yes,
sir,” “No, sir,” no longer sounds well, except from children to their
elders. If you have not distinctly heard what another lady has just said
to you, do not denote it by saying, “Ma’am?” but remark to her, “Excuse
me, I did not exactly hear you!”
Never, in a public parlour, place yourself in a position where you can
secretly hear conversation that is not intended for you—for instance in
a corner behind a pillar. If you hear yourself talked of, it is mean to
stay and listen. It is a true adage that “Listeners seldom hear any good
of themselves.”
However smart and witty you may be considered, do not exercise your wit
in rallying and bantering your friends. If you do so, their friendship
will soon be worn out, or converted into positive enmity. A jest that
carries a sting with it can never give a pleasant sensation to the
object. The bite of a musquito is a very little thing, but it leaves
pain and inflammation behind it, and the more it is rubbed the longer it
rankles in the blood. No one likes to have their foibles or mishaps
turned into ridicule—before other persons especially. And few can
cordially join in a laugh that is raised against themselves.
The slightest jest on the personal defects of those you are conversing
with, is an enormity of rudeness and vulgarity. It is, in fact, a sneer
at the Creator that made them so. No human creature is accountable for
being too small, or too large; for an ill-formed figure, or for
ill-shaped limbs; for irregular features, or a bad complexion.
Still worse, to rally any person (especially a woman) on her age, or to
ask indirect questions with a view of discovering what her age really
is. If we continue to live, we must continue to grow old. We must either
advance in age, or we must die. Where then is the shame of surviving our
youth? And when youth departs, beauty goes along with it. At least as
much beauty as depends on complexion, hair, and teeth. In arriving at
middle age, (or a little beyond it,) a lady must compound for the loss
of either face or figure. About that period she generally becomes
thinner, or fatter. If thin, her features shrink, and her skin shrivels
and fades; even though she retains a slender and perhaps a girlish form.
If she grows fat, her skin may continue smooth, and her complexion fine,
and her neck and arms may be rounder and handsomer than in girlhood; but
then symmetry of shape will cease—and she must reconcile herself to the
change as best she can. But a woman with a good mind, a good heart, and
a good temper, can never at any age grow ugly—for an intelligent and
pleasant expression is in itself beauty, and the best sort of beauty.
Sad indeed is the condition of women in the decline of life when “No
lights of age adorn them.” When, having neglected in the spring and
summer to lay up any stores for the winter that is sure to come, they
find themselves left in the season of desolation with nothing to fall
back upon—no pleasant recollections of the acquisition of knowledge or
the performance of good deeds, and nothing to talk about but the idle
gossip of the day—striving painfully to look younger than they really
are; still haunting balls and parties, and enduring all the discomforts
of crowded watering-places, long after all pleasure in such scenes must
have passed away. But then they must linger in public because they are
miserable at home, having no resources within themselves, and few
enduring friends to enliven them with their society.
The woman that knows how to grow old gracefully, will adapt her dress to
her figure and her age, and wear colours that suit her present
complexion. If her neck and arms are thin, she will not expose them
under any circumstances. If her hair is grey, she will not decorate it
with flowers and flimsy ribbons. If her cheeks are hollow, she will not
make her face look still longer and thinner by shadowing it with long
ringlets; and setting her head-dress far back—but she will give it as
much softness as she can, by a light cap-border tied under her chin. She
will not squeeze herself out of all human shape by affecting a long
tight _corsage_; and she will wear no dresses glaring with huge flowers,
or loaded with gaudy trimmings. She will allude to her age as a thing of
course; she will speak without hesitation of former times, though the
recollection proves her to be really old. She will be kind and indulgent
to the young; and the young will respect and love her, and gladly
assemble near her chair, and be amused and unconsciously instructed. As
long as she lives and retains her faculties she will endeavour to
improve, and to become still a wiser and a better woman; never excusing
herself by indolently and obstinately averring that “she is too old to
learn,” or that she cannot give up her old-fashioned habits. If she
finds that those habits are unwarrantable, or that they are annoying to
her friends, she ought to relinquish them. No one with a mind
unimpaired, and a heart still fresh, is too old to learn.
This book is addressed chiefly to the young; but we shall be much
gratified by finding that even old ladies have found in it some
advantageous suggestions on points that had hitherto escaped their
notice.
THE END.
-----
Footnote 1:
So it is to order the carriage without first asking permission of your
hostess.
Footnote 2:
Where the City-Post is to be depended on, a note can always be sent in
that way.
Footnote 3:
If the visiter has been properly announced, a well-trained servant
will, in all probability, run up before her, and open the room-door.
Footnote 4:
It is well to present a lady or gentleman from another city, as “Miss
Ford of New York”—“Mrs. Stephens of Boston”—“Mr. Warren of New
Orleans.”
Footnote 5:
Distinguished men of all professions, doctors, lawyers, artists,
authors, and officers of the army and navy, frequently receive the
honour of knighthood.
Footnote 6:
It would be well if all the public offices at Washington were
furnished with copies of the British Peerage. Perhaps they are.
Footnote 7:
When circumstances render it expedient to carry much money out with
you, divide it; putting half in one purse or pocket-book, and half in
another, and put these portions into two pockets.
Footnote 8:
In a former work of the author’s, _The House Book_, published by A.
Hart, Philadelphia, will be found ample directions for packing trunks,
&c.
Footnote 9:
Nevertheless, it is not good manners to make any remark (even to a
friend) on their coming to breakfast late or early. It is no concern
of yours, and they have reasons of their own, undoubtedly.
Footnote 10:
Americans never really say _niggers_, though constantly accused of
doing so by their British cousins. The word _negor_ we have heard, but
_nigger_ never.
Footnote 11:
It is customary with professional or public musicians, when in private
company, to volunteer a song or a piece; knowing that, out of
delicacy, no one will _ask_ them to give a gratuitous specimen of the
art by which they live. This is polite and proper. It is always duly
appreciated, and adds to the popularity of the performer.
Footnote 12:
A whisperer usually betrays herself by unconsciously fixing her eyes
on the person she is secretly talking of. If you wish to inform your
neighbour that a distinguished person is present, say softly, “Mr. C.
is here, but do not look at him just now.”
Footnote 13:
It is, however, customary in eating sweet potatoes of a large size, to
break them in two, and taking a piece in your hand, to pierce down to
the bottom with your fork, and then mix in some butter, continuing to
hold it thus while eating it.
Footnote 14:
When the name of the state is short, you may give all the letters that
compose it, as Maine—Ohio—Iowa—Texas—Utah.
Footnote 15:
In buying a _handsome_ parasol or umbrella, see that it has a
folding-joint in the middle of the stick, and that this joint works
easily, so that there may be no difficulty in packing it in a trunk or
box. To prevent the silk being rubbed, tie up the parasol in a smooth
linen case, previous to packing.
Footnote 16:
We were a few years since, told by one of our principal booksellers
that a young lady came into his store when he chanced to be at the
counter himself, and, showing him a small English prayer-book
elegantly bound, and with fine engravings, she enquired if he had any
exactly like that. On his replying in the negative, she desired that
he would get precisely such a prayer-book _made for her_, in time for
church on Sunday morning—(it was then Friday)—as she had set her mind
on it. It must have just such pictures, and just such a beautiful gilt
cover. He endeavoured in vain to convince her of the utter
impossibility of performing this feat of having one single book
printed, and bound, with plates engraved purposely for it, and all in
the space of a day and a half. She seemed much displeased, and went
away, in search, as she said, of a bookseller that was more obliging.
Footnote 17:
The author is a Protestant.
Footnote 18:
Miss Leslie’s American Girl’s Book (published by C. S. Francis,)
contains a great variety of amusing plays, ways to redeem forfeits,
&c., with an unusual number of conundrums.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last
chapter.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.