Table Etiquette In England of 1876

Poor M. St. Beuve…. Forever known for his poor table manners. It is alleged that during an impressive ceremonial, he spread his napkin over both his knees; he crushed the shells of two boiled eggs which he had eaten; he had asked for a second service of chicken; he touched the bones of the chicken with his fingers; he said “thank you” to one of the servants; he left his knife and fork on the cloth; he peeled a pear latitudinally instead of longitudinally, and, worst of all, he sniffed his wine before drinking it. — Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve, French writer (1804 - 1869). Image date circa 1860’s — Public Domain Photo

Olive Logan is compensating the country for sending her husband as Consul to Cardiff by some frank confessions of experience in English society. She has got as far as the dinner-table, and tells us how the English conduct themselves in that trying ordeal. They do not vary much from ourselves, of course, though in some respects they improve on the old New England regime. 

Punctuality in the guests at the dinner is imperative; he who goes before the hour is advised to prolong his walk or even sit in his carriage before the door until the proper moment, while he who goes late is advised to turn back home again. This regulation is certainly very considerate to the hostess. At table the guest who is helped first does not wait for his fellows to be helped before falling to. This seems less decorous and only consistent with a state of society where the servants are numerous enough to nearly equalize the moment of service to all the guests. 

At the same time it is aggravating to the guest already served to hang over his savory portion while a slow host deals round the board. We are reminded in this connection of one ancient New England practice which ought to be generally abandoned, and that is the service of the invited guests at the family table before the children. Infancy (God bless it!) has a healthful appetite, or ought to have, and deserves the attention.

The next rule of the English is excellent, and that is that the guest, if he be offered “the last on the plate,” should take it without scruple. Of course this is the true courtesy, for to refuse it presumes that the hostess cannot fill up again, and, if by accident she cannot, subjects her to the further annoying consciousness of not having satisfied her guests even to the extent to which she had it in her power.

These things are of the kernel of good manners, not the shuck. They concern the ease of mind and comfort of the guest and host. Not so the trifles in which the “Almanac de Savoir-Vivre” charges Saint Beuve with negligence. The accusation is that the great essayist who devoted his life to give a literary association to washing-day was guilty of no less than eight offenses at the Emperor Napoleon's dinner table. 

He spread his napkin over both knees instead of half unfolding and draping one therein; he omitted to crush the egg-shells he left; “he asked for more” chicken and “touched the bones with his fingers;” he thanked a servant; he left his knife and fork on the cloth, instead of upon his plate; peeled a pear cross-wise and offered half to a lady, and, finally, sniffed his wine before drinking! 

An unmannerly dog, in the opinion of the “Almanac,” this essayist of Monday, who had ventured to assert that a man of genius could not have bad manners. We confess we do not “catch as to all the points.” Why should the Emperor insist on the pulverization of the egg-shells on the one hand, and, on the other, on the inviolateness of the chicken bones? Did he suspect the Imperial commissioners of the Tuileries hennery of dealing in second hand egg-shells, and thus corrupting the morals of young pullets, who should have produced their own? 

And as to the bones on the other hand, did his Majesty know a soup-house around the corner where, if they were not well picked, a smart bit could be realized on them for the privy purse? And the napkin– but when we think of Napoleon's napkins we associate with them a dingy little auction room in the Rue – the Winter of 1871, and a rock of democrats from across the sea, and those bidding off the fine linens wrought with an ‘N’ surmounted with the Imperial coronet. Whatever became of the egg-shells, the Empire has been crushed. Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher. – Philadelphia Republican, 1876

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