shake hands, but simply bow to each other. In | host was ever yet known to praise his own the morning you come down in undress, with claret) "excepting that I have been repeatboots, trowsers of any color, frock coat, &c. At edly asked what wine we usually drank in dinner you are always expected to be in full America." Mr. Colman does not say what dress; straight coat, black satin or white waistcoat, silk stockings, and pumps, but not gloves; and if answer he made to this oft-repeated inquiry, you dine abroad in London you keep your hat in but we presume it must have been "sherry your hand until you go in to dinner, when you cobbler!" give it to a servant, or leave it in an anteroom. The lady of the house generally claims the arm of the principal stranger, or the gentleman of the highest rank; she then assigns the other ladies and gentlemen by name, and commonly waits until all her guests precede her in to dinner-though this is not invariable. The gentleman is expected to sit near the lady whom he hands in. From the solemnity of these dinner-pictures our traveler breaks off with an anecdote of the Queen, which, as we have never met with it before, or anything like it, we accordingly quote: The other day, when the Queen was embarking at Brighton, [which she never did yet] the usual Not, as in the Mississippi steamboats, all carpet was not laid upon the wharf [there being huddled together. one. no wharf at Brighton]; and the mayor and aldermen [there being no such functionaries in the place] pulled off their scarlet robes of office, and laid them down for the royal lady to walk upon. The caricaturists now have them drawn up in full array, with asses' ears. Asses' ears are proverbially long ones, and so must those have been that listened to this story; but such of course were not Mr. Colman's. The next place of note at which we discover our agricultural friend, is Earl Fitzwilliam's. Here he was perfectly in clover, and our only wonder is that its effect upon him was not such as might have befallen one of his own cows. Grace is almost always said by the master, and it is done in the shortest possible way. Sometimes no dishes are put upon the table until the soup is done with, but at other times there are two covers besides the soup. The soup is various; in Scotland it is usually what they call hodge-podge, a mixture of vegetables with some meat. After soup, the fish cover is removed, and this is commonly served round without any vegetables, but certainly not more than one kind. After fish come the plain joints, roast or boiled, with potatoes, peas or beans, and cauliflowers. Then sherry wine is handed by the servants to every German wine is offered to those who prefer it; this is always drank [drunk] in green glasses; then come the entrées, which are a variety of French dishes and hashes; then champagne is offered; after this remove come ducks, or partridges, or other game; after this, the bon-bons, puddings, tarts, sweetmeats, blanc-mange; then cheese and bread and a glass of strong ale is handed round; then the removal of the upper cloth, and oftentimes the most delicious fruit and confectionery follow, such as grapes, peaches, After this melons, apples, dried fruits, &c. &c. is put upon the table, a small bottle of Constantia wine, which is deemed very precious, and handed round in small wine-glasses, or noyeau, or some other cordial. Finger-glasses are always furnished, though in some cases I have seen a deep silver plate filled with rose-water presented to each guest, in which he dips the corner of his napkin to wipe his lips or fingers. No cigars or pipes are ever offered; and soon after the removal of the cloth the ladies retire to the drawing-room, the gentlemen close up at the table, and after sit-ly for dinner. ting as long as you please, you go into the draw-dinner was announced, and the ladies were asing-room to have coffee and then tea. No dinner-giver in the United States, from Cape Cod to Cape Flattery, need henceforward plead ignorance in excuse for want of hospitality; he has here the whole mystery, from soup to Constantia. Mr. Colman adds, par parenthèse, that he "never heard any discussion about the character of wines," (no I arrived about six, and after a short walk with my noble host, the dressing-bell rung [rang,] and I was shown at once to my chamber. This chamber is a large and superb room, called the blueroom, because papered with elegant blue satin paper, and the bed and the windows hung with superb blue silk curtains. My portmanteau had already been carried there, and the straps untied for opening; a large coal fire was blazing; candles were burning on the table; and water and everything else necessary for ablution and comfort. was, likewise, what is always to be found in an English house, a writing-table, letter-paper, notepaper, new pens, ink, sealing-wax, and wax taper; and a letter-box is kept in the house, and notice given to the guests always at what hour the post Precisely at seven o'clock, after being will leave. fully dressed, I met in the drawing-room the famiA few minutes after seven, There signed to the different gentlemen. I had the honor of a companion to wait upon at dinner, who proved a most intelligent and agreeable person, and though of high rank, without ostentation. The hall in which we dined was magnificent, and splendidly lighted; the company [Mr. Colman included] extremely brilliant; about twelve persons at table, and eleven men-servants, some in livery, and others in plain gentlemanly apparel, but all most neat and elegant. After coffee we assembled for prayers in the chapel; the ladies into From Lord Fitzwilliam's Mr. Colman goes to a clergyman's in Nottinghamshire; and here, in writing to a friend, he desires him to give the reins to his imagination, in order to conceive his (Mr. Colman's) happi ness. Imagine an elegant dining-room, the table covered with the richest plate, and this plate filled with the richest viands which the culinary art, and the vintage, and the fruit-garden can supply; imagine a horse at your disposal, a servant at your command to anticipate every want; imagine an elegant bed-chamber; a bright coal fire; fresh water in basins, in goblets, in tubs; napkins without stint, as white as snow; a double mattress, a French bed, sheets of the finest linen, a canopy of the richest silk, a table portfolio, writing apparatus and stationery, allumettes, a night-lamp, candles and silver candlesticks, beautiful paintings, and exquisite statuary We are forced to take breath; we are afraid even to face the " large party of ladies and gentlemen" whom he encountered next day, "as elegant in dress and manners as you can meet with;" still more so to trust ourselves in a room where there are "never less than four men-servants; many times eight or ten, and in one case I counted eleven, eight of whom were in elegant livery, trimmed with silver and with silver epaulettes," &c. &c. Well might Mr. Colman exclaim to his friend, "What do you think is to become of me?" What became of him shortly afterwards was this he paid a visit to Lord Yarborough, and was invited to go out hunting; "the very idea of which," he says, "electrified me, and my blood still boils at the thought!" so, instead of hunting, he reserved He himself for a few more noble mansions. "In pleased amazement wholly lost." [Nov. I had supposed I had seen several times before the summit of luxurious and elegant living, but this I confess went beyond what I had ever met with.. I asked when I retired, "What time do you breakfast?" The duke replied, [says he] "Just what time you please, from nine to twelve." I always came down at nine precisely, and found the duchess at her breakfast. About half past nine the duke would come in, and the ladies, one by one, soon after! At breakfast the side table would have on it cold ham, cold chicken, cold pheasant or partridge, which you ask for, or to which, as is most common, you get up and help yourself. On the breakfast-table were several kinds of the best bread possible, butter always fresh, made that morning, as I have always found at all these houses; and if you asked for coffee or chocolate, it would be brought to you in a silver coffee-pot, and you helped yourself; if for tea, you would have a silver urn to each guest, heated small caddy of black and green tea, to make for by alcohol, placed by you, a small teapot and a yourself, or the servant for you. cheon consists of, and then a dinner at WelThen comes a description of what the lunbeck Abbey; which last contains some good advice: that it may not be missed, we have italicised it. I have already told you the course at dinner, but at many houses there is always a bill of farein this case written-I had almost said engraved on the most elegant embossed and colored paper, always in French, and passed round to the guests. Three days in succession we had different kinds of excellent fish, taken from ponds directly in the neighborhood of the house, on the duke's own grounds. After dinner, we had, every day, peaches, nectarines, grapes, and pineapples in abundance. There were six of us at dinner daily, and eleven servants, most of them in livery, [we think we see Mr. Colman counting them.] and waistcoat, with white cotton or silk stockings, The livery here consists of light yellow shorts and pumps, a long blue coat trimmed with silver lace and buttons, and silver epaulettes on each shoulder, and white cravats ; [as fine as Winifred advantage of there being something "cumfittable Jenkins's "goulden bags and jackets," with the of black; and [continues Mr. Colman, hurried for to eat ;"] those out of livery were in full suits away from his subject by the recollection doubtless of what once happened to himself,] if you meet the female servants of the upper class, you must take care not to mistake them for the ladies of the of elegance of dress. house, as there is little to distinguish them in point postscript, which, as is often the case with To this interesting letter is appended a able information. It is thus stated: postscripts, contains some of the most valu you would find it clean, and the pitcher replenish- | ed on your return; and that you cannot take your clothes off, but they are taken away, brushed, folded, pressed, and placed in the bureau; and at the dressing hour before dinner, you find your candles lighted, your clothes laid out, your shoes cleaned, and everything arranged for your use. I never saw more attention. I can hardly conceive of more perfect housekeeping, for you scarcely see or hear anybody unless you ring a bell, when a servant suddenly appears before you, as if from the wainscoting. If Mr. Colman be at all musical, the least he can do in requital of such unheard-of hospitality will be to get by heart and constantly sing (whenever he is requested to be vocal) the favorite old song of "My Friend and Pitcher." No one, we are persuaded, could do more justice either to his friend or to that most useful of utensils. Mr. Colman seems to be of opinion that you can never have too much of a good thing; and hence, no doubt, his iteration (which we refrain from qualifying as Falstaff did) respecting the soap and towels and hot water which meet him at every turn when he is out visiting; to the same cause, we suppose, we are indebted for a repetition of the Raleigh story at Cambridge, where he went to see Prince Albert take his doctor's degree, the Queen also being present. "Carpets of crimson cloth were laid through all the passages and yards where the foot of majesty was to tread; and in one spot, where, by some mischance, the carpeting was deficient, the students pulled off their gowns and spread them for her to step on." It is a pity that Mr. Colman does not allude to royalty oftener in the course of his work, for we get a fresh version of this anecdote almost every time the Queen is introduced. He has done enough, however, in this way to convince his fellow-townsmen that somebody always takes off his coat for the Queen to tread upon whenever she appears in pub lic. For a moment now we are indulged with a glimpse of Mr. Colman in private life, when he is housekeeping on his own account. He appears to be rather put out ("ryled," perhaps, is the more correct expression) at not being surrounded by the attentive domestics who are in the habit, like brownies, of starting out of the wainscot. He is in lodgings in London, where he says: "I have succeeded in getting such lodgings as are comfortable, with the exception of a dirty servant girl who tends upon me, a maid of all work." Owing to the ministration of this dirty Hebe, Mr. Colman has, for once, an opportunity of showing how people dine who are not on visiting terms with grandees. He takes refuge in "one of the principal eating-houses in Piccadilly, where the cooking is good," and where, on "a plate of roast-beef" and various vegetable adjuncts, he fares sumptuously for a shilling. He was driven to this by the combined influence of dirt and melancholy. "I have tried having dinner in my own room, but it is unsocial and attended with many inconveniences; and it is no saving of expense. It is positively melancholy to be eating my dinner alone" (after having been used to such first-rate company); "and often, when it is half-finished, I drop my knife and fork in silent amazement, and try if I cannot think of something besides home" (and his friend the Duke of Portland), "and wish myself anywhere but in this Robinson Crusoe cabin." This letter ends with a jeremiad on the expensiveness of servants' fees, Mr. Colman evidently wishing that the printed directions of "a nobleman of high rank" (see ante) were in general circulation amongst the race of chamber-maids, waiters, porters, and coachmen. From this sad theme, which is abruptly broken off-probably by an invitation,-he jumps again into "the houses of the nobility," there being no happiness for him out of that charmed circle. He feels like Romeo, "There is no world without Verona's walls But purgatory, torture, death itself." He therefore goes to Goodwood, and the visit proves "delightful," the "service at dinner" being always silver or gold throughout," and at breakfast every cup and saucer "differed in its pattern from another; that is, one cup and saucer was different from another cup and saucer." This was delightful enough, but if Mr. Colman had invited a friend to breakfast with him while at his dirty lodgings, he might have witnessed the phenomenon of the odd cups and saucers without going so far as Goodwood. But then there would have been no "lunch" to describe," consisting of hot meats, games, pies, bread, cheese, butter, wines, and porter;" neither could he have been taken "under the care of the duchess," and shown the conservatory, the orangery, the pheasantry, and the dairy; nor have had "two most respectable gentlemen farmers" to wait for him, nor a servant to open gates;" neither could he have astonished the family of Mr. Gorham, dwelling in "an excellent and elegant farm-house," "where | anybody else. He is speaking of the geneMrs. Gorham and one gentleman told me they were much obliged to me for asking for a cup of tea instead of wine, as they had never tried it before, and considered it a great discovery, of which they should avail themselves hereafter." For the next few months Mr. Colman passes his time in the most elevated regions of polite society; surprising us, however, in one respect, by his refusal to go to court, though repeatedly urged to do so by at least half the nobility, and though Lord Bathurst offered to lend him his shoe-buckles, bagwig, and other articles of costume. This is a mystery which we are unable to explain; and we leave it unsolved, to go with Mr. Colman to an evening party. The dresses of the ladies, at their evening parties, are most splendid, and almost wholly of silk of a superior description. The refreshments are of a very simple character. Tea and coffee are seldom handed round. Sometimes you find it in the anteroom, where you disrobe, and the servants hand it to you before you are announced in the drawing-room. You are announced always by the servant at the foot of the staircase to the servant at the head, and by the servant at the head to the company. It is very rare that you are introduced to any person on any occasion, either dinner or evening, unless you go to stay, or the party is small; but it is not deemed improper that you enter into conversation with your neighbors. The hair [whose hair?] is generally dressed entirely plain, without jewels or flowers, frequently à la Madonna, but often with ringlets in front. Elderly ladies wear their gowns very low in front; young ladies wear their gowns rather high in front, but very low behind, so as to show the bust to advantage. These are peculiarities of costume which Mr. Colman seems to have studied with some attention; we therefore venture upon no opinion of our own, though we confess the last corollary puzzles us. But, criticise them as we may, we are glad to see the following admission: The dress of the ladies here, in general society, is altogether more elegant than with us and I must add, that a longer acquaintance convinces me that they are better educated than the majority of the same class amongst ourselves. We have mentioned, we think, elsewhere that Mr. Colman has opportunities which do not fall in the way of people generally. He never hears any one swear or quarrel in London; but, to make up for these deficiencies, he sometimes sees a great deal more than ral fondness for flowers in this country, and says: "So strong is this passion, that you see persons of all conditions sticking flowers in their buttonholes, or wearing them in their hats." We confess, to our sorrow, that, except by the chimney-sweeps on May-day, we have never seen nosegays worn in hats, though it is the fashion with “ persons of all conditions" to place them there. We would give something to see one in the Duke of Wellington's hat, or in the Bishop of Exeter's. Were we to follow Mr. Colman through all his peregrinations in England only, we should fill the magazine, instead of the remaining page allotted to this notice of his volumes. We shall, however, quote one or two more characteristic passages before we close the work. Of dress, he says: To go to dinner here, without being in full dress, would be a sad mistake. I have long since found out that; and though, in staying at a nobleman's or gentleman's house, he will often say to you, "You need not dress much," I have found the only safe way is to be perfectly well dressed, for so always you are sure to find your host and his company. I came near, in one case, making a mistake in this matter which would have been mortifying. I had supposed myself invited to dine only with two or three gentlemen in London, and thought at first I would go without much alteration, having an impression that my host was living in bachelors' quarters. My good fortune, however, saved me, and I went as well prepared as I could be. I found, on going, one of the most elegant houses in London, and a brilliant party of ladies and gentlemen of the highest rank. The gentleman was the son of the Archbishop of York, and there I met the Rev. Sydney Smith, whom the Pennsylvanians love so well. My rule, therefore, is invariably to put myself daily in the best condition, humble on my part as it must be, to meet any and everybody. I like the practice. You may dress yourself as you please in the morning, wear the coarsest clothes and the thickest shoesa checkered shirt and a tarpaulin cap [with a bunch of flowers in it], but at dinner, which is seldom before seven o'clock, every one appears full-dressed, which is, upon the whole, as much a matter of comfort and satisfaction to the individual himself, as it is of proper respect to the company whom you meet. We breakfasted at ten o'clock, and dined at seven; for those who took lunch it was always on table at two. I had the mornings to myself, until twelve or one o'clock, without interruption; the servant-woman came into my chamber at half past six to make my fire, and the valet soon after to bring my clothes and shoes. We had eight men-servants at dinner constantly, seven of them in livery, with their heads fully powdered; and one in black, looking like a grave old clergyman, who was the butler, who handed the wine and put every dish on the table. At table no one helps himself to anything-I had almost said, even if it is directly before him-but a servant always interferes. Even the person sitting at your side does not hand his own plate to be helped. Water cups are placed by your side, and oftentimes with perfumed water, to wash your hands and lips after dinner; and these are taken away, and others are put on with the dessert. You are never urged to eat, and seldom asked what you will have, excepting by the servant. In most cases, an elegantly written bill of fare, sometimes on embossed silk paper, is passed quietly round the table, and you whisper to the servant, and tell him what you will have. The vegetables are never put upon the plate by the person who helps, but are always passed round by the servants. Each guest is of course furnished with a clean napkin, which, after dinner, is never left on the table, but either thrown into your chair, or upon the floor, under the table. We omit the details of the coffee, tea, conversation, and "whisky-and-water at eleven o'clock," and follow Mr. Colman fairly into bed, where Everything is always in the best order; a blazing fire, and a rushlight to burn all night, in a safe, so that no danger can come of it. Your windows and bed-clothes are always closely drawn, your night-clothes hung by the fire to be aired, the boot-jack and slippers placed by the side of the bed, and spare blankets folded near you. A bell-rope is always within reach, and not unfrequently a worked night-cap, to be used if you choose it. Then comes, for at least the twentieth time in these volumes, an account of the "pitcher of hot water" in the morning, the "bright copper tea-kettle," the "ham and eggs on the table," the "cold beef, cold fowl, cold everything on the sideboard;" the "letters by your plate," the " 'mail-bag," the "entry," the " arrangements for the day," the "greatcoat neatly folded," the "hat neatly brushed," the "gloves laid out upon your hat," and the "umbrella in its place." In describing which, Mr. Colman is anxious that the partner of his bosom, for whose especial behoof this information was originally written, should not imagine that he is violating confidence. a Let us at once set his mind easy on this point. We are of opinion that he has only taken a laudable and humane view of a great social question. Mr. Colman passed nearly five years and a half in Europe, the greater part of it in the houses of the English nobility; his "mission" was to acquire a knowledge of the savoir vivre, and impart it to his countrymen for their use and edification. If he has not succeeded in his object, the fault cannot well be his, as we think we have shown by the extracts which we have given. We could have adduced many more proofs of his painstaking endeavor to inoculate the New World with the manners of the Old; by quoting, inter alia, from what took place at the seat of the Earl of (the only anonymous nobleman in the book), where "the lady" wore "crimson velvet❞ one day, "white muslin, a red sash, and a crimson turban," on another, and "a splendid silk dress and a circlet of pearls," on a third; and also by showing how at Woburn he found " tea-kettle of hot water, and a tub of cold," in his bed-room; how "the usher in the hall" had "the appearance of a gentleman" in "black shorts," and how this gentlemanly man showed him into the drawing-room, where the Duke (of Bedford) met him, and where he met "a very large party of élégantes." But the reason we have already given compels us to pause, and we therefore bid Mr. Colman farewell as heartily as any of his numerous noble entertainers; more heartily, perhaps-for we, at all events, are very sorry to part with him. In doing so we have one request to make, which is, that instead of the grave work promised in his preface, he make a round of visits in the United States, and inform us faithfully whether the boot-jack, the clothes-brush, the pitcher of hot water, the worked night-cap, and the soap and towel, have yet found their way into the dressing-rooms of the smartest people in creation. Until we are assured of this fact by so competent an authority as Mr. Colman has shown himself to be, we must consider his mission to Europe as still unaccomplished. |