perform with fullest ceremony his social devotions. "Away with the bigotry of knife-and-fork," cries our Diner-Out; and as that wise philosopher, Sir Thomas Browne, made it his boast, that he could say his prayers with either Turk or Levite, so would our real DinerOut manifest the greatness of his heart, and the magnanimity of his digestion, by partaking of pilau with Mahomet, or roast kid and pistachio-nuts with Rothschild. Nay, were it possible that the Wandering Jew could put up for a day at either "The Clarendon" or "The London," our Diner-Out would exhibit his triumph over vulgar prejudices, by "cutting the stranger's mutton!"

"The Diner-Out has no household gods!" We return to this scurvy charge, that we may shew the felicity of the Diner-Out to consist in what is foolishly considered his desolate condition. Household gods are divinities of a most tyrannical character: Mumbo Jumbo and the Blue Monkey are not half so ravenous, require not sacrifices of so terrible a kind, as at times do these said household godsthese domestic prettinesses-wreathed, in the pages of poets and novelists, with immortal roses, and having aspects innocent and beautiful as the faces of cherubim. Such, however, are their holiday decorations-their feast-day looks-when the steam of the kitchen rises around them, and hangs like beads of honey-dew upon their temples. These are the household gods of the rich-these are the divinities who never spoil their plump, ripe apple cheeks, by drawing long faces at an empty grate; who never blow their blue nails in pitiless January, and sometimes trench upon good manners, by muttering an oath at the unaccommodating coal-merchant. Cheap is the furniture of the Diner-Out, moderate his rent; and if few his sympathies, few his wants. Our Diner-Out-he is ninety-nine times in the hundred a bachelor, either on a broken income, or on a property from the first but small-having no spouse, no children, must pay somewhat for outdoor luxuries. Unblest with the soft endearing voice of wife at home, he is compelled to throw himself upon the opera; having no children to feed, clothe, and send to school, he may be lavish in his love of white kid. He gets a dignity out of his bachelorship; and wanting the sweet religion of fire-side divinities, wears many coats in Regent Street. "Household gods!" said Jack Smellfeast, the other daySmellfeast, be it known, is a Diner-Out of some distinction-"Household gods! Pooh !-I keep a horse."

The Diner-Out is, certainly, the professor of what may be considered one of the most difficult arts of life. This fact is proved by the hundreds who, in this glorious London, flourish but for a season or two, and then, like swallows, go no man knows whither.

Dining out being, in these days, one of the most profitable of the arts and sciences, we shall consider ourselves in the gratifying light of public benefactors, if, from the practice of a Diner-Out, distinguished in the art for many years, we give a few hints to those of our fellow-men, who, like ourselves, look upon dinner to be the most important incident in the whole mortal four-and-twenty hours; its value and beauty still increasing with the smallness of its cost to the diner. We entreat our readers to pause and contemplate the subject with a seriousness and attention of a more solemn and more intent description than any they may devote to the minor morals: people, of really very respectable substance and standing, doing excellently well without morals; whilst there is much ignominy in the squalid fact of doing without a dinner. To dine well is, in the very largest acceptation of the phrase, to live well.

The Diner-Out must be a man of very moderate humour-of the most temperate and considerate wit. It must be his first study to obtain and keep the character of a good-natured fellow, a most agreeable companion, at the same time rendering it impossible for those who praise him to tell the why or the wherefore. We know that certain wags have blazed and coruscated for a season or two at a few tables where are to be found the first delicacies of the season, whether of bird or beast, vegetable or man; the first pine-apple or the last author; but these wits are but for a few invitations; the regular professional Diner-Out, and it is of him we speak, is for all cloths. It must therefore be his study to display a certain goodnatured dullness, an amiability that shall make him repress the brightest jest that ever fell from human lips, if by any possibility the unuttered joke could be thought to tell against one of the party; that one, it may be, happening to possess the noblest kitchen-the most glorious cellar; and therefore to be conciliated by a meek politeness, an attentive urbanity, that shall insure the Diner-Out a future summons to his table: for it must be remembered that the Diner-Out, whilst apparently enjoying the delights of the repast, and its after ease and hilarity, is, indeed, labouring to extend his connexion. He is not asked to grace a board on the strength of a new picture-a wonderful poem-a galvanic, man-eating, man-slaying novel, or the discovery of new self-supplying sugar-tongs, or for the great merit of having lived with the Esquimaux on walrus-flesh and train-oil: our Diner-Out feasts not upon any such adventitious, any such accidental, principle, but upon higher deserts; yea, he obtains his turtle and burgundy from worthier, from more lasting causes; for in a very flutter of "delight," he helps any and every lady and gentleman to

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the wing of a chicken, and with a stereotype smile upon his face, is at a moment's notice prepared to be "but too happy" to take wine" with all the world.

The Diner-Out must never be known to utter a brilliant witticism at the cost of any dinner-giver. The people will laugh heartily at the time; but they will all remember that the Diner-Out wears a dangerous weapon; and wits, like drunken men with swords, are apt to draw their steel upon their best acquaintance. He may, at certain pauses, venture à conundrum, or relate the last Yankee exaggeration from the papers; or if he have genius sufficient, he may himself make two or three, swearing by the way that he has read them "in some obscure print:" these matters, wanting the edge of personality, cast around the Diner-Out a halo of cheap humour, and go to the sum of his character as a good-natured and agreeable fellow. He must shun scandal as it were garlic. If any of the party indulge in picking holes in the good names of their friends and acquaintance—a most common and most social pastime—the DinerOut must keep a curb upon his tongue; and, if impossible to divide off into conversation with his neighbour, must throw himself upon the olives, thereby indicating his want of interest in the immediate subject, and his peace with all the world. Let scandal take the highest pitch, let bright and burning jests abound, the Diner-Out must never seem to enjoy the fun: as though he listened to the drolleries of Malays or Japanese, he may survey the speakers with a mild benignity of look; but for their words, for the edifying matter of their speech, that must be to him as an unknown tongue. such times, an innocent suckling, smiling at the convolutions and the colours of a nest of snakes, must be our Diner-Out. He may crack nuts, whilst dinner-givers and common men crack reputations. Nor let the young Diner-Out believe for a moment that such moderation will be lost upon the influential persons of the party; if not at the time, they are certain next day to remember the good-nature of "that agreeable fellow, Smellfeast;" or, if his worthy qualities be quoted by another, they will, from the recollection of his meekness, promptly and fervently corroborate the good report of his knife-andfork virtues. The wisdom of silence, and a good digestion, are among the brightest qualifications of a regular Diner-Out.

At

The Diner-Out may sing: that is, if he sing not too well, to give offence to dinner-givers who sing extremely well themselves, and thus, by an injudicious display of his talent, injure his connexion. Hence, he may sing, provided he sing small. He may also imitate London actors, crow like a cock, pipe like a bullfinch, or bray like an

ass, as occasion may serve, and as he may be solicited to air his merits. He must, however, by all his hopes of his neighbour's knives and forks, take especial care that he never attempt to force a hearing. If conversation take a political turn, he must be dumb as an oyster-the reason is obvious: the Ultra-Whig on his right has a name for champagne; whilst the old Tory opposite is glorified by his burgundy.

The Diner-Out must make himself an especial favorite with the lady of the house: to her he must appear a pattern man—an excellent person-a virtuous eleven-o'clock individual, with the profoundest admiration of that most ennobling, most excellent, and most intellectual of all human institutions, the institution of marriage; failing not to make it understood, that blighted hopes, in the morning of his life, have for ever doomed him to the withering state of celibacy.

The Diner-Out must have a most passionate love for children. He must so comport himself that when his name shall be announced every child in the mansion shall set up a yell—a scream of rapture -shall rush to him-pull his coat-tails-climb on his back-twist their fingers in his hair-snatch his watch from his pocket; and, whilst they rend his super-Saxony-load his shoulders-uncurl his wig-and threaten instant destruction to his repeater, the DinerOut must stifle the agony at his heart and his pocket, and to the feebly-expressed fears of the mamma, that the "children are troublesome," the Diner-Out must call into every corner of his face a look of the most seraphic delight, and with a very chuckle, assure the anxious parent that "the little rogues are charming!"

There are, however, houses-places of desolation!-in which there are no children. In this case, the Diner-Out must love the dog. When we say love the dog, we do not mean that he must simply express a liking for dogs in general; but that he must, in the most unequivocal, in the liveliest manner, display an affection—a passion-for the dog of the house: be it

"Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim,
Hound or spaniel, lurch or lym,

Or bobtail tike, or trundle-tail,"

the Diner-Out must take the creature to his heart, and love it a little less-and only a little-than its mistress and its master. If there be no dog, the Diner-Out must love the cat, perhaps of the Angola or the Persian kind, and a favorite with the family; (if, indeed, simple man and wife are to be dignified with that most delicious

of English collectives). Should there be no cat-for we like, in this our manual, to provide for even extreme cases-the Diner-Out must find a resource in the parrot; if no parrot, in the canary; if no canary, in the goldfinch or linnet; if, however, there be neither beast nor bird to engage his affections, the Diner-Out must fall in love with the china, or any moveable to which, as he may speedily learn by his sagacity, the lady of the house shall-after, of course, her husband-be most attached. We once knew an illustrious DinerOut to be sure he was a genius!-who took fifty dinners a-year from one family: and why? He had contrived to become desperately enamoured with the drawing-room fire-irons; by some adroit means, if a stranger were present, always led the conversation to them, and thus elicited, from one of the household, a legend of the family, in which the courage of the mother-at the time a delicate and lovely creature of little more than nineteen-was most extraordinarily displayed; the virgin defending herself with only a poker from the advances of a strange unarmed man, generally believed to be a burglar, but by the lady herself suspected to be something considerably worse. We are convinced that we do not err, and we state the fact for the advantage and instruction of all Diners-Out, when we assure the reader that the sagacious Marrowmouth dined off that drawing-room poker fifty times per annum. Yes, fifty times. Now, he, indeed, must be unworthy of the trade of dining out, who cannot find something like a poker in every homestead.

The Diner-Out must take every opportunity of insinuating a knowledge of his high connexions. If he really and truly know no Dukes, he must manage to make a few for his especial acquaintance. The intimacy-though it only amounts to that of touching hatswill give a certain glory to the Diner-Out; the lower he condescends to feed, the greater the lustre he brings with him. There was Silverprongs-only second to Marrowmouth-who always came into plebeian dinner-parties quite warm from the shake of hand of a Marquis. He, of course, brought with him something of the latent heat of aristocracy, something that made the visiting commonerswe mean the merely respectable people-very often take wine with Silverprongs, and, on retiring to the drawing-room, smilingly hope for the cultivation of his acquaintance. There is another point to be impressed upon the attention of the pupil Diner-Out. If he visit families who have a great veneration for the literary characterwe have already said that we like to provide for extreme cases-he must be hand-in-glove with every illustrious son of pen-and-ink with which these porcupine times abound. If, on the other side, any