t his first name was William--he is
always called 'Billy Russell.'" "Well"--and now the truth coyly
emerged--"the fact is that we _don't_ know him. We heard that he was a
pleasant man and fond of dining out, and so we looked him up in the
_Court Guide_, and sent the invitation. I suppose we hit on your address
by mistake for his." I suppose so too; and that this is the method by
which newcomers build up a "Dinner-Society" in London.

One particular form of dinner deserves a special word of commemoration,
because it has gone, never to return. This was the "Fish Dinner" at
Greenwich or Blackwall, or even so far afield as Gravesend. It was to a
certain extent a picnic; without the formality of dressing, and made
pleasant by opportunities of fun and fresh air, in the park or on the
river, before we addressed ourselves to the serious business of the
evening; but that was serious indeed. The "Menu" of a dinner at the Ship
Hotel at Greenwich lies before me as I write. It contains turtle soup,
eleven kinds of fish, two _entrees_, a haunch of venison, poultry, ham,
grouse, leverets, five sweet dishes, and two kinds of ice. Well, those
were great days--we shall not look upon their like again. Let a poet[28]
who knew what he was writing about have the last word on Dinner.

"We may live without poetry, music, and art;
We may live without conscience and live without heart;
We may live without friends; we may live without books;
But civilized man cannot live without Cooks.

"He may live without lore--what is knowledge but grieving?
He may live without hope--what is hope but deceiving?
He may live without love--what is passion but pining?
But where is the man that can live without dining?"

There is an exquisite truth in this lyrical cry, but it stops short of
the fulness of the subject. It must be remembered that "dining" is not
the only form of eating. Mr. Gladstone, who thought modern luxury rather
disgusting, used to complain that nowadays life in a country house meant
three dinners a day, and, if you reckoned sandwiches and poached eggs at
five o'clock tea, nearly four. Indeed, the only difference that I can
perceive between a modern luncheon and a modern dinner is that at the
former meal you don't have soup or a printed _Menu_. There have always
been some houses where the luncheons were much more famous than the
dinners. Dinner, after all, is something of a ceremony; it requires
fo