A FREE LUNCH LEAGUE.

Before George Du Maurier created the one complaisant female who is admitted into all the good society of Europe and America he achieved some fame as the author of a recipe for keeping peace in families. The good wife was to apply the prescription, and it read “Feed the Brute.” Whether this meant to keep a good cook or to cater to the element in human nature which the paradox of civilization constantly brings into abnormal prominence among the overwrought people Mr. Du Maurier describes, is not clear. The man as a whole or his grosser nature may be the brute referred to. But the policy of feeding the unidentified fauna of Mr. Du Maurier’s world is in no doubt. Modern custom has settled the most direct road to satisfaction of the men and women who compose society. You may see its sign boards at any formal social meeting, and they all point to the dining room.

When The Philistine said some time ago that hospitality had become an exchange he meant an exchange of food. There is no plainer way to state the fact—short of nausea. Of course hospitality does not start at eating. That is where it ends. The starting point is the purest courtesy—the caritas that “seeketh not her own,” “is not puffed up” and “abideth” as the head of the trinity of eternal virtues. But on the most generous of virtues grows the most selfish of vices, and ostentation is the death-dealing parasite that destroys primitive hospitality.

Mrs. Moor Gage lives in the suburbs. It is the proper place to live—if you can. She has neighbors and likes them. She calls, swaps cards with the ladies, imbibes a little hot water, and then gets along where her social position requires somebody should be fed. She is just as good as Mrs. Taxsale on the other avenue, so hospitality alone won’t fill the bill. A caterer must mince this dinner. Mr. Moor Gage must perspire later on, but now is feeding time. At much expense the food is arranged for. At more expense virgin dresses must be gotten together, if all hands stitch and try on till the hour the dinner comes. When they are gone, feeders and fed draw one breath of content. “It’s all over.”

Or, is it a reception. The hospitality is all in the front of the house. That’s where the receiving party are. But the procession doesn’t linger there. It moves rearward. The animals are to be fed. If one doubts the sincerity of this movement let him recall the comments of those who “couldn’t get to the dining room” at the last distribution of eatables.

Of course when Mrs. Taxsale opens her larder to her friends she will have a little better “stuff”—they really do call it by that name in competent society—and so the auction goes on. Sometimes card parties and other social efforts not primarily connected with digestion get mixed up with catering. The result is usually disastrous. Bidding gets too high for some of the members. The bargain day pace is too fast. There ends the card club.

There are persons, here and there, who think there is something finer than feeding in courtesy. They are Philistines. They object to materialism, even when it swamps only the things of this world. It is also reported, on somewhat vague evidence, that refined literary people are not so given to feeding as the common folks of Mr. Du Maurier’s world. It is to bear a suggestion to these that this is written. Literary persons being functionally the makers of custom have a great glory within easy reach. Let them crystallize their scattered atoms of protest in an Anti Free Lunch League. It may take some self denial, but there is the compensating pleasure of mutual admiration when they gather at a call like this:

Miss Basbleu will be pleased to welcome you at her residence

Tuesday evening

to meet Mr. Patemback.

Nordau at 11.

Contemplation of the infinite fall will take the place of supper in a most edifying way. It is to be presumed that literary people have had something to eat at home.

The segregation of society thus begun will leave the materialists who compose its majority to follow out their instincts, and it will be reasonable to look for a vast improvement in eating entertainments in consequence. Mrs. Moor Gage and Mrs. Taxsale will then be freer to advertise their attractions—as thus:

Your company is requested on

Wednesday evening

at the residence of Mrs. Moor Gage,

Five Per Cent Avenue,

Syndicate Park.

H. L. at 11.

“H. L.” means hot lunch, which may be varied indefinitely. It is plainly a great improvement on “Dancing at 9.” You get dancing everywhere. Specifications may be introduced. For those who don’t like bread pencils and ice cream shingles something more solid may be put on the bill of fare, which will in time serve as the invitation also.

The suggestion is made in the interest of sincerer living. If we are to “feed the brute,” why not say so?

W. M.