Never forget that this is the repast par excellence.

Never, as an invited guest, be more than two hours late. Your host and hostess, as well as the other guests, may have starved themselves for a fortnight for this particular gorge.

Never, in handing in a lady, struggle desperately to pass through the dining-room doorway two abreast, if said aperture admits but one at a time sidewise. Even if it break your proud heart, give the lady precedence always.

Never sit six feet off from the table, nor yet so crunched up against it as to cause you indescribable torture. Well within feeding distance, with ample elbow-room for knife-and-fork play, is your safest rule.

Never tuck your napkin all around under your collar-band, nor make a child’s bib of it. You are not in a barber’s chair nor at a baby-farm.

Never suck up your soup with a straw, nor, with your elbows on the table and the plate-rim at your lips, drink it down with happy gurgles and impetuous haste. Go for it with a spoon for all you are worth. Never ask for more than a fourth service of soup.

Never bury your nose in your plate, while using your knife, fork and spoon at the same time, after the manner of Chinese chop-sticks. Maintain as erect an attitude as you can without endangering your spinal column, though not as if you had swallowed a poker.

Never exhibit surprise or irritation, should you overturn your soup in your lap. Rise majestically, and while the waiter is wiping it off, calmly declare that you were born under a lucky star, since not a drop has spattered your clothes.

Never snap off your bread in enormous chunks, to be filtered and washed down by gravy or wine. Rather than this, crumb it off into pellets, to be skillfully tossed into the mouth as occasion may demand.

Never ram your knife more than half-way down your throat. Hack with your knife, claw up with your fork; that is what they’re made for. Never take up a great meat-slice on your fork, and then leisurely nibble around the corners, making steady inroads till your teeth strike silver. This is a method rigidly interdicted among the highest circles.

Never eat fish with a spoon, if the silver butter-knife can be appropriated for that purpose.

Never eat as if you had bet high on getting away with the entire banquet in six minutes and a half. This may be complimentary to the viands, but is somewhat vulgar.

Never, when the champagne begins to circulate, snatch the bottle from the waiter’s hand, hang on to the nozzle, tilt up the butt, and ingurgitate for dear life, while approvingly patting your stomach with your disengaged hand. This is little short of an enormity.

Never devour spinach with a mustard-spoon, spear beans with a wooden tooth-pick, or mistake the gravy for another course of soup. Take your cue from such of your neighbors as appear least like hogs.

Never clean up and polish off your plate, as if it were a magnifying lens, before sending it for a second installment. There are scullions in the kitchen, or ought to be.

Never spit back rejected morsels on your plate, nor toss fruit-stones under the table, nor hide fish-bones under the ornamental center-pieces. An obdurate piece of gristle should be bolted at all hazards, fruit-stones may be dexterously transferred to your neighbor’s plate, and fish-bones may be cleverly utilized as a garniture for the salt-cellars and butter-plates.

Never hurry matters when fully half-gorged, when there is a ringing in your ears, and things begin to swim before your eyes. These are warnings to taper off slowly, in preparation for dessert.

Never adhere wholly to champagne throughout the repast. A few glasses of claret as between-drinks, with now and then a quencher of brown sherry, afford an agreeable variety.

Never forget to occasionally look after the lady under your care. She may, moreover, be useful in passing you dishes during the temporary vanishings of the servant.

Never attempt a flirtation, or even a sustained conversation, during the repast. Gastronomy is a noble but jealous mistress, who permits no division of your allegiance.

Never, when dessert is served, wade into the jellies and riot amid the tarts and cakes as if you were just getting up your wind for a fresh onslaught. Be moderate.

Never ask for a soup-plate of ice-cream. It is better form to have your saucer replenished again and again.

Never talk when your mouth is fairly crammed, nor in a smothered, wheezy tone of voice. It is more dignified to bow blandly, point to your mouth in explanation of your predicament, and wag your head.

Never be so pre-occupied with drinking as not to be on the look-out for the lady under your care. She has a right to her share of the liquids.

Never be embarrassed. Retain your self-possession if you are choking.

Never forget your own wants under any circumstances. Remember that self-respect is as much of a virtue as respect for others.

Never be self-conscious. Guzzle quietly, and let others take care of themselves.

Never, on the other hand, push self-depreciation to the wall. Never lose sight of the fact that, while you are a gentleman, you are also an American sovereign feasting at some one else’s expense. All sovereigns do that.

Never, if called upon for a toast, be afraid to pledge yourself. It you don’t blow your own trumpet, who will blow it for you?

Never use your fork for a tooth-pick, nor the edge of the table-cloth for a napkin. Summon a servant, and make known your wants in imperious, stentorian tones.

Never lounge back in your chair, and request the waiter to pour wine down your throat, if too unsteady to longer hold a glass. This is apt to be noticeable.

Never rest both elbows on the table, while shuffling your feet nervously underneath it, and trying to steer one more glass to your lips. If paralysis threatens, request to be led out.

Never lose your temper. “When a man has well-dined,” says an old playwright, “he should feel in a good humor with all the world.”

Never fail to rise when the ladies are leaving the table, and to remain standing somehow, no matter how unsteadily, until the last petticoat has disappeared. Then, your duty having been performed, you can roll under the table, if you want to, or see-saw back to your anchorage, and see if you can hold any more wine.

Never drink too much wine. True, there are a variety of opinions as to how much is too much; but be prudent, be resolved, never make an exhibition of yourself, at least try to knock off before being paralyzed, and be happy.

Never, however, yield to the jocular propensities of your brother guests. Should they prop you in a corner of the room, with your hair drawn over your eyes and a lamplighter in your mouth for a cigar, and then jocosely vociferate “Speech! speech!” heroically reach for the nearest bottle, back with your head, and guzzle away. A philosopher, a real gentleman, will never be laughed down, sneered under, or rubbed out.

Never, if called on for a speech in a complimentary way, however, make a rostrum of the table at which you have dined. Rather essay your own chair, the window-sill, or even the mantel-piece.

Never fail in courtesy, even when grossly intoxicated. Apologize, even if you have slumbered on your neighbor’s shoulder, and murmur your excuses even while disappearing under the table. An exponent of high breeding never forgets to be a gentleman under the most adverse circumstances.

Never whistle, sing ditties, or jeer irrelevantly while another guest is responding to a popular toast. You surely should not wish to monopolize the entire oratorical effects of the occasion; and, moreover, boorish interruption is always in equivocal form.