She could not get Mr. Hawthorne to go to her splendid
fancy ball, to meet Lord and Lady Sefton and all the aristocracy of
the county . . . but wrote him a note telling him that if he wished
for her forgiveness he must agree with me upon a day when we would go
and dine with her. Mr. Hawthorne delayed, and then she wrote me a
note, appointing the 16th of March for us to go and meet the
Martineaus and Brights and remain all night. There was no evading
this, so he is going; but I refused. Her husband is a mighty banker,
and she is sister of the present Chancellor of the Exchequer, W. E.
Gladstone, and they are nobly connected all round. . . . Mr. Hawthorne
does not want to go, and especially curses the hour when white muslin
cravats became the sine qua non of a gentleman's full dress. Just
think how reverend he must look! I believe he would even rather wear a
sword and cocked hat, for he declares a white muslin cravat the last
abomination, the chief enormity of fashion, and that all the natural
feelings of a man cry out against it; and that it is alike abhorrent
to taste and to sentiment. To all this I reply that he looks a great
deal handsomer with white about his throat than with a stiff old black
satin stock, which always to me looks like the stocks, and that it is
habit only which makes him prefer it. . . .
March 16.
Mr. Hawthorne has gone to West Derby to dine . . . and stay all night.
He left me with a powerful anathema against all dinner-parties,
declaring he did not believe anybody liked them, and therefore they
were a malicious invention for destroying human comfort.
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