ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)

THE LITERARY LADIES’ DINNER

Harriett Jay attended the first ‘Literary Ladies’ Dinner’ at the Criterion Restaurant, London on May 31st 1889.

The Daily Telegraph (24 May, 1889 - pp.4-5)

     WHAT is called without much felicity of phrase a “literary lady dinner” is announced to take place at the Criterion on the last day of this month. We wish it every success, although we hardly see the necessity of this separatist system in public festivity. No doubt the idea may have been started by way of revenge. Men at their public dinners exclude women, as a rule, although there are a few happy exceptions. Many reasons, no doubt, exist for this ungallant custom. In the first place, few ladies are so fond of a very good dinner and first-class wines as to pay a guinea or a guinea and a half for the elaborate feast set before the guests on the occasion of charity or commemoration banquets. Then they hardly have the patience to sit through the long meal, tasting dish after dish. A third reason for their absence is the extension of smoking. There was a time when, after men had dined, as many as liked adjourned to another and smaller room to smoke; now the smoking often commences immediately after the cloth is removed, and it is not every lady who can stand the ordeal of two or three hundred gentlemen smoking at once. These are put forward not as reasons why ladies are not usually invited to public dinners, but as excuses more or less legitimate for the fashion of the day. We fail to perceive, however, why the authoresses should dine by themselves. Were they all young mothers, anxious to compare notes as to baby’s first tooth or the comparative merits of rival infant foods, we could understand why the presence of men might prove a hindrance to the ample discussion of these really great questions. A féte of fashionable women might also find gentlemen in the way, for the details of dress can never be comprehended by men; they simply, as husbands, know the cost, or as admirers note the general effect. The authoresses, however, who are to assemble at the Criterion on the 31st are not all young mothers. Some of them are unmarried ladies, and “the children born of them” are essays, pamphlets, articles, and books. Then, as persons of high intellect, they are above the frivolities of the costumier or the milliner, preferring severe simplicity to the newest gown or hat from Paris. Why, then, are men to be excluded from this feast of reason and this flow of soul? One exception is made: there are to be male attendants, not waitresses. Is not this a slur upon the softer sex? Besides, who is to guarantee the conclave from the intrusion of all the authors of Great Britain, disguised as waiters, and anxious to gaze upon their fair rivals assembled around the board?
     Many years ago a lady’s entrance into literature was hailed either with a florid compliment or a cold sneer. No such reception is given her nowadays. In past generation JANE AUSTEN and Miss EDGEWORTH, FANNY BURNEY and Miss MARTINEAU, had shown that in several kinds of fiction women could do at least as well as men. In the case of Miss AUSTEN’s stories it is doubtful whether they have ever been surpassed as faithful reflections of English middle-class life. ANTHONY TROLLOPE, a few years ago, also essayed to draw English society exactly as it is; but, though he attained a fair measure of success, it is very doubtful whether “Pride and Prejudice” and the rest will not live after “Barchester Towers” and its like are forgotten. Then, while no analyst of human nature so keen as THACKERAY, and no literary caricaturist so full of genius as DICKENS, has ever emerged from the ranks of women writers, it is certain that with the exception of those great novelists GEORGE ELIOT had a truer insight into humanity and a nobler touch than any male writer of the last half-century. She would certainly stand third to THACKERAY and DICKENS, while some would place her second amongst the three. In poetry the last fifty years have shown women standing on the very steps of the throne where the laureate sits. No poetess of the preceding ages ever struck as deep and true a note as Mrs. BROWNING in her “Aurora Leigh” and her shorter poems—works of which any male writer of our day might be proud. The success of the sex in our time, however, must not be measured by great names alone. The characteristic of this age is the immense amount of excellent and honest literary work done not by scores or hundreds but by thousands of ladies in England, France, and, above all, America. In preceding centuries half the human race was intentionally repressed. Women were told that to mind babies, cook dinners, or mend stockings was their natural avocation, and exceptions like ANNA SEWARD or HANNAH MORE were hailed as prodigies. Now nobody denies to a daughter the right to pen, paper, and ink, and if she can begin by earning a few guineas for an essay or a story in a magazine the fact is treated as a matter of course. The women of England and America have at present no novelist with the literary power of GEORGE ELIOT, but they have at least half-a-dozen who may be classed in the second rank. Nor is this blank in the first class peculiar to women; there is now no male novelist in this country or the United States who enjoys the uncontested supremacy of SCOTT, DICKENS, or THACKERAY in his generation. The fact is that in this as in other kinds of literature the general standard has risen, and there seem no giants because there are so many who are above the middle height. It is sometimes said by those who regard fiction as frivolous that it is all very well for the ladies of literature to write for us stories which help to while away a passing hour, but that sterner work must come from men. This, however, is a plea that will hardly hold water in the face of a fact like “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” Slavery had existed for generations in the United States, and many men had grappled with it in speech and essay, story and poem; but Mrs. BEECHER STOWE was the first writer who brought the facts and the feelings home to every heart and hearth in the United States. She forced every man and woman to confess that as a Christian Uncle TOM—himself a chattel slave—took the highest rank, and this vindication of humanity and nobleness under a black skin was the greatest blow ever struck at slavery in America. It made every thoughtful Christian in the North an Abolitionist in principle, and gave to their fight for the Union, when it came, a fervour which the merely political issues could never rouse. Here, then, it was a woman who wrote a book that was not only a novel, but a great political force. In our own country to-day we see a corresponding phenomenon. A story which is not merely a story, which provokes thought and keeps itself alive beyond the season, which rouses controversy and excites contradiction, is “Robert Elsmere”—a work from a woman’s pen. When will male rivals influence politics and religion as Mrs. BEECHER STOWE and Mrs. HUMPHREY WARD have done by the sincerity and earnestness of their tone?
     Of course there is a seamy side to this new development of our literature. A few women take advantage of their sex to write tales that are not true, not healthy, and not pure. They draw coarse pictures of men’s smoking-rooms and clubs as if they knew all about them; they revel in Latin and French quotations, sometimes misspelled and always dragged in by the head and shoulders; they delight in libertinism, and call it liberty; they revel in allusions to eating, drinking, and midnight dissipation. They are for the most part unsexed creatures, neither men nor women, queer things in petticoats, with a morbid taste for the society of dissolute bachelors. We may happily ignore their books. Other novels written by young women are objectionable because their sins against delicacy are due to ignorance. When an unmarried girl who has audacity and genius attempts to describe love she is sometimes bolder in her colouring than any man or woman who has had experience of life. She writes things that shock, just as a babbling child can bring confusion in a drawing-room by its courage and simplicity. In one case of a novel of this kind it is said that the authoress, an American, wrote it anonymously when she was a girl of eighteen, and, on confessing it years afterwards to her middle-aged husband, he left her at once, asserting confidently that it came from no maiden mind. A keener critical sense would have detected in its audacity the very note of absolute ignorance pretending to knowledge. These faults of feminine literature, however, are inevitable incidents of immaturity. Young poets are just as foolish, and so are young male novelists. The main point stands that, as a story professes to represent life as it is, all the young authoresses of the day are at a disadvantage. Few women ever attain to what may be called a full knowledge of life. While unmarried, or if married early and happily, they learn little of the grim and ugly realities of the world. Even when they search for facts a great deal is unknown to them because they see life as observers rather than actors. The wonder is that they do so well, and the explanation is that intuition or inspiration comes to their aid. GEORGE ELIOT could never have mixed with peasants at the ale-house, yet in “Silas Marner” she reports their talk to the life; and her auctioneer in “Middlemarch” is depicted as if she had been buying horses from him for years. We see, therefore, the gain to the world of the new movement which has called to the service of man the literary faculties of a sex that from a few facts can draw inferences boldly, and penetrate at a glance mysteries which men have puzzled over for years. We wish every success to the Criterion banquet, and hope to record the trumpet-blasts with which the English and American authoresses will on this solemn occasion celebrate the literary victories of one-half the human race.

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Pall Mall Gazette (29 May, 1889 - p.7)

THE LITERARY LADIES’ DINNER.

     Much interest is being manifested in the literary ladies dinner which is to be held at the Criterion Restaurant on Friday. The number of guests is to be thirty, and the affair is to be strictly feminine, although on this point there has been some protest. One lady, indeed, who declined the committee’s invitation because she was going into the country, added that she would come to town for the dinner if the brethren of the craft were invited to share the feast with their sisters. But the committee stood firm, and even resisted the plea of seven gentlemen novelists who offered to come as waiters since they were not to be admitted as guests. When these were rejected, Mr. Robert Buchanan and Mr. Roden Noel asked if they might not come, being “only poets.” But even this plea failed. Miss Olive Schreiner will occupy the chair, and among the guests expected are Mrs. Humphry Ward, Mrs. Lynn Linton, and Mrs. Mona Caird. The idea of the dinner, which it is hoped will draw literary women into closer union, originated with Miss Honor Morten, a niece of William Black, and the beautiful wretch who is the heroine of one of his stories.—Manchester Examiner.

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The Daily Telegraph (1 June, 1889 - p.5)

     Last night in the Prince’s Room of the Criterion Restaurant twenty-two of the fair sex sat down in solemn state to consume what was described on the menu (may we say ungrammatically?) as a “Ladies’ Literary Dinner.” The bill of fare in question may in itself be termed a quaint work of art, for it had on the one side a portrait of the King of Hades, with motto “Copy please,” and on the other, two cats, presumably females, disputing the possession of a small mouse of the masculine gender. The appropriate quotations were: “They could not sit at meals but feel how well it sooth’d each to be the other by,” and “Her ’prentice han’ she tried on man, and then she made the lassies, oh!” It must be admitted that the dainties consumed were not extravagant. “Consommé Sarah Bernhardt,” salmon, whitebait, filets of beef, roast duckling, and ices are not expensive articles of food. Nor can the literary lady be blamed for qualifying the solids with dry champagne, claret, and sherry, or finishing up with black coffee and liqueurs. The table was arranged in horseshoe shape, Mrs. Mona Caird taking the chair. Special instructions were issued to prevent the intrusion of man, except in his capacity of waiter. Indeed, the banquet, from the jealous way in which it was watched, might have been a feast of the favourites of the Seraglio. In default of a real guard of the Harem, the defence of the repast was left in the hands of M. Négro, who performed his duties most efficiently. It cannot be said that there were any beautiful dresses; rather be it recorded that the costumes were æsthetically comfortable, the silken blouse being especially conspicuous. After dinner there was speechmaking, less in denunciation of the old Adam and his descendants than in praise of the new Eve and her ways. There was a piano in the room; there were players and singers present. There was scope for recitation; Miss Harriett Jay is a dramatist and actress. The dinner at the Criterion was clearly a step further towards the goal of Woman Franchise. And like a votive offering, the fumes of cigarettes ascended to the shrine of Pallas Athene, as the literary ladies crowned one another with flowers of speech.

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Pall Mall Gazette (1 June, 1889)

WOMEN WHO WRITE.
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THE LITERARY LADIES’ DINNER.
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[BY OUR LADY REPRESENTATIVE.]

     They say—— What do they say? Well, broadly, this—that there never was and never is, and never will be, a more insipid and uninteresting assembly than that at which “women only” gather together for social purposes. And yet, with the dread possibility of a failure before our eyes, a failure which would be reported the next morning as surely as we saw the gentleman of the Daily News (I abstain in mercy from mentioning his name, though I could if I would) lounging round the doors of our antechamber when the clock was pointing towards 11 P.M., we entered the portals of the Criterion last night with the consciousness that we would be a party of women only. Eight o’clock was the dinner hour, and at eight we filed into our temporary drawing-room, most of us strangers to each other, but all of us eager to be strangers no more, but to do our “level best” for the establishment of a sisterhood of letters. Who knows not the subdued agony of the mauvais quart d’heure before a dinner party? But so resolved were we all to smooth matters over that in less than five minutes after entering the room, each guest was engaged in conversation with another guest, an entire stranger hitherto. A group of lively, laughing girls sat in a corner; a stately brunette leaned against the mantel-piece, intently studying a mysterious plan, together with a cheery, bright-eyed matron; a young Greek goddess in draperies of rosy pink stooped gracefully down to a bevy of ladies discussing some interesting topic, and ever and again a dark-haired girl in a gown of soft grey and vieux rose darted from group to group. Then dinner was announced, and presently we were (openly) studying the Mephistophelean menu. The menu was as follows:—

They could not sit at meals but feel how well
It soothed each to be the other by.—Keats.

Her ’prentice han’ she tried on man
And then she made the lassies O!—Burns.

TABLE TALK.

     The result of our study of the menu having proved satisfactory, we commenced our “consommé Sarah Bernhardt,” but ere yet the whitebait made its appearance we were “chez nous,” each and all. Mrs. Mona Caird, in a gown of white and gold brocade, with rosebuds on her dress and in her hair, and a fan framed with velvety pansies, sat at the head of the table. On her right Mrs. Meynell, whose exquisite sonnets are known to all lovers of true poetry, and on her left Mrs. W. Sharp, whose artistic robes of terra cotta formed a beautiful contrast to the rich gold of Mrs. Graham Tomson’s lovely gown. Before long the hum of many voices filled the room; subdued peals of laughter came from various groups; and in aggressive wickedness we did what the mysterious voice of one of our brethren of the press had gloomily foreboded (together with a prophecy that “proceedings would be extremely slow”)—namely, we discussed each other’s books and writings with all the gusto and the delight which only things novel and unknown are able to call forth. One moment I was roaming over the wide, wide world with “J. A. Owen” (Mrs. Visger), and listening with intense delight to that bright-eyed lady’s account of the wonderful naturalist down in the green Surrey country nooks; the next I discussed “the pictures of the year” with another, or took mentally a note of the merits and demerits of several of our great publishers; and ever and anon I exchanged a glance charged with deep meaning with a fair-haired sister-journalist whose laughing eyes met mine from the dim distance.

COFFEE AND CIGARETTES.

     Long before our coffee was brought in at ten we had conquered what little shyness and constraint there was, and presently I heard a soft rustle behind my chair, and a little silver cigarette-box was coyly held out to me, while the voice of a girl in pink and grey, who was the heart and the soul as well as the head of the party, whispered cajolingly into my ear, “Look here, take a cigarette, but don’t say anything about them in your paper!” “What, bribing the British press? Your name, together with your cigarettes, shall stand as a cross heading in the P.M.G. ere yet the week is out!” “No, no, keep my name down, and, above all, don’t say that I am my literary uncle’s niece; he does not approve of the lustre which I reflect upon his name.” She pleaded so eloquently, and, with her cigarette held daintily between her white fingers, looked at me so bewitchingly, that I could not but promise. And as I looked up again the whole scene was changed. My journalistic friend’s girlish face was surrounded by an aureole of light blue cigarette smoke; Miss Harriet Jay leaned back on her chair and looked thoughtfully at the gleaming point of her cigarette; Miss G. Tomson’s delicate dark beauty was dimmed by the clouds of incense from her “weed;” Miss Levy toyed with the ashes on her plate; and the “beautiful wretch” in pink and grey called vainly upon her miniature match-box to return to her.

OUR ABSENT FRIENDS.

     This was the beginning of the best part of the evening, which began after the toast to her Majesty, by Miss Honor Morten reading out the letters of those who could not or who would not come. The first among them was a letter from Miss Olive Schreiner, whose absence everybody much regretted. She had promised to take the chair before the day of the dinner was settled, but had since vanished from everybody’s eyes, and was only discovered yesterday after the telegraph wires had been wildly busy about her. Miss Schreiner’s letter was full of regret at her absence and also full of sympathy with the gathering, and she expressed the hope, which was fervently echoed by all, that this would not be the last opportunity for literary women to meet together on similar occasions. Miss Mabel Robinson, Mrs. Macquoid, Mrs. Humphry Ward, Lady Wilde, Edna Lyall, Mrs. Lynn Linton, and many others “regretted” their enforced absence; Mrs. Louisa Parr did not come because she was in favour of “mixed affairs;” and “John Strange Winter” remained at home because, having been twice at dinners of the same kind, which were “ghastly,” she, like a wise woman, remained at a safe distance from the “dangerous experiment.”

THE SPEECHES.

     Mrs. Michael Smith—what lady journalist knows not her tall figure and her intelligent face, surrounded by an aureole of grey hair?—then cheerfully gave “The martyrs of life, the married ladies,” for whom Mrs. Mona Caird responded in a short, thoughtful speech, expressed now with mirth and humour as she pointed out that our present marriage system was “perfectly straight—except in some cases,” and again with an earnestness bordering on pathos as she talked of all the new ideas floating about like souls looking for bodies. I have no space to repeat all the good things that were said in the subsequent speeches, but I would not be a woman could I forbear to say what Mrs. Meynell told us, as, with dreamy eyes, she responded for “Poetry.” She talked of the discord which the hum of mixed voices generally produced, but at to-night’s gathering, she said, “even the Superior Being looking down would be almost pleased in hearing the blending of the soft women voices.” Miss Mathilde Blind raised a different note by a noble and eloquent speech on the dreams, needs, hopes, and aspirations of woman now that there is a general up-lifting of her nature to new aims and ideals. Miss Levy, the fair young authoress of “Reuben Sachs,” spoke for fiction; Mrs. Smith gave “The Press,” “the growing power in literature”; Miss Harriet Jay, who looked like a Greek goddess, gave, in a low, sympathetic, voice, “The ladies of the drama,” concluding, with excellent effect, “and I am to-night as proud of being an actress as I am of being an authoress.” Then, amidst much laughter, Miss Ferley, with a roguish look, proposed “The spinsters.” Curiously enough, the spinsters were all young women brimming over with high spirits, and with just the slightest soupcon of Bohemianism about them.

“BURYING THE HATCHET.”

     And then, for just another short half hour, we “grouped” once again about the room; fiction and the drama played with their fans and flowers; poetry swept with graceful robes through the wide room, and under one of the electric lamps stood and knelt the press, of all shades of opinion, the hatchet being buried for the nonce in the endeavour to obtain the vanished triolet, a copy of which comes to me this morning by post out of the camp of the arch-enemy, who claims “sweetness and honesty” for sending to me what was originally mine! Here it is; it is worthy of Freiligrath’s bright daughter:—

“I found this little triolet
In coming here to you to-night.
With ink its page still glistens wet:
It breathes soft murmurs of regret—
“No men—” “How very nice”—and yet!—
Pshaw! so we shall be doubly bright!
Thus runs my little triolet.
I found it coming here to-night!

There was a piano in the room; there were musicians, singers, and reciters, but we were so pleased with our own society that it never entered any one’s head even to allude to those straws at which those faintly catch who are being swept away by the seas of drawing-room dulness.
     And had we talked and laughed and quizzed each other in company of men, as we did among ourselves last night, our “flirtage” would have been in everybody’s mouth, and they would have said we were trying hard to find favour in their eyes, whereas—— But, “On dit. Qu’est qu’on dit? Qu’on dise!!”
     As everybody wants to know who was there I append a list of the names of the twenty-two, as I copied them from an obliging waiter’s plan.

and your—humble? no, not at all humble, after the “parliament of women”—and your servant.
     Shortly after eleven—the two energetic gentlemen from our morning contemporaries languished still outside the door till another obliging waiter had smuggled out one of our dainty menus—the press began to think of “copy,” and presently was dashing in half a dozen hansoms up Fleet-street, down the Strand, and in every direction, towards its desks and wires.
     But through the fun and through the merriment, and through the delight that the evening had passed without the slightest hitch, without one false note, there came, as we drove off into the starlit night, a quiet thought of the deeper meaning of the evening’s proceedings, and with a sense of silent exultation we knew that one day, the day when woman may work side by side with man without having for ever to assume a quasi-apologetic attitude, was coming very soon. We saw the dawn, and one of its brightest rays last night shone from the gabled roof of the Criterion.

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The Daily News (1 June, 1889)

LADIES’ LITERARY DINNER.
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     This interesting event took place last night at the Criterion, and there were present some twenty ladies, all more or less known to fame—but chiefly less! Still with Mrs. Mona Caird in the chair, supported by Mrs. Meynell and Miss Mathilde Blind, known names were not wanting. The flow of talk was unceasing during dinner, and the presence of the waiters—though they were men—seemed to exercise no restraint on the “feast of reason.” The menus were aptly decorated to anticipate all ridicule, and represented cats in various contortions fighting over a saucer of milk, and below the quotation from Keats—

They could not sit at meals but feel how well
It soothéd each to be the other by.

The health of the Queen was drunk in coffee with great heartiness, and then Mrs. Mona Caird responded to the toast of the Married Ladies. This gave her an opportunity of dilating on her special subject, and indignantly denying that marriage was a “contract” in any judicial sense of the word. Mrs. Meynell, well known for the exquisite sonnets written as Alice Thomson, spoke well in praise of women’s voices in poetry, remarking on the musical tones which had predominated in the evening chatter. Mrs. Freiligrath Kroeker illustrated this speech by an exquisite little triolet, which she maintained had been given her by a pink domino as she came up in the lift. Miss Blind spoke on literature generally, with all the weight her name could give, and Miss Harriett Jay, speaking on the drama, gave that skilful intonation which showed training. The evening was certainly bright and amusing, and it is hoped the dinner will be repeated in the future with even greater success.

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The Shields Daily Gazette (4 June, 1889 - p.3)

     It was not for nothing that the literary ladies who dined together in London the other night had their menu card decorated with a representation of cats fighting over a bowl of cream. Listen to what is said by one literary lady who was present on the occasion. “I went,” she says, “to oblige a great friend, and am horribly disgusted. . . It was in no sense a literary ladies’ dinner, as literature was conspicuous by its absence. Miss —— was the only woman of any note present, and she went to oblige another lady who did not turn up.” Commenting on the fact that no lady was found to respond to the toast of “Absent Sweethearts,” this critic of feminine festivity remarks grimly, “I did not wonder.” The menu, she admits, was good; but, “I counted only six empty champagne bottles, so the dinner was not convivial, if harmonious.” But what do literary ladies want with more than six bottles of champagne?

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The Southern Reporter (6 June, 1889 - p.2)

A LADIES’ DINNER.

     The Daily Telegraph has made some amusing “copy” out of Mrs Mona Caird’s little dinner, given to twenty ladies of the pen, at the Criterion Restaurant, of which gentlemen were not invited to partake. We are given the menu, and told of the champagne, cigarettes, and coffee which finished the repast, whilst the enthusiastic reporter tells us further that at this dinner “the literary ladies crowned one another with flowers of speech,” and that it was obviously “a step towards the goal of woman’s franchise.” To Mrs Mona Caird, who is best known by her famous question, “Is marriage a failure?” the last statement may be apparent; but there is a distinguished board of modest literary women amongst us who can also make their voices heard above the fumes of cigarettes at a Criterion Restaurant dinner, to whom woman’s franchise does not offer the same attractions; and we shall no doubt hear from them before the question gains much Parliamentary importance.

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The Saturday Review (8 June, 1889 - Vol. 67, p. 696)

L. L.

THE Literary Ladies of the Age have met at the Criterion and dined. The reporters, or one reporter, unkindly and unnecessarily remarks that the guests were “of more or less celebrity, chiefly less.” But may people not dine together unless they are celebrated, and is it necessary that all women of letters should be famous? Many of them, no doubt, prefer to be like violets by a mossy stone half hidden, and to sweeten the prose of the magazines with the fragrance of their unassuming poetry. The Literary Ladies were not graced by the presence of some of their most learned sisters, but the learned author always rather prefers to keep out of the way of the herd; a fair herd in this case, no doubt, but a herd for all that. The lady poets and novelists are declared to have enjoyed themselves, to have defended the character (not the moral character) of Mr. ROCHESTER, in Jane Eyre, and to have said very little about SAPPHO.
     There was a time when this agreeable solemnity would have been mocked by men, when they would have sneered at “the convivialities of blue-stockings.” Man is ever so: difficult to please. He meets a lady who is illiterate, and he finds her dull, unless she be very beautiful indeed; he hears of ladies who are literary, and he jibes. He quotes M. GUY DE MAUPASSANT on the feminine inaptitude for the arts, and he generally gives himself airs. On the other hand, he might remember that literature is the one art in which women have often done good and lasting work. In poetry they can reckon at least two, and perhaps three, names of eminence, which is more than painting yields them. At present it really seems as if verse were becoming a mainly feminine accomplishment. There are at least six Muses for every APOLLO—perhaps there are nine. Statistics are deceptive, but they may give a general idea as to the proportion of male to female singers. In the half-yearly volume of an American magazine there are twenty-six poems; seven of these are by men, nineteen by literary ladies. Thus poetry is manifestly becoming a branch of female industry, and we fancy that a calculation based on the little volumes which flutter like butterflies from the press would give the same results. As poetry is undeniably the highest form of literature, it is manifest that woman is becoming more literary than man, and that she may very well celebrate her pre-eminence by a dinner. That she is far other than the frivolous thing of old satire is proved by her greatly daring to dine alone, without mankind. Now the author of Consuelo (who was a literary lady) would not have enjoyed a tavern dinner to which there was no occasion for bringing that famous poniard, the sentinel of her iron and armed virtue.
     The serious sex has learned, or at least its literary members have learned, to dine and amuse themselves without the flippant sex. This is the more comfortable because in other ways woman shows a tendency to pursue man into his most lonely and sacred recesses. She plays cricket, and insists that he, left-handed and with a broomstick, shall accept her challenge. She shoots, and adds a new danger to the sport. She fishes; and woman is a dire thing in a boat on a loch, where the wild wind whirrs the flies all about her, till she resembles a huge spider in a maze of cobweb. She even intrudes herself on the links, where, of all places, she is most in peril and least in demand. She storms smoking-rooms and smoking-carriages. As to platforms, she is welcome to them—would that she had them all to herself! But, while others use thus to associate themselves with men, superfluously, the Literary Ladies can dine alone. Men have long possessed this gift. Some prefer men’s dinners, for a variety of reasons, all of them bad. But for Literary Ladies to dine alone is “to inaugurate a new departure,” as a persuasive writer says, a departure full of promise.
     There may be found a cynic who will deny that woman is really so successful in letters as we have endeavoured to show. As to the magazines, he will own that editors do not care what sort of poetry they print, and that they would rather oblige the young and fair than ordinary bearded men of letters. But, after a strict examination, we do not see that the ladies’ poetry is any worse than the men’s. Indeed, if a pile of unsigned poetry were set before the most careful judge, we doubt if he could discriminate the chants of the virgines from those of the pueri. In grave studies, such as theology, woman is confessed to lead the world; and in fiction, when she chooses, she can be nearly as good as the best, and nearly as dull as the worst, male authors. In daring inventions, in journalism especially, she yields to none, and for calm outspoken revelations of private life no male correspondent of an American journal can cope with the fair. They are not handicapped by certain prejudices which many men never quite overcome; they can say what they please with an innocent freedom beyond the hopes of the stiffer sex. On the whole, literature is more and more becoming feminine, purer, more ethereal, more earnest, more impulsive, more intuitive; less grammatical, accurate, pedantic, less constrained by dull rules of evidence and dismal traditions of style. The historical present and the Passions are all abroad; every glade is a Cithæron (or a Criterion), and Literary Ladies will strike the note to which the poetry and prose of the next century must respond. Unhappily we cannot all hope to live into the next century, and listen to the lyrical descendants of Miss MATHILDE BLIND and Miss AMÉLIE RIVES.

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The Scots Observer (8 June, 1889 - pp.67-68)

THE L L.’S DINNER.

‘On Friday, May 31st, at the Criterion, the Literary
Ladies of London of a Dinner.’

THIS bald announcement does scant justice to the event of the season. Women burning with a sense of wrong have played cricket-ball matches, how’s-that-umpire, ere now; but it was felt that they would never show themselves the equals of men until they dined together at a restaurant and left vesuvians about. So a Literary Ladies’ dinner was arranged by a committee, some of whom thought a few men should be scattered through the room, though the majority said that the male sex were a bore. As a compromise it was suggested that the editor of The Woman’s World be admitted. Finally it was decided firmly to dine absolutely alone; and, as it turned out, the hosts were ladies who would be literary if it was not so expensive while the guests were literary ladies who did not attend. The chair was taken by the famous Mrs. Mona Caird, and among other celebrities present were several who have contributed to the leading waste-paper baskets of the day.
     With such a brilliant company success was a foregone conclusion, and long before the roast was reached those present were talking and laughing so like men that the gentlemen behind the curtains had only to attend with their ears to fancy themselves in the vicinity of their own sex. The scene was gay in the extreme, for literary ladies are noted for their taste in dress. It were invidious to make distinctions, yet one wonderful creature who flitted about in pink and grey, and is said to be no less than the niece of a popular novelist, seemed to be even more literary than the others. In occasional sudden pauses in the conversation the word ‘frump’ would be heard, and the phrase—‘She might have put on something new for once’ would float toward the curtains, but otherwise all was manly. Following the custom of literary men at dinner, the scribbling women spoke freely of their Works, and at 9.45 an interesting incident occurred. A celebrity who has twice had articles within the last six months in the Innishowan Recorder rose from her seat, when it was discovered that she had been sitting on a large volume entitled My Press Articles. This contained the two articles already referred to neatly pasted into the first pages of the book, the remaining 998 pages being reserved for future articles. No sooner had the fair author taken this step than the general reserve was loosened, and each of the other celebrities rose and produced a similar volume. Though the Works, however, were like each other outwardly, their contents varied, and several contained Press Notices which the Literary Ladies have written about each other from time to time. The thickest volume had a short story in it from the Society Chameleon, besides no fewer than seven articles from the Paddington Mirror and Pimlico News, on seven distinct topics; but the gifted author, having read the story aloud and begun on the first article, the chairwoman said ‘Order,’ and then blushed, whereupon the Works were returned to their places of concealment.
     The fun now became fast and furious. A box of vestas was passed up and down the table, and the pictures on both sides of it were coolly examined. One lady shook the box without moving a muscle, and another had lit a vesta and was putting it into her mouth when her neighbour blew it out, seeing that in the excitement of the moment her friend had made a mistake. To fire the others to the grand culminating point, the secretary now whispered to the bolder celebrities to talk about dogs and the opera as literary men do, and then, amid tremendous applause, a lady, whose name is known wheresoever the English language is spoke, put her feet upon the table. She withdrew them as soon as the others had noticed that she wore threes, but every one present knew that this was the signal for smoking to begin. The waiters having been artfully sent out of the room, a box of cigarettes was produced from beneath the fender, where it had been hidden early in the evening. This was passed round, each celebrity taking one, and calling it a weed by particular request of the committee. ‘Have a Cabana’ were the official words used, sometimes varied with ‘These Manillas are not so bad,’ or ‘I can recommend these for biting the tongue.’ The weeds were lit at candles, because no one could now remember how the vesta-box opened, and at a given signal they were being brought nearer the mouth, the lighted ends outwards, when all at once some one said ‘Dem!’ Whether the speaker was a waiter who had just then entered the room, or one of the gentleman behind the curtains, or a lady more literary even than the rest, could not be discovered in the confusion that followed. The excitement having subsided, the cigarettes were picked up from the floor, and the speeches began.
     The toast of the evening, ‘The Martyrs of Life, the Married Ladies,’ was given by Mrs. Smith, and replied to by Mrs. Mona Caird in a thoughtful speech with rosebuds on her dress and in her hair, expressed with much humour and earnestness of white and gold brocade with velvet pansies on the bodice high to the throat, and bordering on pathos as she talked of new ideas floating about like souls looking for bodies chiefly for summer wear.
     Miss Blind replied for the general uplifting of woman’s nature in white and green, relieved by a round plaited bodice of the same material, speaking eloquently of the dreams and aspirations of women delightfully blended by black ribbon edged with insertion lace and the ingratitude or prejudice of the other sex worn low and gathered in at the back of the waist.
     Miss Levy gave ‘Fiction’ in black tulle, laying special stress on the higher morality of women’s novels; Mrs. Smith, the famous journalist, defended the Press, finished off with a wide flounce which gives it the necessary fulness; and Miss Jay spoke for the ladies of the stage in white and gold.
     The eventful entertainment ended with the celebrities going home in hansoms, without first bargaining with the cabby as to what he would take them for.

                                                                                                                             [Written by J. M. Barrie.]

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Punch (15 June, 1889 - Vol. 96, p.296)]

The Brisbane Courier (Australia) (16 July, 1889 - p.6)

LITERARY LADIES AT DINNER.

     At the Criterion—gracefully alluded to by more than one of the fair diners as the “Cri.”—no fewer than Two-and- Twenty Ladies who Write (and sometimes print) sat down to a sufficient, but not extravagant, repast, on the 31st May. We are able (says the St. James's Gazette) to contradict on the best authority the false rumour that there was a course of Bath Buns on the menu, and that among the vins was Tea. On the contrary, the literary ladies consumed whitebait, and salmon, and filets of beef, and other wholesome and sufficient articles of food. The Amphitryon who gave this lavish entertainment is understood to be a lady who has written (and occasionally published) something herself; but literary ladies are so modest that we shrink from giving her name. Mrs. Humphry Ward did not come, nor did Mrs. Lynn Linton, nor the author of “An African Farm,” nor Miss Rhoda Broughton; but Mrs. Mona Caird was present (in the chair), and Mrs. Meynell, and Miss Harriet Jay, and Miss Mathilde Blind, and eighteen other almost equally famous authoresses. The menu-cards were gracefully and appropriately adorned with a picture in black and white, representing two cats (presumably cats of the more literary ses) disputing over a bowl of cream. Proud man was not admitted to the feast, except in the fitting capacity of waiter. After dinner he retired, and the ladies drank the health of the Queen, chiefly in black coffee, and made speeches to one another, and those more truly conscious of their mission lighted their cigarettes. Mrs. Mona Caird worked round to the great subject with which she has linked her name to all time, and favoured the company with her views on the marriage contract. Mrs. Kroeker recited a triolet, a little thing of her own which she had composed in the lift on her way up to the gilded halls in which the banquet was held. Mrs. Meynell, who has composed sonnets, spoke of poetry; Miss Harriet Jay had every right to speak on the drama, and Miss Mathilde Blind responded to the toast of “Literature.” The dresses, it is recorded, were more remarkable for comfort than for vain and empty  show, and that species of garment known as the “silken blouse” was especially conspicuous. The proceedings were kept up with unabated spirit till a late hour; the bell was several times rung for more coffee; and it was not till past 11 that the company adjourned to catch their omnibuses.

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Te Aroha News (New Zealand, 10 August, 1889 - p.3):

Included in ‘A Lady’s Letter From London’ (dated June 14th):

     “Mrs Mona Caird (who has been much run after by lion-hunters since “The Wing of Azrael” raised a storm of discussion) presided at a new departure called the “Literary Ladies’ Dinner” last Tuesday. None of the male sex were admitted, even the attendants being waitresses. The conversation is understood to have been of the most sparkling and brilliant description, and the speeches far above the level of masculine post-prandial eloquence. Mrs Lynn Linton excused herself from attending in a characteristically caustic effusion, which was read amidst much laughter and not a few blushes; and Mrs Oliphant, Mrs Humphrey Ward and Miss Olive Schreiner also found themselves somehow unfortunately unable to be present. The dinner was, however, graced by Miss Alice Cockran (of “The Queen”), Mrs T. P. O’Connor (a practised platform orator), Miss Friedrichs (“Miss Mantalini” of the “Pall Mall Gazette”) and Mrs Humphreys (of the “Daily News” and “Truth”).
     Massive Miss Harriet Jay (gorgeously arrayed in pink liberty silk) replied to the toast of the drama, and little Miss Amy Levy’s name was coupled with that of “literature.” The author of “Reuben Sachs” is a charming brunette, as full of life and sparkle as she can be, and a brilliant conversationalist. She kept those around her in a constant ripple of laughter, and made the best speech of the evening, not even excepting Mrs O’Connor. Lady Colin Campbell will preside at the next ladies’ dinner.”

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The annual Literary Ladies’ Dinner (in 1893 the name was changed to the Women Writers’ Dinner) continued until the outbreak of the First World War. Harriett Jay did not attend the event in 1890, an account of which is available below.

[From The Daily News (31 May, 1890 - p.6).]

Harriett Jay’s absence the following year could be explained by this passage from ‘A Club of Their Own: The “Literary Ladies,” New Women Writers, and Fin-de-Siècle Authorship’ by Linda Hughes (Victorian Literature and Culture Vol. 35, Issue 1, March 2007, pp. 233-260 - available from JSTOR) which provides a history of the ‘Literary Ladies’ Dinner’. It includes an extract of a letter from Honnor Morten to Elizabeth Robins Pennell regarding the new method of inviting women writers to attend the 1891 event (”Five invitations will be sent to each member of the committee to send to the five literary ladies she would prefer present.”):

‘The method was not failsafe. As Morten’s 19 June letter to Pennell commented, “You are splendid! All your people reply most promptly whereas I have not heard a word of any of those Mrs Meade undertook. ... I suppose Miss Blind is ill; I can get no letters from her and Miss Jay has flown at me—wants to know why she - and she only of the old guests —has not been invited to this year’s dinner. It is awfully unpleasant for me, but I have followed Matilda’s example and taken refuge in silence.” ’

An account of the third event is available below:

[From The Daily News (26 June, 1891 - p.6).]

Harriett Jay is mentioned as attending the fourth Dinner in the following report from The Edinburgh Evening News (3 June 1892 - p.2):

But she is not mentioned in the report below:

[From The Daily News (3 June 1892 - p.3).]

The York Herald (4 June, 1892 - p.5)

     Some amusement was caused at the literary ladies’ dinner last night by the steady refusal of one of the company to give her name. The authoress of “Dr. Edith Romney,” was there, and received congratulations on the success of her new novel, but all efforts to ascertain her identity were futile. Under the circumstances, it is a matter of surprise that she attended the banquet, which appears to have been highly successful, though it was not graced by the presence of most of the best known literary ladies.

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Harriett Jay’s attendance at the renamed Women Writers’ Dinners seems to have ended with the 1893 event, at least I have not found any further mentions of her name. A possible reason for this is the financial problems of the Buchanan household in 1894, which resulted in an appearance in the Bankruptcy Court for both Robert Buchanan and Miss Harriett Jay.

Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper (4 June, 1893)

WOMEN WRITERS’ DINNER.

     Under a slightly different title the “Literary Ladies” of former years met on Wednesday at the Criterion to hold their fifth annual dinner. The attendance was larger than usual, there being more than 50 guests present. Miss Mathilde Blind took the chair. The table was arranged in horse-shoe shape, and presented a very pretty sight, the bright dresses not being intermingled with black coats, as is usual at large gatherings. After dinner Miss Blind rose to propose the toast of “The Queen,” and stated that the Victorian age could boast a more celebrated roll of authoresses than all other ages put together, and this development was particularly gratifying as taking place under a woman Sovereign. In conclusion, Miss Blind suggested it would be well if Miss Christina Rossetti could be appointed Poet Laureate. The next speaker was Miss Christabel R. Coleridge, granddaughter of the poet, who took fiction for her theme. Miss Harriett Jay then gave a brief recitation, which was followed by a speech on poetry by Mrs. Hinkson, better known under her maiden name of Katherine Tynan. Mrs. Hinkson spoke with a delightful brogue. Miss Lowe, editor of the Queen, then spoke with authority on journalism, and gave an amusing account of the difficulties between lady reporters and printers. She said the only fault of the lady reporter was that she could not condense. When asked for an inch, she invariably gave an ell. Mme. Chevreur, who under the nom-de-plume of “Tasma,” has written some charming Australian novels, and who had come over from Brussels on purpose to be present, made a brief but bright speech, pleading that an International congress of women-writers ought to be held next year in Brussels. These speeches being over, it was proposed that the dinner should next year be replaced by a tea, but this feminine notion was scouted with laughter and cheers, and there seems no reason to believe that this annual feast will be abandoned. Amongst those present were Lady Lindsay, Lady Margaret Hamilton, Mrs. Molesworth, Mrs. L. T. Meade, Miss Alice Corkran, Mrs. William Sharp, Mrs. Meynell, Miss Emily Hickey, Mrs. Alfred Marks, Miss Beatrice Whitby, Mrs. Kent Spender, Miss Heather-Biggs, Miss Adeline Sergeant, Miss Mabel Collins, Miss Florence Balgarnie, and Miss Helen Shipton.

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