You reply to a note of invitation immediately, and in the most direct and unequivocal terms.  If you accept, you arrive at the house rigorously at the hour specified.  It is equally inconvenient to be too late and to be too early.  If you fall into the latter error, you find every thing in disorder; the master of the house is in his dressing-room, changing his waistcoat; the lady is still in the pantry; the fire not yet lighted in the parlour.  If by accident or thoughtlessness you arrive too soon, you may pretend that you called to inquire the exact hour at which they dine, having mislaid the note, and then retire to walk for an appetite.  If you are too late, the evil is still greater, and indeed almost without a remedy.  Your delay spoils the dinner and destroys the appetite and temper of the guests; and you yourself are so much embarrassed at the inconvenience you have occasioned, that you commit a thousand errors at table.  If you do not reach the house until dinner is served, you had better retire to a restaurateurs, and thence send an apology, and not interrupt the harmony of the courses by awkward excuses and cold acceptances.

When the guests have all entered, and been presented to one another, if any delay occurs, the conversation should be of the lightest and least exciting kind; mere common-places about the weather and late arrivals.  You should not amuse the company by animated relations of one person who has just cut his throat from ear to ear, or of another who, the evening before, was choked by a tough beef-steak and was buried that morning.

When dinner is announced, the inviter rises and requests all to walk to the dining-room.  He then leads the way, that they may not be at a loss to know whither they should proceed.  Each gentleman offers his arm to a lady, and they follow in solemn order.

The great distinction now becomes evident between the host and the guests, which distinction it is the chief effort of good breeding to remove.  To perform faultlessly the honours of the table, is one of the most difficult things in society:  it might indeed be asserted without much fear of contradiction, that no man has as yet ever reached exact propriety in his office as host, has hit the mean between exerting himself too much and too little.  His great business is to put every one entirely at his ease, to gratify all his desires, and make him, in a word, absolutely contented with men and things.  To accomplish this, he must have the genius of tact to perceive, and the genius of finesse to execute; ease and frankness of manner; a knowledge of the world that nothing can surprise; a calmness of temper that nothing can disturb, and a kindness of disposition that can never be exhausted.  When he receives others, he must be content to forget himself; he must relinquish all desire to shine, and even all attempts to please his guests by conversation, and rather, do all in his power to let them please one another.  He behaves to them without agitation, without affectation; he pays attention without an air of protection; he encourages the timid, draws out the silent, and directs conversation without Sustaining it himself.  He who does not do all this, is wanting in his duty as host; he who does, is more than mortal.