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                              LONDON CLUBS




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[Illustration:

  THE ST. JAMES’ CLUB
  (FORMERLY COVENTRY HOUSE)
  _From a Water-colour Drawing by W. Walcot_
]


                              LONDON CLUBS


                       THEIR HISTORY & TREASURES






                                  _By_

                              RALPH NEVILL

        AUTHOR OF “THE MERRY PAST,” “LIGHT COME, LIGHT GO,” ETC.








[Illustration]





                        LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS

                                MDCCCCXI





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                            WITH NINE PLATES



                         _All rights reserved_




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                                  NOTE


The Author wishes to acknowledge the valuable assistance he has received
from several Secretaries of Clubs mentioned in this volume, particularly
Captain CHARLES PERCY SMITH, who supplied him with information of
considerable interest.

His best thanks are also due to the Committee of the St. James’ Club for
having courteously allowed him to reproduce the water-colour drawing
shown in the Frontispiece.




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                                CONTENTS


                               CHAPTER I

                                                   PAGES

               The Origin of Clubs in               1–32
                 Coffee-houses and Taverns.


                               CHAPTER II

               Curious Clubs of the                33–62
                 Past—Pratt’s—Beefsteak
                 Clubs, Old and New


                              CHAPTER III

               Clubs of St. James’s                63–98
                 Street—Boodle’s, Arthur’s,
                 and White’s


                               CHAPTER IV

               Brooks’s, the Cocoa-tree, and      99–134
                 the Thatched House


                               CHAPTER V

               Changes in Club-Life and Ways     135–155


                               CHAPTER VI

               Elections—Committees—Regulations—Rules    156–177


                              CHAPTER VII

               Late                              178–208
                 Sittings—Fines—Cards—Characters—Supper
                 Clubs


                              CHAPTER VIII

               The Travellers’—Oriental—St.      209–236
                 James’—Turf—Marlborough—Isthmian
                 —Windham—Bachelors’—Union—Carlton—Junior
                 Carlton—Conservative—Devonshire—Reform


                               CHAPTER IX

               The National—Oxford and           237–256
                 Cambridge—United
                 University—New
                 University—New Oxford and
                 Cambridge—United
                 Service—Army and Navy—Naval
                 and Military—Guards’—Royal
                 Naval Club—Caledonian—Junior
                 Athenæum


                               CHAPTER X

               The Dilettanti—The                257–284
                 Club—Cosmopolitan—Kit-Kat—Royal
                 Societies’—Burlington Fine
                 Arts—Athenæum—Alfred


                               CHAPTER XI

               The Garrick—Jockey Club at        285–310
                 Newmarket—Royal Yacht
                 Squadron at Cowes—Conclusion


               INDEX                             311–316


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                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                   TO
                                                 FACE
                                                 PAGE

                  The St. James’ Club            _Frontispiece_

                  Badges and Ring of the Sublime   38
                    Society of Beefsteaks

                  Badge of the Ad Libitum Club     38

                  White’s Club previous to 1811    78

                  Promised Horrors of the French  100
                    Invasion, by Gillray

                  Old Mansions in Piccadilly,     220
                    now Clubs

                  Crockford’s in 1828             228

                  Interior of the Reform Club     232

                  The Army and Navy Club          244

                  A Dinner of the Dilettanti      260
                    Society at the Thatched
                    House


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                              LONDON CLUBS




                               CHAPTER I

            THE ORIGIN OF CLUBS IN COFFEE-HOUSES AND TAVERNS


The modern club, with its luxuries and comforts, has its origin in the
tavern and coffee-house of a long-past age. The resorts in question have
long since entirely changed their character, although they were once
important features of London life, and were used by all classes for
purposes of conviviality and conversation.

The appellation “club” seems to have come into use at the time when
coffee-houses began to be popular in London. The first notable London
club, of course, was the Mermaid, in Broad Street, which was supposed to
have been founded by Raleigh, and which was the reputed scene of many
witty combats between Shakespeare and Ben Jonson. The latter himself
originated another club—the Apollo—which had its meetings at the Devil
Tavern, near Temple Bar.

In course of time many landlords perceived the advantage which would
accrue to their business from the setting apart of special rooms for
privileged customers; and gradually a number of fairly exclusive clubs
came into being.

Thus Tom’s, a coffee-house till 1764, in that year, by a guinea
subscription, was easily converted into a fashionable club. In the same
way White’s and the Cocoa-tree changed their character from
chocolate-house to club. When once a house had customers enough of
standing and good repute, well acquainted with each other, it was quite
worth while to purchase the power of excluding all but subscribers, and
to turn the place into a club; for by such a proceeding undesirable
characters, who could obtain constant admission to an open house, were
at once kept outside the doors.

The evolution of the modern club has been so simple that it can be
traced with great ease. First the tavern or coffee-house, where a
certain number of people met on special evenings for purposes of social
conversation, and incidentally consumed a good deal of liquid
refreshment; then the beginnings of the club proper—some well-known
house of refreshment being taken over from the proprietor by a limited
number of clients for their own exclusive use, and the landlord retained
as manager; and finally the palatial modern club, not necessarily
sociable, but replete with every comfort, and owned by the members
themselves. In such places, however, the old spirit of club-life is
generally lost. Dr. Johnson, for example, can be imagined passing
through the portals of one of these huge buildings, and saying: “Sir,
this may be a palace, but it is no club.” There is no doubt that in a
great measure he would be right.

It is believed that the first house in Pall Mall ever used as a club was
No. 86, originally built for Edward, Duke of York, brother of George
III. It was opened as a “subscription house,” and called the Albion
Hotel towards the end of the last century.

In the early part of the eighteenth century there were said to be no
fewer than 2,000 coffee-houses in London. Every profession, trade,
class, party, had its favourite coffee-house. The lawyers discussed law
or literature, criticized the last new play, or retailed the legal
scandal at Nando’s or the Grecian, not very far away from the Temple. At
such places the young bloods of the Inns of Court paraded their gowns in
the morning, and swaggered in their lace coats and Mechlin ruffles at
night, after the theatre. City men met to discuss the rise and fall of
stocks, and to settle the rate of insurance, at Garraway’s or
Jonathan’s; parsons exchanged University gossip or discussed points of
theology at Truby’s or at Child’s, in St. Paul’s Churchyard; whilst
military men mustered to grumble over their grievances at Old or Young
Man’s, near Charing Cross. The St. James’s and the Smyrna were the
headquarters of the Whig politicians, whereas the Tories frequented the
Cocoa-tree or Ozinda’s, in St. James’s Street; Scotchmen had their house
of call at Forrest’s, Frenchmen at Giles’s or Old Slaughter’s, in St.
Martin’s Lane; the gamesters shook their elbows in White’s and the
chocolate-houses round Covent Garden; and the leading wits gathered at
Will’s, Button’s, or Tom’s, in Great Russell Street, where, after the
theatre, there was piquet and the best of conversation till midnight. At
all these places, except a few of the most aristocratic coffee or
chocolate houses of the West End, smoking was allowed.

Many of these old taverns must have been exceedingly comfortable places,
and the few which survive have an especial charm. They carry one’s
thoughts irresistibly to the days when Dr. Johnson blew his cloud by the
side of an old-fashioned fireplace, and occasionally floored some
unhappy wight with the sledge-hammer of his conversation.

One of the last, if not the last, hostelries, which still retains its
ancient appearance, is the Cheshire Cheese. This well-known house is
half-way up Fleet Street, on the northern side. It remains, I believe,
substantially as it was when, seven years after the Restoration, it was
rebuilt on the site of that older Cheshire Cheese where Shakespeare and
many other Elizabethan wits were wont to meet.

Ben Jonson was a frequent visitor, and here occurred his dispute with
Sylvester as to which of them could make the best couplet in the
shortest time. The latter began:


                          “I, Sylvester,
                           Kiss’d your sister.”


The other’s retort was:


                           “I, Ben Jonson,
                            Kiss’d your wife.”


“But that’s not rhyme,” said Sylvester. “No,” said Jonson, “but it’s
true.”

The original courtyard of the Cheshire Cheese is now roofed over with
glass, and here may be seen some interesting old prints. These include
two by H. Bunbury—“A City Hunt” and “Hyde Park, 1780”; while others are,
“Destruction of the Bastille, July 14, 1789,” after a painting by H.
Singleton, and a line engraving by James Heath, from a painting by F.
Wheatley of “The Riot in Broad Street on the 17th of June, 1773.”

Dr. Johnson is supposed to have passed many an evening here, and from
his time down to the present day unbroken links of tradition connect the
Cheshire Cheese of the twentieth century with the Cheshire Cheese of the
eighteenth.

The seat on which legend reports that the redoubtable lexicographer sat
is one of the most treasured relics of the dining-room. Above it hangs a
copy of the famous portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds, now preserved in the
National Gallery. Underneath may be read the following inscription: “The
Favourite Seat of Dr. Johnson. Born 18th Septr., 1709. Died 13th Decr.,
1784. In him a noble understanding and a masterly intellect were united
with grand independence of character and unfailing goodness of heart,
which won the admiration of his own age and remain as recommendations to
the reverence of posterity. ‘No, Sir! there is nothing which has yet
been contrived by man by which so much happiness has been produced as by
a good tavern.’—JOHNSON.”

A number of quaint pictures and prints are to be found scattered over
the house.

Upstairs is another copy of Sir Joshua’s oil-painting of the Doctor.
This, it is said, dates back to Johnson’s time, and was painted in order
that it might adorn the room at the Mitre, in Chancery Lane, where the
club founded by Dr. Johnson first held its meetings. Dr. Johnson’s Mitre
has long since been pulled down, but the club he founded still exists,
and it meets several times a year in what was formerly the coffee-room.
This is now known as “William’s room,” on account of the portrait of
William Simpson which hangs over the fireplace. William began to be a
waiter at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese Chop-house in 1829, and his portrait,
as the inscription below says, “was subscribed for by the gentlemen
frequenting the coffee-room, and presented to Mr. Dolamore (the
landlord) to be handed down as an heirloom to all future landlords of
‘Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese,’ Wine Office Court, Fleet Street.” The name of
the artist is unknown.

In the opposite room is a picture of another waiter—a portrait of Henry
Todd, as the inscription informs us, who commenced as waiter at Ye Olde
Cheshire Cheese February 27, 1812. It was painted by Wageman, July 1827,
and “subscribed for by the gentlemen frequenting the coffee-room, and
presented to Mr. Dolamore (the landlord) in trust to be handed down as
an heirloom to all future landlords of the Old Cheshire Cheese, Wine
Office Court, Fleet Street.”

Besides being the meeting-place of the Mitre Club, the Cheshire Cheese
is used by a number of clubs resembling somewhat those which were so
popular with a long-vanished generation. These are: The Johnson Club,
founded about twenty-five years ago; the Sawdust Club, founded 1906;
“Ourselves,” founded 1897; St. Dunstan’s, founded 1890; the Rump Steak
Club; the Dickens Club. The Johnson Club is literary and social in
character, and consists of thirty-one members, who sup together annually
on or about December 13th, the anniversary of the Doctor’s death.
Various other meetings are held throughout the year.

The Doctor was certainly the most typical club-man of a past age, and
his name is connected with quite a number of social clubs which held
their meetings at coffee-houses and taverns. Indeed, no more clubbable
man than the writer of the famous Dictionary ever lived; but, then,
sociability was the main object of the clubs of his day, whereas the
modern tendency is more towards comfort and efficient management than
anything else. In most large modern clubs quite a number of members are
totally unknown to their fellows, and there is no reason why a member
should speak to anyone at all unless he wishes to do so. The majority of
the larger modern clubs are in reality merely comfortable
caravanserais—hotels receiving a certain number of selected visitors who
recognize no social obligations within the club walls except such as
regulate ordinary civilized behaviour.

Dr. Johnson founded several social clubs at the taverns and
coffee-houses which he loved to frequent. One of these was the King’s
Head, Ivy Lane, Paternoster Row, a famous beefsteak house, and here he
spent every Tuesday evening in conversation with the members of a social
club of his own foundation.

At the Queen’s Arms, in St. Paul’s Churchyard, the Doctor in later years
founded a club of a similar sort, and Boswell records that he was also
desirous of having a City club, the members of which he suggested that
Boswell should collect. “Only,” added the great lexicographer, “don’t
let there be any patriots.”

Yet another club instituted by Dr. Johnson was one which met thrice a
week at the Essex Head, in Essex Street, Strand, at the time when that
tavern was kept by Samuel Greaves—an old servant of Mr. Thrale’s.
Failure to attend was penalized by a fine of twopence.

The Mitre Tavern in Fleet Street, so often referred to by Boswell, was
Dr. Johnson’s favourite supper-place, and here was planned the
celebrated tour to the Hebrides. It is interesting to remember, in this
connection, that Chamberlain Clarke, who died in 1831, aged ninety-two,
was the last survivor of those friends with whom Dr. Johnson forgathered
at the Mitre.

Peele’s Coffee-house, at Nos. 177, 178, Fleet Street, which afterwards
became a tavern, was also supposed to have been a haunt of Dr. Johnson,
whose portrait, painted on the keystone of a chimney-piece, for years
after his death formed one of the attractions of the house. The artist
was supposed to have been Sir Joshua Reynolds. Peele’s was once noted
for its collection of old newspapers. Here were preserved files from the
following dates: The _Gazette_, 1759; _Times_, 1780; _Morning
Chronicle_, 1773; _Morning Post_, 1773; _Morning Herald_, 1784; _Morning
Advertiser_, 1794.

Nearly every literary man of that time had his favourite coffee-house.

George’s, at No. 213 Strand, near Temple Bar, was the resort of
Shenstone, who found it an economical place. Probably it was for this
reason that the eccentric Sir James Lowther, a very rich man, but
penurious, also went there. On his first visit he got the proprietors to
change a piece of silver in order to pay twopence for his coffee. A few
days later he returned expressly to tell the woman that she had given
him a bad halfpenny, and demanded another in exchange for it.

Clients of this coffee-house could read pamphlets and papers for a very
moderate subscription.

London hours were very different in those days. Three o’clock, or at
latest four, was the dining hour of the most fashionable people, for in
the country no such late hours had been adopted. In London, therefore,
the men began to assemble soon after six at the coffee-house they
frequented—unless, indeed, they were setting in for hard drinking, which
seems to have prevailed much less in private houses than in taverns.

The conversation varied in different coffee-houses. In those about the
Temple, legal matters formed the principal subject of discussion. On the
other hand, at Daniel’s, the Welsh coffee-house in Fleet Street, it was
mostly of births, pedigrees, and descents; Child’s and the Chapter, upon
glebes, tithes, advowsons, rectories, and lectureships; North’s, undue
elections, false pollings, scrutinies, and the like; Hamlin’s, infant
baptism, lay ordination, free-will, election, and reprobation; Batson’s,
the prices of pepper, indigo, and saltpetre; and all those about the
Exchange, where the merchants met to transact their affairs, were in a
perpetual hurry about stock-jobbing—cheating, and tricking widows and
orphans, and committing spoil and rapine on the public, malicious people
said.

In some coffee-houses and taverns political feeling ran high. One noted
chop-house near Holborn lost its business owing to the democratic
character of a number of its frequenters, and eventually had to be shut
up. A new landlord, however, seeking to restore its prosperity,
exhibited the sign of the King’s Head, referring to which a friend said
to him: “Do you think your new sign will keep away old customers? Why,
there is not one of them but would like as much as ever to have a chop
at the King’s Head.”

The Chapter Coffee-house in Paternoster Row, an ancient building with
low rooms and heavy beams, was in the eighteenth century the resort of
all the booksellers and publishers; and the literary hacks, the critics,
and even the wits, used to go there in search of ideas or employment.
This was the place about which Chatterton wrote, in those delusive
letters he sent to his mother at Bristol, while he was starving in
London. The Chapter also retained traditions of Oliver Goldsmith.

In later years it became the tavern frequented by University men and
country clergymen who were up in London for a few days, and, having no
private friends or access into society, were glad to learn what was
going on in the world of letters, from the conversation which they were
sure to hear in the coffee-room.

At one time leather tokens were issued by the proprietor; and the
Chapter was noted for being entirely managed by men, no women servants
being kept.

In the north-east corner of the coffee-room was a box known as the
Witenagemote, which in the early morning was occupied by a group of
individuals nicknamed the Wet Paper Club. The name was derived from
their habit of opening the papers as soon as these were brought in by
the newsman, and reading them before they were dried by the waiter; a
dry paper was regarded as a stale commodity. In the afternoon another
party enjoyed the wet evening papers.

A gentleman who was considered a fixture in this box was Mr. Hammond, a
Coventry manufacturer, who evening after evening, for nearly forty-five
years, was always to be found in the same place, and during the entire
period was well known for his severe and often able comments on the
events of the day. Here he pontificated throughout the days of Wilkes,
of the American War, and of the French War, and, being on the side of
liberty, was constantly in opposition to almost everyone else.

The Chapter continued to be a coffee-house up to 1854, when it became a
tavern.

The Royal Exchange was the resort of all the trading part of the City,
foreign and domestic, from half an hour after one till near three in the
afternoon; but the better sort generally met in the Exchange Alley a
little before, at three celebrated coffee-houses called Garraway’s,
Robin’s, and Jonathan’s. In the first the people of quality who had
business in the City, and the most considerable and wealthy citizens,
congregated. In the third met buyers and sellers of stock.

The Royal Exchange Coffee-house resembled a gaming-house more than
anything else, being full of gamesters, with the same sharp, intent
looks, with the difference only that there it was selling of Bank stock,
East India, South Sea, and lottery tickets, instead of the cards and
dice dear to ordinary gamblers.

The British Coffee-house in the West End was much frequented by
Scotchmen, whilst a mixture of all sorts went to the Smyrna, not very
far away. There were other little coffee-houses much frequented in this
neighbourhood—Young Man’s for officers, Old Man’s for stockjobbers,
paymasters, and courtiers, and Little Man’s for sharpers. Here there
were two or three faro tables upstairs.

After the theatre fashionable men went to Tom’s and Will’s
Coffee-houses, where they played piquet and indulged in conversation.
Here you might see blue and green ribbons and stars sitting familiarly
with private gentlemen, and talking with the same freedom as if they had
left their quality and degrees of distance at home—a sight which amazed
foreigners not used to the liberty of speech permitted in England.

A favourite resort of literary men was the Percy Coffee-house in
Rathbone Place, Oxford Street. This was used by Thomas Byerley and
Joseph Robertson, who together produced the “Percy Anecdotes” in 1820,
writing as Sholto and Reuben Percy. A large sum was realized by the work
in question, which began in 1820 and ran into forty-four parts.

The West End coffee-houses were often disturbed by the eccentricities of
the “bloods.” A wild band, for instance, frequented the Royal
Chocolate-house in St. James’s Street, where on one occasion a dispute
at hazard produced a quarrel, which became general throughout the room;
and, as they fought with their swords, three gentlemen were mortally
wounded. The affray was at length ended by the interposition of the
Royal Guards, who were compelled to knock the parties down
indiscriminately with the butt-ends of their muskets, as entreaties and
commands were of no avail. On this occasion a footman of Colonel
Cunningham’s, greatly attached to his master, rushed through the swords,
seized and literally carried him out by force without injury.

Lord Camelford, of duelling notoriety, one evening entered the Prince of
Wales Coffee-house, Conduit Street, and, as was his usual custom, sat
down and began to read the papers. A dashing fellow, and in his own
opinion a first-rate blood, happening to come in, threw himself on the
opposite seat of the same box, and, in a consequential tone, bawled:
“Waiter! bring me a pint of madeira and a couple of wax candles, and put
them in the next box.” He then drew over to himself Lord Camelford’s
candles, and began to read, which proceeding merely caused his lordship
to look indignant, whilst he continued reading his paper. The waiter
soon reappeared, and announced the completion of the gentleman’s
commands, who immediately lounged round to his own box. Lord Camelford,
having now finished his paragraph, called out, in a mimicking tone:
“Waiter! bring me a pair of snuffers.” These being quickly brought, his
lordship laid down his paper, walked round the table at which the
“blood” sat, snuffed out both the candles, and retired to his seat.
Boiling with rage and fury, the indignant beau roared out: “Waiter,
waiter! who the devil is this fellow that dares to insult a gentleman?
What is he? What do they call him?” “Lord Camelford, sir,” replied the
other in a tone scarcely audible. The coxcomb, horror-struck at the name
of the dangerous nobleman, said tremblingly, “What have I to pay?” and,
on being told, quietly laid down his money and sneaked away, leaving his
madeira untasted.

Disturbances were frequently caused in coffee-houses by dashing bucks
who attempted either to dominate or to upset the domination of others.
At the west end of Cecil Court, in St. Martin’s Lane, there existed,
towards the end of the reign of George II, Pon’s Coffee-house, much
frequented by foreigners of distinction, officers, and men about town.
In the course of time the foreigners began to dominate this place,
always contriving to get one of themselves into the chair, and occupying
special seats which were kept for them alone. This created much
ill-feeling, and at length reached the ears of the celebrated Lord
Tyrawley, at that time a gay spark about town. Discussing the foreign
ascendancy which prevailed in this place, Lord Tyrawley said, in his
vigorous way: “It is all your own fault. The Frenchmen see you are
afraid of them, and therefore behave with insolence. I am sure they are
cowards, and if I was in the company I would undertake to insult the lot
with impunity, and leave the room without being questioned or prevented
by any one of them.” This led to a conversation, which ended in a bet
that Lord Tyrawley would carry his threat into execution, and on an
appointed day he proceeded to action.

Having made arrangements with a confederate, his lordship entered the
room in time enough to take his seat in the president’s chair
unquestioned, according to the law of the place. Afterwards the
confederate, pretending to be a stranger, seated himself unnoticed, in
the same manner, in the deputy chairman’s place at the bottom. As the
Frenchmen dropped in, one by one, they were surprised to perceive the
posts of honour thus unusually occupied. They whispered and muttered to
each other as their numbers increased, but at last took their seats
anywhere they could. In tones of discontent, deep but not loud, one
whispered to his neighbour: “Connaissez-vous celui-là?” pointing to the
new president. “Non.” “Ni l’autre?” “Non.” “Ni moi, non plus; ma foi,
c’est singulier! Ah! les drôles! Eh bien, tout-à-l’heure le président
viendra, et alors nous verrons comme tout cela va finir!” At last the
French president arrived, and, finding the post of honour unexpectedly
filled by the two dashing officers of rank, quietly took his seat, like
his countrymen, where he could find it. The others, who were interested
in the scene, seated themselves at the lower end of the table, whilst
the few French who had come early seated themselves as near to the new
president as they could.

The two intruders enjoyed the scene in secret, but behaved with
politeness and affability to all, in their respective circles, till at
last dinner was served. Lord Tyrawley formally did the honours—tasted
the soup, put on a critical look, and asked those who were near him to
taste, and favour him with their opinions. They were surprised at his
assurance, but several tasted, and said simultaneously, “Assez
bien—comme à l’ordinaire—qu’en pensez-vous?” and so on. Lord Tyrawley
then exclaimed: “It is most execrable stuff, and only fit to be placed
before pigs! Waiter” (the man crept forward trembling), “what do you
bring this stuff here for?” The astonished servant looked silently
towards the Frenchmen, in the hopes of catching a hint, when Tyrawley,
in a rage, vociferated: “Don’t answer me, sir! take it away, and bring
me the next dish—take it away instantly, I say!” So saying, he seized
his own plate in both hands, raised it above his head, and then dashed
it with all his force, with its flat bottom, into the midst of the soup,
which spread, in a circular sheet, upon the table and the clothes of all
who sat at that end of it. The Frenchmen started with horror and
surprise, springing from their seats to save their clothes, while his
confederate jumped up, exclaiming: “What do you mean by that, sir?” “I
mean to say,” said Lord Tyrawley, with provoking coolness, “the soup is
very bad.” “Nonsense, sir,” said the apparently enraged deputy chairman;
“you have insulted every man here, and I will see that you give me
immediate satisfaction.” “Oh, sir,” said the Peer, very coolly, “if you
are for that sport, I will indulge you at once.” So saying, each took
down his hat and sword with great dignity, and, the challenger strutting
after the challenged, both descended into the courtyard. The bespattered
foreigners, finding a duel was in progress, crowded the window for good
places to see the sight, till it was quite full. The combatants took
their ground, drew, and began a very furious-looking assault; one fought
retreating, the other pushing him back till they were at the end of the
court in St. Martin’s Lane, when they took off their hats, bowed
gracefully to the astonished Frenchmen, and walked away arm in arm,
laughing and kissing their hands to the company they had left, leaving
them to enjoy their spoiled dinner and well-greased clothes as they were
best able.

The great dread of the peaceful citizens who frequented taverns and
coffee-houses was an incursion by members of the clubs known as Bold
Bucks and Hell-Fires—for the most part composed of deliberately
abandoned villains. The Bold Bucks were given up to licentiousness of an
unbridled kind; blind and bold love was their motto, and their main
object seems to have been the assimilation of man to brute.

The Hell-Fires, as may be gathered from their appellation, aimed at an
even more transcendent malignity, and derided the forms of religion as a
trifle.

A regular code of etiquette was observed at coffee-houses. At most of
these, though not at the fashionable West End ones, a penny was usually
laid on the bar on entering, which entitled the guest to the use of the
room and of the news-sheet. Every rank of life, except perhaps the very
lowest, was represented at one or other of these houses. Men met there
to transact business, talk politics, discuss the latest play or poem, to
play dice or cards. To one man the coffee-house was an office for
business, where he received, and from which he dated, his letters; to
another, a place in which to push his fortunes among patrons; to most, a
lounging-place in which to discuss the news and pass away the time. The
advertisements of the day are full of allusions to them. One gentleman
loses his watch or his sword, and will give a reward if they are
returned to Tom’s or Button’s, “and no questions asked.” Another, one
Brown, “late City Marshall,” will settle all affairs that he had in his
hands while holding that office, if the persons interested will repair
to “Mr. Gibbon’s Coffee-House at Charing Cross.”

The first coffee-house—that is, the first house where coffee was sold to
the public in England—is said to have been the George and Vulture, in
George Yard, Lombard Street, a house still in existence.

About 1652 a Turkey merchant, Mr. Edwards by name, is supposed to have
brought to London from Smyrna a Ragusan youth, Pasqua Rosee by name,
specially to prepare coffee for him every morning. This servant he
eventually allowed to sell the new-fashioned infusion publicly, and
eventually the Ragusan established the first coffee-house in London, at
St. Michael’s Abbey, Cornhill, under the title of Pasqua Rosee’s Inn,
afterwards known to fame as the George and Vulture.

The old Rainbow in Fleet Street, now known as Groom’s, was the second
coffee-house; but the owner of the Rainbow apparently did not purvey a
very attractive form of the new beverage, for he was indicted by the
Vestry for selling “a strong drink called Coffee which annoyed the
neighbourhood by its evil smell.”

Curiously enough, both houses, Groom’s and the George and Vulture, now
belong to the same proprietor, Mr. John Gardner, who, when he recently
purchased the lease of the former, also acquired the original
coffee-making recipe.

As a coffee-house the George and Vulture was a well-known resort of
poets, wits, and satirists. The servants appear to have been very
enterprising in attracting customers, for they would rush out and seize
passers-by, crying: “Coffee, sir; tea, sir! Walk in and try a fresh
pot!”

At the George and Vulture, Swift discussed the South Sea Bubble with his
friends. Here, too, came Richard Estcourt, of Drury Lane, and founded
the first Beefsteak Club. At a later period this coffee-house, on
account of its sign, was especially popular with patriotic clubs.
Amongst its patrons were Addison and Steele, whilst Daniel Defoe seems
also to have been a visitor.

In Georgian days the old coffee-house became one of the most popular
resorts of John Wilkes, and there also went Hogarth and other well-known
men of the day, whilst members of the Hell-Fire Club were constant
though unwelcome visitors.

In later times Charles Dickens immortalized the George and Vulture by
making it an abode of Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller; the old hostelry was
also selected by the great novelist as being the place where subpœnas
were served on Mr. Pickwick’s friends in the famous case of Bardell and
Pickwick. Dickens’s affection for “the George” is now perpetuated by the
City Pickwick, a social club which holds its meetings there.

Dickens is supposed to have obtained the idea for the name of Tom Pinch
from Dr. Pinche’s school, which in early Victorian days occupied the
site of the Deutsche Bank, close to the George and Vulture, in George
Yard. Sir Henry Irving was a pupil here, as was that still surviving
legal luminary, Sir Edward Clarke.

Another resort full of old-world memories—the London Coffee-house, on
Ludgate Hill, where John Leech’s father and grandfather were
proprietors—occupied a Roman site. In 1800, behind this house, in a
bastion of the City Wall, was found a sepulchral monument, dedicated to
a faithful wife by her husband, a Roman soldier. Here also were found a
fragment of a statue of Hercules and a female head. In front of the
coffee-house, immediately west of St. Martin’s Church, stood Ludgate.

This coffee-house was within the rules of the Fleet Prison; and in the
coffee-house were “locked up” for the night such juries from the Old
Bailey Sessions as could not agree upon verdicts. In later days it
became a tavern.

A curious incident once occurred in this house. Mr. Broadhurst, the
famous tenor, by singing a high note caused a wineglass on the table to
break, the bowl being separated from the stem. Brayley, the topographer,
was present at the time.

Lloyd’s, now such a well-known institution, originated in a coffee-house
of that name, which flourished as early as the very beginning of the
eighteenth century.

Lloyd’s Coffee-house was originally in Lombard Street, at the corner of
Abchurch Lane, subsequently in Pope’s-head Alley, where it was called
“New Lloyd’s Coffee-house”; but on February 14, 1774, it was removed to
the north-west corner of the Royal Exchange, where it remained until the
destruction of that building by fire. When the Royal Exchange was
rebuilt, special rooms were set aside for Lloyd’s, which assumed the
form in which it flourishes to-day.

Lloyd’s, as a place for insuring ships, was at first started by an
astute individual who saw the possibilities of a meeting-place for
underwriters and insurers of ships’ cargoes.

As early as the year 1740, it is recorded that Mr. Baker, Master of
Lloyd’s Coffee-house, in Lombard Street, waited on Sir Robert Walpole
with the news of Admiral Vernon’s capture of Portobello. This was the
first account received thereof, and, as it proved to be true, Sir Robert
was pleased to order Mr. Baker a handsome present.

Another resort, somewhat similar to Lloyd’s, was Garraway’s
Coffee-house—the first place where tea was sold in England. It was
during the time of the South Sea Bubble that this became the scene of
great mercantile transactions. The original proprietor was Thomas
Garway, tobacconist and coffee-man. He issued the following curious
circular: “Tea in England hath been sold in the leaf for six pounds, and
sometimes for ten pounds the pound weight, and in respect of its former
scarceness and dearness, it hath been only used as a regalia in high
treatments and entertainments, and presents made thereof to princes and
grandees till the year 1651. The said Thomas Garway did purchase a
quantity thereof, and first publicly sold the said tea in leaf and
drink, made according to the directions of the most knowing merchants
and travellers into those eastern countries; and upon knowledge and
experience of the said Garway’s continued care and industry in obtaining
the best tea, and making drink thereof, very many noblemen, physicians,
merchants, and gentlemen of quality, have ever since sent to him for the
said leaf, and daily resort to his house in Exchange Alley, aforesaid,
to drink the drink thereof; and to the end that all persons of eminence
and quality, gentlemen and others, who have occasion for tea in leaf,
may be supplied, these are to give notice that the said Thomas Garway
hath tea to sell from ‘sixteen to fifty shillings per pound.’”

In 1673 there were some great sales of wine at Garraway’s. These took
place “by the candle”—that is, by auction while an inch of candle burnt.
In the _Tatler_, No. 147, we read: “Upon my coming home last night, I
found a very handsome present of French wine left for me, as a taste of
216 hogsheads, which are to be put to sale at £20 a hogshead, at
Garraway’s Coffee-house, in Exchange Alley,” etc. A sale by candle is
not, however, by candlelight, but during the day. Such sales took place
by daylight, and at the commencement of the sale, when the auctioneer
had read a description of the property and the conditions on which it
was to be disposed of, a piece of candle, usually an inch long, was lit,
the last bidder at the time the light went out being declared the
purchaser.

Garraway’s was famous for its sandwiches and sherry, pale ale, and
punch. The sandwich-maker, it was said, occupied two hours in cutting
and arranging the sandwiches before the day’s consumption commenced. The
sale-room was on the first-floor, with a small rostrum for the seller,
and a few rough wooden seats for the buyers. Sales of drugs, mahogany,
and timber, were its speciality in the fifties of the last century, when
twenty or thirty property and other sales sometimes took place in a day.
The walls and windows of the lower room were covered with sale
placards—unsentimental evidences of the mutability of human affairs.

In 1840 and 1841, when the tea speculation was at its height, and prices
were fluctuating sixpence and eightpence per pound on the arrival of
every mail, Garraway’s was frequented every night by a host of the
smaller fry of dealers, and there was much more excitement than ever
occurred on ’Change when the most important intelligence arrived.
Champagne flowed, and everyone ate and drank, and went, as he pleased,
without the least question about the bill; yet everything was paid,
though such a state of affairs continued for several months.

At one time many taverns were the meeting-places of “mug-house clubs,”
amusing resorts where gentlemen, lawyers, and tradesmen used to meet in
a great room, seldom under a hundred in number.

Such assemblies usually had a president, who sat in an armchair some
steps higher than the rest of the company, to keep the whole room in
order. A harp played all the time at the lower end of the room; and
every now and then one or other of the company rose and entertained the
rest with a song, some being good singers. Here nothing was drunk but
ale, and every gentleman had his separate mug, which he chalked on the
table where he sat, as it was brought in. A free-and-easy atmosphere
pervaded the place, and everyone did and said exactly what he pleased.

A number of these “mug-house clubs” were to be found in Cheapside and
its vicinity, and others about Covent Garden, a district which formerly
abounded in well-known coffee-houses. In the eighteenth century, in
Russell Street alone, were three of the most celebrated: Will’s,
Button’s, and Tom’s. Will’s, as is well known, was closely connected
with Dryden, the _Tatler_, and the _Spectator_; and its wits’ room, on
the first-floor, was celebrated throughout the town. So was Button’s,
with its lion’s head letter-box, and the young poets in the back room.
Tom’s, No. 17, on the north side of Russell Street, and of a somewhat
later date, was taken down in 1865. The premises remained, with but
little alteration, long after they ceased to be a coffee-house. It was
named after its original proprietor, Thomas West, who, November 26,
1722, threw himself, in a delirium, from the second-floor window into
the street, and died immediately. The upper portion of the premises was
the coffee-house, under which lived T. Lewis, the bookseller, Pope’s
publisher.

Will’s Coffee-house, known as the Wits’, which was very celebrated in
its day, was at No. 23, Russell Street, Bow Street. Dryden first made it
a resort of wits. The poet used to sit in a room on the first-floor, and
his customary seat was by the fireside in the winter, and at the corner
of the balcony, looking over the street, in fine weather; he called the
two places his winter and his summer seat. In the eighteenth century
this room became the dining-room. In Dryden’s day people did not sit in
boxes, as subsequently, but at various tables which were dispersed
through the room. Smoking was permitted in the public room, and was then
much in vogue; indeed, it does not seem to have been considered a
nuisance, as it was some years later. Here, as in other similar places
of meeting, the visitors divided themselves into parties; the young
beaux and wits, who seldom approached the principal table, thought it a
great honour to have a pinch out of Dryden’s snuff-box.

In later years Will’s Coffee-house became an open market for libels and
lampoons.

Swift thought little of the frequenters of Will’s; he used to say the
worst conversation he ever heard in his life was to be heard there. The
wits (as they were called), said he disparagingly, used formerly to
assemble at this house; that is to say, five or six men who had written
plays or at least prologues, or had a share in a miscellany, came
thither, and entertained one another with their trifling compositions,
assuming as grand an air as if they had been the noblest efforts of
human nature, or as if the fate of kingdoms depended on them.

It was Swift who framed the rules of the Brothers’ Club, which met every
Thursday. “The end of our club,” said he, “is to advance conversation
and friendship, and to reward learning without interest or
recommendation. We take in none but men of wit or men of interest; and
if we go on as we began, no other club in this town will be worth
talking of.”

The Brothers’, which was really a political club, broke up in 1713, and
the next year Swift formed the celebrated Scriblerus Club, an
association rather of a literary than a political character. Oxford and
St. John, Swift, Arbuthnot, Pope, and Gay were members. Satire upon the
abuse of human learning was their leading object. The name originated as
follows: Oxford used playfully to call Swift _Martin_, and from this
sprang Martinus Scriblerus. Swift, as is well known, is the name of one
species of swallow (the largest and most powerful flier of the tribe),
and martin is the name of another species, the wall-swallow, which
constructs its nest in buildings.

The Scriblerus Club broke up owing to quarrels between Oxford and
Bolingbroke. Swift tried the force of humorous expostulation in his
fable of the “Fagot,” where the Ministers are called upon to contribute
their various badges of office to make the bundle strong and secure, but
all was in vain. And at length, tired with this scene of murmuring and
discontent, quarrel, misunderstanding, and hatred, the Dean, who was
almost the only mutual friend who laboured to compose these differences,
made a final effort at reconciliation; but his scheme entirely failed.

Button’s Coffee-house was another resort of wits. Here, in the early
part of the reign of Queen Anne, Swift first began to come, being known
as “the mad parson.” He knew no one; no one knew him. He would lay his
hat down on a table, and walk up and down at a brisk pace for half an
hour without speaking to anyone, or seeming to pay attention to anything
that was going forward. Then he would snatch up his hat, pay his money
at the bar, and walk off without having opened his lips. At last he went
one evening to a country gentleman, and very abruptly asked him: “Pray,
sir, do you know any good weather in the world?” After staring a little
at the singularity of Swift’s manner and the oddity of the question, the
gentleman answered: “Yes, sir, I thank God I remember a great deal of
good weather in my time.” “That is more,” replied Swift, “than I can
say. I never remember any weather that was not too hot or too cold, too
wet or too dry; but, however God Almighty contrives it, at the end of
the year ’tis all very well.”

At Tom’s Coffee-house in 1764 was formed a high-class club of about 700
members, paying each a guinea subscription. A card-room was on the
first-floor.

The club flourished, so that in 1768, “having considerably enlarged
itself of late,” Thomas Haines, the then proprietor, took in the front
room of the next house westward as a coffee-room. The front room of No.
17 was then appropriated exclusively as a card-room for the subscription
club, each member paying one guinea annually, the adjoining apartment
being used as a conversation-room.

Tom Haines—Lord Chesterfield, as he was called, on account of his good
manners—was succeeded by his son. The house ceased to be a coffee-house
in 1814.

It would be interesting to know what has become of the old snuff-box—a
most curious relic. It was a big tortoiseshell box, bearing on the lid,
in high relief in silver, the portraits of Charles I and Queen Anne; the
Boscobel oak, with Charles II amid its branches; and at the foot of the
tree, on a silver plate, was inscribed “Thomas Haines.” At Will’s the
small wits grew conceited if they dipped but into Mr. Dryden’s
snuff-box, and at Tom’s the box probably received similar veneration.

The Bedford Coffee-house, in the north-west corner of the Piazza, was
another celebrated Covent Garden resort.

Here in its palmy days, about 1754, Foote reigned supreme, his great
rival being Garrick, who, however, usually got the worst of the verbal
duels which constantly occurred. Garrick in early life had been in the
wine trade, and had supplied the Bedford with wine; he was thus
described by Foote as living in Durham Yard, with three quarts of
vinegar in the cellar, calling himself a wine-merchant.

Leaving the Bedford one night in company with Garrick, Foote dropped a
guinea; and not being able to find it, exclaimed: “Where on earth can it
be gone to?” “Gone to the devil, I think,” replied Garrick, who had
assisted in the search. “Well said, David!” was Foote’s reply. “Let you
alone for making a guinea go farther than anybody else.”

Tom King’s Coffee-house—a rough shed just beneath the portico of St.
Paul’s Church—was a regular Covent Garden night-house. This haunt of
night-birds is shown in the background of Hogarth’s print of “Morning,”
where the prim maiden lady, walking to church, is confronted by two
fuddled beaux from King’s Coffee-house caressing two frail women. At the
door a drunken brawl is proceeding, whilst swords and cudgels are being
freely used.

The Piazza (known in the reign of Charles I as the “Portico walke”) in
Covent Garden, the destruction of a portion of which, in 1858, was, from
an artistic point of view, to be deplored, was erected between 1634 and
1640 by Inigo Jones, who also built St. Paul’s Church for Francis, Duke
of Bedford. Though a more ambitious scheme was originally conceived,
only the north and east sides were, however, built, and half of the
latter was destroyed by fire about the middle of the eighteenth century.

Several distinguished artists lived in the Piazza, including Sir Peter
Lely and Zoffany. Sir Godfrey Kneller came into the Piazza the year
after Lely died, and the house he occupied was near the steps leading
into Covent Garden Theatre. He had a garden at the back, reaching as far
as Dr. Radcliffe’s, in Bow Street. Kneller was fond of flowers, and had
a fine collection. As he was intimate with Radcliffe, he permitted him
to have a door into his garden; but Radcliffe’s servants gathering and
destroying the flowers, Kneller sent him word he must shut up the door.
Radcliffe replied peevishly: “Tell him he may do anything with it but
paint it.” “And I,” answered Sir Godfrey, “can take anything from him
but physic.” Sir James Thornhill also lived in the same neighbourhood.

The Piazza Coffee-house, in Covent Garden, was a favourite resort of
Sheridan’s. Here it was that he sat during the burning of Drury Lane
Theatre in 1809, calmly taking some refreshment, which excited the
astonishment of a friend. “A man may surely be allowed to take a glass
of wine by his own fireside,” said Sheridan.

On the site of the Piazza Coffee-house was built the Floral Hall, in the
Crystal Palace style of architecture, if the latter word be applicable
to such a building. Henrietta Street, close by, was once well known for
what seems to have been the first family hotel ever established in
London, opened by David Low in 1774.

Gold, silver, and copper medals were struck and distributed by the
landlord, as advertisements of his house—the gold to the Princes, silver
to the nobility, and copper to the public generally. Mrs. Hudson
succeeded him, and advertised her hotel “with stabling for one hundred
noblemen and horses.” The next proprietors were Richardson and Joy.

For years the hotel was famous for its dinner and coffee-room—called the
“Star,” from the number of men of rank who frequented it. One day the
Duke of Norfolk entered the dining-room, and ordered of the waiter two
lamb chops, at the same time inquiring: “John, have you a cucumber?” The
waiter replied in the negative—it was so early in the season; but he
would step into the market and inquire if there were any. The waiter did
so, and returned with—“There are a few, but they are half a guinea
apiece.” “Half a guinea apiece! Are they small or large?” “Why, rather
small.” “Then buy two,” was the reply.

Low had purchased the house from the executors of James West, President
of the Royal Society, and it had originally been the mansion of Sir
Kenelm Digby, who had his laboratory at the back. In course of time it
was practically rebuilt by the Earl of Orford, better known as Admiral
Russell, who in 1692 defeated Admiral de Tourville. The façade of the
house originally resembled the forecastle of a ship, and the fine old
staircase was formed of part of the vessel Admiral Russell commanded at
La Hogue; on it were handsomely carved anchors, ropes, and the coronet
and initials of Lord Orford, who died there in 1727. The house was
afterwards occupied by Thomas, Lord Archer, who had a well-stocked
garden at the back. Mushrooms and cucumbers were his especial hobby.

In course of time Evans, of Covent Garden Theatre, removed here from the
Cider Cellar in Maiden Lane, and, using the large dining-room for a
singing-room, prospered until 1844, when he resigned the property to Mr.
John Green, well known as Paddy Green, under whose rule the excellence
of the entertainment attracted so great an accession of visitors that
there was built, in 1855, on the site of the old garden (Sir Kenelm
Digby’s), a handsome hall, to which the former singing-room formed a
sort of vestibule. This was hung with portraits of celebrated actors and
actresses collected by the proprietor.

The gallery was said to occupy part of the site of the cottage in which
the Kembles occasionally resided during the zenith of their fame at
Covent Garden Theatre. Kemble first saw the light there.

In the early seventies Evans’s ceased to attract, and, after undergoing
various vicissitudes and sheltering several clubs, the house finally
became the headquarters of boxing, being now occupied by the National
Sporting Club. The original staircase remains, and a number of prints
recalling the palmy days of the prize-ring decorate the walls of the
club-house.

Ninety years ago, it should be added, the prize-fighting fraternity had
a club of their own, called the Daffy Club, which met at the Castle
Tavern, Holborn, then kept by the famous boxers, Tom Belcher and Tom
Spring. The walls of the long room in which it met were adorned by a
number of sporting prints and portraits of famous pugilistic heroes,
amongst them Belcher himself, Gentleman Jackson, Dutch Sam, Gregson,
Humphreys, Mendoza, Cribb, Molyneux, Gulley, Randall, Turner, Martin,
Harmer, Spring, Neat, Hickman, Painter, Scroggins, Tom Owen, and many
others.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER II

     CURIOUS CLUBS OF THE PAST—PRATT’S—BEEFSTEAK CLUBS, OLD AND NEW


Many curiously-named clubs existed in the past. Addison, for instance,
speaking of the clubs of his time, mentions several the names of which
were probably merely humorous exaggerations. Names such as the Mum Club,
the Ugly Club, can hardly be considered to have been in actual use.

Real clubs were the Lying Club, for which untruthfulness was supposed to
be an indispensable qualification; the Odd Fellows’ Club; the Humbugs
(which met at the Blue Posts, in Covent Garden); the Samsonic Society;
the Society of Bucks; the Purl Drinkers; the Society of Pilgrims, held
at the Woolpack, in the Kingsland Road; the Thespian Club; the Great
Bottle Club; the Aristocratic “Je ne sçai quoi” Club, held at the Star
and Garter, in Pall Mall, of which the Prince of Wales and the Dukes of
York, Clarence, Orleans, Norfolk, Bedford, and other notabilities, were
members; the Sons of the Thames Society; the Blue Stocking Club; the “No
Pay No Liquor” Club, held at the Queen and Artichoke, in the Hampstead
Road, and of which the ceremony, on a new member’s introduction, was,
after his paying a fee on entrance of one shilling, that he should wear
a hat throughout the first evening of his membership, made in the shape
of a quart pot, and drink to the health of his brother members in a gilt
goblet of ale. At Camden Town met the “Social Villagers,” in a room at
the Bedford Arms.

One of the first clubs was the October Club, composed of some hundred
and fifty staunch Tories, chiefly country Members of Parliament. They
met at the Bell, in King Street, Westminster—that street in which
Spenser starved, and Dryden’s brother kept a grocer’s shop. A portrait
of Queen Anne, by Dahl, hung in the club-room.

Another queer eighteenth-century institution was the Golden Fleece Club,
the members of which assumed fancy names, such as Sir Timothy Addlepate,
Sir Nimmy Sneer, Sir Talkative Dolittle, Sir Skinny Fretwell, Sir Rumbus
Rattle, Sir Boozy Prate-all, Sir Nicholas Ninny Sip-all, Sir Gregory
Growler, Sir Pay-little, and the like. The main object of this club
seems to have been a very free conviviality.

Perhaps the most eccentric club of all was “the Everlasting,” which,
like the modern Brook Club of New York, professed to go on for ever, its
doors being kept open night and day throughout the year, whilst the
members were divided into watches like sailors at sea.

The craze for queerly-named clubs lasted into the nineteenth century;
for instance, the King of Clubs was the fanciful name of a society
founded about 1801 by Bobus Smith. At first it consisted of a small knot
of lawyers, whose clients were too few, or too civil, to molest their
after-dinner recreations; a few literary characters; and a small number
of visitors, generally introduced by those who took the chief part in
conversation, and seemingly selected for the faculty of being good
listeners.

The King of Clubs sat on the Saturday of each month in the Strand, at
the Crown and Anchor Tavern, which at that time was a nest of boxes,
each containing its club, and affording excellent cheer, though
afterwards desecrated by indifferent dinners and very questionable wine.
The object of the club was conversation. Everyone seemed anxious to
bring his contribution of good sense or good-humour, and the members
discussed books and authors and the prevalent topics of the day, except
politics, which were excluded.

Rogers, the banker poet, was a member of the King of Clubs. His funereal
appearance gained him the nickname of the Dug-up Dandy, and all sorts of
jokes were made concerning him. Once, when Rogers had been at Spa, and
was telling Ward (afterwards Lord Dudley) that the place was so full
that he could not so much as find a bed to lie in, and that he was
obliged on that account to leave it, “Dear me,” replied Ward, “was there
no room in the churchyard?” At another time Murray was showing him a
portrait of Rogers, observing that “it was done to the life.” “To the
death, you mean,” replied Ward. Amongst other amusing sallies of the
same kind was his asking Rogers: “Why don’t you keep your hearse,
Rogers? You can well afford it.”

A good example of what most of the little old-fashioned clubs of other
days were like is furnished by Pratt’s, which, though not of very great
antiquity, occupies curious old-world premises just off St. James’s
Street. This quaint and agreeable little club, still a flourishing
institution, appears to have been founded about 1841; the old manuscript
records of elections still exist. Though Pratt’s has recently been
reorganized, its distinctive features have not been impaired, and the
house remains much in its original condition—the kitchen downstairs,
with its old-fashioned open fire, quaint dresser filled with salmon-fly
plates, old-world furniture and prints, forming a delightful relic of
the past. A curious niche in this room would seem to have once served as
a receptacle for cards or dice, in the days when the house was used for
gambling, and raids by the authorities were common.

Next the kitchen is the dining-room, in which is a long table; the walls
here are hung with old prints of the time when the club was founded.
Both this room and the kitchen have very curious mantelpieces, the upper
portions of which are formed of classical friezes which would seem to
have been brought here from some old mansion. Throughout the quaint
little building are cases of stuffed birds and fish, and the accessories
and general appearance produce a singular effect not lacking in
old-world charm.

Pratt’s formerly opened only late in the evening, but its hours now
admit of members lunching; indeed, whilst great care has been taken to
preserve the original spirit of the club, many modern improvements
unobtrusively carried out make it a most comfortable resort, whilst the
convenience of members has been studied by the addition of four
bedrooms.

By far the most interesting of the old dining clubs was the Sublime
Society of Beefsteaks, founded about 1735 by Rich, the famous harlequin
and machinist of Covent Garden Theatre. At first it consisted of
twenty-four members, but the number was afterwards increased. Hogarth,
Wilkes, and many other celebrated men, were members of this society,
which had many curious customs.

Its officials consisted of a President of the Day, Vice-President,
Bishop, Recorder, and Boots.

The meetings were originally held in a room at Covent Garden Theatre.

The President took his seat after dinner throughout the season,
according to the order in which his name appeared on “the rota.”

He was invested with the badge of the society by the Boots. His duty was
to give the chartered toasts in strict accordance with the list before
him; to propose all resolutions that had been duly made and seconded; to
observe all the ancient forms and customs of the society; and to enforce
them on others. He had no sort of power inherent in his position; on the
contrary, he was closely watched and sharply pulled up if he betrayed
either ignorance or forgetfulness on the smallest matter of routine
connected with his office. In fact, he was a target for all to shoot at.

A Beefeater’s hat and plume hung on the right-hand side of the chair
behind him, and a three-cornered hat (erroneously believed to have
belonged to Garrick) on the left. When putting a resolution, the
President was bound to place the plumed hat on his head and instantly
remove it. If he failed in one or the other act, he was equally reminded
by being called to order in no silent terms. The most important
obligation imposed on him was the necessity of singing, whether he could
sing or not, the song of the day.

The Vice was the oldest member of the society present, and had to carry
out the President’s directions without responsibility.

The Bishop sang the grace and the anthem.

The most important official of all was the Recorder. He had to rebuke
everybody for offences, real or imaginary, and with him lay the duty of
delivering “the charge” to each newly-elected member, which was a
burlesque function.

The Boots was the last elected of the members, and there was a grave
responsibility attached to his office. He was the fag of the
brotherhood, and had to arrive before the dinner-hour, not only to
decant the wine, but to fetch it from the cellar. This latter custom was
persevered in until the destruction of the old Lyceum by fire, and was
only then abandoned by reason of the inaccessibility of the cellar, when
the society returned to the new theatre, the rebuilt Lyceum, in 1838. No
one was exempted from this ordeal, and woe to him who shirked or
neglected it. The greatest enjoyment seemed to be afforded, both to
members and guests, by summoning Boots to decant a fresh bottle of port
at the moment when a hot plate and a fresh steak were placed before him.

[Illustration:

  ORIGINAL BADGE OF THE SUBLIME SOCIETY.
]

[Illustration:

  LATER BADGE.
]

[Illustration:

  RING.
]

[Illustration:

  BADGE OF THE AD LIBITUM CLUB.
]

[Illustration:

  REVERSE OF AD LIBITUM BADGE.
]

The Duke of Sussex was Boots from the date of his election (April, 1808)
to April, 1809, when a vacancy occurred, and Mr. Arnold senior was
elected, releasing His Royal Highness from the post. Indeed, until the
society ceased to exist, the Duke of Leinster, who had duly served his
apprenticeship (although he drank nothing stronger than water himself),
constantly usurped the legitimate duties of the Boots by arriving before
him and performing the accustomed, but not forgotten, services of the
day.

When any Boots showed signs of temper, or any member was unruly or
infringed the rules of the society, a punishment was in store for him.
It was moved and seconded that such delinquent should be put in the
white sheet and reprimanded by the Recorder; and if the “Ayes had it”
(and they always did have it), the sentence was carried out.

The offending party was taken from the room by two members bearing
halberds, preceded by a third carrying the sword, and was brought back
again in the garb of penitence (the tablecloth). Then, after a lecture
from the Recorder, severe or humorous according to the nature of his
offence, he was allowed to resume his place at the table.

It happened that Brother the Duke of Sussex was put in the white sheet
under the following circumstances: His Royal Highness had come to the
“Steaks” with Brother Hallett, and on the road the watch-chain belonging
to the latter had been cut and his bunch of seals stolen. The cloth
removed, Hallett addressed the President, recounted the loss he had
sustained, and charged the Duke as the perpetrator of the robbery. The
case was tried on the spot; and the evidence having clearly established
the criminality of the accused (to a Beefsteak jury), it was moved and
resolved that His Royal Highness should forthwith be put into the white
sheet and reprimanded for an act which might have been considered a
fault had the victim been a stranger, but which became a crime when that
victim was a Brother. There was no appeal. His Royal Highness
reluctantly rose, was taken out in custody, brought before the Recorder
(Brother Richards), and received a witty but unsparing admonition for
the offence of which he had been unanimously found guilty. For a wonder,
His Royal Highness took it ill. He resumed his seat, but remained silent
and reserved. No wit could make him smile, no bantering could rouse him,
and at an unusually early hour he ordered his carriage and went away.

The next day Mr. Arnold, who had been the mover of the resolution, went
to the palace to smooth the ruffled plumes of his royal confrère, and
took his son with him. In those days the Duke rode on horseback, and as
they turned out of the gate leading from the gardens to the portico his
horse was at the door and His Royal Highness in the act of coming out.
By the time they neared the entrance his foot was in the stirrup, and he
saw them approaching. Without a moment’s hesitation he withdrew his
foot, released the bridle, and, with both his enormous hands extended,
advanced three or four steps to meet Mr. Arnold.

“I know what you’ve come about,” he called loudly out in his accustomed
note (probably B flat), and wringing both Mr. Arnold’s hands until he
winced with pain—“I know what you’ve come about! I made a fool of myself
last night. You were quite right, and I quite wrong, so I shall come
next Saturday and do penance again for my bad temper.”

Sometimes a member turned sulky when made to do penance. On one occasion
an individual of a touchy disposition was put into the white sheet and
brought before the President, who admonished him as a parent would a
child—a Beefsteak sermon without its usual bathos. The recipient
listened to the harangue without moving a muscle of his face. The
lecture done, he resumed his seat, but at the next meeting sent in his
resignation.

Saturday was the day on which the dinners were held. Each member was
allowed to bring one visitor. If he brought a second, he had to borrow a
name; in default of obtaining it, the visitor was doomed to retire.

Visitors, unlike members, were not subjected to any humorous penalties,
but were most ceremoniously treated. They were never unduly urged to
drink more than might be agreeable to them; one bumper in the evening
was alone imperative, but it might be drunk in water. They were never
pressed, though always asked, to sing. A “suggestion” to sing was the
adopted word.

The only call to which it was imperative for the visitor to respond was
“a toast.” If he hesitated too long, he was, perhaps abruptly, told he
might give anything the world produced—man, woman, or child, or any
sentiment, social or otherwise. Sometimes it happened that such
prompting was in vain, and the confused guest would nine times out of
ten propose the only toast he was prohibited from giving—“The prosperity
of the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks.”

Members were responsible for their guests, who were made to understand
that whatever passed within the walls of the S.S.B.S. was sacred.
William Jerdan, Editor of the _Literary Gazette_, was a visitor, and at
a late hour he was observed to take a note of a brilliant repartee that
had been made.

The President, by whose side he sat, pointed to the motto over the
chimney-piece:


                   “Ne fidos inter amicos
                    Sit qui dicta foras eliminet.”[1]


Footnote 1:


               Let none beyond this threshold bear away
               What friend to friend in confidence may say.


“Jerdan,” he said, “you understand those words?”

“I understand one,” said Jerdan, looking sharply round—“sit; and I mean
to do it.”

Authors, and dramatic authors in particular, were mercilessly chaffed
when they dined with the Sublime Society. Cobb, whose farce “The
First-Floor” achieved great popularity, used to accept the satire and
raillery of members with great good-humour, generally silencing them one
by one. Storace composed some of his finest music for Cobb’s comic
operas, “The Haunted Tower” and “The Siege of Belgrade,” which achieved
success. An Indian opera, “Ramah Drûg,” did not. Cobb was much chaffed
about these operas, especially about the first-named.

“Why ever,” one night said Arnold, “did you call your opera by such a
name? There was no spirit in it from beginning to end!” “Anyhow,”
exclaimed another inveterate punster, “‘Ramah Drûg’ was the most
appropriate title possible, for it was literally ramming a drug down the
public throat.” “True,” rejoined Cobb; “but it was a drug that evinced
considerable power, for it operated on the public twenty nights in
succession.” “My good friend,” said Arnold triumphantly, “that was a
proof of its weakness, if it took so long in working.” “You are right,
Arnold, in that respect,” retorted Cobb. “Your play” (Arnold had brought
out a play, which did not survive the first night) “had the advantage of
mine, for it was so powerful a drug as to be thrown up as soon as it was
taken!”

The first and last Saturdays of the season, and the Saturday in Easter
week, were “private.”

On these days no visitors were invited. The accounts were gone into, and
the amount of the “whip” to regulate the past or accruing expenses
decided, the qualifications of such candidates as were anxious, on the
occasion of a vacancy, to join the society discussed, and other matters
connected with its well-being debated.

Each member paid 5s. for his dinner, and 10s. 6d. for his guest. The
entrance fee was £26 5s. until 1849, when it was reduced to £10 10s.,
and there were generally two annual whips of £5 each.

After the destruction of Covent Garden Theatre, where it had met for
seventy years, the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks migrated to the Bedford
Coffee-house, where it remained till the building of the Lyceum Theatre
in 1809, in a special room of which it took up its abode till 1830, when
the Lyceum also was burnt down.

After this it adjourned to the Lyceum Tavern, in the Strand, and thence
returned to the Bedford Coffee-house, where it remained until 1838, when
a suite of rooms was built for it under the new roof of the Lyceum. The
original gridiron, dug out of the ruins of Covent Garden and the Lyceum,
formed the centre ornament of the dining-room ceiling. The entire room
and ceiling were in Gothic architecture, and the walls were hung with
paintings and engravings of past and present members, the former the
work of Brother Lonsdale. Folding-doors, the entire width of the room,
connected it with an anteroom. When the doors were opened on the
announcement of dinner, an enormous grating in the form of a gridiron,
through which the fire was seen and the steaks handed, afforded members
a view of the kitchen.

There was no blackballing, but every would-be member had to be invited
at least twice as a guest, in order that his qualifications might be
ascertained, and then, if he were put up, he was certain to be elected.
As a matter of fact, the formality of a ballot was gone through, though
there were no rejections.

When a new member was initiated, he and the visitors were requested
after dinner to withdraw to an anteroom, where port and punch were
provided for them.

The newly-elected member was then brought in blindfolded, accompanied on
his right by the Bishop with his mitre on, and holding the volume in
which the oath of allegiance to the rules of the society was inscribed,
while on his left stood some other member holding the sword of state.
Behind were the halberdiers. These were all decked out in the most
incongruous and absurd dresses—in all probability originally obtained
from Covent Garden Theatre.

“The charge” was then delivered by the Recorder. In it he dwelt on the
solemnity of the obligations the new member was about to take on
himself. He was made to understand, in tones alternately serious and
gay, the true brotherly spirit of the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks;
that while a perfect equality existed among the Brethren, such equality
never should be permitted to degenerate into undue familiarity; that
while badinage was encouraged in the freest sense of the word, such
badinage must never approach to a personality; and that good fellowship
must be united with good breeding. Above all, attention was drawn to the
Horatian motto over the chimney-piece, and the aspirant was warned that
ignominious expulsion was the fate of him who carried beyond those walls
words uttered there in friendship’s confidence.

That done, the following oath, dating from the origin of the society,
was administered:


                                 OATH.

                         YOU SHALL ATTEND DULY,
                           VOTE IMPARTIALLY,
             AND CONFORM TO OUR LAWS AND ORDERS OBEDIENTLY.
                     YOU SHALL SUPPORT OUR DIGNITY,
                 PROMOTE OUR WELFARE, AND AT ALL TIMES
           BEHAVE AS A WORTHY MEMBER IN THIS SUBLIME SOCIETY.
                  SO BEEF AND LIBERTY BE YOUR REWARD.


This was read aloud, clause by clause, by the Bishop, and repeated by
the candidate; at the end the book was rapidly exchanged by the cook,
who was called the Serjeant, for the bone of beef that had served for
the day’s dinner, carefully protected by a napkin, and after the words


                   “SO BEEF AND LIBERTY BE MY REWARD”


he was desired to kiss the book. Instead of this he kissed its
substitute, and by reason of a friendly downward pressure from behind he
generally did so most devoutly.

The bandage was then removed from his eyes; the book on which he had
sworn the oath was still before him; and amid the laughter and
congratulations of his Brethren he again took his seat as a member of
the Sublime Society, and the excluded guests were readmitted.

The Serjeant was a very important figure at the meetings of the Sublime
Society, and the office was well filled by Heardson, the cook, whose
picture was engraved by J. R. Smith (the print hangs in the modern
Beefsteak). So great was his affection for the “Society” that one of his
last requests was to be carried into the club-room to take a farewell
glance at the familiar scene, and this he was allowed to do.

A great supporter of the Beefsteak Society was the old Duke of Norfolk,
and when he dined there he would be ceremoniously ushered to the chair
after dinner, and invested with an orange-coloured ribbon, to which a
silver medal, in the form of a gridiron, was suspended. In the chair he
comported himself with great urbanity and good-humour.

Above all things, this Duke of Norfolk loved long sittings, during which
he would consume prodigious quantities of wine, which seemed to affect
him but very little. Occasionally, however, towards the close of the
evening, the Duke, without exhibiting any symptom of inebriety, became
immovable in his chair, as if deprived of all muscular volition. When at
his own house he had an especial method of obviating the inconveniences
of such a state, and would ask someone to ring the bell three times.
This was the signal for bringing in a kind of easy litter, consisting of
four equidistant belts, fastened together by a transverse one, which
four domestics placed under him, and thus removed his enormous bulk,
with a gentle swinging motion, up to his apartment. Upon these occasions
the Duke would say nothing, but the whole thing was managed with great
system and in perfect silence.

Another prominent member was Charles Morris, who greatly enlivened the
dinners by his wit, high spirits, and singing. When he was in town
nothing kept him away, even when he was nearly eighty years of age.

“Die when you will, Charles,” said Curran, “you’ll die in your youth.”
And his words were verified, for his spirits remained unquenched till
within a few days of his death. Morris wrote many songs which he would
sing himself. The following is a specimen of his talents in that
direction:


      “Let them rail who think fit, at my ways or my wit;
         I reply to the foes of good living:
       ‘Heaven bade me be gay—to enjoy’s to obey,
         And mirth is my prayer of thanksgiving.’
       When the crabbed with spleen would o’ershadow life’s scene,
         I light up a spark to dispel it;
       And if snarlers exclaim, ‘What’s this laughing fool’s name?’
         Next verse of my ballad will tell it.

      “I’m a brat of old Horace—the song-scribbling Morris,
          More noted for rhyme than for reason;
        One who roars and carouses, makes noise in all houses,
         And takes all good things in their season.
        To this classic of joy, I became when a boy
         A pupil most ardent and willing;
       And through life as a man, I’ve stuck fast to this plan,
         And passed it in flirting and filling.”


In his eighty-sixth year Morris bade adieu to the Sublime Society in
verse, but four years later, in 1835, he revisited it, and the members
then presented him with a large silver bowl, appropriately inscribed, as
a testimonial of their affectionate esteem.

As was his habit, Morris did not fail to allude to the gift in verse:


         “When my spirits are low, for relief and delight,
          I still place your splendid Memorial in sight;
          And call to my Muse, when care strives to pursue,
          ‘Bring the Steaks to my Mem’ry, the Bowl to my view.’”


The bowl in question eventually passed into the hands of the present
Beefsteak Club; most unfortunately, it was some years ago taken away by
thieves, who managed to obtain access to the club premises, and it has
never been recovered.

Charles Morris had very slender means to support his family, but owing
to the generosity of the old Duke of Norfolk he was able to retire to a
charming rural retreat near Dorking, embosomed amidst the undulating
elevations of Surrey. Here, however, he seems not to have been entirely
at ease, regretting no doubt the sweet, shady side of Pall Mall, of
which he had so gracefully sung.

The Duke assisted Morris, owing, it was said, to the kindly suggestion
of Kemble, the actor, who one night had been dining at Norfolk House
when the Beefsteak bard had also formed one of the party. When the
latter had gone, a few guests only remaining with the Duke, who liked
late sittings, His Grace began to deplore, somewhat pathetically, the
smallness of the stipend upon which poor Charles was obliged to support
his family, observing that it was a discredit to the age that a man who
had so long gladdened the lives of so many titled and opulent associates
should be left to struggle with the difficulties of an inadequate income
at a time of life when he had no reasonable hope of augmenting it.
Kemble, who had been listening attentively, then broke out in peculiarly
emphatic tones: “And does your Grace sincerely lament the destitute
condition of your friend, with whom you have passed so many agreeable
hours? Your Grace has described that condition most feelingly. But is it
possible that the greatest peer of the realm, luxuriating amidst the
prodigalities of fortune, should lament the distress which he does not
relieve? The empty phrase of benevolence, the mere breath and vapour of
generous sentiment, become no man; they certainly are unworthy of your
Grace. Providence, my Lord Duke, has placed you in a station where the
wish to do good and the doing it are the same thing. An annuity from
your overflowing coffers, or a small nook of land clipped from your
unbounded domains, would scarcely be felt by your Grace; but you would
be repaid with usury, with tears of grateful joy, with prayers warm from
a bosom which your bounty will have rendered happy.”

The Duke said nothing at the time, except stare with astonishment at so
unexpected a lecture; but not a month elapsed before Charles Morris was
snugly invested in a beautiful sequestered retreat surrounded by pretty
grounds.

Captain Morris lived to the age of ninety-two, dying in July, 1838. He
lies in Betchworth Churchyard, near the east end; his grave is simply
marked by a head- and foot-stone, with an inscription of three or four
lines; he who had sung the praises of so many choice spirits has not
here a stanza to his own memory.

As time went on, the old customs and toasts of the Sublime Society
became out of date, and, though certain modifications were attempted, it
ceased to exist in 1869, when its effects were sold. The following is a
list of the most important of them.

An oak dining-table with President’s cap, a mitre and a gridiron carved
in three separate circular compartments at the top. This relic of past
conviviality is now at White’s Club, having been purchased by the Hon.
Algernon Bourke some years ago.

A carved oak President’s chair—now, I believe, at Sandringham—and a
number of members’ chairs copied in oak from the Glastonbury Chair, the
backs carved with the gridiron and the arms and initials of each member.
A few of these chairs belong to a firm of brewers.

Forty-seven engraved portraits of members, glazed in oak frames, on
which were metal gridirons. One or two of these are in the possession of
the present Beefsteak Club.

Other _objets d’art_ and curiosities were—

The ribbon and badge of the President in the form of a silver gridiron,
dated 1735.

Two brown stoneware jugs, with silver lids and mounts, the thumb-pieces
gridirons.

A fine _couteau de chasse_, with engraved and pierced blade, the handle
formed of a group of Mars, Venus, and Cupid, in silver, the mounting of
the sheath of open-work silver, chased with arabesque figures, scrolls,
and flowers. The reputed work of Benvenuto Cellini; inscribed “Ex Dono
Antonio Askew, M.D.”

An oval ivory snuff-box, with a cameo of Dante on the lid and
inscription inside: “Presented to the S.S.B.S. by B. G. B. [Dr.
Babington], an honorary member. The cameo of Dante on the lid of this
box was carved by its donor, and its wood formed part of a mummy-case
brought by him from Egypt in 1815; the surrounding ivory was turned by a
friend”—in a leather case.

A circular snuff-box, formed of oak dug from the ruins of the old Lyceum
Theatre, after its destruction by fire; a silver shield engraved with
the gridiron on the lid.

A wooden punch-ladle, with open-work handle, and ten doilys.

A cigar-case, formed of a curious piece of oak.

A pair of halberds.

A large Oriental punch-bowl, enamelled with figures, butterflies, and
flowers, inside and out, in a case. Presented by Lord Saltoun, K.G.

Another enamelled with figures and baskets of flowers in medallions,
with red and gold scale borders. Presented by Baron Heath.

A ditto, enamelled with figures.

A fluted ditto, with flowers.

The President’s hat, a hat said to have belonged to Garrick, and a
Cardinal’s hat.

The mitre of the late Cardinal Gregorio, presented to the Sublime
Society of the Beefsteaks by Brother W. Somerville, in silk case.

Facsimile of an agreement between Rich and C. Fleetwood, framed and
glazed.

Bust of John Wilkes, in marble.

There was in addition to this a certain amount of plate, including cases
of silver forks, engraved with members’ names. One of these cases now
belongs to the Beefsteak Club.

At one time the members wore a uniform consisting of a blue coat and
buff waistcoat, with brass buttons impressed with the gridiron and
motto, “Beef and Liberty.”

They also wore rings bearing the same devices. One of these rings,
presented within recent years by a member, is in the Beefsteak Club,
which also possesses a number of badges and other relics connected with
the Sublime Society and with the Ad Libitum Club, a kindred
organization, of which Heardson also appears to have been the cook.

The device of the Ad Libitum was more ornate and graceful than that of
the Sublime Society, with which it seems to have been closely connected,
though membership of the one did not necessarily imply membership of the
other. As far as can be ascertained, no records of the Ad Libitum have
been preserved.

The present Beefsteak Club—less convivial in its ways than the Sublime
Society—was founded about 1876, and its original dining-place was a room
in the building known till its demolition, some years ago, as Toole’s
Theatre. When this was pulled down, it migrated to premises specially
built for it in Green Street, Leicester Square. The membership is small,
and consists mostly of men well known in the political, theatrical, and
literary worlds. Opening only in the afternoon, it is used chiefly as a
place for dining and supping amidst congenial and pleasant conversation.

The club consists of one long room, which has a high-pitched roof in the
design of which gridirons are cleverly interposed. Here are hung a
quantity of old prints, the majority of them after Hogarth. A number of
etchings by Whistler (who was a member) are also to be seen. The
Beefsteak owns a good deal of silver, much of which has been presented
from time to time by members; the practice of giving plate being a usage
of the club. The most valuable possession is a tankard of solid gold, on
which are inscribed the names of those members who took part in the Boer
War. This was purchased by subscription amongst the members. The example
of the Sublime Society is followed in respect of there being one long
table in the place of the separate small ones in use at other clubs.

There formerly existed a number of curious dining societies and clubs in
the provinces, and some of these still survive, amongst the number of
which is the Chelmsford Beefsteak Club, established in 1768. There does
not appear to be any book older than 1781, but in the middle of a book
which commences in 1829 is written a list of the members from February
5, 1768, to October 18, 1850; and as the whole is in the same
handwriting, it is clear the earlier lists of members must have been
copied from an older book, which has now disappeared.

The oldest book in the possession of the club is one for entering the
attendances of members, and commences October 12, 1781. At that time the
members appear to have dined together weekly.

At the monthly dinners of the club, the chairman proposes the following
toasts:


   (_a_) “Church and Queen.”

   (_b_) “The Prince of Wales and the Rest of the Royal Family.”

   (_c_) “Our Absent Members.”

   (_d_) “Our Visitors, if any.”


No one is allowed to stand when proposing or replying to a toast.

Morning dress is worn at dinner.

One of the last of the old school of members of this club was Admiral
Johnson, elected 1842, who was the midshipman who supported Nelson’s
head as he lay dying in the cockpit of the _Victory_. It was no uncommon
thing for the Admiral to have three bottles of port put before him at 8
o’clock, which he consumed by about 9.30. He was always called upon for
a song, and he used to sing about fourteen verses of “On board the
_Arethusa_.” His usual hour for retirement was about 10.30, when he
would be escorted to his pony, and would ride home to Baddow, three
miles away. Admiral Johnson remembered the time when the fine for any
member being unfortunate enough to be presented with twins by his wife
was the presentation of a pair of buckskin breeches to each member of
the club, and he boasted of still possessing a pair that Thomas W.
Bramston, whilst member for the county, had to pay him.

At many old county dining clubs penalties of this sort were enforced:
members were fined for marrying, for becoming a father, or for moving to
another house; and such fines usually consisted of a certain number of
bottles of wine. Other quaint usages included the forfeiture of some
small sum for refusing to take the chair at dinner or for leaving it to
ring the bell, for allowing a stranger to pay for anything consumed, and
similar delinquencies.

Another Beefsteak Club was that at Cambridge, the members of which
belonged to the University. This club, now for some years in abeyance,
was a quaint survival from the past, and exactly reproduced the dinner
of eighteenth-century sportsmen. Twenty-five years ago, when it still
flourished, it usually consisted of but four or five members, but guests
could be invited. The dining costume was a blue cutaway coat with brass
buttons, and buff waistcoat, the tie being secured with a bull’s head.
The dinner was entirely composed of various dishes of beef, beer only
being drunk; some curious old songs were sung, and the toasts, regulated
by inflexible precedent, were drunk in port from glasses of a size
regulated by immemorial custom. Amongst these toasts was the health of
the late Mr. Bowes, who, when he was an undergraduate at Cambridge, won
the Derby with Mundig. This horse, after a tremendous struggle, beat
Ascot, belonging to the present writer’s grandfather, by half a neck.

The dinners used to be held at the Red Lion Inn, the head-waiter of
which hostelry, Dunn by name, was supposed to be the only individual
alive accurately acquainted with the exact rules and traditions of the
club. The proceedings were enlivened by music played on a fiddle by a
well-known Cambridge character, White-headed Bob.

The Cambridge Beefsteak Club possessed a good deal of plate, valued at
about £1,500. It had also an income of some £200 a year, arising from
sums of money left to it by former members.

A somewhat similar Cambridge dining club was the True Blue, which also
had few members. They met several times in a term, wearing
eighteenth-century dress and white wigs; as a matter of fact, the cost
of this costume often deterred men from joining, as did the rule that a
new member should drink off a bottle of claret at a draught. This
unpleasant custom, which might well have been modified, seems to have
killed the club, for I fancy that, like the Cambridge Beefsteak, it has
not met for many years.

A remarkable little provincial club which flourished at Norwich at the
beginning of the nineteenth century was the Hole-in-the-Wall Club, where
a number of clever men used to meet. One of the principal figures here
was Dr. Frank Sayers, a poet of no mean inspiration, a sound antiquary,
an elegant scholar, and an accomplished gentleman. His accustomed chair
was kept for him every Monday, and it would have been a profanation had
any other occupant filled it. He was a man of admirable wit, and the
characters around him, which no skill of selection could have got
together in any other club or in any other town, afforded unfailing
objects of his innocent and unwounding pleasantry.

Amongst other eccentric frequenters of the Hole-in-the-Wall was Ozias
Lindley, a Minor Canon of the cathedral, and Sheridan’s brother-in-law.
He was subject, beyond anyone living, to fits of absent-mindedness. He
out-Parson-Adamized Parson Adams. One Sunday morning, as he was riding
through the Close, on his way to serve his curacy, his horse threw off a
shoe. A lady whom he had just passed, having remarked it, called out to
him: “Sir, your horse has just cast one of his shoes.” “Thank you,
madam,” returned Ozias; “will you, then, be kind enough to put it on?”
In preaching, he often turned over two or three pages at once of his
sermon; and when a universal titter and stare convinced him of the
transition, he observed coolly, “I find I have omitted a considerable
part of my sermon, but it is not worth going back for,” and then went on
to the end.

Hudson Gurney, at one time M.P. for Newport, Isle of Wight, was also a
frequenter of the snug club-room of the Hole-in-the-Wall, and used to
bask in the sunshine of Sayers’s festive conversation. His own heart,
too, at that time beat high with frolic and hilarity. Hudson’s was, from
his earliest prime, a clear, distinguishing intellect. He was a
well-read man, and his poetry, no fragment of which is in print, except
his admirable translation of the Cupid and Psyche of Apuleius into
English verse, was by no means of a secondary kind.

At this club William Taylor smoked his evening pipe, and lost himself in
the cloudier fumes of German metaphysics and German philology. Taylor’s
translation of Bürger’s “Leonore,” though apparently now forgotten, was
said to be better than the original. While his erudition was unlimited,
however, it was principally concerned with books that were not readable
by others. His most amusing quality (and it was that which kept an
undying grin upon the laughter-loving face of Sayers) was his
everlasting love of hypothesis, and it was impossible to withstand the
imperturbable gravity with which he put forth his wild German paradoxes.
He proved, to the thorough dissatisfaction of those who knew not how to
confute him, and to the unspeakable amusement of those who thought it
not worth their while—and that, too, by a chemical analysis of colours,
and the processes by which animal heat and organic structure affect
them—that the first race of mankind was green! Green, he said, was the
primal colour of vegetable existence—the first raiment in which Nature
leaped into existence; the colour on which the eye loved to repose; and,
in the primeval state, the first quality that attracted man to man, and
bound him up in the circles of those tender charities and affinities
which kept the early societies of the race together.

At one time Edinburgh was celebrated for its quaint clubs, one of which
was the Soaping Club, the motto of which was, that “Every man should
soap his own beard”—that is, “indulge his own humour.” The Lawn-market
Club was an association of dram-drinking, gossiping citizens, who met
every morning early, and, after proceeding to the post-office to pick up
letters and news, adjourned to the public-house to talk and drink. The
Edinburgh, a “Viscera” club, flourished till quite a late date; the
members of this were pledged to dine off food from the entrails of
animals, such as kidneys, liver, and tripe. This club seems to have
rather resembled the more modern Haggis Club.

There were at one time a number of parochial clubs in London. That of
the parish of St. Margaret’s, Westminster, which still exists, and which
consists of “Past Overseers,” possesses a unique heirloom, which is at
the same time an important chronological record of public events.

In 1713 a small fourpenny tobacco-box, bought at Horn Fair, Charlton,
Kent, was presented by Mr. Monck, a member of the Society of Past
Overseers, to his colleagues.

Seven years later, in 1720, the donor was commemorated by the addition
of a silver lid to the box. In 1726 a silver side case and bottom were
added. In 1740 an embossed border was placed upon the lid, and the
under-part enriched with an emblem of Charity. In 1746 Hogarth engraved
inside the lid a bust of the Duke of Cumberland, with allegorical
figures and scroll commemorating the Battle of Culloden. In 1765 an
interwoven scroll was added to the lid, enclosing a plate with the arms
of the City of Westminster, and inscribed: “This Box to be delivered to
every succeeding set of Overseers, on penalty of five guineas.”

The original Horn box being thus ornamented, additional ornamentation in
the shape of cases continued to be provided by the senior overseers for
the time being. These were embellished with silver plates engraved with
emblematical and historical subjects and busts. Among the first are a
view of the fireworks in St. James’s Park to celebrate the Peace of
Aix-la-Chapelle, 1749; Admiral Keppel’s action off Ushant, and his
acquittal after a court-martial; the Battle of the Nile; the repulse of
Admiral Linois, 1804; the Battle of Trafalgar, 1805; the action between
the _San Fiorenzo_ and _La Piémontaise_, 1808; the Battle of Waterloo,
1815; the bombardment of Algiers, 1816; view of the House of Lords at
the trial of Queen Caroline; the Coronation of George IV; and his visit
to Scotland, 1822.

Features of great interest are: Portraits of John Wilkes, churchwarden
in 1759; Nelson, Duncan, Howe, Vincent; Fox and Pitt, 1806; George IV as
Prince Regent, 1811; the Princess Charlotte, 1817; and Queen Charlotte,
1818.

In 1813 a large silver plate was added to the outer case, with a
portrait of the Duke of Wellington, commemorating the centenary of the
agglomeration of the box. Local occurrences are also commemorated: The
interior of Westminster Hall, with the Westminster Volunteers attending
Divine service at the drumhead on the Fast Day, 1803; the Old Sessions
House; a view of St. Margaret’s from the north-east; the west front
tower; and the altar-piece. On the outside of the first case is a clever
engraving of a cripple. The top of the second case represents the
Governors of the Poor in their board-room. It bears this inscription:
“The original Box and cases to be given to every succeeding set of
Overseers, on penalty of fifty guineas, 1783.”

In 1785 Mr. Gilbert exhibited the box to some friends after dinner. That
night thieves broke into his house, and carried off all the plate that
had been in use; but the box had been removed beforehand to a
bedchamber.

In 1793 Mr. Read, a Past Overseer, detained the box because his accounts
were not passed. An action was brought for its recovery, which was long
delayed, owing to two members of the society giving Read a release,
which he successfully pleaded as a bar to the action. This rendered it
necessary to take proceedings in equity, and a bill was filed in
Chancery against all three, Read being compelled to deposit the box with
Master Leeds until the end of the suit. Three years of litigation
ensued. Eventually the Chancellor directed the box to be restored to the
Overseers’ Society, and Mr. Read paid in costs £300. The extra costs
amounted to £76 13s. 11d., owing to the illegal proceedings of Mr. Read.
The sum of £91 7s. was at once raised, and the surplus spent upon a
third case of octagon shape. The top records the triumph: Justice
trampling upon a prostrate man, from whose face a mask falls upon a
writhing serpent. A second plate, on the outside of the fly-lid,
represents the Lord Chancellor Loughborough pronouncing his decree for
the restoration of the box, March 5, 1796.

On the fourth case is shown the anniversary meeting of the Past
Overseers’ Society, with the churchwardens giving the charge previous to
delivering the box to the succeeding overseer. He, on his side, is bound
to produce it at certain parochial entertainments, with at least three
pipes of tobacco, under the penalty of six bottles of claret, and to
return the whole, with some addition, safe and sound, under a penalty of
200 guineas.

In more recent days additions to this box, forming records of various
important public events, have from time to time been added. A
tobacco-stopper of mother-of-pearl, with a silver chain, is enclosed
within the box, and completes this unique memorial.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER III

      CLUBS OF ST. JAMES’S STREET—BOODLE’S, ARTHUR’S, AND WHITE’S


The original clubland of the West End was St. James’s Street, where the
first clubs originated from coffee-houses. In this historic
thoroughfare—the “dear old Street of Clubs and Cribs,” as Frederick
Locker called it—most of the sociable institutions founded many decades
ago still flourish.

Such are White’s, Arthur’s, Brooks’s, the Cocoa-tree, and Boodle’s, the
latter of which, after passing through a crisis which came near closing
its doors for ever, now once again flourishes as of yore.

This club-house was built about 1765 by John Crunden, from the designs
of Adam, but between 1821 and 1824 certain alterations and additions
were carried out from the designs of John Papworth, an architect of that
day.

From an architectural point of view, Boodle’s is an admirable specimen
of the work of Robert Adam; its street façade possesses many fine
qualities, whilst the ironwork is of good design.

A year or two ago it was rumoured that, in order to comply with a clause
in the lease, an additional story was to be added to the building. Up to
the present time, however, to the gratification of all possessing the
slightest taste, no alteration has been made; and it is earnestly to be
hoped that in these days, when there is so much prating of culture and
love of art, such an act of vandalism (which it is understood the club
itself would bitterly deplore) will not be committed.

The saloon on the first-floor at Boodle’s has a very fine and stately
appearance, and opening out of it on each side are two little rooms. One
of these, according to tradition, was, in the days of high play,
occupied by a cashier who issued counters and occupied himself with
details connected with the game; the other was reserved for members
wishing to indulge in gaming undisturbed by the noise of the crowd which
thronged around the faro tables in the saloon. These tables, it is said,
are still in the club. Towards the middle of the last century, though
gaming had long ceased to take place in the saloon, there was a great
deal of high gambling in the card-room upstairs. As far as can be
ascertained, faro was once again played at that period.

Boodle’s in old days played a great part in fashionable West End life.
One of Gillray’s caricatures, entitled “A Standing Dish at Boodle’s,”
represents Sir Frank Standish sitting at a window of this club, which,
it may be added, was noted for the large number of Baronets who were
members. It was, indeed, said that anyone uttering the words, “Where is
Sir John?” in the club-house would immediately find himself surrounded
by a crowd of members.

Boodle’s, it should be added, has always been closely connected with
Shropshire, from which county its membership then, as now, was largely
recruited.

The club was originally called the Savoir Vivre, and at its inception
was noted for its costly gaieties; in 1774, for instance, its members
spent 2,000 guineas upon a ridotto or masquerade.

Gibbon was a member of Boodle’s, which, however, in the past, as to-day,
principally consisted of county gentlemen.

Up to comparatively recent years, before Boodle’s was reorganized, it
was managed, not by a committee, but by a species of secret tribunal,
the members of which were supposed to be unknown, though their duties
corresponded with those of an ordinary club committee. This conclave
conducted its proceedings with great secrecy, and its very existence was
only inferred from the fact that, at intervals varying from six months
to fifteen years, some printed notice appeared in the club rooms. Even
so, this generally affected only dogs or strangers, both of whom
old-fashioned members regarded with about equal dislike as unpleasant
intruders.

Most of these notices, signed “By order of the Managers,” quoted the
“custom of the house existing from time immemorial,” which, though
unwritten, was then the only approach to a code of laws for the conduct
of the club.

The old elections at Boodle’s were peculiar, being presided over by the
proprietor. Fifteen years ago or so, when Mr. Gayner, who then occupied
that position, was still alive, he would take his seat by the ballot-box
near the window in the back room on the ground-floor, whilst in the
adjoining front room opening off it were the members. When a candidate
was proposed, they walked across, and deposited black or white balls,
after which they retired again to the front room. After a short time,
Mr. Gayner would shout out “Elected” or “Not elected,” as the case might
be, the ceremonial being gone through separately for every candidate.
Wicked wags used to say that the proprietor never troubled to make a
scrutiny as to the number of the balls, no candidate whom he considered
suitable for the election ever being rejected, whilst an undesirable one
was certain to meet with an evil fate, even should there be no black
balls at all.

During Mr. Gayner’s reign, Boodle’s sustained a severe blow owing to the
retirement of the Duke of Beaufort and a number of other old members. On
certain evenings, according to a time-honoured custom, there was a
house-dinner, and members taking part in this had to put down their
names beforehand. The cost of wine, whether a man drank much or little,
was pooled, and equally divided between everyone, a usage which, while
it well suited some of the older men who belonged to a less temperate
age, pressed heavily upon those of a later generation, some of whom
scarcely drank anything at all. Resenting the injustice of this
exactment, by which they were made to pay for other people’s wine, some
of the latter remonstrated with Mr. Gayner, and demanded that a more
equitable arrangement should be made. The latter, realizing that such a
protest was legitimate, then promised that matters should be set right,
and to that end spoke to the Duke of Beaufort. The Duke replied that,
whilst such a remonstrance might be just, he could not assent to any
change without the concurrence of the older members of the club who were
in the habit of dining. The majority of these, not unnaturally perhaps,
energetically protested against any alteration in an old custom, which,
as they quite truthfully declared, had always suited them very well. The
Duke then informed Mr. Gayner that if any change were made he and these
members would leave the club. Mr. Gayner, however, stood firm, saying he
had given his promise and must keep it, in consequence of which the
Duke, and the “old guard” with him, carried out their threat, and left
Boodle’s for ever.

Mr. Gayner carried on the club on very liberal lines, and members were
allowed extraordinary credit. They could cash cheques for any amount,
for Gayner made a practice of keeping a very large sum of money in his
safe. This, it is said, often contained as much as two or three thousand
pounds, always in new notes.

At the time of Mr. Gayner’s death, he was supposed to have been owed
over £10,000 by certain members of the club. He appears to have regarded
this as a sort of friendly charge, for a special clause in his will
stated that no member of Boodle’s was to be asked for money. The
best-natured of men, Mr. Gayner frequently assisted members who were in
financial difficulties. One of these, a young fellow who had recently
joined the club, asked him whether he could indicate any means of
raising £500, as he had debts to that amount which demanded immediate
payment. “I can’t think of allowing you to go to the Jews,” said Mr.
Gayner; “come with me to my room, and I’ll put that all right.” Arrived
in his sanctum, he produced notes for the required amount, and handed
them to the young man, telling him he might settle the debt any time he
liked.

After the death of Mr. Gayner, and of his sister, who succeeded him, it
seemed at one time as if Boodle’s might cease to exist. At a critical
moment in the club’s history, however, certain members stepped forward,
and a complete reorganization was the result. The list of members was
thoroughly sifted, and a most capable secretary, who still presides over
the club’s fortunes, assumed control.

Some alterations were made in the interior of the building, but care was
taken to leave unimpaired the old-world charm of the house, which, from
an architectural point of view, possesses much merit.

The fine saloon, which, as has been said, was originally a
gambling-room, was thoroughly restored and made into a comfortable
lounge; it is a spacious and well-proportioned room, and contains a
finely-designed mantelpiece and a very ornamental chandelier, the latter
purchased after the reorganization. Except for some handsome inkstands
and a few accessories which are of good design and execution, there are
few works of art in this club, the hunting pictures on the staircase
being of no particular value. Boodle’s appears once to have possessed
portraits of Charles James Fox and the Duke of Devonshire, but these
have now disappeared.

The furniture and general appearance of the club is essentially English,
and it is pleasant to observe that the air of old-world comfort for
which Boodle’s has always been noted remains unimpaired.

A curious feature of Boodle’s is that the billiard-room is upstairs, a
somewhat inconvenient arrangement not infrequent in clubs founded in
past days.

It should be added that a rule enforcing the wearing of evening dress by
members dining in the coffee-room still remains in force; but a smaller
apartment is set aside for those who for any reason do not find it
convenient to change their day clothes.

Arthur’s Club, in St. James’s Street, was the original abode of White’s,
which occupied it from 1698 to 1755, since which date the house has, of
course, undergone a good deal of change. In the eighteenth century,
owing to the association of a Mr. Arthur with the management of White’s,
the latter club was frequently spoken of as Arthur’s; this naturally
originated an idea that the two clubs were at one time connected, but
such in reality was never the case, the presumed parent of Arthur’s
having been a coffee-house of that name.

The records of Arthur’s Club as at present constituted are,
unfortunately, somewhat scanty. It would appear, however, that after the
migration of White’s in 1755 another club was formed at 69 St. James’s
Street, and that it took the name of Arthur’s, which it still retains.

In its present form the club-house was built by Mr. Hopper in 1825,
though probably a certain portion of the original coffee-house, erected
in 1736, was incorporated in the new building. A room on the
ground-floor (at the back of the house) is said to have been the
gaming-room of White’s Club during its tenure of the premises up to
1755; but if this is the case the decorative frieze and ceiling must
have been added later, as in style they belong to the nineteenth
century. During the rebuilding of 1825 everything seems to have been
sacrificed to the staircase, which now occupies the very large hall,
crowned by an elaborately-designed dome. There are, however, some
handsome rooms, notably the library, in which is an eighteenth-century
English sideboard of admirable design. In this and other rooms there is
a good deal of the heavy, solid mahogany furniture so popular about
seventy or eighty years ago. The examples in Arthur’s Club are certainly
the best of their kind, and are well in keeping with the design of the
house. There are very few pictures or engravings here—a print or two of
Arthur’s as it was in old days, a few portraits of members, and an
oil-painting of the late Sir John Astley (known as “the Mate”) are about
all.

Arthur’s possesses a quantity of very fine silver plate, some of which
dates from the eighteenth century.

This club still maintains some of the restrictions as regards smoking
which were so general in the clubs of other days, no smoking being
allowed in the library or morning-room. There are, however, ample
facilities for indulgence in tobacco in other parts of the house—notably
in the hall, where a very pleasant lounge has recently been contrived.

Only recently has the regulation which prohibited visitors from being
admitted to dinner here been repealed. A room on the ground-floor (the
one reputed to have been the old gambling-room of White’s) is now set
aside as a dining-room for those privileged to be the guests of a member
of this very charming club. There is no tradition at Arthur’s of high
play at hazard, but whist was once very popular. “Sheep points and
bullocks” on the rubber were, it is said, quite common in the days when
so many country gentlemen were members.

Arthur’s, it should be added, has always been a very popular club with
Wiltshire men, and its close connection with that county is still
maintained.

As has been said, the chocolate-house in St. James’s Street, started by
Francis White in 1697, seems to have stood on the site of part of what
is now Arthur’s Club. John Arthur at this time was White’s assistant.
Here White carried on business till he died in 1711. His widow continued
to prosper as proprietress of the house, which became the centre of the
fashionable life of the day, and the place from which its amusements
were directed. Advertisements in the papers show that “Mrs. White’s
Chocolate-House, in St. James’s Street,” was the place of distribution
of tickets for all the fashionable amusements of the early years of the
eighteenth century. Opera was being produced at the Haymarket, and the
announcement of the performance of each new piece is accompanied by the
notice that tickets are to be obtained at Mrs. White’s. A little later,
Heidegger was taking the town by storm with his masquerades, ridottos,
and balls. He was quick to see that Mrs. White’s was an advantageous
ground from which to reach his patrons of the aristocracy. He
accordingly issued his admissions for these entertainments from White’s,
and requested those who were not using them to return them there, in
order to prevent their falling into bad hands, and so spoiling the
select character of his assemblies.

John James Heidegger was a clever Swiss who, after leading a Bohemian
life all over Europe, had come to London, where he had for a time
co-operated with Handel in producing opera. His celebrity was chiefly
due to a remarkable ability for organizing masquerades.

He was a very ugly man, and knew it. Consequently he would not have his
portrait painted. The Duke of Montagu, however, determined to obtain a
likeness, in order to play a trick at a masquerade.

The Duke induced the Swiss Count, as he was called, to make one of a
select party, which (very appropriately) met to dine at the Devil
Tavern. The rest of the company, all chosen for their powers of hard
drinking, were in the plot, and a few hours after dinner Heidegger was
carried out of the room dead drunk. A daughter of Mrs. Salmon, the
waxwork-maker, was sent for, and took a mould from the unconscious man’s
face, from which she was ordered to make a cast in wax, and colour it to
nature. The King, who was a party to the joke, was to be present, with
the Countess of Yarmouth, at the next of Heidegger’s masquerades. The
Duke in the mean time bribed his valet to get all the information as to
the clothes the Swiss was to wear on the occasion, procured a man of
Heidegger’s figure, and, with the help of the mask, made him up into a
duplicate master of the revels.

When the King arrived with the Countess and was seated, Heidegger, as
was usual, gave the signal to the musicians in the gallery to play the
National Anthem. As soon, however, as his back was turned, the sham
Heidegger appeared, and ordered them to play “Over the Water to
Charlie,” the Jacobite song, and the most insulting and treasonable
piece that could have been chosen to perform in the presence of royalty.

The whole room was at once thrown into confusion. Heidegger rushed into
the gallery, raved, stamped, and swore, and accused the band of
conspiring to ruin him. The bewildered musicians at once altered the
tune to “God Save the King.” Heidegger then left the gallery to make
some arrangements in one of the smaller rooms.

As soon as he disappeared, the sham Heidegger again came forward, this
time in the middle of the main room, in front of the gallery, and,
imitating Heidegger’s voice, damned the leader of the band for a
blockhead, and asked if he had not told him to play “Over the Water” a
minute before. The bandmaster, thinking Heidegger mad or drunk, lost his
head, and ordered his men to strike up the Jacobite air a second time.

This was the signal for a confusion worse than before. There was great
excitement and fainting of women, and the officers of the Guards who
were present were only prevented from kicking Heidegger out of the house
by the Duke of Cumberland, who was in the secret. Heidegger rushed back
to the theatre, and was met by the Duke of Montagu, who told him that he
had deeply offended the King, and that the best thing he could do was to
go at once to His Majesty and ask pardon for the behaviour of his men.

Heidegger accordingly approached the King, who, with the Countess, could
barely keep his countenance, and made an abject apology. He was in the
act of bowing to retire, when he heard his own voice behind him say:
“Indeed, Sire, it was not my fault, but that devil’s in my likeness!” He
turned round, and for the first time saw his double, staggered, and was
speechless. The Duke now saw that the joke had gone far enough, and
whispered an explanation of the whole affair. Heidegger recovered
himself and the masquerade went on, but he swore he would never attend
another until “that witch the wax-woman was made to break the mould and
melt down the mask” before his face.

Hogarth’s plate, “Heidegger in a Rage,” was suggested by this story.

Heidegger, it may be added, remained popular with the fashionable world
up to his death. He lived at Barn Elms, where the King honoured him with
a visit. He bore the reputation of great charity, and died in 1749,
“immensely lamented,” aged near ninety.

That White’s Club was a great success from the very first is shown from
the old rate-books, where the prosperity of Mrs. White, the
proprietress, is reflected. The entries give us three degrees of
comparison: At White’s death, positive, “Widow White”; later,
comparative, “Mrs. White”; later still, superlative, “Madam White.” The
Bumble of the period was evidently impressed by her prosperity, and by
the fine company which met at her house.

Madam White’s, indeed, was never an ordinary coffee-house, a proof of
which is that the usual charge of a penny made for entrance into such
places appears to have been increased. In earlier days, when it was a
chocolate-house, Steele (though he never became a member of the club)
was a constant frequenter, for in 1716 he lived opposite. In the first
number of the _Tatler_, published in 1709, he informs his readers that
“all accounts of gallantry, pleasure, and entertainment shall be under
the article of White’s Chocolate House,” while Will’s was to supply the
poetry, and the Grecian the learning. We find, accordingly, many of the
early numbers of the _Tatler_ dated from White’s.

Madam White continued at the chocolate-house until some time between
1725 and 1729 (the exact year is uncertain, as the rate-books for those
years are missing), and she probably left the place with a fortune.

At Mrs. White’s demise, Arthur became proprietor, and largely added to
the premises. These were burnt down in 1733, when he removed to Gaunt’s
Coffee-house till White’s had been rebuilt. His son, Robert Arthur,
appears as proprietor of the new house in 1736.

During Robert Arthur’s life the most fashionable frequenters of his
chocolate-house became more and more exclusive, and the proprietor soon
found that catering for its members, all men of means and leisure, was
the chief part of his business, and more lucrative than the custom of
the general public. His interests, of course, lay in the direction of
meeting the wishes of his patrons, and in consequence of this members of
the public were eventually excluded. White’s Chocolate-house was thus
transformed into the private and exclusive society since known as
“White’s.”

Though White’s was at this time reputed to be very exclusive, and
although certain qualifications were indispensable, some of the members
were drawn from a quite unaristocratic class.

In Davies’s “Life of Garrick” is the following curious reference to
Colley Cibber as a member of White’s: “Colley, we are told, had the
honour to be a member of the great club at White’s; and so I suppose
might any other man who wore good clothes, and paid his money when he
lost it. But on what terms did Cibber live with this society? Why, he
feasted most sumptuously, as I have heard his friend Victor say, with an
air of triumphant exultation, with Mr. Arthur and his wife, and gave a
trifle for his dinner. After he had dined, when the club-room door was
opened, and the Laureate was introduced, he was saluted with loud and
joyous acclamation of ‘O King Coll! Come in, King Coll!’ and ‘Welcome,
welcome. King Colley!’ and this kind of gratulation, Mr. Victor thought,
was very gracious and very honourable.”

The present White’s Club dates from 1755, in which year Robert Arthur
removed with the Young and Old Clubs which had met at his house—350
members in all—to the “Great House” in St. James’s Street, which, though
much altered, is still White’s. He had purchased this building from Sir
Whistler Webster. One of its earlier occupants had been the Countess of
Northumberland, whom Walpole mentions as one of the last to practise the
unmaimed rites of the old peerage. “When she went out,” says he, “a
footman, bareheaded, walked on each side of her coach, and a second
coach with her women attended her. I think, too, that Lady Suffolk told
me that her granddaughter-in-law, the Duchess of Somerset, never sat
down before her without her leave to do so.”

In course of time the management of the club came into the hands of
Martindale, a man whose name was connected with high play, of which he
frequently figured as an organizer.

The house now began to have something of the organization which prevails
in modern clubs.

About 1780, for instance, there was a regular club dinner at White’s,
when Parliament was sitting, at 12s. a head. In 1797 the charge for this
had fallen to 10s. 6d. Hot suppers were provided at 8s., and lighter
refreshments, with malt liquors, at 4s. At that time one of the rules
decreed “that Every Member who plays at Chess, Draughts, or Backgammon
do pay One Shilling each time of playing by daylight, and half-a-crown
each by candlelight.”

George Raggett, who succeeded Martindale as manager of White’s, was
quite a character in his way. He understood how to get on with gambling
members, and owned the Roxburgh Club in St. James’s Square, where whist
was played for high stakes. Here, on one occasion, Hervey Combe, Tippoo
Smith, Ward, and Sir John Malcolm sat down on a Monday evening, played
through the night, through the following Tuesday and Tuesday night, and
finally separated at eleven on Wednesday morning. It is interesting to
notice that the separation took place then only because Mr. Combe had to
attend a funeral. That gentleman rose a winner of £30,000 from Sir John
Malcolm.

Before leaving the club, Combe pulled out of his pocket a handful of
counters, amounting to several hundred pounds, over and above the thirty
thousand he had won from the Baronet, and gave them to Raggett, saying:
“I give them to you for sitting so long with us, and providing us with
all we required.” It was the practice of the astute Raggett to attend
his patrons personally whenever there was high play going on. “I make it
a rule never to allow any of my servants to be present when gentlemen
play at my clubs,” said he; “for it is my invariable custom to sweep the
carpet after the gambling is over, and I generally find on the floor a
few counters, which pays me for my trouble of sitting up.” This practice
made his fortune.

As time went on, the club-house of White’s underwent considerable
alteration. In 1811, for instance, it was resolved to remove the
entrance by converting the second window from the bottom of the house
into a door, and to enlarge the morning-room by taking in the old
entrance hall. This gave room for an additional window. The old doorway
was utilized for this purpose, and the famous “Bow-Window at White’s”
was built out over the entrance steps, which may still be seen
supporting it.

[Illustration:

  WHITE’S CLUB PREVIOUS TO 1811.
]

Directly this window was made, Brummell, then in the heyday of his
fashionable prosperity, took possession of it, and, together with his
followers, made it a very shrine of fashion and an institution of West
End club-life. At that time only a select few dared to sit in it; an
ordinary member of the club would as soon have thought of taking his
seat on the throne in the House of Lords as of appropriating one of the
chairs in the bow-window. Nice questions of etiquette arose in
connection with the bow-window, and were duly discussed and settled. Its
occupants were so much in evidence to the outside world in St. James’s
Street that ladies of their acquaintance could not fail to recognize
them in passing. It was decided, after anxious discussion, that no
greeting should pass from the bow-window or from any window in the club.
As a consequence, the hats of the dandies were doffed to no passers-by.

Not a few of the old school resented monopoly of the famous window by
Brummell and Lord Alvanley. “Damn the fellows!” said old Colonel
Sebright; “they are upstarts, and fit only for the society of tailors.”
Brummell made amusing use of his connection with the club. He was
reproached by an angry father whose son had gone astray in the Beau’s
company. “Really, I did all I could for the young fellow,” said he; “I
once gave him my arm all the way from White’s to Watier’s.” Later, when
he was coming to the end of his means and of his career in England, some
of his friends who had assisted him with loans became importunate. One
of these pressed him for the repayment of £500. “I paid you,” said the
Beau. “Paid me! When, pray?” “Why, when I was standing at the window at
White’s, and said as you passed, ‘How d’you do!’”

About 1814 Brummell played much and unsuccessfully at White’s. One
night—the fifth of a most relentless run of ill-luck—his friend
Pemberton Mills heard him exclaim that he had lost every shilling, and
only wished someone would bind him never to play again. “I will,” said
Mills, and, taking out a ten-pound note, he offered it to Brummell on
condition that he should forfeit a thousand if he played at White’s
within a month from that evening. The Beau took it, and for a few days
discontinued coming to the club; but about a fortnight after, Mills,
happening to go in, found him gambling again. Of course the thousand
pounds were forfeited; but his friend, instead of claiming them merely
went up to him, and, touching him gently on the shoulder, said: “Well,
Brummell, you might at least give me back the ten pounds you had the
other evening.”

After Brummell’s day was over, Lord Alvanley (a coloured print of whom
as “The Man from White’s” still hangs in the club) became the chief of
the bow-window party. Most of this nobleman’s time seems to have been
spent in endeavouring to get rid of a large fortune, the inheritance of
which had caused him to leave the Coldstream Guards, in which he had
served with distinction in the Peninsular War. Lord Alvanley was the
most noted bon-vivant of his day, and was utterly regardless of what his
dinners cost. One of his fancies was to have a cold apricot tart on his
sideboard every day throughout the year. Another instance of his
prodigality was the payment of 200 guineas to Gunter for a
luncheon-basket, which by an oversight had been forgotten in arranging a
day’s boating on the Thames—a costly picnic indeed!

On one occasion Lord Alvanley organized a dinner at White’s, at which it
was agreed that whoever could produce the most expensive dish should
dine for nothing. The winner was the organizer, whose dish was a
fricassée composed entirely of the _noix_, or small pieces at each side
of the back, taken from thirteen kinds of birds, among them being one
hundred snipe, forty woodcocks, twenty pheasants, and so on, the total
amounting to about three hundred birds. The cost of the ridiculous dish
amounted to £108 5s.

This extravagant and eccentric peer, who, it was said, never paid cash
for anything, was once asked by the sarcastic Colonel Armstrong, who
knew of this failing, what he had given for a fine horse he was riding.
“Nothing,” said his lordship; “I owe Milton 200 guineas for him.”
Another failing of Lord Alvanley’s caused his friends at country-houses
some anxiety. He always read in bed, and would never blow out his
candle, his method of extinguishing that light being usually to fling it
into the middle of the room; if this was ineffectual, he would throw a
pillow at it. Sometimes he would vary the proceedings by putting the
burning candle bodily under his bolster.

Another frequenter of the bow-window was Lord Allen, who became such a
confirmed lover of London that, during the latter part of his life, it
was said his only walk was from White’s to Crockford’s, over the way and
back again. It was also said that he was so accustomed to the roar of
the London traffic, that to get him to sleep at Dover, where he was
visiting Lord Alvanley, that nobleman hired a hackney coach to drive in
front of his window at the inn all night, and sent out the boots at
proper intervals to call the time and the weather, like the London
watchmen.

Lord Allen was a man of very moderate means, and eked out his income by
dining out as much as possible. An incivil remark at dinner to an old
lady caused her to say: “My lord, your title must be as good as board
wages to you!”

Lord Allen was generally known as “King Allen.” In course of time, as a
result of his lounging life about town, he lost most of his not very
abundant money, when he withdrew to Dublin, where, in Merrion Square, he
slept behind a large brass plate with “Viscount Allen” upon it, which
verified the old lady’s remark; for it was as good to him as a regular
income, and brought endless invitations from people eager to feed a
Viscount at any hour of the day or night.

Many distinguished men have belonged to White’s, and many more have
tried to do so. Louis Napoleon, during his exile in London, is said much
to have desired to be a member of White’s, but his wish was never
gratified.

Count d’Orsay, who drew the portraits of many of his contemporaries,
some of whom were members of this club (lithographs of which portraits
hang in the morning-room), made several attempts to secure election, but
without success. As he was very popular amongst the men of his day, it
was probably merely the fact of his being a foreigner which kept him
out.

Though the shell of Sir Whistler Webster’s “Great House” still exists at
White’s, many structural alterations have been made from time to time.
The most notable of these was undertaken in 1850, when Raggett, the then
proprietor, entrusted to Mr. Lockyer the work of remodelling the façade
of the old club-house. Four bas-reliefs, designed by Mr. George Scharf,
jun., representing the four seasons, were, under Lockyer’s direction,
inserted in the place of four sash-windows. At this period the old
balcony rails would seem to have been moved, and the present elaborate
cast-iron work substituted—a very doubtful improvement. The interior of
the club-house was also then redecorated by the firm of Morant, and
Victorian mantelpieces were introduced into some of the rooms. In all
probability these alterations, carried out at a period when taste was at
a low ebb, robbed White’s of much which the more enlightened taste of
to-day would have wished preserved.

The management of White’s by Henry Raggett only ended at his death in
1859. He was the last of the proprietors of the club who were also the
owners of the freehold of the club building.

Raggett was succeeded as manager by Percival, who continued in this
position till his death in 1882. The Misses Raggett, sisters of the late
proprietor, still owned the club-house, and consequently a certain
feeling of insecurity prevailed as to the future of the club. In 1868 a
proposal was made that the building should be purchased from the Misses
Raggett by the members; but it was found that the property was in
Chancery, and that nothing could be done. The club, still feeling
unsettled, decided to form a fund to provide against eventualities
connected with the tenure of the house. This they accomplished by
raising the entrance fee to nineteen guineas, ten of which were devoted
to the purpose, and placed in the hands of trustees.

Lord Hartington reported, in 1870, that he had at last induced the
trustees of the Raggetts to name a price for the sale of the club
building. This was fixed at £60,000. He reported at the same time that
Percival held an unexpired lease of ten years at a rental of £2,100. The
club very naturally refused to entertain the idea of purchase at any
such figure. A reduced offer of £50,000, made a month later, they also
refused.

A year afterwards the place was sold by auction. With a view to
purchase, members of White’s had subscribed for debentures to the amount
of £16,000. At the auction, the representative of the club bid £38,000
for the property, but it was bought by Mr. Eaton, M.P., afterwards Lord
Cheylesmore, for £46,000.

After some fruitless negotiations in 1877, when the number of members
had been increased to 600, Percival, negotiating on his own account with
Mr. Eaton, announced that he had obtained a new lease of thirty years,
from 1881, at a rent of £3,000 a year. In 1882 Mr. Percival died. The
management of White’s then passed to his son, as representative of Mrs.
Percival, the widow.

In 1888 matters arrived at a crisis. Mrs. Percival announced her
intention of terminating her lease with Lord Cheylesmore, and it was
proposed by the committee to grant her a sum of £1,200 in consideration
of her carrying on the club business until the end of the year. There
were various meetings at which the proposal was discussed, and much was
said on both sides. Eventually it was carried, and negotiations were
entered into with two members of the club who had expressed themselves
willing to take over the management. In July of 1888 the management of
the Percivals came to an end by the signing of an agreement for the
future conduct of White’s by a member of the club, Mr. Algernon Bourke.

Under his management White’s resumed its youth, and was again invested
with an air of sprightly insouciance, which in latter years had been
conspicuous by its absence. Drastic structural alterations, carried out
under the direction of Mr. Bourke, much improved the convenience of the
building. The courtyard, where was an old Well from which, up to quite
recent years, the water used in the club was drawn, was roofed over and
converted into a spacious billiard-room, and the large front room was
converted into a dining-room, certain alterations being made in the
apartment behind previously used for that purpose.

Within the last two years some further alterations of a very judicious
nature have been carried out in the club-house. An upper story
containing servants’ bedrooms has been added, but this has scarcely
altered the appearance of the house, and the façade remains practically
the same as it has been for the last fifty-seven years.

Portfolios seem formerly to have been preserved at White’s, which
contained engravings of well-known members. Many of these were framed by
Mr. Bourke, who, adding to the number, formed the present valuable and
interesting collection. On each of these prints the date at which its
subject belonged to White’s is inscribed in pencil. As a club record of
past membership the series is unique.

In the dining-room of the club are several paintings, and among them is
a portrait of the first Duke of Wellington, by Count d’Orsay. This, I
believe, is one of two portraits painted by the Count. The Iron Duke, it
is said, was much pleased with them, and declared that d’Orsay was the
only artist who had ever painted him as a gentleman.

Other oil-paintings here represent George II and George III—a modern
portrait shows the late Duke of Cambridge in undress uniform. There are
also a few other pictures, including two of horses by John Wooton. All
the pictures in this room, with the exception of the portrait of George
II, originally in the house dining-room (now the committee-room next
door), were acquired after the reconstitution of the club by Mr. Bourke
in 1888. On the other hand, some Italian pictures and a curious portrait
of a woman, supposed to have been in White’s since its foundation, have
disappeared. The same fate, unfortunately, has befallen the fine old
silver plate which belonged to the club up to comparatively recent
years; and most of the original furniture is in other hands.

The whimsical coat of arms which, carved in wood, hangs over the
fireplace in the entrance hall is, of course, a modern copy of the
design invented by Horace Walpole and his friends at Strawberry Hill.

The worth of some of the old furniture in White’s was great, as may be
realized when it is stated that the present possessor of two small
sideboards formerly in the dining-room was a short time ago offered £600
apiece for them by a well-known expert. The original eighteenth-century
dining-room chairs (the place of which is now supplied by copies) were
also of great interest and value.

A curious old oak table, now in the committee-room at White’s, is in no
way connected with the history of that club. It was originally the
dining-table of the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks, and has on it three
carvings. Two of these represent the mitre and Beefeater’s cap which
figured in the ceremonial of that institution, and the centre one a
gridiron, which was its crest. As has already been mentioned, this table
was purchased by Mr. Bourke.

A richly decorated piano which formerly stood in what is now the
card-room has gone, as have also a very ornamental French weather-glass
and some other _objets d’art_.

Of late years great efforts have been made to recover anything connected
with the past history of White’s, and already, owing to the efforts of
certain members, several have been discovered and obtained. These
include the quaint original ballot-box and a complete set of the old
gaming counters, which, like those at Brooks’s, are inscribed with the
sums they represented.

A feature of the downstairs lounge at White’s is the belt presented to
Heenan after his celebrated fight with Tom Sayers. This interesting
trophy, which is lent by a member (Mr. Gilbert Elliot), now hangs over
the mantelpiece beneath a not very successful bas-relief of the late
King, which was placed there during the alterations in 1888. It is said
that an unsophisticated visitor to the club-house being taken into the
lounge, after glancing at the silver belt and the bas-relief above,
eagerly inquired, “Did the King win it?” which remark naturally
occasioned much amusement.

In the lease of White’s Club-house is a clause, dating from the middle
of the eighteenth century, which lays down that copies of the _Times_
and of the _Racing Calendar_ should always be preserved, in consequence
of which, up to a few years ago, the cellars were filled with an
enormous mass of paper, much of which had been almost reduced to pulp,
owing to inflows of water during floods. The collection is now stored
elsewhere.

White’s Club is just a year older than the Bank of England. It was
established before the last of the Stuarts had left the throne, and a
number of its members have fought England’s battles on land and sea. One
of these was Lord St. Vincent, the great sailor, who brought the West
Indies to the British Crown and won the naval battle of St. Vincent.
Rodney was a member, and his wife, when her husband had been greatly
impoverished by gaming debts and election expenses, sent the hat round
for him at White’s. Very inappropriately, however, the money was
provided by a Frenchman, the Marshal de Biron. George Keppel, third Earl
of Albemarle, who captured Havana in 1762, was another naval member, as
was Charles Saunders, who co-operated with General Wolfe in the assault
of the Heights of Abraham; so too was Boscawen, who went by the name of
“Old Dreadnought.”

Besides having had a great number of gallant soldiers and sailors on its
list, this club can also boast that for many years the destinies of
Great Britain were practically in the hands of certain of its members.

Sir Robert Walpole and his able rival, William Pulteney, afterwards Earl
of Bath, were members of the old club at White’s in 1756. In the debate
on the motion for the impeachment of Sir Robert in 1741, the latter, in
the course of a speech, quoted a verse from Horace. Pulteney rose and
remarked that the right honourable gentleman’s Latin and logic were
alike inaccurate. Walpole denied it, and a bet of a guinea was made
across the floor of the House. The matter was then referred to the Clerk
at the table, a noted scholar, and decided against the Minister.

The guinea was handed to Pulteney, and is now in the British Museum,
with the following inscription in his handwriting:

“This guinea, I desire, may be kept as an heirloom. It was won of Sir
Robert Walpole in the House of Commons; he asserting the verse in Horace
to be ‘Nulli pallescere culpæ,’ whereas I laid the wager of a guinea
that it was ‘Nulla pallescere culpa.’ I told him that I could take the
money without blush on my side, but believed it was the only money he
ever gave in the House where the giver and receiver ought not equally to
blush. This guinea, I hope, will prove to my posterity the use of
knowing Latin, and encourage them in their learning.”

The betting-book at White’s, which is still in existence, bears witness
to the love of a past age for speculating about every manner of thing,
grave or gay. At one period of the eighteenth century chess was in high
favour at White’s. Several matches are recorded in the betting-book.
Lord Howe, for instance, engages “to play twelve games at chess with
Lord Egmont, and bets Lord Egmont twelve guineas to six guineas of each
game.” It is also recorded that M. de Mirepoix, the French Ambassador,
sent an invitation to all chess-players of both clubs[2] to meet him for
a game. He spells the word “clubs” “clamps.”

Footnote 2:

  White’s was formed from the old and new clubs into which it was
  originally divided.

Lord Montfort, who eventually met with a tragic death at his own hands,
in consequence, it would appear, of the impecuniosity which followed on
his wild gaming, made a curious bet as to his powers as a horseman:


_July ye 17th, 1752._

Ld. Montfort to ride six days running.

1st. Ld. Montfort gives Ld. Downe one guinea to receive 10 gs. when he
rides 35 miles within the first day.

2nd. Ld. Montfort gives Ld. Ashburnham 1 guinea to receive 10 gs. when
he rides 25 miles within the second day.

                                                                   _pd._

3rd. Ld. Montfort gives Ld. Waldegrave one guinea, to receive 10 gs.
when he rides 20 miles within the third day.

                                                                 _paid._

4th. Ld. Montfort gives Mr. Watson 1 guinea, to receive 10 gs. when he
rides 15 miles within the fourth day.

                                                                   _pd._

5th. Ld. Montfort gives Ld. Downe 1 guinea, to receive 10 gs. when he
rides 10 miles within the fifth day.

6th. Ld. Montfort gives Ld. Howe 1 guinea to receive 10 guineas when he
rides 5 miles within the Sixth day.

                                                                 _Paid._


Another wager of this nobleman dealt with the matrimonial intentions of
the proprietor of White’s:


Ld. Montfort wagers Ld. Ravensworth one hundred guineas, Duke of
Devonshire Fifty guineas, and Ld. Hartington fifty guineas, that Mr.
Arthur is not married in three year from ye date hereof, March 11th,
1754.

N.B. Bob goes Twenty guineas with Ld. Montfort in this bet.[3] (Now Sir
Robt. Mackreth.)

Footnote 3:

  A note added: “‘Bob,’ the waiter, married the daughter of Mr. Arthur,
  the proprietor of the club, became prosperous, and was afterwards
  knighted. He was subsequently Member for Castle Rising.”


The following are a few of the very numerous bets of which account is
given in this curious record:


_November 7th, 1758._

Mr. Cadogan engages to pay Mr. Willis twenty guineas, in consideration
of one guinea received from him, whenever he has in his possession,
either by purchase or gift, a Post Chaise with a crane neck.


The following bet, recorded in 1813, would appear to refer to some
incident in the life of Mr. Creevy which has escaped notice:


Col. Osborn bets Sir J. Copley 5 gs. that Mr. Creevy is imprisoned
before the announcement of the capture of Dantzic is received.

                                                              J. COPLEY.
                                                   J. OSBORN.      _pd._

_April 2nd._


Mr. Methuen bets Col. Stanhope ten guineas to 1, that a certain worthy
Baronet understood between them does not of necessity part with his gold
ice-pails, before this day twelvemonth; the ice-pails being found at a
pawnbroker’s, will not entitle Col. Stanhope to receive his ten guineas.

                                                      H. F. R. STANHOPE.
                                                           PAUL METHUEN.

_White’s, April 10th, 1813._


Mr. Raikes bets Sir Joseph Copley ten guineas that he does not play at
cards or dice at any Club in London in a year from this date.

                                                              _settled._

_May 22nd, 1818._


Lord Binning bets Lord Falmouth five guineas that a Roman Catholic
Bishop upon formally abjuring his Catholic faith, may be made a
Protestant Bishop without any new ordination in the Protestant Church.

                                                                BINNING.
                                                    FALMOUTH.      _pd._

_April 17th, 1825._


Lord George Bentinck bets Col. Walpole a Rouleau that the Duke of St.
Albans marries Mrs. Coutts within six months of this day. Ld. Elliott
stands half the bet with Ld. G. Bentinck.

                                                            G. BENTINCK.

_January 8, 1826._


July 8, paid a pony to the waiter for Col. Walpole.—G. BENTINCK.

1 June pd. a pony Elliott.

Lord Maidstone bets Ld. Kelburne six bets of £50 each that he has six
horses now in his own stable which he will ride over and shall clear a 5
feet wall in the Leath country in Lincolnshire.

    SIR RICHARD SUTTON, BART. } _to be umpires._
    . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  }


Lord Adolphus FitzClarence bets Mr. George Bentinck £10 that there is
not a shot fired in anger in London during the year 1851.


Mr. F. Cavendish bets Mr. H. Brownrigg 2/1 that he does not kill the
bluebottle fly before he goes to bed.

                                                 W. FREDERICK CAVENDISH.
                                   HENRY M. BROWNRIGG.      _recd._ H.B.

_July 17, 1856._


At one time very large sums changed hands over the whist-table at
White’s. One of the most distinguished gamblers was Lord Rivers, known
in Paris as Le Wellington des Joueurs. This nobleman, it is said, once
lost £3,400 at whist by not remembering that the seven of hearts was in!
He played at hazard for the highest stakes that anyone could be got to
play, and at one time was supposed to have won nearly £100,000; but all,
together with a great deal more, went at Crockford’s.

In earlier days White’s appears to have been an occasional resort of
very queer characters indeed. In Hogarth’s gambling scene at White’s we
see the highwayman, with the pistols peeping out of his pocket, waiting
by the fireside till the heaviest winner takes his departure, in order
to recoup himself of his losings. And in the “Beaux’ Stratagem,” Aimwell
asks of Gibbet: “Ha’n’t I seen your face at White’s?”

M’Clean, the fashionable highwayman, had a lodging in St. James’s
Street, over against White’s; and he was as well known about St. James’s
as any gentlemen who lived in that quarter, and who, perhaps, went upon
the road, too. When M’Clean was taken, in 1750, Horace Walpole tells us
that Lord Mountfort, at the head of half White’s, went the first day;
his aunt was crying over him. As soon as they were withdrawn, she said
to him, knowing they were of White’s: “My dear, what did the Lords say
to you? Have you ever been concerned with any of them?”

Mr. Pelham, the Prime Minister, who had originally been an officer, was
a well-known frequenter of the gaming-table at White’s, to which he
resorted even when in high office—a habit alluded to in the following
lines:


             “Or chair’d at White’s, amidst the doctors sit,
              Teach oaths to gamesters, and to nobles wit.”


General Scott, the father-in-law of George Canning and the Duke of
Portland, was known to have won at White’s £200,000, thanks to his
notorious sobriety and knowledge of this game. The General possessed a
great advantage over his companions by avoiding the excesses which used
not unfrequently to muddle their brains. He confined himself to dining
off something very light, such as a boiled chicken with toast and water,
and in consequence always came to the whist-table with a clear head.
Possessing a remarkable memory, with great coolness of judgment, he was
able honestly to win the enormous sum of £200,000.

At Almack’s, a rival institution to White’s, there was also much high
play. According to the rule of the house, every player had to keep not
less than twenty to fifty guineas on the table in front of him, and
often there was as much as £10,000 in gold on the table. The players,
before sitting down at the gaming-table, removed their embroidered
clothes and substituted frieze greatcoats, or turned their coats inside
out for luck. They also put on short leather sleeves to save their lace
ruffles, and in order to guard their eyes from the light and keep their
hair in order they wore high-crowned straw hats, with broad brims
adorned with flowers and ribbons; whilst to conceal their emotions they
also wore shades or masks.

George Selwyn, one evening at White’s, saw a member connected with the
postal service, Sir Everard Fawkener (the present writer’s
great-grandfather, and an indifferent card-player), losing a large sum
of money at piquet. Selwyn, pointing to the successful player, remarked:
“See now, he is robbing the mail!”

On another occasion, in 1756, observing Mr. Ponsonby, the Speaker of the
Irish House of Commons, tossing about bank-bills at a hazard-table at
Newmarket, “Look,” he said, “how easily the Speaker passes the
money-bills!”

Of the gambling at White’s in former days so much has been written that
it would be superfluous to dwell upon this phase in the history of the
club when George Selwyn played night after night. Selwyn, however, was
something more than a mere gambler, and possessed in a conspicuous
degree the power of scourging folly and self-pretension. The following
is an instance of his powers in this direction:

One morning, when Selwyn was at the home of the Duke of Queensberry, a
newly-appointed Commissioner of Taxes made his appearance. This man was
in a tumult of joy at his preferment; but, though it was to the Duke he
had primarily been indebted for his good fortune, he hardly thanked him;
for he was possessed with the notion that it was from his own merit that
he had acquired the promotion. Entering the room, he assumed several
consequential airs, thinking that he was now as great a man as the Duke
himself.

“So, Mr. Commissioner,” said Selwyn—“you will excuse me, sir, I forget
your name—you are at length installed, I find.” The word “installed”
conveyed an awkward idea; for the new Commissioner’s grandfather had
been a stable-boy.

“Why, sir,” replied the other, “if you mean to say that I am at length
appointed, I have the pleasure to inform you that the business is
settled. Yes, I am appointed; and though our noble friend, the Duke
here, did oblige me with letters to the Minister, yet these letters were
of no use; and I was positively promoted to the office without knowing a
syllable about the matter, or even taking a single step in it.”

“What! not a single step?” cried George.

“No, not one, upon my honour,” replied the new-fledged placeman. “Egad,
sir! I did not walk a foot out of my way for it.”

“And egad, sir!” retorted Selwyn, “you never before uttered half so much
truth in so few words. Reptiles, sir, can neither walk nor take
steps—nature ordained they should creep.”

Like many men of his day, Selwyn did and said many things which a later
age would call very snobbish. Happening to be at Bath when it was nearly
empty, he was induced, for the mere purpose of killing time, to
cultivate the acquaintance of an elderly gentleman he was in the habit
of meeting in the Rooms. In the height of the following season Selwyn
encountered his old associate in St. James’s Street. He endeavoured to
pass unnoticed, but in vain. “What! do you not recollect me?” exclaimed
the indignant provincial. “I recollect you perfectly,” replied Selwyn,
“and when I next go to Bath I shall be most happy to become acquainted
with you again.”

Though Selwyn appears to have preferred White’s, he did not entirely
confine his attention to it. It was in his day the fashion to belong to
as many clubs as possible—Wilberforce, indeed, mentions no fewer than
five to which he himself belonged: Brooks’s, Boodle’s, White’s, Miles
and Evans’s in New Palace Yard, and Goosetree’s, on the site of which
stands the Marlborough. As their names imply, all these clubs were
originally mere coffee-houses, kept by men of the above names, the most
celebrated of whom, next to the proprietors of White’s, was Brookes, or
Brooks, who founded the present club in St. James’s Street.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER IV

            BROOKS’S, THE COCOA-TREE, AND THE THATCHED HOUSE


At one time considerable rivalry existed between White’s and Brooks’s.
Great festivities took place all over the country in the spring of 1789,
and both White’s and Brooks’s gave balls, which seem to have occasioned
much unpleasant feeling between the party of the Prince of Wales and
that of the Court.

Pitt was a member of both clubs (having been elected to Brooks’s in
1781, on the proposal of Fox), but he had a decided partiality for
White’s.

The Prince detested White’s as the chosen club of Pitt, who had opposed
him during the King’s illness, and, as soon as the entertainment was
announced, forbade his friends to attend it, and it is said, together
with the Duke of York, sent their tickets to be sold at a public
library.

Three weeks later, on April 21, Brooks’s followed with a grand ball at
the Opera House, one of the tickets for which is framed in the
“strangers’ room” on the ground-floor of the club. As a matter of fact,
the Prince’s conduct towards the ball at White’s gave a party character
to that at Brooks’s, with the result that all the ladies of the Court
refused to attend.

Brooks’s was originally in Pall Mall, on or near the site of the present
Marlborough Club, and the precise date of its removal into St. James’s
Street cannot be positively fixed; but certain it is that the existing
house was built by Brooks, from designs by Holland, the architect, in
1778, and in a letter to G. Selwyn, dated in October of that year, T.
Townshend—afterwards first Viscount Sydney—says: “As a proof of our
increasing opulence, I need only show the New Opera House, which is now
fitting up at a monstrous expense … and Brooks’s new house, fitted up
with great magnificence, which is to be opened in a week or ten days.”
It was in consequence of these great expenses that the annual
subscription was doubled.

The originator of Brooks’s seems to have been the Scotsman Almack, whose
real name was Macall, and in its early days the club consisted of 150
members at an annual subscription of four guineas, with the proviso
that, “in case that proportion falls short of 400 guineas on the whole,
such deficiency shall be made good to Mr. Almack.” But this small number
of members soon expanded, and by 1776 had been doubled, by successive
additions of twenty, thirty, fifty, and fifty. Fifteen years passed, and
in 1791 another 150 were added, and 100 more in 1816, bringing the
numbers up to 550. Twenty-five more were added in 1823, and a like
number in 1857, bringing the total up to 600, at which it remained till
1901, when it was raised to 650, the present number.

At the end of 1778 the club moved into its present premises, the new
house being owned by Brooks or Brookes, and after that date his name was
assumed as a title.

[Illustration:

  PROMISED HORRORS OF THE FRENCH INVASION, BY GILLRAY.
  Showing both White’s and Brooks’s Clubs.
]

The subscription, fixed at four guineas in 1764, was before 1779 raised
to eight, and on May 25 in that year the committee, or whatever was the
governing body, granted Brooks an extra two guineas for two years only,
“in consideration of the great expense he hath been at in erecting and
fitting up his house”—viz., the present house. Brooks compounded with
those that were willing, for sixteen guineas paid down in advance.

On April 17, 1791, the subscription was again raised to ten guineas, and
in addition an entrance fee of five guineas was imposed; and it was
further resolved that every member should pay one guinea in addition to
the subscription for that year, “in order that the new Regulations about
Dinner, Forfeits, etc., may take place immediately.”

So matters continued until 1815, when the subscription was increased to
eleven guineas, “in consideration of the great expense the Masters of
the Club had been put to by various alterations of the Club-house.”

On March 18, 1817, an additional guinea was imposed—to be paid on
January 1, 1818—for the express purpose of increasing the size of the
coffee-room.

In 1828 it was resolved that the extra guinea added to the annual
subscription in 1815 should be reserved to form a fund, to be invested
in the names of the trustees, to be employed as the club should
thereafter direct. The present subscription is eleven guineas.

The original rules are very strict on the subject of arrears, Rule XX
providing that all subscriptions shall be paid between March 1 and June
25; otherwise the defaulter is to be _ipso facto_ excluded and his name
erased. This excellent provision, however, seems to have been more
honoured in the breach than in the observance, for on June 8, 1800,
Griffin, who was the Master, was “authorized to inform members that,
being in arrears, they are no longer members of the Club, and the
Managers have directed him to recover the arrears due to him.” Yet,
notwithstanding the resolution of the managers, on May 3, 1806, Griffin
reported the arrears to amount to £6,000, which large sum had in 1809
increased to £10,000.

This generous confidence of the Masters in the ultimate solvency of
members endured until the death of Banderet, in spite of a periodical
protest against the large amount of house accounts outstanding for
dinners and other disbursements; and on one occasion it is said that he
represented to the managers that a certain member was £800 in his debt,
and, although he was quite ready to trust the gentleman to any amount,
he did think that, under the circumstances, he need not insist upon
having ortolans for his dinner every night.

There is a very general impression that the eleventh guinea of the
subscription, still paid, was first imposed to pay the debts of C. J.
Fox, but of this there is no evidence whatever. That Fox’s debts were
paid by his friends is certain, and that he had many friends in Brooks’s
is equally so, and they doubtless were the chief contributors, but as
individuals only; the idea that Brooks’s ever contributed in its
corporate capacity is absolutely without foundation.

The regulations passed in 1828 laid down that dinner at 10s. 6d. per
head shall be ready at a quarter before six every day from November 1 to
the Prince of Wales’s birthday (August 12th). “If the number at dinner
shall not exceed four, they shall have no reckoning to pay but for wine,
fruits, etc. If the number exceeds four, the 2 guineas shall be deducted
from the whole reckoning.”

Dinner was served at half-past four; and the bill was brought in at
seven. Supper began at eleven, and ended at half an hour after midnight.
The cost of the dinner was 8s. a head, and of the supper 6s.; and anyone
who had been present during any part of the meal hours paid his share of
the wine, in accordance with the old law of British conviviality.

No gaming was allowed in the “eating room” except “tossing up for
reckonings,” under the penalty of paying the whole bill of the members
present.

The ballot took place between eleven at night and one in the morning,
which custom continued until 1844, when the hours were altered to
between three and five in the afternoon. A single black ball excluded,
and a member who joined any other club, except White’s, was at once
struck off the books.

As manager of the club, Brooks appears to have been a most accommodating
individual. He is described by Tickell, in a copy of verses addressed to
Sheridan, as


             “Liberal Brookes, whose speculative skill
              Is hasty credit and a distant bill;
              Who, nursed in clubs, disdains a vulgar trade,
              Exults to trust, and blushes to be paid.”


It may be added that, as a consequence of the above-mentioned
diffidence, Brooks died a poor man in 1782. Indeed, according to
tradition, his creditors were so rapacious that, in order to defeat
them, his body was interred in a small vault, still existing, under the
pavement of St. James’s Street. For this, however, there is no sort of
evidence in the records of the club, and the legend may have been
suggested by the smallness of the vault, which would just contain a
coffin.

Brooks was succeeded in the management by a Mr. Griffin, whose name can
be traced down to 1815, though for the six years preceding this date the
management figures as “Griffin and Co.” In 1815, however, he disappears,
and at some subsequent time the mastership devolved upon Wheelwright,
who in 1824 took Halse into partnership, and in 1831 retired; whereupon
Halse took Henry Banderet into partnership, himself retiring in 1846,
and receiving a grant from the club of £500 on account of his interest
in the unexpired lease of the house, and 50 guineas for the surrender of
his lodging therein. From that time until his death in 1880, Banderet
continued Master; and to him is to be attributed the credit of having
established in Brooks’s that refined if somewhat solemn comfort which
resembles rather the luxury of a first-class private house than a club,
and which has led to its being humorously described as “like dining in a
Duke’s house with the Duke lying dead upstairs.” His attention to his
duties as Master was unremitting, and it was said that, during the
thirty-four years in which he filled that post, he had never been known
to be absent, except on one occasion when he was persuaded to take a
holiday; but he found himself so miserable that by noon he was back at
Brooks’s, which he never afterwards left until his death, when the
entire management was taken over by the club.

As a building, Brooks’s is a handsome and suitable club-house, which
from time to time has sustained a number of alterations, most of them of
a judicious kind. The balcony on the first-floor, formerly such a
feature of the façade, has long been removed.

About twenty years ago considerable changes were made in the club-house,
and No. 2 Park Place was incorporated as part of it. Up to that time the
coffee-room had been what is now the strangers’ smoking-room on the
first-floor, the only smoking-room being the round room at the back of
the house, now divided into dressing-rooms. There was practically no
library, the only apology for one being a small room beyond the
coffee-room, containing little except Parliamentary reports, back
volumes of the _Edinburgh_ and _Quarterly Reviews_, and novels from a
circulating library. Opening out of this library was another small room
into which hardly anyone ever went, and through that, again, a very
small dressing-room which hardly anyone ever used. During the
alterations these uncomfortable little rooms, together with the rest of
No. 2 Park Place, were swept away, and the present coffee-rooms, with
library above, erected in their place, the old drawing-rooms and
coffee-rooms being given up to smokers and their guests. At the same
time the hall and staircase were entirely reconstructed.

Amongst the important reforms introduced after Banderet’s death was the
institution of club bedrooms, and also the privilege of inviting guests
to dinner, and—in May 1896—to luncheon.

There are some interesting relics of old days at Brooks’s, including a
complete set of the gaming counters used when the club was the scene of
much high play. These are well displayed in a case at the bottom of the
staircase. In the room upstairs, once the scene of so many late
sittings, the old gambling-table still remains. A semicircular cut in
this is said to have been made in order to accommodate the portly form
of Charles James Fox, a pastel portrait of whom, by Russell, is one of
the treasures of the club.

Some old prints of Brooks’s in former days (and a water-colour drawing
of the gaming-room by Rowlandson in particular) convey an excellent idea
of the past life of the club, while a few portraits of celebrated
members decorate its walls.

The fine room upstairs which was once devoted to high play would appear
to retain much of its ancient appearance, and the decorative scheme
employed on the walls seems to have been little changed.

A treasured possession of this club is the old betting-book, in which
are many curious entries, one of which tells that Mr. Thynne, having,
according to a note written opposite his name in the club books, “won
only £12,000 during the last two months, retired in disgust, March 21,
1772; and that he may never return is the ardent wish of members.”

The entries in this volume deal with all sorts of subjects, and range
from a bet of five hundred guineas to ten that none of the Cabinet were
beheaded by that day three years, to one of fifty that Mlle. Heinel does
not dance at the Opera House next winter.

Brooks’s possesses a good deal of silver plate, which taken in the
aggregate is valued at some £4,000. The oldest piece is a marrow-spoon
of 1793, whilst perhaps the most interesting part of the collection is a
number of candlesticks, all Georgian.

There are in Brooks’s two snuff-boxes—an antique one of mother-of-pearl,
and another of early Victorian date and design.

The tranquillity for which this club is noted has rarely been disturbed
in recent times, but in 1886, when Mr. Gladstone introduced his Home
Rule Bill, Brooks’s became much perturbed and troubled by discord quite
out of keeping with the traditions of its sacred precincts. A member who
had been in Mr. Gladstone’s Cabinet, and who, it was said, had many
years before been himself “blackballed” when a candidate, was declared
to have spoken contemptuously of the Liberal Unionists as he descended
the stairs of the club, where he had been dining as a guest. The irate
Liberal Unionists immediately discovered an easy way of revenge. As luck
would have it, the son of the ex-Minister came up for election almost
immediately after his father’s ill-timed outburst of eloquence, and was
swiftly made to experience the same fate which had befallen his parent
many years before. As a consequence of this the supporters of Mr.
Gladstone, at the next opportunity, revenged themselves by treating the
eldest son of a Whig Unionist peer in the same way. Feeling began to run
high, and at each successive election the circle of carnage widened and
widened, until it began to be whispered that it would soon be impossible
for anybody to be elected to Brooks’s at all. Matters began to look very
serious—one member even declared that the shade of Fox had been observed
flitting about the passages; and though another member surmised that it
was only the solid figure of an ancient servitor of the club with a
bottle of port in his hand, which had been mistaken for the shade of the
statesman, both agreed in acknowledging that the situation was becoming
extremely grave. Happily, at this juncture Lord Granville came to the
rescue, and at the next election made a speech which caused a general
reconciliation. In a few well-chosen words he alluded to the antiquity
of the club, and the previous divisions in the party which it had
survived, and expressed a hope—using almost the words which Burke had
employed in a slightly different connection—which he believed all
present in their hearts really shared, that there should at least be one
place left in London where a truce might be allowed to the divisions and
animosities of mankind, and friends might still be allowed to meet one
another on the same terms as of old.

Lord Granville’s speech produced a great effect, as the taking of the
ballot proved; for all the candidates, irrespective of their shades of
political opinion, were elected. Lord Granville afterwards declared that
he had never felt so nervous in his life.

In the earlier days of its existence, Brooks’s, like so many other West
End resorts, was the scene of much high gambling, and large sums often
changed hands.

Samuel Wilberforce, when he first joined the club, took part (he
afterwards declared) from mere shyness in a game of faro, George Selwyn
in the bank. A friend, astonished, called out, “What, Wilberforce, is
that you?” Selwyn quite resented the interference, and, turning to him,
said in his most expressive tone: “Oh, sir, don’t interrupt Mr.
Wilberforce; he could not be better employed.”

As a matter of fact, this was not the sole occasion upon which
Wilberforce played, for he once kept the bank at Goosetree’s, which Pitt
also frequented. Another member, Mr. Bankes, in the absence of a banker,
playfully offered the philanthropist a guinea to do so.

Wilberforce, as it happened, was very lucky, and rose the winner of
£600. He afterwards declared that the pain he felt at winning so much
money from young men who could not afford to lose without inconvenience
cured him of all partiality for play.

Goosetree’s consisted almost exclusively of budding orators and
statesmen, but there was a good deal of gambling there.

One of the largest winners at Brooks’s in the days of high play was
Alderman Combe, the brewer. One evening, whilst he was Lord Mayor, he
chanced to be engaged at a hazard-table there, Beau Brummell being one
of the party. “Come, Mash-tub,” said Brummell, who was the caster, “what
do you set?” “Twenty-five guineas,” answered the Alderman. “Well, then,”
returned the Beau, “have at the ‘_mare’s_’ pony.” He continued to throw
until he drove home the brewer’s twelve ponies running; and then,
getting up and making him a low bow, whilst pocketing the cash, he said:
“Thank you, Alderman; for the future I shall never drink any porter but
yours.” “I wish, sir,” replied the brewer, “that every other blackguard
in London would tell me the same.”

A very successful whist-player at Brooks’s was Sir Philip Francis, by
some supposed to have written the “Letters of Junius.” He had held an
appointment in Calcutta, where play flourished, and, devoting his
attention to the game, became extraordinarily successful. It was said
that his winnings amounted to £30,000, and eventually he was able to
return to England a rich man. As a club-man he was noted for his
vitriolic utterances.

Sir Philip had been the convivial companion of Fox, and during the short
administration of that statesman was made a Knight of the Bath. One
evening Roger Wilbraham came up to a whist-table at the club where Sir
Philip, who for the first time wore the ribbon of the Order, was engaged
in a rubber, and thus accosted him. Laying hold of the ribbon and
examining it for some time, he said: “So this is the way they have
rewarded you at last; they have given you a little bit of red ribbon for
your services, Sir Philip, have they? A pretty bit of red ribbon to hang
about your neck. And that satisfies you, does it? Now, I wonder what I
shall have? What do you think they will give me, Sir Philip?”

The newly-made Knight, who had twenty-five guineas depending on the
rubber, and who was not very well pleased at the interruption, suddenly
turned round, and, looking at him fiercely, exclaimed: “A halter, and be
d——d to you!”

Other great whist-players were the two Smiths, father and son, the first
a retired Major-General of the Indian Army, who brought home £150,000,
and was known as Hyder Ali in the West End. The son was called Tippoo,
and, like his father, was a fine whist-player. Indeed, at one time
Tippoo Smith was considered the best of his day. Another whist-playing
member, an old gentleman nicknamed Neptune, was not so successful;
indeed, he once flung himself into the sea in a fit of despair, as it
was said, “not being able to keep his head above water.” He was,
however, fished out in time, and, finding he was still solvent, played
on during the remainder of his life.

Even in the days when considerable laxity prevailed as to club
elections, Brooks’s was very strict in such matters. As a matter of
fact, George IV, when Prince of Wales, was the only member of Brooks’s
who entered the club without being elected by ballot. He was anxious to
belong to it in order to have more frequent intercourse with Fox, and on
his first appearance every member got up and welcomed him by
acclamation.

Fox, soon after he had got to know Sheridan, was so delighted with his
company and brilliant conversation that he became exceedingly anxious to
get him admitted as a member of this club, which he himself was in the
habit of frequenting every night. Sheridan was accordingly proposed, and
though on several occasions every gentleman was earnestly canvassed to
vote for him, yet he was always found to have one black ball whenever he
was balloted for, which was, of course, sufficient to prevent his
election.

When Sheridan entered the House of Commons in September, 1780, the
members of Fox’s party were particularly anxious to get him into the
club, which was no easy task, as they well knew. George Selwyn and the
Earl of Bessborough, who both hated Sheridan, agreed not to absent
themselves during the time allotted by the regulations of the club for
ballots; and as one black ball sufficed to exclude a candidate, they
twice prevented his election (once in 1778, when proposed by Fox).

This exclusion of Sheridan from Brooks’s was the subject of much
comment, and, according to one story, some of his friends resolved to
find out who the person was that so inveterately opposed the admission
of the orator. Accordingly the balls were marked, and old George Selwyn
(whose aristocratic prejudices would have induced him to blackball His
Majesty himself, if he could not produce proofs of noble descent for
three generations at least) was discovered to be the hostile party. This
was told the same evening to Sheridan, who desired that his name might
be put up again as usual, and the matter be left entirely in his hands.

The next evening when there happened to be another election, Sheridan
arrived at Brooks’s, arm in arm with the Prince of Wales, just ten
minutes before the balloting began. Being shown into the candidates’
waiting-room, the waiter was ordered to tell Mr. Selwyn that the Prince
desired to speak with him in the room below-stairs immediately. Selwyn
obeyed the summons without delay, and Sheridan entertained him for half
an hour with a political story, which interested him very much, but
which, of course, was a pure invention.

During this time the ballot proceeded, Sheridan being duly elected. The
satisfactory result was announced to the Prince and the successful
candidate by the entrance of the waiter, who made the preconcerted
signal by stroking his chin with his hand. Sheridan immediately got up,
and, apologizing for an absence of a few minutes, told Selwyn “that the
Prince would finish the narrative, the end of which he would find very
remarkable.”

Sheridan then went upstairs, and was formally introduced to the members
by Fox, being welcomed in the most flattering manner.

The Prince, however, was left in a very awkward position, for, not
having paid much attention to the nonsensical story told by Sheridan to
Selwyn, he found himself all at sea. After floundering about for some
time, he at last burst out with: “To tell you the truth, I know as
little about this infernal story which Sherry has left me to finish as
an unborn child; but never mind, Selwyn, let’s go upstairs, and I dare
say Fox, or some of them, will be able to tell you all about it.”

Accordingly the couple proceeded to the club-room, where the puzzled
Selwyn soon had his eyes completely opened to the whole manœuvre, when,
on his entrance, Sheridan, rising, made him a low bow, and thus
addressed him:

“’Pon my honour, Mr. Selwyn, I beg pardon for being absent so long; but
the fact is, I happened to drop into devilish good company. They have
just been making me a member without even one black ball, and here I
am.”

“The devil they have!” exclaimed Selwyn.

“Facts speak for themselves,” replied Sheridan; “and as I know you are
very glad of my election, accept my grateful thanks” (pressing his hand
on his breast and bowing very low) “for your friendly suffrage. And now,
if you will sit down by me, I’ll finish my story, for I dare say His
Royal Highness has found considerable difficulty in doing so.”

At first Selwyn was extremely wroth at the trick which had been played
upon him, but before the evening was out he shook hands with Sheridan
and welcomed him to the club.

Unfortunately for the reliability of this story, the records of Brooks’s
show conclusively that, so far as the Prince and Lord Bessborough are
concerned, it is without foundation. Sheridan was returned for Stafford,
September 12, 1780. Mr. Fitzpatrick proposed him at Brooks’s on October
12 in the same year, and he was elected on November 2; but Lord
Bessborough did not become a member till 1782, nor was the Prince of
Wales one till 1783.

Many of Sheridan’s _bons mots_ were recounted in the club years after
his death. During a conversation one day about Lord Henry Petty’s
projected tax upon iron, one member said that, as there was so much
opposition to it, it would be better to raise the proposed sum upon
coals. “Hold, my dear fellow!” said Sheridan; “that would be out of the
frying-pan into the fire with a vengeance.”

On another occasion, Sheridan, having been told that Mr. Gifford, the
Editor of the _Quarterly Review_, had boasted of the power of conferring
and distributing literary reputation, said: “Yes, and in the present
instance I think he has done it so profusely as to have left none for
himself.”

Another wit at Brooks’s was Dunning, Lord Ashburton, a somewhat
eccentric member. Though he only lived to the age of fifty-two, and
although he was very liberal and extravagant, he had made no less than
£150,000 during twenty-five years’ practice at the Bar.

In spite of the fact that his name does not appear in the club list, the
notorious duellist, George Robert Fitzgerald, who was executed for a
cold-blooded murder in 1786, must in a sort of way be regarded as having
belonged to the club. He was, however, only in it once, though it was
his boast that he had been unanimously chosen a member. The history of
this is curious.

Owing to Fitzgerald’s well-known duelling propensities, no first-class
London club would admit him. Nevertheless, he got Admiral Keith Stewart,
who knew that he must fight or comply, to propose him for Brooks’s.
Accordingly, the duellist went with the Admiral on the day of the
election to the club-house, and waited downstairs whilst the ballot was
in progress.

The result, a foregone conclusion, was unfavourable to the candidate,
not even one white ball being among the black, the Admiral having been
among the first to deposit his. Nevertheless, to him it was decided
should fall the dangerous task of announcing the result to Fitzgerald.
He did not, however, care for such a mission at all.

“I proposed the fellow,” said he, “because I knew you would not admit
him; but, by Jove! I have no inclination to risk my life against that of
a madman.”

“But, Admiral,” replied the Duke of Devonshire, “there being no white
ball in the box, he must know that you have blackballed him as well as
the rest, and he is sure to call you out in any case.”

Eventually it was decided that the waiter should tell Fitzgerald that
there was one black ball, and that his name must be put up again if he
wished it. In the mean time Fitzgerald had frequently rung the bell to
inquire “the state of the poll,” and had sent several waiters to
ascertain, but none daring to return, Mr. Brooks took the message from
the waiter who was descending the staircase, and boldly entered the room
with a coffee equipage in his hand.

“Did you call for coffee, sir?” said Mr. Brooks smartly.

“D——n your coffee, sir, and you too!” answered Mr. Fitzgerald, in a
voice which made the host’s blood run cold. “I want to know, sir—and
that without one moment’s delay, sir—if I am chose yet?”

“Oh, sir,” replied Mr. Brooks, attempting to smile away the appearance
of fear, “I beg your pardon, sir, but I was just coming to announce to
you, sir, with Admiral Stewart’s compliments, sir, that, unfortunately,
there was one black ball in the box, sir, and consequently, by the rules
of the club, sir, no candidate can be admitted without a new election,
sir, which cannot take place, by the standing regulations of the club,
sir, until one month from this time, sir.”

Thrusting aside Brooks, who protested that non-members might not enter
the club rooms, Fitzgerald flew upstairs, and entered the room without
any further ceremony than a bow, saying to the members, who indignantly
rose at the intrusion: “Your servant, gentlemen; I beg ye will be
sated.”

Walking up to the fireplace, he thus addressed Admiral Stewart: “So, my
dear Admiral, Mr. Brooks informs me that I have been elected three
times.”

“You have been balloted for, Mr. Fitzgerald, but I am sorry to say you
have not been chosen,” said Stewart.

“Well, then,” replied the duellist, “did you blackball me?”

“My good sir,” answered the Admiral, “how could you suppose such a
thing?”

“Oh, I supposed no such thing, my dear fellow; I only want to know who
it was that dropped the black balls in by accident, as it were.”

Fitzgerald now went up to each individual member, and put the same
question to all in turn, “Did you blackball me, sir?” until he made the
round of the whole club, and in each case he received a reply similar to
that of the Admiral. When he had finished his investigations, he thus
addressed the whole body: “You see, gentlemen, that, as none of ye have
blackballed me, I must be elected—it is Mr. Brooks that has made the
mistake. I was convinced it would end in this way, and am only sorry
that so much time has been lost as to prevent honourable gentlemen from
enjoying each other’s company sooner.” He then desired the waiter to
bring him a bottle of champagne, that he might drink long life to the
club and wish them joy of their unanimous election of a “raal gentleman
by father and mother, and who never missed his man.”

After this nothing more was said by the members, who determined to
ignore the presence of their dangerous visitor, who drank three bottles
of champagne in enforced silence, for no one would answer him when he
spoke. With cool effrontery the latter sat drinking toasts and healths,
to the terror of the waiter. At length everyone was much relieved to see
him rise and prepare to depart. Before going, however, he took leave
with a low bow, at the same time promising to “come earlier next night
and have a little more of it.” It was then agreed that half a dozen
stout constables should be in waiting the next evening to bear him off
to the watch-house if he attempted again to intrude, but Mr. Fitzgerald,
aware probably of the reception he might get, never did.

The eccentricities of Fighting Fitzgerald bordered closely upon madness,
and there is, indeed, reason to think that he was insane. According to
the custom of his day, he had in early life been obliged to fight a duel
with a man called Swords, who at the first discharge of his pistol had
shot off a part of Fitzgerald’s skull, materially injuring the fore part
of his brain. The consequence was delirium for a considerable time; but
those who knew him intimately were of opinion that he was affected by a
certain aberration of intellect until the day of his death, for from the
period of this wound he became hot-headed, insolent, quarrelsome,
cunning, and ferocious.

In the more turbulent days of the past, incidents occurred in clubland
which would now be impossible.

On one occasion, about three o’clock in the morning, the Duke of York,
Colonel St. Leger, Tom Stepney, and others, came up St. James’s Street
in very rollicking mood, and, reaching Brooks’s, knocked in vain for
admission, everyone being asleep. They were determined, however, to get
in, and, when the door was at length cautiously held open, rushed into
the inner hall. They commenced the destruction of chairs, tables, and
chandeliers, and kicked up such a horrible din as might have awakened
the dead. Every male and female servant in the establishment now came
running towards the hall from all quarters, in a state of semi-nudity,
anxious to assist in protecting the house or to escape from the supposed
housebreakers. During this riot there was no light, and the uproar made
by the maid-servants, who in the confusion rushed into the arms of the
intruders, and expected nothing short of immediate violence and murder,
was most tremendous.

At length one of the waiters ran for a loaded blunderbuss, which, having
been cocked, and poised on an angle of the banisters, he would have
discharged amongst the intruders. From doing this, however, he was most
providentially deterred by the housekeeper, who, with no other covering
than her chemise and flannel petticoat, was fast approaching with a
light, which no sooner flashed upon the faces of these midnight
disturbers than she exclaimed: “For Heaven’s sake, Tom, don’t fire! It
is only the Duke of York!” The terror of the servants having vanished by
this timely address, the intruding party soon became more peaceable, and
were sent home in sedan-chairs to their respective homes.

At that time many a challenge was given and accepted within the club
walls. One evening Fox, in the course of conversation, spoke
disparagingly of the gunpowder issued by the Government. Adams, who was
in some measure responsible for the supply, considered it reflection,
and sent Fox a challenge. Fox went out, and took his station, giving a
full front. Adams said: “You must stand sideways.” Fox said: “Why, I am
as thick one way as the other.” “Fire” was given. Adams fired, Fox did
not; and when they said he must, he said: “I’ll be d——d if I do! I have
no quarrel.” They then advanced to shake hands. Fox said: “Adams, you’d
have killed me if it had not been Government powder.”

Dandy Raikes, though a member of Brooks’s, had never been known to enter
the club, till one day in March 1827 he saw Lord Brougham go in, upon
which he followed, and grossly insulted him during luncheon, with the
result that a challenge became inevitable. Lord Brougham applied to
General Ferguson, who had heard part at least of the insulting
expressions, to convey a challenge for him to Raikes. This, however, the
General peremptorily declined to do, upon the grounds of having been
mixed up in so many similar affairs. Brougham eventually got General Sir
Robert Wilson to deliver the challenge; but in the mean time he had been
taken into custody, carried to Bow Street, and bound over to keep the
peace. “This was owing to Jack the Painter, alias Spring Rice, who had
been present at the row, and had immediately hastened to Bow Street to
inform; his object, no doubt, being not to lose Brougham’s vote that
night upon that most vital of all subjects, the Catholic question.”

The Hon. Frederick Byng, known as “the Poodle,” from his curly hair, was
a very well-known member of Brooks’s. He was one of the hundred
additional members selected in 1816 by the special committee, was a
prominent figure in London society, and had had many interesting
experiences. As a very small boy he had acted as a page of honour to
Prince George of Wales at his ill-starred marriage with the Princess
Caroline in 1795, and used to relate the curious incident of his being
taken to Carlton House to be looked at by the Prince before appointment.
He was in Paris in December 1815, and was present at the execution of
Marshal Ney.

As an old man, the Poodle was very autocratic in his ways, and something
of a bully. He once severely reprimanded a younger member for lighting
his cigar beneath the balcony outside the club, which no longer exists.
On one occasion Mr. Byng was much disturbed to find seated before the
fire in the drawing-room a gentleman who, having pulled off his boots,
had rung the bell and asked the waiter for slippers! It turned out that
the perpetrator of this outrage was a new member, an M.P. for some
manufacturing constituency, who, of strangely unconventional habits
quite unknown to the committee, had been elected without anyone
troubling or caring much about him, and who presumably would have been
more at home in a commercial room than in the sacred precincts of the
club.

Brooks’s is connected with an unsolved historical mystery, through one
of its members—Mr. Benjamin Bathurst (elected in May 1808)—a diplomatist
who disappeared in an unaccountable fashion, whilst on a mission from
Vienna to England in 1809, and was never heard of again.

Mr. Bathurst had been sent to Vienna by his relative, Lord Bathurst, at
that time Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. It is believed that
the latter sent his kinsman to the Court of Vienna in order to induce
Austria to go to war with Napoleon, a mission which was completely
successful.

Mr. Bathurst on this account entertained a strong belief that the great
Emperor bore him special enmity, and therefore, when the war was over,
apprehending, it is said, danger on the road, he resolved to return to
London by way of Berlin and North Germany. For this journey he assumed
the name of Koch, whilst his private secretary acted as courier, under
the name of Fisher.

About midday on November 25, 1809, the two travellers with a valet
arrived at Perleberg, on the route from Berlin to Hamburg, halted at the
post-house for refreshments, and ordered fresh horses for the journey to
Lenzen, which was the next station. Near the post-house was an inn—the
White Swan—to which Bathurst went and ordered an early dinner, the
horses not to be put in until he had dined. The White Swan was not far
from the gate of the town, through which the road to Hamburg lay, and
outside of it was a poor suburb of cottages and artisans’ houses. After
lunch Bathurst inquired who was in command of the soldiers quartered in
the town; and having been directed to his address, he called upon
Captain Klitzing, the officer named, and requested that he might be
given a guard in the inn, saying that he was a traveller on his way to
Hamburg, and that he had strong and well-grounded suspicions that his
person was endangered. During this visit it is significant that he
showed great signs of agitation and fear. Captain Klitzing, though he
laughed at Mr. Bathurst’s apprehensions, nevertheless gave him a guard
of a couple of soldiers.

When the latter reached the White Swan he countermanded the horses,
saying he would not start till night, considering that it would be safer
to travel along the dangerous portion of the route by night, when
Napoleon’s spies would be less likely to be on the alert, and remained
in the inn writing and burning papers. At seven o’clock he dismissed his
guard, and ordered the horses to be ready at nine. He stood outside the
inn, watching his portmanteau being replaced in the carriage, stepped
round to the heads of the horses, and disappeared for ever.

After Bathurst’s disappearance had been realized—which was not for some
time—every effort was made to discover what had become of him. The next
morning the river was dragged, outhouses, woods, marshes, ditches were
examined, but not a trace could be found; nor was any trace ever found,
except that nearly three weeks later—December 16—two poor women,
gathering sticks in a wood, found a pair of breeches which were
unquestionably Bathurst’s. In the pocket was a paper with writing on it.
Two bullet-holes were in the breeches, but no traces of blood about
them, which could hardly have been the case had the bullets struck a man
wearing them. The paper was a half-finished letter to Mrs. Bathurst,
scratched in pencil, stating that he was afraid he would never reach
England, and that his ruin would be the work of Count d’Entraigues.
Large rewards were offered—£1,000 by the English Government, another
£1,000 by the family, and an additional 100 Friedrichs d’or by Prince
Frederick of Prussia; but all was in vain, and from that day to this the
fate of Mr. Bathurst remains a mystery.[4]

Footnote 4:

  In December 1910, some woodcutters in the forest of Quitznow, near the
  spot where the breeches were found, discovered a skeleton which may
  have been that of Bathurst.

No account of Brooks’s and its history would be complete without some
mention of the Fox Club—a club within a club which holds its meetings in
the club-house three or four times in the course of the Parliamentary
session, and whose object is to keep alive the memory of probably the
most distinguished, and certainly the most popular, member who has ever
belonged to Brooks’s—Charles James Fox.

Owing to Fox’s love of play, some of his best friends, who would appear
to have been inspired by extraordinary affection, were half-ruined in
annuities, given by them as securities for him to the Jews. Annuities of
Fox and his society to the value of £500,000 a year were at one time
advertised to be sold. Walpole wondered what Fox would do when he had
sold the estates of all his friends.

He once sat at hazard at Almack’s from Tuesday evening, the 4th, till
five in the afternoon of Wednesday, the 5th. An hour before he had
recovered £12,000 that he had lost, and by dinner, which was at five
o’clock, he had ended by losing £11,000. On the Thursday (February 6,
1772) he made a speech on the Thirty-nine Articles, in which one is
hardly surprised to hear that he did not shine. That evening he dined at
half-past eleven at night, and went to White’s, where he drank till
seven the next morning; thence to Almack’s, where he won £6,000; and
between three and four in the afternoon he set out for Newmarket. Well
for him that there was no Nonconformist conscience in those days!

Fox during a late club-sitting once sketched out an idea for a kind of
new profession, “which was going from horse-race to horse-race, and so
by knowing the value and speed of all the horses in England to acquire a
certain fortune.”

As a youth Fox had received a very lax training from his father, who
gave him a large allowance and condoned his extravagances. “Let nothing
be done,” said his lordship, “to break his spirit; the world will do
that for him.” At his death, in 1774, he left him £154,000 to pay his
debts; it was all hypothecated, and Fox soon became as deeply involved
as before.

The chronicle of Fox’s financial vicissitudes makes sorry reading—at one
time with thousands in his pocket, at another without a shilling to pay
his chairmen.

After a run of good luck, Fox would generally make some attempt to
liquidate the more pressing of his many liabilities; and on one
occasion, when Fortune had been propitious, remembering a long-standing
gambling debt which he owed to Sir John Lade, he sent a complimentary
card to the latter expressing his desire to discharge the claim. Sir
John no sooner saw the money than he called for pen and ink, and began
to make some calculations. “What now?” cried Fox. “Only calculating the
interest,” replied the other. “Are you so?” coolly rejoined Charles
James, and pocketed the cash, adding: “I thought it was a debt of
honour. As you seem to consider it a trading debt, and as I make it an
invariable rule to pay my Jew creditors last, you must wait a little
longer for your money.”

Fox once played cards with Fitzpatrick at Brooks’s from ten o’clock at
night till near six o’clock the next morning, a waiter standing by to
tell them “whose deal it was,” they being too sleepy to know.

The precise circumstances which led to the foundation of the Fox Club
are rather obscure, the first recorded dinner having taken place in
February 1829, when twenty-three members were present, though “Fox
Dinners” seem to have been held previous to that date.

Until 1843 the Fox Club met at the Clarendon, but in that year, on an
application signed by sixteen members of the Fox Club, a rule was passed
granting permission to that body to use the great room at Brooks’s for
their meetings. Of these, the first always takes place on the Thursday
following the meeting of Parliament, the second and third as may be
fixed by the club in the course of the session, and the fourth at
Greenwich in July.

No speeches are allowed, and only the four following toasts are given,
without “note or comment”:


1. “In the memory of Charles James Fox.”

2. “Earl Grey and the Reform Bill.”

3. “The memory of Lord Holland.”


This third toast was added by unanimous resolution on April 24, 1841,
and on June 5 following, on motion previously given by Sir Robert Adair
and Mr. Clive, £200 were voted from the funds of the club towards the
monument proposed to be erected to his memory, now just inside the
railings of Holland House, on the Hammersmith Road.

On the pedestal of the monument in question are inscribed the following
lines:


                 “Nephew of Fox, and friend of Grey,
                   Be this my highest fame:
                  That those who know me best will say,
                   ‘He tarnished neither name.’”


4. “To the memory of Lord John Russell”—added on June 22, 1878, on the
motion of Mr. Grenville Berkeley. As originally proposed, the toast was
to the memory of “Earl Russell,” but at the next meeting it was
unanimously carried that the style by which he had been best known
should be adopted. This was done with the full approval of Lady Russell,
whose wishes in the matter had been consulted.

Before leaving the clubs of St. James’s Street, two quaintly-named
institutions—the Thatched House and the Cocoa-tree—claim some attention.
The latter club-house is remarkable for the golden tree which, spreading
through two floors, is visible from the street.

The Cocoa-tree Club originated from the Tory chocolate-house of the same
name which flourished in the days of Queen Anne. This was converted into
a club, probably before 1746, when the house was the headquarters of the
Jacobite party in Parliament. It is thus referred to in the above year
by Horace Walpole, in a letter to George Montagu: “The Duke has given
Brigadier Mordaunt the Pretender’s coach, on condition he rode up to
London in it. ‘That I will, sir,’ said he, ‘and drive till it stops of
its own accord at the Cocoa-tree.’”

About 1780 very high play prevailed there. Writing to Mann in February
of that year, Horace Walpole says: “Within this week there has been a
cast at hazard at the Cocoa-tree (in St. James’s Street), the difference
of which amounted to one hundred and fourscore thousand pounds. Mr.
O’Birne, an Irish gamester, had won one hundred thousand pounds of a
young Mr. Harvey of Chigwell, just started into an estate by his elder
brother’s death. O’Birne said: ‘You can never pay me.’ ‘I can,’ said the
youth; ‘my estate will sell for the debt.’ ‘No,’ was the reply; ‘I will
win ten thousand—you shall throw for the odd ninety.’ They did, and
Harvey won.”

Though never as fashionable a resort as White’s or Brooks’s, the
Cocoa-tree was frequented by many aristocratic sportsmen. Here it was
that Sir Harry Vane came after the victory of his famous horse
Hambletonian in the great match with Mr. Cookson’s Diamond in 1799.

“At the Cocoa-tree,” wrote Horace Walpole in 1770, “Lord Stavordale, not
one-and-twenty, lost eleven thousand last Tuesday, but recovered it by
one great hand at hazard. He swore a great oath: ‘Now, if I had been
playing deep, I might have won millions.’”

Sir Robert Macraith had for several years been head-waiter at the
Cocoa-tree, where he was known by the appellation of Bob, and at length
rose from that humble situation to the rank of Baronet. He was a clever,
good-natured, civil fellow, and greatly liked. When he himself succeeded
to the business, he was rather puzzled as to what would be the most
appropriate name for his house. George Selwyn calling in one morning, he
stated the difficulty to him, saying that he was afraid “Bob’s
Coffee-house” would sound rather queerly. “Oh no,” said George, “just
the thing; for then it will be Bob without, and robbing [Robin] within.”

Councillor Dunning and Dr. Brocklesby one evening at the Cocoa-tree were
conversing on the superfluities of life, and the needless wants which
men in society created for their own discomfort. Selwyn, whose
aristocratic notions were such as to look with contempt on occupations
of all sorts—on that of a medical man as well as that of a
tailor—exclaimed: “Very true, gentlemen; I am myself an example of the
justice of your remarks, for I have lived nearly all my life without
wanting either a lawyer or a physician.”

George Selwyn was an occasional visitor here, and on one occasion
happened to be present when a general officer in the American War was
describing to the company the phenomena of certain hot and cold springs,
which he said he had frequently found quite close to each other, during
his campaign in the south-western territory. Just as Selwyn entered the
room, he was saying that fish of various sorts abounded in the latter,
and that all that those of the army who were fond of fish had to do,
after the fatigue of a day’s march, in order to provide a dinner, was to
angle for a few moments with a string and hook in the cold spring, and,
as soon as the bait took, to pull out the fish and pop it in the hot
one, where it was boiled in the twinkling of an eye!

This marvellous account operated differently on the several gentlemen
present; some were incredulous, others amazed, whilst all agreed that it
was exceedingly curious.

“There is nothing at all surprising in the General’s narrative,
gentlemen,” said Selwyn, “and, indeed, I myself can vouch for the truth
of it; for when I was in France I was witness to similar phenomena. In
Auvergne there are springs similar to those in America, but with this
remarkable addition, that there is generally a third, containing hot
parsley and butter. Accordingly, the peasants and others who go
a-fishing usually carry with them large wooden bowls or ladles, so that,
after the fish has been cooked according to the General’s receipt, they
have a most delicious sauce provided for it at the same moment! You seem
to doubt my veracity, gentlemen; therefore I only beg that those who are
incredulous may set out for France as soon as they please, and see the
thing with their own eyes.”

“But, Mr. Selwyn,” said the General, “consider the improbability of
parsley and butter.”

“I beg your pardon, my good sir,” interrupted George; “I gave you full
credit for your story, and you are surely too polite not to believe
mine.”

A constant frequenter of the Cocoa-tree was the eleventh Duke of
Norfolk, who, it may be added, was the first member of the House of
Lords to abandon pigtail and hair-powder. Discarding the traditions of
his family, he became a nominal Protestant, in order to avoid the
political disabilities under which the Roman Catholics of his day
suffered. He sat in Parliament, first as Earl of Surrey in the Commons,
and afterwards in the Upper House as Duke. A coarse-looking man who
looked rather like a butcher, his life was mainly passed in clubs and
coffee-houses; he is, indeed, said to have never been so happy as when
dining at the Beefsteak or the Thatched House, or breakfasting or
supping at the Cocoa-tree. When under the influence of wine he would say
that, “in spite of his having swallowed the Protestant oath, there were,
at all events, three good Catholics in Parliament—Lord Nugent, Gascoyne,
and himself,” so little store did he set on religion. A very heavy
drinker, he could swallow unlimited quantities of wine.

The Duke, in spite of his convivial habits, was very proud of being the
head of all the Howards. On one occasion at the Cocoa-tree he declared
that it had been his intention to commemorate in 1783 the “tercentenary”
anniversary of the creation of his dukedom by giving a dinner at his
house in St. James’s Square to every person whom he could ascertain to
be descended in the male line from the loins of the first Duke. “But
having discovered already,” he added, “nearly six thousand persons who
claimed to be of the family, a great number of whom are in very obscure
or indigent circumstances, and believing, as I do, that as many more may
be in existence, I have abandoned the design.”

The Duke was a constant speaker at public meetings at the Crown and
Anchor Tavern, and was deprived of his command of a militia regiment for
proposing as a toast, “The People, the Source of Power.”

The Thatched House Club probably derives its rural name from an inn
which had existed in the days when St. James’s was a veritable hospital,
and not a palace. When the Court settled at St. James’s, it was
frequented by persons of fashion, and grew gradually in importance. In
1711 it appears still to have been a very modest hostelry, and even when
the Thatched House had grown into a recognized rendezvous of wits,
politicians, and men of fashion, Lord Thurlow alluded to it, during one
of the debates on the Regency Bill, as the “ale-house.” In the days of
Pitt and Fox, however, it had become one of the chief taverns at the
West End, and had added to its premises a large room for public dinners.

The Thatched House was a favourite resort of Sheridan’s. One sharp
frosty day, when he was sitting here writing a letter, the Prince of
Wales came in and ordered a rump-steak. The day happened to be an
excessively cold one, and the Prince ordered a bumper of brandy and
water straight away. Having emptied the glass in a twinkling, he called
for a second and a third, which also having swallowed, he said, puffing
out his cheeks and shrugging his shoulders: “Now I am warm and
comfortable; bring me my steak.” The order was instantly obeyed, but
before His Royal Highness had eaten the first mouthful Sheridan
presented him with the following lines, which greatly increased his
good-humour:


                “The Prince came in, and said ’twas cold,
                  Then put to his head the rummer;
                 Till swallow after swallow came,
                  When he pronounced it summer.”


The original Thatched House Tavern was demolished in 1814. The
ground-floor front consisted of a range of low-built shops, including
that of Rowland, the fashionable hairdresser of Macassar fame. The newer
Thatched House Tavern stood on the site of the present Conservative
Club, to build which it was pulled down in 1843, when it was moved to
another house a few doors nearer to the gate of the palace.

The Thatched House Club will probably be long remembered by lovers of
Art as having been the abode of the great collector, the late Mr. George
Salting, whose rooms above the club were filled with priceless pictures
and _objets d’art_. The Thatched House was, I believe, the only club to
which he belonged.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER V

                     CHANGES IN CLUB-LIFE AND WAYS


Amongst the changes which, during the last thirty years, have
transformed the West End of London, one of the most salient has been the
great increase in the number of clubs. Palatial buildings, each capable
of accommodating hundreds of members, now occupy a very great portion of
Pall Mall and Piccadilly. Although in other days the latter was by no
means a very clubbable thoroughfare, it now, at one end at least,
consists largely of clubs, most of them, however, differing widely from
those of an older age.

The original conception of a London club was a retreat to which West End
men might betake themselves, certain that the troubles and worries of
the outside world would not follow into a building which they regarded
as a temple of dignified seclusion and repose. Perhaps the best
description of a club as it existed in former days was that given by a
witty Bishop, who defined it as a place “where women ceased from
troubling and the weary were at rest.” Another amusing definition was
that once given by George Augustus Sala. “A club,” said he, “is a weapon
used by savages to keep the white woman at a distance.”

A club should certainly form a safe retreat from the cares of the world,
but it need not necessarily be a shrine of crystallized selfishness.

The aim of club-life should be a sort of defensive alliance tacitly
concluded between a number of individuals, all moving in the same sphere
of life, against the troubles and perturbations by which humanity is
assailed. The fundamental charter of the perfect club ought to be an
unassuming, unobtrusive, and unenvious equality.

Within the last twenty-five years or so the spirit of London club-life
has entirely changed; the old-fashioned club-man, whose whole life was
bound up with one or other of these institutions, is now, indeed,
practically extinct. In the days when the type in question was a feature
of the West End, the great majority of men living in that quarter of
London had no occupation, or, if they had one, it was of such an easy
and accommodating kind as to allow them plenty of spare time for
lounging. According to a modern estimate, however, few of the old
club-men were rich. The majority usually possessed from four to eight
hundred a year, which in the past was considered a comfortable enough
income for a bachelor. Living in rooms—a sitting-room and bedroom of a
very unluxurious kind, compared with the bachelor flats of to-day—the
life of a confirmed frequenter of clubland was uneventful but easy. As a
rule, he got up late and lounged about till lunch-time, when he would
betake himself to his favourite resort, and remain there till dinner,
perhaps indulging in a leisurely stroll in the afternoon. About seven he
would return to his rooms, dress, and then go back to his club to dine,
after which, except when he went to a party or theatre, he would sit
with congenial spirits, often till the small-hours of the morning, a
good deal of brandy and soda being incidentally consumed. It must be
remembered that there were fewer amusements in those days—no motors, no
golf, no restaurants, few theatres, and no palatial music-halls; also,
the City had not yet begun to exercise its fascinating and too often
costly spell over the inhabitants of the West End of the town.

Strange-looking customers were some of the club-men of that bygone
day—old fogies with buff waistcoats, blue coats, and brass buttons;
heavy swells with peg-top trousers and long, drooping whiskers;
horsy-looking characters with spurs and bespattered riding-boots. No
wonder that in a description of a certain club decorated with trophies
of the chase there appeared the statement that “many old beasts of
members might be seen in the hall.” This, of course, arose through the
carelessness of a printer.

To realize what most of the old-fashioned West End club-men were like,
one has only to turn to the pages of Captain Gronow’s “Reminiscences.”
Writing in 1866, Captain Gronow says:

“How insufferably odious, with a few brilliant exceptions, were the
dandies of forty years ago! They were generally middle-aged, some even
elderly men, had large appetites, gambled freely, and had no luck; and
why they arrogated to themselves the right of setting up their fancied
superiority on a self-raised pedestal, and despising their betters,
Heaven only knows. They hated everybody and abused everybody, and would
sit together in White’s bow-window or the pit-boxes at the Opera. They
swore a good deal, never laughed, had their own particular slang, looked
hazy after dinner, and had most of them been patronized at one time or
other by Brummell or the Prince Regent.”

The old-fashioned club-man had comparatively few interests, and even
those were of a comparatively narrow kind. His life, indeed, was centred
in his club, which often seemed to him the very centre and pivot of the
universe.

As compared with those of to-day, the clubs of the past were very
primitive in their arrangements, though not a few had that peculiar
atmosphere of old-world comfort which is generally lacking in our more
hurried and strenuous existence. The clubs of the past were almost
without exception sombre and occasionally dingy resorts, entirely devoid
of bright-coloured decorations, whilst very few prints or pictures
adorned their walls.

When modern improvements were first suggested in clubs, most of the
old-fashioned members fought strenuously against them. The introduction
of the electric light, for instance, was bitterly opposed; whilst the
telephone seemed to not a few of the older generation an attempt to
introduce mercantile outposts into the very heart of clubland. The old
club-men at first hated, and afterwards feared, the encroachments of
business methods into their kingdom. In the heyday of their sway,
indeed, few connected with commerce or the City had much chance of being
elected to a West End club, and it was only in the seventies of the last
century that a few determined scouts contrived to force an entry into
the portals through which the vast army of stockbrokers and the like
have since surged. At heart the old club-men probably believed that it
was undignified for a gentleman to enter any but certain recognized
professions, such as the army, navy, or diplomatic service; and the West
End was still permeated by the ideas of another age which had only just
passed away.

Gradually, as a new and entirely different generation came to the front,
the aristocratic traditions which had dominated West End life were
discarded, and another kind of club-man began to make his influence
felt.

Members of energetic temperament found the atmosphere of idle lassitude
which hung about some West End clubs so stifling that a number of them,
filled with a desire for exercise, formed what they called a “walking
society.” One of their favourite excursions was to St. Albans, which
they called their halfway house, and to this town they walked backwards
and forwards to dinner every Thursday.

Now that the old-fashioned club-man has disappeared, a glance at his
ways may not be out of place. Generally a bachelor of the most confirmed
kind, his whole life centred in his club, to which he made it a habit to
go every day at the same hour, and when possible occupy the same chair,
which in course of time was accorded to him as a sort of right.

Often an old-fashioned beau, he was as a rule rather a hard, selfish
man, provided by his club with all that he required. Not a few men of
this type declined to dine out, because they said they got a better
dinner at the club for some ten or twelve shillings than at the best
houses in town. “Why,” inquired one of them, “should I bore myself with
dull society when I can have the comfortable ease of the smoking-room?
If I want to be amused, I go to the theatre; if I want to read, I go to
the library. What have I to do with society,” he would ask, with a
sneer—“I who have no money, and not even a pretty wife?” Such an
individual was perfectly content with existence. Quiet, comfort, good
living, freedom from responsibility and anxiety, were the great objects
of his life, “and, begad, you don’t get that by marriage,” he would
remark.

The confirmed club-man of to-day is, perhaps, a shade less cynical, but
a variation of the old type still exists, and in most West End clubs,
especially those of an old-fashioned sort, there is to be found some
member who is generally recognized as an institution of the place.

Such a man is not infrequently the terror of the club servants, upon
whom he is ever ready to pounce when there arises the least cause for
complaint. He backs his bill remorselessly if the dish which is down for
eight o’clock appears a quarter of an hour late, or if the wine-butler
makes a mistake about the vintage that is ordered, or the waiter at his
table is not perfect in his duties. He knows to a day when everything is
in season, and woe betide the steward if at the earliest moment there is
no caviare, sufficient supply of plovers’ eggs, asparagus, green peas,
or new potatoes. He can tell the exact price of most things, and
instantly checks any attempt on the part of the club to overcharge. He
is the great authority on club discipline and club etiquette. Matters
outside the club, however, he views with more or less indifference. Talk
to him of some awful disaster, of some terrible commercial failure,
provided he be not affected by it, of some great national loss, of the
death of some great man, and his interest will hardly be excited; but
tell him that an excellent club cook has given notice, or that there has
been a “row” between certain members on a difference of opinion in the
committee, and you will at once find him an interested and attentive
listener.

His daily life is regulated by habits which have gradually crystallized
into an almost undeviating monotony.

He likes to read the same newspaper in the same chair in the same place,
to write his letters at the same table, to lunch at the same time, and
to have his dinner served by the same waiter at the same hour in the
same corner of the coffee-room. In such matters he is the strictest and
most staunch of Conservatives. Never was there a man whom it is more
easy to find, for one knows the hour to a moment when he takes his daily
stroll, when he smokes his first cigar, when he lunches, dines, writes
his letters, reads, and goes through the programme of his thoroughly
selfish but not uncomfortable life. He cares little for society, and,
with the exception of running down for an occasional visit to some
country-house (where he is certain of the cook), or going to the Riviera
for a fortnight, seldom leaves town. The club is his home, and at heart
he dislikes leaving its walls. Unlike the old-fashioned club-man,
however, he is not unaffable to new members or strangers, and is fully
alive to the increased comfort to be obtained from any modern
improvement.

The confirmed frequenter of clubs knows everything that is going on, and
imparts such information as he feels inclined to give with none of the
mystery and importance of semi-ignorance, but simply and naturally. He
knows what young women are going to the altar, and what young men are
going to the dogs; what people have been prevented from going to Court,
and what spendthrifts are about to be forced to go through another. He
is well acquainted with the latest good stories about town, and explains
mysterious floating gossip as to meditated divorces or hushed-up
scandals. As a matter of fact, his conversation is generally amusing,
and occasionally instructive.

The life of such a man, as has been said, is centred in his club, and he
sees members come and go, hears of their prosperity or ruin, marriages
or deaths, with imperturbable equanimity; indeed, it would require an
invasion or an earthquake to make him effect any change in his habits.

So he lunches and dines, dines and lunches, till the sands of the
hourglass have run out, and the moment comes for him to enter that great
club of which all humanity must perforce become members.

A few questions will be asked in the club as to his end, his fortune or
lack of fortune; his witticisms will linger for a while, and his good or
bad points be discussed; but in a year or so he will become as
completely forgotten as if he had never been.

As London clubs began to multiply, their gradual increase drew away most
of the sporting men from the old hostelries which at one time it had
been the fashion to frequent. Theodore Hook alluded to this in some
humorous lines:


 “If any man loves comfort, and has little cash to buy it, he
    Should get into a crowded club—a most select society;
  While solitude and mutton cutlets serve _infelix uxor_, he
    May have his club (like Hercules), and revel there in luxury.

 “Yes, clubs knock houses on the head; e’en Hatchett’s can’t demolish
    them;
    Joy grieves to see their magnitude, and Long longs to abolish them.
  The inns are out; hotels for single men scarce can keep alive on it;
    While none but houses that are in the family way thrive on it.”


Since those days clubs have multiplied enormously; indeed, almost every
profession, every pastime, and every point of view has its club. Whilst
most of these institutions are frankly mundane in their aims, a few are
very solemn in tone. At one club, for instance, morning and evening
prayers are read every day. The club in question was founded for men of
very Evangelical views, some of whom, it was wickedly said, were so
devout as to demand that a club rule should be passed prohibiting
members from entering the coffee-room unless in a “state of grace.” Of
late years, however, a less severe tone has prevailed amongst its
members, many of whom are distinguished men.

Sixty years ago the fact of club membership implied some social position
or distinction on the part of the individual. White’s, Brooks’s,
Boodle’s, Arthur’s, and a few other establishments, constituted really
exclusive clubland, and to be elected to them was a matter of no little
difficulty. A man of obscure birth, or one unknown to the committee,
would have been sure of being blackballed. Clubs were then filled by
those who belonged either to the same political party or the same
fashionable coterie, the members of which were all more or less known to
each other. The Tory patrician belonged to White’s; the Whig politician
of old family was a member of Brooks’s; the country gentleman put his
name down at Boodle’s or Arthur’s; the distinguished lawyer, divine, or
man of letters, became a member of the Athenæum; and the soldier, who
was a field officer, of the United Service. The membership of such clubs
constituted an exclusive circle.

A club was a place in which men wrote letters and met their friends.
Beyond being a comfortable lounge, it was of little service to its
members.

Many tacitly recognized conventions prevailed in connection with
club-life. For instance, it was not then at all the thing to raise one’s
hat to a lady whom one knew, should she pass the club window. A great
many members lunched in the coffee-room with their hats on, whilst in
certain clubs evening dress at dinner was obligatory. Some clubs,
including Boodle’s, even to-day set aside a small apartment, separate
from the regular dining-room, for members who prefer to dine in day
clothes.

Formerly, it should be added, hats were far more generally worn in clubs
than is now the case. In some it was the traditional custom to wear them
at all times and in all parts of the house. At the old “Rag,” the
practice was said to have survived from the time when the club-house was
so cheerless and the funds so limited that the management economized
coals, for which reason the members were at great pains to keep
themselves warm.

In his own club a man used to be considered as having entirely cut
himself off from communication with the outside world, and acknowledging
people from the windows by a bow or nod was then quite contrary to club
usage, which prescribed an Olympian stare.

At certain of the older clubs a few customs, dating back to the
eighteenth century, were up to quite recently still in vogue.

At Arthur’s, Boodle’s, White’s,[5] and, I think, Brooks’s, for instance,
change was given in washed silver. The money was first plunged in hot
water and cleaned, after which it was placed in a wash-leather bag; this
was whirled round in the air at the end of a short cord till all the
coins contained in it were dry.

Footnote 5:

  The water from the old well in the courtyard here was supposed to be
  particularly excellent and healthy, and many members made a daily
  practice of drinking a glass of it.

The custom of giving washed silver lasted latest at Arthur’s, where it
was only abandoned a few years ago. It seems a pity that such a cleanly
and hygienic custom should have fallen into disuse.

Another old custom was the house dinner, where members dined together.
At White’s and Boodle’s this function used to be a great feature—highly
appreciated by some of the older, more stingy, or impecunious members.
Immemorial custom prescribed that the first four members who put their
names down as diners should have dinner “free of cost,” and a certain
gang of old gentlemen used to make a regular practice of being in these
club-houses in good time to inscribe their names.

Wine, of course, had to be paid for, but the most economical contented
themselves with table-beer. There was great consternation amongst the
“fraternity of free feeders” when, during the early seventies of the
last century, these house dinners were abolished.

Some few clubs still retain the snuff-box which once figured on the
mantelpiece of every club. In most, however, it has disappeared.
Snuff-taking has become obsolete since the triumph of the
cigarette—perhaps a more pernicious habit.

The question of smoking has frequently caused great agitation in London
clubs. In 1866, for instance, White’s, where cigars had not been allowed
at all till 1845, was much perturbed concerning tobacco, some of the
younger members wishing to be allowed to smoke in the drawing-room,
whilst the older ones bitterly opposed such a proposal. A general
meeting was held to decide the question, when a number of old gentlemen
who had not been seen in the club for years made their appearance,
stoutly determined to resist the proposed desecration. “Where do all
these old fossils come from?” inquired a member. “From Kensal Green,”
was Mr. Alfred Montgomery’s reply. “Their hearses, I understand, are
waiting to take them back there.”

The non-smoking party triumphed, and as an indirect result was founded
the Marlborough Club, where, for the first time in the history of West
End Clubland, smoking, except in the dining-room, was everywhere
allowed.

As a matter of fact, the restrictions as to smoking which still prevail
in a number of old-fashioned clubs are for the most part out of date and
absurd. At the present time people smoke in ladies’ boudoirs, and almost
invariably in dining-rooms after dinner. The great restaurants, a large
portion of whose clientèle consists of refined ladies, permit smoking
everywhere.

Nevertheless, in a number of club morning-rooms, libraries, and
sitting-rooms, the resort for the most part of a number of middle-aged
men, often of a somewhat derelict-looking type, tobacco is entirely
banned.

The whole thing is merely a perpetuation of an out-of-date prejudice.
The regulations against smoking which prevail in different clubs clearly
demonstrate the small foundation of reason which underlies such
restrictions.

The Carlton allows smoking in its library; the Junior Carlton does not.
The Conservative Club, on the other hand, has an excellent rule which
permits members to smoke in the morning-room after a certain hour in the
morning.

Regulations against smoking in libraries are particularly senseless, as
tobacco smoke can have nothing but a beneficial effect upon books, which
it has a tendency to preserve.

In old days clubs did not welcome strangers; indeed, it was said that if
anyone not a member should fall down in a fit at the door of one or two
of the more exclusive clubs, he would be denied even a glass of water. A
few clubs allowed visitors, but took care to extend only a cold welcome
to them. As a matter of fact, they were usually treated like the
members’ dogs—they might be left in the hall under proper restraint, but
access to any other part of the house, except, perhaps, some cheerless
apartment kept as a strangers’ dining-room, was forbidden. Of late
years, however, all this has been changed except in a very few clubs,
such as the Guards’, which positively forbids any strangers to enter its
doors. Only very recently has Arthur’s admitted strangers to dine. The
Carlton allows guests only to pass its threshold, but not to go beyond
the great hall, and the Athenæum allots them a small room near the
entrance, where members may interview their friends. The latter club
also allows a member to give a formal dinner-party in the morning-room,
converted for the time being into a house dining-room, and here as many
as ten guests may be hospitably welcomed. The Travellers’ permits
strangers to dine, except during the Parliamentary season, whilst the
Oxford and Cambridge Club allows six members to entertain two guests
apiece. The Garrick is far more liberal, for here a member may introduce
three friends to the strangers’ coffee-room for dinner, or two for
luncheon or supper. Members of this club may also give luncheon-parties
to ladies on one day of the week.

As regards the admission of ladies to clubs, it is very doubtful if,
according to the strict letter of the law, ladies can be excluded from
any institution of this sort which admits strangers, for there is no
mention of sex in any book of club rules. Indeed, a member of a certain
military club is said once to have brought his wife to dine, and defied
the authorities by asking for the book of the rules, in which he
triumphantly pointed out that there was no stipulation as to sex.

Not a few clubs in old days were anything but sociable places for young
men, who, when elected, were often shy at frequenting them, on account
of the stern looks which certain of the older members, who had their
particular corners and chairs, were wont to cast at them. Gloomy abodes
of misanthropic selfishness some of these clubs seem to have been, where
sociability and conversation were at a considerable discount.

Dr. Johnson was probably the most staunch defender of clubs who ever
lived; his reply to someone who was rather inclined to decry such
institutions is historic. A gentleman venturing one day to say to the
learned Doctor that he sometimes wondered at his condescending to attend
a club, the latter replied: “Sir, the great chair of a full and pleasant
town club is, perhaps, the throne of human felicity.”

His, of course, was the day of literary clubs, more suited to the spirit
of the eighteenth century than to that of to-day. In modern times most
of the literary clubs founded for conversation have been complete
failures. So much talking, and nothing said! Everyone failing, because
everyone is attempting; in a word, nothing of the club feeling, which
demands the postponement of our petty selfloves to the general
gratification, and strikes only in unison with the feelings and
sentiments of all!

A good deal of wine was generally consumed during the symposiums which
the great talkers of the past loved. At one meeting-place where a
literary club was wont to meet, the landlord was said to keep a special
kind of port expressly for such parties, which those who frequented the
house christened “the philosopher’s port.” A cynic declared that in one
respect it certainly merited its name, for a good deal of philosophy was
necessary to swallow it.

Thackeray, unlike Dr. Johnson, was rather inclined to disparage clubs.
Speaking of the town life of a past age, he said: “All that fuddling and
boozing shortened the lives and enlarged the waistcoats of the men of
that age. They spent many hours of the four-and-twenty, nearly a fourth
part of each day, in clubs and coffee-houses, where they dined, drank,
and smoked. Wit and news went by word of mouth; a journal of 1710
contained the very smallest portion of either the one or the other. The
chiefs spoke; the faithful habitués sat around; strangers came to wonder
and to listen.... The male society passed over their punch-bowls and
tobacco-pipes almost as much time as ladies of that age spent over
spadille and manille.”

Tom Hood expressed an equally unfavourable view in 1838:


                 “One selfish course the Wretches keep;
                   They come at morning chimes;
                 To snatch a few short hours of sleep—
                   Rise—breakfast—read the _Times_—

                 Then take their hats, and post away,
                   Like Clerks or City scrubs,
                 And no one sees them all the day—
                   They live, eat, drink, at Clubs!”


Many women regarded such places as dens of iniquity. “I believe that
mine will be the fate of Abel,” said a devoted wife to her husband one
day. “How so?” inquired the husband. “Because Abel was killed by a club,
and your club will kill me if you continue to go to it every night.”

Dr. Johnson defined a club as “an assembly of uncertain fellows meeting
amidst comfortable surroundings,” and in the earliest days, when the
club was developing out of the coffee-house as a social institution, its
chief attraction lay in the wit of its members and the similarity of
their tastes and opinions. Members then were contented with a
comparatively simple standard of comfort, and esteemed congenial
companionship the best furniture a club could possess; but with the
lapse of years a different spirit began to prevail. In the luxurious
palaces of to-day most of the members are very often unknown to one
another; such places are, in reality, rather luxurious restaurants and
hotels than clubs.

Many clubs now have bedrooms for the use of members; in a few instances
these are let by the year. Such a convenience is highly appreciated, for
to a bachelor the advantages of living in a club are very great. Here he
may have all the comforts of a private house without its worries, in
addition to which every species of modern convenience is at his command.

Latterly a good deal of attention has been devoted to the decoration of
club-houses generally, most of which now contain prints and pictures.

The present being a more or less luxurious age, modern club-men require
more pleasing surroundings than their forbears, who asked little beyond
comfortable chairs and blazing fires.

Until comparatively recent years, the interior of the great majority of
West End clubs was somewhat bare, such attempts at decoration as existed
being for the most part confined to feeble designs in stencil, whilst
pictures and prints were either few in number or did not exist at all.
The furniture was generally of mid-Victorian date—comfortable, though
rather heavy in design.

At a certain number of clubs, wax candles were placed upon the
dining-tables, and these were very necessary in the days when oil-lamps
and gas were the best illuminants procurable. The light of the lamps was
not unpleasant, but in some of the rooms lit by gas the heat was often
perfectly intolerable.

As an instance of the persistence of club tradition, it may be added
that even at the present time, when electricity floods most of the
coffee-rooms with light, some clubs still retain the candles which were
so useful in the past.

The growth of the club system undoubtedly effected a great revolution in
the domestic life of men generally, and especially in that of the
younger ones. Married men, accustomed to the refinement and luxury of a
club, gradually imported many amenities into their homes, and
endeavoured, so far as their means permitted, to reproduce some of the
perfections of management as it is found in clubs.

It was, however, in the life of the bachelor that the introduction of
this state of affairs caused the greatest change. The solitary lodgings
and the tavern dinners were relegated to the limbo of the past. All he
now needed was a bedroom, for the club provided him with the rest of his
wants. It began to matter little in what dingy street or squalid quarter
a man lodged, for the club was his address, and society inquired no
further. He did not need to purchase an envelope or a sheet of notepaper
throughout the year, for the club provided him with all the stationery
he could possibly require. There was no longer any occasion for him to
buy a book, a magazine, or newspaper, for in his club he would find a
library such as few private houses could furnish, and in the
morning-room every newspaper and weekly review that had a respectable
circulation.

Here was to be found economy without privation for the man of modest
means and small wants, whilst in some clubs even a confirmed sybarite
could satisfy his tastes.

The excessively moderate scale of expenditure for which a man can live
comfortably at many a club is highly attractive to the parsimonious.

A certain member, as well known for his economical way as for his vast
wealth, made a study of living at the smallest possible cost in the
several clubs to which he belonged. It was, for instance, his habit to
take full advantage of the privileges to be obtained in return for
table-money, and when he dined the table would be covered with
pickle-bottles and other things included in such a charge. One evening a
fellow-member, noticing this, inquired of the steward the reason why
such an array had been collected. “It’s for a member, sir,” was the
reply, “who likes profusion.”

The lover of profusion was especially noticeable on account of his
unpolished boots, which stupid servants, as he said, were always wanting
to wear out by blacking.

A member of several clubs, he once discovered, amongst the rules of a
certain old-established one, an ancient and unrepealed rule which laid
down that slices of cold ham were to be provided free for any members at
their lunch. In high glee, he determined to profit by this, and before
long the attention of the committee was called to the quick
disappearance of ham after ham, which for a time had furnished a series
of Gargantuan meals. The rule, of course, was at once abolished, and the
parsimonious member betook himself elsewhere.

Very different in his habits was a witty old gourmet who was always
urging the steward to procure luxuries in and out of season. He was
especially fond of pâté de foie gras, and made that official promise to
get a fine one from Strasbourg. This, however, was a long time in making
its appearance; and after waiting a week or so, the lover of good things
became impatient at the delay. Taking the man to task, he reminded him
that delays are dangerous, to which the steward replied that he heard
pâtés were not good that year. “Nonsense,” was the rejoinder, “we will
soon put that right. Depend upon it, it is only a false report that has
been circulated by some geese.”

The same member once had reason for much comical complaint in connection
with a pâté which, in this case, had been sent him as a present by a
noted connoisseur. Several members of the committee were invited to
partake of the delicacy, and they were all agreed as to its peculiar
excellence; as one of them facetiously said, it made one realize that
the problem, “Is life worth living?” was, after all, merely “a question
de foi(e).” A few days later, however, what was the surprise of the
giver of the feast to receive a reprimand from the committee, calling
his attention to the rule which forbade members to bring food into the
club!

“Ah,” said he, “if I had only told them I was expecting more pâtés, they
would have left me alone; mine was too small, and probably they were
annoyed at not having had a second go at it.”

Though good-natured and hospitable, this lover of good living was very
touchy upon certain gastronomic matters. He did not speak to a friend of
his for years owing to the latter’s contention that carrots should
always be put in a _navarin_—a statement which, the old gourmet
declared, placed anyone making it outside the ranks of civilized man.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER VI

                 ELECTIONS—COMMITTEES—REGULATIONS—RULES


The transformation of the West End of London has entailed the
destruction of numbers of the old box-like Georgian houses, and when the
demand for new clubs arose, the quaint little shops in Pall Mall and St.
James’s Street—almost the last survival of which is Lock’s hat-shop—were
gradually demolished, in order to make way for huge edifices of palatial
appearance. New political clubs, new professional clubs, new social
clubs, sprang into existence, till what was a luxury for the few became
a comparative necessity for the many.

In these days rich men often belong to a great number of clubs, and the
present writer was told by a well-known cosmopolitan that his
subscriptions of this kind amounted at one time to no less than £200 a
year. This, however, included various racing and yachting clubs, as well
as two or three on the Continent.

There are now clubs accessory to almost every kind of pursuit and sport,
and the number increases every year. At the present time London alone
possesses more than two hundred, whereas sixty or seventy years ago only
about thirty existed. About one hundred have been founded during the
past thirty years, dividing between them no fewer than some 120,000
members. At the beginning of the nineteenth century there were probably
not more than 1,200 men who belonged to clubs; at the present day there
are probably considerably more than 200,000!

The revolution as regards clubs in London only commenced about a quarter
of a century ago, and has raged with unabated energy ever since till
to-day. People in every rank of life have their club, and the social
distinction which was formerly attached to membership of a number of
these institutions has in consequence sustained a considerable decline,
even fashionable West End clubs having lost much of their old prestige.

In consequence of this there would seem to be a somewhat gloomy future
in store for some of these formerly exclusive institutions, not a few of
which, like old families of ancient lineage, do their best to conceal
the straitened condition of their finances, generally produced by
paucity of members.

Clubs into which admission could only be gained, twenty or thirty years
ago, by those whose names had been on the candidates’ book for nine,
ten, or even twelve years, are now obliged to elect members put down
only a year or two before. In some cases, indeed, it is to be feared
that amalgamation with another club is the only policy which will
prevent complete extinction and restore healthy vitality. In certain
instances, it must be confessed, an apathetic committee, not alive to
the changed and changing conditions of club-life, is responsible for the
decadence of the institution over which it presides.

An absolute essential to the prosperity of a club is a good committee;
the best of all is that which consists of three elements. In the first
place, it should contain two or three well-known men to act as
figureheads, their names being a guarantee for the social standing of
the club. In the second, one or two members ought to be thoroughly
conversant with business matters, and well fitted to deal with the
details of club finance. And, lastly, a certain proportion of its
members ought to be men well in touch with the life of the club, and
therefore thoroughly acquainted with its needs. They should have a wide
knowledge of men and social matters, in order to exercise due
discrimination in dealing with candidates for election; and this is
especially important in a club where the ordinary members do not take
part in the ballot. In these days there are many with axes to grind, and
strange things have been done in some West End clubs of late years in
order to secure the election of candidates. At times, indeed, certain
individuals have become noted for their lack of discretion in proposing
individuals whom, for some reason or other, they desired to conciliate.
As a matter of fact, the hold which the City has obtained over West End
life is largely responsible for the election of many a member to clubs
where, thirty or forty years ago, his admission would have been quite
out of the question.

In old days everyone in the West End, more or less, knew everyone else;
for society was then a very limited circle compared with what it is
to-day, when people come and go with such startling rapidity that it
grows increasingly difficult to discover who and what a candidate may
be.

Considerable ingenuity has occasionally been exercised in the direction
of concealing the antecedents of an undesirable but wealthy candidate.

The election of rich men to a club merely because they are rich has, on
occasion, been defended by the vague plea that it is not a bad thing for
a club; as a matter of fact, it is a very bad thing indeed. Whilst a
candidate of this sort is usually exceedingly anxious to be elected, it
is not unusual, when his aim is achieved, for him to trouble himself no
more, his desire having merely been to figure in the list of members. A
man of this sort, who had taken infinite trouble to secure election to a
certain club, and been successful in his efforts, had no sooner been
notified of his membership than he calmly remarked: “Ah, well, I don’t
suppose I shall use the place, except to wash my hands on my way to the
Park!”

It is, indeed, men of moderate means rather than the very rich who use a
club most, and who are therefore its principal support. Millionaires and
financiers seldom spend much in their clubs, for, possessed of highly
trained chefs and luxurious houses, they have naturally little
temptation to spend their spare time elsewhere. The pleasures of social
intercourse which can be enjoyed at the club are equally easy to obtain
at home.

In old days it was exceedingly difficult for men engaged in business to
obtain admission to a fashionable West End club.

The son of a famous financier was once up for election to a fashionable
club, and all his friends in the club attended to support him. In those
days the ballot took place at night, and as eleven o’clock approached
the club became abnormally full; indeed, members came into the
drawing-room, where the election was held, who had not been seen in the
club for years. It was, however, soon evident to the proposer and
seconder that the crowd of members present had not come to support their
candidate. Realizing the situation, they took their stand by the
ballot-box, and as each of the strangers stepped up to record his vote,
one said to the other: “Here comes another assassin.”

At White’s, blackballing was carried to such an extreme about the year
1833 that the rules had to be altered, and one blackball was no longer
allowed to exclude.

At that time the system of rejection had been carried to a ludicrous
pitch. “We must pill that man,” a member would say; “it will do him
good.” “We really cannot have that fellow,” said another; “I saw him
wearing a black tie in the evening.” Sometimes there were personal
grudges or family quarrels which kept out candidates for years.

In the early part of the last century, Charles Greville and Lord George
Bentinck had some difference about a turf transaction. Greville was
anxious for the election of Viscount Brackley, afterwards Earl of
Ellesmere; Lord George was equally determined that Viscount Brackley, as
Greville’s nominee, should remain outside the club. He never failed to
attend the ballot and drop in his black ball.

Lord George was accustomed to take his dinner very late. He usually
dined at the club at eleven o’clock, at which hour the ballots also took
place. On one occasion, when Lord Brackley was up for election, Greville
was delighted to find, as he thought, that Lord George was for once
absent. “It’s all right this time,” said he, as the ballot-box was
brought to him; “Bentinck’s downstairs at dinner, and I shall get
Brackley in at last.” “Will you?” said a voice near him. He had not
noticed Lord George sitting beside him on the sofa.

People who ought to know better sometimes exhibit the most lax conduct
in lending their aid to the candidature of disagreeable individuals,
whom for some reason or other it may suit them to please. On one
occasion the members of a certain somewhat exclusive club were much
disgusted at the conduct of a newly-elected member. It was eventually
discovered that the objectionable individual had been proposed by a
prominent political personage, whose candidate could not very well have
been rejected. The matter created great irritation, and it was
eventually hinted to the proposer that the new member was anything but
popular.

“He’s a disagreeable man, I know; but then, you see, it doesn’t matter,
for I so seldom use the club,” was the grossly egotistical reply. No
wonder the political party of which this individual is considered one of
the shining lights has of late years had a hard struggle to hold its
own!

One of the most original reasons for putting down a candidate was that
given by a somewhat unpopular member of a certain club. An acquaintance,
looking through the candidates’ book, observed that a name recently
inscribed was that of an individual whom his proposer had always
denounced as a regular club bore.

“Why ever did you put him down?” asked the astonished member. “I thought
you particularly disliked him.”

“Certainly I do,” was the reply; “and as, above all things, I wish to
prevent his getting in here, I thought the best way of insuring his
being pilled would be to propose him myself, being well aware that
anyone whom I may support will have but a very slight chance of escaping
a good many black balls.”

Committee-men are not infrequently placed in a very uncomfortable
position when asked by friends to give their support to doubtful
candidates. A man of the world, well known for his ingenuity, used to
get out of the difficulty by invariably replying: “My dear fellow, you
may rely on me to do the proper thing.”

With the vast increase of London clubs, an altogether different state of
affairs has arisen as regards the numbers of candidates waiting to come
up for election, and which in the majority of instances is far less
difficult than was formerly the case; few even of the old-established
clubs have been able to maintain their ancient exclusiveness.

The Athenæum, Turf, and Travellers’ are still, however, not at all easy
about electing members. The latter, founded about 1819, in its early
days attracted a good deal of notice from the fact that a candidate for
admission was required to have been 500 miles distant from London; and a
considerable sensation was once caused by the discovery that several
members, who had originally entered their names, had not travelled the
prescribed distance. An investigation was made, and the newspapers of
the day published lists of places a visit to which was a sufficient
qualification for membership of the Travellers’.

In former days, candidates sometimes had to wait for many years before
coming up for election. Owing, however, to various causes—of which the
chief was, perhaps, the great increase in the number of West End
clubs—this period now rarely exceeds two, or at most three, years. The
Bath Club is, I believe, an exception, because the facilities for
swimming and other exercises which this institution affords to its
members (drawn from both sexes) has caused a very large number of names
to be inscribed upon its books. In consequence of this, a candidate must
now expect a delay of several years before his name comes up for ballot.

At not a few old-established clubs a paucity of candidates has been
produced by past injudicious and indiscriminating pilling. Men thinking
of joining the club became aware of the fate which might befall them,
and so in time the reputation of more than one club for extreme
exclusiveness has led from dire necessity to the other extreme of
letting in almost anyone willing to join.

Club committees occasionally contain a member who has an innate tendency
to blackball everybody; in such cases a “pill” is always found in the
box, even when the candidate is perfectly eligible. An individual of
this sort was once considerably rebuffed. During an election it was
found that the minimum quorum of committee-men was not present, for they
were one short. To rectify matters, a notorious blackballer was hunted
up at his rooms, and told that an election was in progress. He rushed
back to the club, and at once voted, in most cases putting in a black
ball, according to his wont; but as his was the only adverse vote, the
rules having been observed, all candidates were elected. At the Athenæum
as many as ninety-three black balls were once allotted to an unpopular
candidate. But the greatest instance of blackballing probably ever known
took place some years ago at a ladies’ club, where one candidate
received three more black balls than the number of members present—a
case of excessive zeal indeed!

At one West End club, where the election of members was conducted in a
somewhat peculiar manner, a curious incident once happened.

Here the election was by the members in general, and not by a committee,
and the ballot was held in a room on the left of the entrance hall. At
one time it used to be a regular custom for the friends of a candidate
to hang about the door of this room canvassing in his favour, whilst, if
possible, detaining anyone likely to insert a black ball, by all
possible means. During a certain election, a visitor, coming to call
upon a friend at his club, found himself, on passing its portals, almost
forcibly bustled into this room, and eventually, thoroughly confused,
made to vote for an individual who would otherwise not have gained
admission to the club.

While, as a rule, the resignation of a member or several members on
account of their candidates being rejected, or for some other reason,
does not affect the prosperity of a club, there have been instances of
serious injury being inflicted upon a club’s prestige by the defection
of some very influential member. Many years ago the prosperity of
White’s was seriously affected by the displeasure shown by the late King
at the continuance of some old-fashioned and absurd regulations as to
smoking; and Boodle’s, now in such a flourishing condition, was terribly
damaged at one time when the late Duke of Beaufort withdrew his name.
The blackballing of candidates submitted for election by prominent
members occasionally leads to much acrimonious comment, and sometimes
causes a number of resignations.

Election or non-election to a club depends in some cases upon many
different causes, and a young man about whom nothing is known at all
often stands a better chance than a distinguished individual who during
his life has made enemies. Occasionally rejection is a compliment.

The resignation of members disappointed at the failure of their
candidate is unreasonable, for a club is in reality a republic, where
everyone is equal, and no one has any right to level a pistol at the
heads of his fellow-members, or of his committee, whilst saying: “Vote
for my candidate, or I will leave the club.” Such an act is but a
revolutionary protest against the equality of club-life. If an
influential or popular member supports some candidate, the latter has
the advantage of the influence of his support, but there the preference
should end. The question really is not whether a particular candidate
deserves or does not deserve to be admitted, but whether the club
chooses to elect him, and anything beyond this is a breach of those
principles which conduce to the prosperity of clubland.

The best method of filling up vacancies in the membership of a club
would really be selection rather than election, and there is no valid
reason why such a method of recruiting the membership of clubs should
not generally prevail. Were such a reasonable system in vogue, no one
would be submitted to the barbarous mortification of being rejected. As
things are now, anyone who has obtained a reputation is bound to make
enemies, and the more widely he is known, the more enemies he is certain
to have. Indeed, a prominent individual has often a very bad chance of
being elected under the system generally observed, an absurdity
emphasized by the fact that the late Mr. Gladstone was once rejected for
the club at Biarritz.

Anyone whose life has been passed amidst publicity must have offended
many. Some hate him merely because they happen never to have met him,
and others because they have done so. Others hate him because their
friends do, and others, again, disapprove of him merely on political
grounds. It is, indeed, impossible to enumerate the variety of motives
which cause people to hate each other with reason, and even without
reason. This being so, one may well doubt the expediency of compelling
men to undergo the disgrace of being rejected for a club, according to
the system which at present prevails. As matters stand now, a
candidate’s rejection implies that he is unfit to be a member; but in
reality, in a large number of cases, it simply means that he is of
sufficient importance to have attracted the ill-will, envy, or dislike
of a number of people, many of whom know him only by repute.

Another desirable reform, though one which is unlikely ever to be
carried out, would consist in investing committees or members with the
power of ejection as well as election. There would be little hardship in
a rule conferring the right of exclusion in cases of general
unpopularity, and this probably would seldom have to be exercised, as
the very fact of its existence would act as a check.

Within recent years a good many club committees have shown a tendency in
the direction of the multiplication of rules.

The old aristocratic clubs of the past troubled themselves little with
regulations and restrictions. In fact, they were excessively lenient.
With the gradual incursion of the commercial class into West End life,
however, a very different state of affairs has been brought about.

All over Europe, and especially in England, the _bourgeoisie_ adore
regulating somebody or something, and the tendency remains long after
members of this class have entered what are known as fashionable
circles, and managed to obtain a hold upon the committees of exclusive
clubs. In such a position, not a few of them have added largely to the
number of rules, some of which in certain clubs are multiplied to the
point of absolute absurdity.

Occasionally edicts of this kind possess a certain unconscious humour,
as is well exemplified in a by-law, still amongst the rules of a certain
club, which sets forth that “Members smoking pipes may not sit or stand
in the windows.”

Whether legally such an edict can be enforced would seem to be very
doubtful. It is certainly within the right of a committee to prohibit
pipe-smoking altogether, and such a regulation prevails in several
clubs; in many more it is an unwritten law. In rooms, however, in which
pipe-smoking is allowed, it is certainly not within the powers of a
committee to define exactly where members shall station themselves
whilst “blowing their cloud.” As a matter of fact, committee-men not
infrequently fall into the error of thinking that a club committee can
issue any decrees it likes. Such, however, is very far from being the
case, and the reports of various lawsuits between individual members and
certain committees will show that in the majority of instances the
latter have not proved victorious.

If, for instance, the subscription of a club be raised, members who
joined before the alteration cannot be compelled to pay more than their
original subscription. The great increase in club rules and regulations
has sometimes produced confusion as to what members may or may not do—a
state of affairs which was non-existent when the older West End clubs
were founded.

The nature of the regulations then in vogue may be realized from an
inspection of a number of interesting volumes, dating back to 1737,
still preserved at White’s, in which are inscribed the names of members
of the old and new clubs, together with the few rules in force in the
eighteenth century.

The books of rules issued in the middle of the last century contain very
much the same provisions. The earlier books are entirely in manuscript,
some of them elaborately bound; whilst those issued about 1840, though
smaller, are beautifully printed, and they still retain a certain air of
old-world luxury. The register of members kept by the proprietor of
White’s about seventy years ago much resembles one of those huge
gilt-edged tomes which were in use for registering various matters
connected with the Court of Versailles before the French Revolution. The
calligraphy in this volume and in some of the earlier club lists is
remarkable for its graceful and ornate character. Looking at them, one
realizes what an exclusive coterie frequented the old club-house in the
days when the aristocracy of England ruled supreme.

West End club committees of old days were extremely conciliatory
regarding any minor breach of club law, in many cases straining a point
to overlook delinquencies which were not directly injurious to the best
interests of the members generally. Considerable laxity existed as to
debts incurred in a club, coffee-room accounts extending into three
figures being common; some of these were liquidated only at long
intervals. Expelling, or even threatening to expel, a member was
considered a step of extreme gravity, and one to be avoided by all
possible means.

During the last twenty-five years, however, club-life, like everything
else, has become “more strenuous,” and anyone who habitually breaks the
rules is soon made to realize that he must either alter his ways or go.

Committee-men, it should be added, whether good, bad, or indifferent,
generally have a rather difficult task, for they are certain to arouse
the opposition of some professional grumbler or other who is ever ready
to blame. As a matter of fact, very often the best-meant schemes are the
most unpopular, and there is a peculiar type of committee-man who often
incurs the hostility of members on account of his merits. This is the
individual who, possessed of an especial gift for management, takes the
direction of a club into his own hands, and, becoming practically an
autocrat, resents interference with his policy, which, it may be added,
is not infrequently a sound one, for this type of man has generally made
club management his hobby. Nevertheless, let him do as well as possible,
sooner or later his rule will become unpopular, members disliking the
idea of a one-man domination.

It cannot be said that the majority of house committees are in any way
zealous about carrying out their functions. Where club cooking and its
material are above all criticism, the credit generally lies with the
efficient secretary, who in reality runs most clubs.

Some clubs have numberless sub-committees to deal with different details
of management—wine committee, cigar committee, and goodness knows what
else. It is, however, doubtful whether the united efforts of all the
committee-men and sub-committee-men in the world are as successful as
those of one dominating individual, who knows exactly what the needs of
a club really are, and gets them satisfied. On the whole, the cooking
and food in West End clubs is very fair, and in many cases, if some
further degree of attention were devoted to minor details, would be
above criticism.

A deplorable tendency, however, is the neglect of that old-fashioned
English cookery which in perfection is the delight of true
gastronomists.

What is wanted in clubs is the very best material properly served and
cooked. Alas! it is to be feared that, with the exception of a very few
clubs, the best of everything now goes to the palatial restaurants, who
absolutely will not purchase the indifferent meat, game, and vegetables
which are foisted upon more easy-going customers.

The craze for elaborate cooking in clubs would appear to have been
originated by George IV when Prince Regent. During dinner one evening at
Carlton House, the conversation chancing to turn upon club dinners, Sir
Thomas Stepney described them as being intensely dull, owing to their
eternal joints, beefsteaks, or boiled fowl with oyster sauce, followed
by an apple tart. Upon this the Prince, who was much interested, sent
for Watier, his own chef, and invited him then and there to take a house
and organize a dinner club. Accordingly a club was started at 81
Piccadilly, by Watier; Madison, the Prince’s page, being manager; and
Labourier, one of the cooks from the royal kitchen, chef. It was soon
joined by the principal dandies, including Beau Brummell, and became the
scene of much high play, chiefly at macao.

Brummell one day, when he had lost a large sum, called to the waiter:
“Bring me a flat candlestick and a pistol”; upon which another member,
Mr. Hythe, reputed as mad as a hatter, produced a couple of loaded
pistols from his pocket, which he placed on the table, coolly saying:
“Mr. Brummell, if you wish to put an end to your existence, I am
extremely happy to offer you the means without troubling the waiter.”
During another evening’s play, Raikes began to rally Jack Bouverie,
brother of Lord Heytesbury, on his bad luck, and the latter took it in
such bad part that he threw his play-bowl full of counters at Raikes’s
head. A great row ensued. Watier’s closed about 1819, many of its
leading members being then utterly ruined. After this the club-house was
run by a set of blacklegs as a common gaming-house, which eventually was
taken over by Crockford, who, in partnership with a man named Taylor,
set up a very successful hazard bank.

Though Watier’s had but a short existence, it lasted long enough to give
men about town a taste for elaborate cooking, and no doubt contributed
to send many good old English dishes out of fashion.

Owing to the large staff of servants maintained in most clubs, life is
rendered very easy for the members, though a certain number are ever
complaining of inattention on the part of the servants. These, as a
matter of fact, are kept more or less in perpetual motion. On the
whole, they are a most civil class of men, and for this reason
thoroughly deserve the Christmas subscription which serves as a sort
of gigantic, but quite justifiable, tip. This is a comparatively new
institution. It must be realized that club servants are not overpaid,
and when upon duty their work is particularly severe. The electric
bells never cease ringing until the club closes; every member expects
his wants to command immediate attention, and not a few are capricious
and exacting. In some of the big clubs the total of the contributions
is considerable—considerably over £500. This seems large, but, as
there are over 1,000 members in several clubs, such a sum is only what
might be expected.

Club servants are an especial class apart, and some waiters change
constantly from club to club. This, of course, is not the case at
certain of these institutions, such as the Junior Carlton, which, having
a servants’ pension fund, attracts the very best class. In all clubs,
however, there are generally two or three old and popular servants who
are looked upon as regular features of the place.

In the past, certain old retainers often became privileged characters,
and presumed upon their position. A waiter named Samuel Spring, having
on one occasion to write to George IV, when the latter was Prince of
Wales, commenced his letter as follows: “Sam, the waiter at the
Cocoa-tree, presents his compliments to the Prince of Wales,” etc. His
Royal Highness next day saw Sam, and, after noticing the receiving of
his note and the freedom of the style, said: “Sam, this may be very well
between you and me, but it will not do with the Norfolks and Arundels.”

The most important servant in a club is, of course, the hall-porter. To
fill this post to perfection, very exceptional qualities are required.

A hall-porter, in his capacity as a trusted and confidential club
servant, is acquainted with many delicate matters, and for this reason
should be a man of tact; he must, besides, discriminate between those
visitors a member may wish to see and those to whom the answer “Out of
town” must be given, in tones which admit of no further inquiry. He must
ever be on guard, carefully scanning every stranger who passes the club
portals, and, like royalty, should possess an unerring and inexhaustible
memory for faces. He must, of course, know every member by sight, and
never be obliged to ask his name, even when long absence abroad may have
altered his appearance, and rendered him almost unrecognizable to
acquaintances of other days. A good hall-porter, in short, should know
everything and everybody.

A Scotch hall-porter—Shand, of the Turf Club—was a great character in
his way. Somewhat blunt and bluff by nature, he was very outspoken about
anything which did not meet with his approval, and at times would hazard
caustic remarks as to various phases of the club-life. Shand was
possessed of considerable shrewdness and common-sense, and it was
sometimes said that in certain matters his advice was better than that
of any two first-class lawyers together. Shand had his likes and
dislikes amongst members. This he made little attempt to conceal, his
manner varying in a marked degree. He was no respecter of persons, but
on account of his shrewdness and many sterling qualities was allowed
much latitude.

On one occasion a member, before leaving for the country, instructed
Shand to forward a packet of photographs when it should arrive. The
gentleman was away two months, but no photographs were sent to him. On
his return to town he went to the Turf, where, much to his astonishment,
he was handed a proof photograph which had, he found, arrived six weeks
before. Shand was interrogated as to his reasons for not obeying
instructions. “You said photographs,” replied he. “Seeing there was only
one, and knowing you were away with your wife, I was not going to be
such a fool as to send it.”

Many of the old school of club porters rather despised confirmed
bachelors who yielded to the allurements of matrimony. “No, sir,” said
one of these to an inquirer, “Mr. —— don’t come here now as he used;
since his marriage his habits ain’t reg’lar.”

Club porters are very cognizant of the peculiar ways of members, and
quick to notice anything out of harmony with the general tenor of
club-life. The porter at a club where most of the members were so old
and infirm that quantities of crutches were left in the hall was
genuinely shocked to see a new member going quickly upstairs.

Failure to recognize faces—which, in justice to club porters it should
be said, is in their case comparatively rare—has on occasion led to
serious consequences.

The hall-porter of a certain great club, quartered upon another during
the autumnal period of renovation, was one day asked by a member who
strode hurriedly into the club, “Are there any letters for Mr. X.?”
giving a name in the club list. The porter looked hard at the gentleman,
for he could not positively convince himself for the moment that he knew
his face as one of the 1,500 members of the club. His gaze, however, was
met unflinchingly, and the new arrival’s air and appearance generally
giving no cause for suspicion, the porter, having eventually concluded
that this must be a member who had been out of England for some time,
handed over the letters, with which the gentleman retired into the inner
recesses of the club.

Half an hour or so later a jeweller arrived and asked for Mr. X., to
whom he handed over a valuable piece of jewellery worth several hundreds
of pounds, which, he told the hall-porter on leaving, this gentleman (as
to whose social position and solvency there could be no question) had
ordered two days ago by letter.

In due course Mr. X., after giving instructions that no letters were to
be forwarded, departed, taking the piece of jewellery with him.

What was the hall-porter’s horror the next morning to find himself
confronted by another, and this time a real, Mr. X., who, on being told
the story of his double, at once dashed off to Scotland Yard. The first
Mr. X., it appeared, was an adroit swindler, who having by some means
discovered that the real Mr. X., an exceedingly wealthy man, had ordered
a jeweller to meet him at the club with a recent purchase, sent a
telegram from the latter saying that the setting would not be completed
till the next day, and had then gone to the club and personated this
member, who he knew only used it upon rare occasions.

Another more impudent fraud was the case of a discharged club waiter,
who, disguising himself in a pair of blue spectacles, actually walked
into the club-house from which he had been dismissed two days before,
and, giving a well-known member’s name, cashed a cheque. He victimized
two other clubs in the same manner, and was eventually detected at a
fourth.

One of the smaller West End clubs was formerly renowned for its
mechanical hall-porter, an individual who had but an arm and a leg, and
moved, it was said, entirely by machinery, the creaking of which, people
declared, could be heard when he handed out letters.

A word here as to the porters’ boxes which now exist in every club. In
former days very few, if any, of these institutions contained such a
convenience. The porter used to sit in a chair in the hall, with a rack
containing the members’ letters behind him. He played much the same part
as the head-footman who opens the door at a private house. As late as
the eighties of the last century there was no porter’s box at White’s,
and the same state of affairs prevailed at Boodle’s up to quite recent
years. In former days, when life was more simple, there was little
necessity for the complicated arrangements of bells, telephones, and
speaking-tubes, which are essential to the life of a modern club.
Members then did not dash in and out, and clubland was distinguished by
its air of grave solemnity and calm.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER VII

           LATE SITTINGS—FINES—CARDS—CHARACTERS—SUPPER CLUBS


Amongst the changes in club-life in London, perhaps the most striking is
the almost total cessation of the late sittings in which members
formerly indulged. Various causes have contributed to make people in the
West End of London keep earlier hours, of which the most notable is that
the number of unoccupied men, who once formed a large proportion of
those living in what is called the fashionable part of the town, has
shrunk to a very small number, if it has not altogether ceased to exist.
In other days there were plenty of young bachelors with something under
a thousand a year who spent their life in complete idleness. A club was
the pivot of their existence, and here they would often sit till the
small-hours of the morning.

Another cause of early hours is the great popularity of motoring and
golf, the widespread indulgence in which does anything but promote a
love of sitting up late.

At the time when a great number of people had nothing to do all day, not
a few regarded the night as being the most amusing part of their
existence, when they could forgather with choice spirits and sit talking
one against the other, as the old phrase had it, “till all was blue.”

As illustrating the lateness of the hours formerly kept by members of
some West End clubs, a story used to be told about a staid country
member who, arriving at one of these institutions, having travelled by a
night train, went up to the coffee-room and began to order breakfast,
upon which he was told, by a sleepy waiter, that no suppers were served
after 6 a.m.

One of the latest sitters was Theodore Hook, so renowned for spontaneous
wit. He was very proud of a peculiar receipt of his own for the
prevention of exposure to the evil effects of night air. “I was once
very ill,” said he, “and my doctor gave me particular orders not to
expose myself to it; so I come up (from Fulham) every day to
Crockford’s, or some other place, to dinner, ever since which I have
made it a rule on no account to go home again till about four or five
o’clock in the morning.”

Those were the days when the closing hours of a number of West End clubs
were much later than is at present the case. Now there are seldom many
members to be found in a club-house after one, and fines have become
rare. Up to about fifteen or twenty years ago, considerable laxity
prevailed as to enforcing these penalties which are exacted for sitting
up after a certain hour, but the introduction of more business-like
habits into West End life has put an end to such a state of affairs.
Late sittings at clubs were, of course, in the vast majority of
instances, connected with card-playing; and when this pastime was more
prevalent than is now the case, some confirmed lovers of whist, and
later of bridge, occasionally sat very late indeed.

Whist is now practically an obsolete game, and it is curious to recall
that the introduction of short whist was once considered a great
innovation. “Major A.,” the author of “Short Whist,” a book which was
famous in the middle of the last century, gives the following account
of its origin: “This revolution was occasioned by a worthy Welsh
Baronet preferring his lobster for supper hot. Four first-rate
whist-players—consequently four great men—adjourned from the House of
Commons to Brooks’s, and proposed a rubber while the cook was busy.
‘The lobster must be hot,’ said the Baronet. ‘A rubber may last an
hour,’ said another, ‘and the lobster may be cold again or spoiled
before we finish.’ ‘It is too long,’ said a third. ‘Let us cut it
shorter,’ said the fourth. Carried _nem. con._ Down they sat, and
found it very lively to win or lose so much quicker. Besides
furnishing conversation for supper, the thing was new—they were
legislators, and had a fine opportunity to exercise their calling.”

Another version was supplied by James Clay, who was one of the principal
authorities on whist in his day. His account is as follows:

“Some eighty years back, Lord Peterborough having one night lost a large
sum of money, the friends with whom he was playing proposed to make the
game five points instead of ten, in order to give the loser a chance, at
a quicker game, of recovering his loss. The late Mr. Hoare of Bath, a
very good whist-player, and without a superior at piquet, was one of
this party, and used frequently to tell this story.”

Whatever the origin of short whist may have been, the controversy
between the advocates of long whist and those who supported the new game
was a bitter struggle. Innovators are always hated, and have their
characters blackened by those who have grown too old to care for the
new, or those who are too unintelligent to do so. The clergy to a man
were for long whist.

The laws of whist were first codified in England at the instance of Mr.
Baldwin. The Turf Club in 1863 was called the Arlington. The matter was
suggested to the committee of the Arlington, and a number of members
were appointed to investigate matters and compile a code. These were:
George Bentinck, M.P. for West Norfolk; John Bushe, son of the Chief
Justice of “Patronage” fame; J. Clay, M.P., chairman; Charles C.
Grenville; Sir Rainald Knightley, M.P.; H. B. Mayne, G. Payne, and
Colonel Ripon. When completed, the code was submitted to the Portland
Club, and a committee of this the chief whist club of the country
considered its contents. This committee consisted of H. D. Jones,
chairman, the father of the late “Cavendish,” who died in 1899; Charles
Adams, W. F. Baring, H. Fitzroy, Samuel Petrie, H. M. Riddell, and R.
Wheble. It was on April 30, 1864, that the code was officially
sanctioned—a red-letter day in the annals of whist.

The triumph of bridge over whist is a matter of recent social history
which will be dealt with later on.

The greatest breach of regulations ever committed was probably that
which occurred in a well-known West End club some thirteen or fourteen
years ago, when two members sat through the whole night at cards, and
became so absorbed in their game that they were still sitting there at
the re-opening at nine the next morning. Notwithstanding the arrival of
a number of outraged members, they continued playing till one, when,
having reluctantly risen from the card-table, they walked out into the
sunlight, handing in their resignations as they left. As a matter of
fact, the stakes played for were comparatively moderate, and the
differences at the close of the séance were consequently small. Both
men, it should be added, were confirmed sitters-up, and the abnormal
hours kept by them on several previous occasions had called forth
remonstrances from the committee. At the majority of London clubs, fines
are inflicted on those sitting up after the hours of one-thirty or two,
though in some cases they begin earlier or later. In such club-houses as
are not definitely closed at two-thirty or three, the fines gradually
rise till the hour of five or six o’clock is reached, when any further
sojourn in the club-house is punished by expulsion.

The amount to be paid for remaining in certain clubs till the actual
time of closing is considerable; nevertheless there have been instances
of members remaining to the very last minute who were not card-players,
and merely sat up through indifference or thoughtlessness.

The present writer remembers one member who actually had to pay a fine
of £17 for sitting all alone in a club till the doors were closed. This
gentleman had a perfect mania for not going to bed, and his habit of
keeping the whole club-house going, long after the other members were in
bed, eventually caused a complete readjustment of the scale of fines and
the adoption of an earlier hour for closing. As a matter of fact, though
he paid the heavy fines with perfect complacency, the sums received were
not sufficient to cover the expenses of lighting, servants, and the
like, for the whole establishment, of course, had to be kept going till
it was his pleasure to depart.

In old days, quite a number of club-men would habitually turn night into
day; but this is no longer the case, and the few members who still
adhere to the habits of another age are generally regarded with little
favour by committees. Several clubs, as a matter of fact, have altered
their hours entirely to prevent the club-house from being kept open
solely for the benefit of one or two members.

Another complaint against late sitters is that the club servants, in
consequence of being obliged to keep later hours, are unfitted for their
work; but there is really no particular reason why this should be the
case, as a different staff comes on duty towards the evening, the
members of which, at several clubs, are allotted a certain proportion of
any fines.

The latest club of all used formerly to be the Garrick, where, in the
days when the late Sir Henry Irving, Mr. Toole, and others, came to
supper in the small dining-room, very late or rather very early hours
indeed were kept. Within the last few years, late sittings have ceased
to be the order of the day except on certain occasions, and new rules
have been made, the general tendency of which is to encourage a
comparatively early retirement to bed. An exception, however, is made in
favour of Saturday night, the traditional evening for suppers at the
Garrick.

One of the latest clubs in London used to be the St. James’, founded
more than forty years ago by the late Marquis d’Azeglio and others. One
of the objects for which this club was formed was to provide a
meeting-place for secretaries and attachés after balls and parties, and
for this reason no fine at all was inflicted before 4 p.m. It may also
be added that in former years such fines as did exist were not very
rigorously enforced. Quite a different state of affairs, however, now
prevails, the whole scale of fines having been readjusted some years
ago, owing to which—and other causes—late sittings are now things of the
past.

The Beefsteak Club, like the Garrick, once contained quite a number of
members who had a great disinclination to go to bed, and who lingered
late over the pleasant talk of the supper-table. Here also the spirit of
the age has effected a change, for practically all the old school of
Beefsteakers, of which that most delightful of men, the late Joseph
Knight, was such a brilliant example, are gone, and the hours kept are
now very reasonable.

The Turf Club, which used formerly to be full of people after the
theatres were closed, is now somewhat deserted at night, and the same
state of affairs prevails at practically all the West End clubs.

The late hours once kept by many club-men were in a great measure the
cause of the dislike with which a number of old-fashioned, strait-laced
people used to regard London clubs, which, as has already been said,
were denounced as pernicious resorts where drinking and gaming were by
no means unknown. To-day such accusations can no longer with any justice
be sustained.

In France, however, the state of affairs as regards gaming, at least, is
very different, for, owing to the heavy tax levied by Government upon
club funds, no institution of the nature of a club can be prosperously
conducted without some amount of gambling. Indeed, most French clubs of
any social standing derive a considerable portion of their income from
card-money, and not a few permit baccarat, the profits of which, drawn
from the Cagnotte, bring in a large sum of money to the club funds. In
England, however, except in a few exceptional cases—Crockford’s, for
instance—no club has ever existed for the avowed purpose of play. To
begin with, public opinion has always viewed this pastime (which so
often degenerates into a vice) with extremely unfavourable eyes, and no
one of any position has cared to be seen openly risking large sums of
money upon the turn of a card. In addition to this, any protracted
continuance of high play in a club has always been reprobated by a large
majority of members as being likely to produce a scandal—and, as a
matter of fact, a scandal has almost invariably followed in the wake of
high play.

The French, many of whom set aside a certain amount of money to be used
for play—a _bourse du jeu_, as it is called—are well aware of the danger
of losing their heads at cards; but the vast majority of Englishmen are
soon made nervous and excited when once they have been caught by the
fascination of play. For this reason—or some other—a high game never
goes on very long without the occurrence of a catastrophe, for sooner or
later someone will lose a far larger sum of money than he can either
afford or pay. The generality of club members limit their gambling to a
mild game of bridge, and there is very little play at anything else now.
Some twenty years ago, however, there was a slight epidemic of the
gaming fever in the West End of London, and quite a number of so-called
“clubs,” the only object of which was high play, were started, mostly by
shrewd veterans of the sporting world, some of whom remembered the days
when hazard had extracted such vast sums from the pockets of careless
Corinthians, and when wily Crockford conducted his great Temple of
Chance in St. James’s Street. Such clubs were, of course, furnished with
a committee and an elaborate set of rules, the most respected of which
were those relating to the fines. These, after a certain hour, brought
much grist to the proprietors’ mills. Such clubs were in reality little
but miniature casinos, and the main, if not the sole, qualification for
membership lay in being possessed of ample funds and a tendency to part
with them easily. The chief of these institutions were situated off
Piccadilly and St. James’s Street, about which the spirit of that
reckless speculation which raged in this neighbourhood so fiercely in
the eighteenth century has always had a tendency to linger.

Baccarat was the game played at these haunts, and, though everything was
quite fairly conducted, the loss of large sums by well-known young men
about town eventually attracted considerable comment, and before very
long the Park Club was raided by the police, upon which occasion a high
legal luminary, it is said, was with the greatest difficulty smuggled
out of the place. A celebrated trial, at the end of which baccarat was
finally ruled to be an illegal game, resulted in the closing of this
club. A somewhat similar institution, the Field Club, rose on its ashes,
but this also was eventually raided and put an end to. Since that time
one or two small clubs have been formed by a certain number of people
desirous of playing bridge or poker for high stakes, but all of them
have had a brief existence. The clubs just mentioned, it should be
added, were quite different from the gaming clubs of the past, the
members being rich men well able to take care of themselves, and the
only reason for their cessation was that, as the membership was in every
case very limited, they got tired of playing at the game of dog eat dog.

Sixty years ago, and later, there was a good deal of high play in London
clubs. During the action for libel brought by Lord de Ros, when he had
been accused of cheating at Graham’s, one witness admitted that in the
course of fifteen years he had won £35,000, chiefly at whist; another
said that his winnings averaged £1,600 a year. He generally played from
three to five hours daily before dinner, and did not deny often having
played all night.

Graham’s, 87 St. James’s Street, was at that time the headquarters of
whist, and here it was said Lord Henry Bentinck invented the “Blue
Peter,” or call for trumps.

Here Lieutenant-Colonel Aubrey, who declared that, next to winning,
losing was the greatest pleasure in the world, is supposed once to have
lost £35,000.

Bridge is said to have been first played in London at the Portland in
the autumn of 1894, when it was introduced by Lord Brougham.

He was, it is said, playing whist, and, as he dealt the last card,
neglected to turn it face upwards. By way of apology he then said: “I’m
sorry, but I thought I was playing bridge;” and by way of explanation he
gave a brief description of the new game, which so attracted his
fellow-members that it soon took the place of whist.

Bridge, however, had been played long before this in Eastern Europe, and
even in Persia, where the present writer perfectly remembers it as a
popular game as far back as 1888.

The members of a colony of Greeks, indeed, are said to have played a
sort of bridge in Manchester eighteen years before this, though the
value of no trumps and of four aces was rather less than is now the
case.

The headquarters of bridge is the Portland Club, now located at the
corner of St. James’s Square. It moved here from Stratford Place, its
old original home having been in Bloomsbury Square. For everything
connected with bridge, as it was formerly for whist, the Portland is the
acknowledged authority as the arbiter of disputes and for the
promulgation of rules. There are about three hundred members of this
club, which admits guests to dine, after which they may play in a small
card-room specially reserved for their use.

Another card-playing club, which, however, admits no strangers, is the
Baldwin, in Pall Mall East, which opens at two o’clock in the afternoon.
The stakes here are very small.

Besides these admirably-conducted institutions, as Theodore Hook wrote,
there are several


 “Clubs for men upon the turf (I wonder they aren’t under it);
  Clubs where the winning ways of sharper folks pervert the use of
     clubs,
   Where _knaves_ will make subscribers cry,
   ‘Egad! this is the _deuce_ of clubs.’”


The latter term certainly applied to Crockford’s, which was flourishing
when the lines in question were written. Here the wily proprietor
neglected nothing to attract men of fashion of that day, most of whose
money eventually drifted into his pockets.

Well knowing the value of a first-class cuisine, he provided every sort
of culinary luxury, and took care that the suppers should be so
excellent as to make his club the resort of all sorts of men about town,
who flocked in about midnight from White’s, Brooks’s, and the Opera, to
titillate their palates and try their luck at the hazard-table
afterwards. Many who began cautiously, and risked but little, by degrees
acquired a taste for the excitement of play, and ended by staking large
sums, which they generally lost. Some few only were lucky; a certain
young blood, for instance, who one night won the price of his “troop” in
the Life Guards, purchased it, and never touched a dice-box again.

If, however, people were more or less sure to lose their money at
Crockford’s, they were equally certain of getting admirable food at a
quite nominal price, and for this reason many men of small means had
little reason to complain of the great gambling institution in St.
James’s Street.

As was once wittily said, a certain text of Scripture exactly applied to
the proprietor. This was: “He hath filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich he hath sent empty away.”

Benjamin Crockford had begun life as a fishmonger near Temple Bar, but,
being of a sporting character, was accustomed to stake a few shillings
nightly at a low gaming-house kept by George Smith in King’s Place;
later, he was lucky in a turf transaction. His first venture as a
gaming-house proprietor was the purchase, for £100, of a fourth share in
a hell at No. 5, King Street. His partners here were men named Abbott,
Austin, and Holdsworth, and their operations were not above suspicion.
Afterwards Crockford, in partnership with two others, opened a French
hazard bank at 81 Piccadilly, and here again there was foul-play. The
bank cleared £200,000 in a very short time; false dice were found on the
premises and exhibited in a shop window in Bond Street for some days,
and Crockford was sued by numbers of his victims, but took care to
compromise every action before it had entered upon such an acute stage
as to entail publicity.

Crockford’s patrons were all men of rank and breeding, the utmost
decorum was observed, and society at the club was of the most pleasant
and fashionable character. There was no smoking-room, and in the summer
evenings the habitués of Crockford’s used to stand outside in the porch,
with their cigars, drinking champagne and seltzer, and looking at the
people going home from parties or the Opera. White’s, except in the
afternoons, was deserted, members naturally going across the way, where
there was a first-rate supper with wine of unexceptionable quality
provided free of cost.

Crockford was well repaid for his liberality in these matters. By the
profits of the hazard-table he realized in the course of a few years the
enormous sum of £1,200,000.

Though the days when a certain number of London clubs were merely
gaming-houses in disguise have long gone, there still exist club-men
whose principal interest is the turf, and these not infrequently are
much interested in the tape, around which they congregate when any
important race is being run, the while mysterious murmurings and vague
vaticinations prevail. Such members are generally young; with the
increase of years they become, for the most part, profoundly indifferent
to the expensive question of first, second, or third. A few ardent
enthusiasts, however, retain their taste for this form of speculation,
in spite of the long and inevitable series of disappointments which are
the lot of the vast majority of starting-price backers. Rushing wildly
into the club, they fly at once to the tape, generally dashing off to
the telephone to put more money into some bookmaker’s pocket.

The cricket enthusiast is another great patron of the tape, by which he
is either thoroughly depressed or rendered radiant, according to the
comparative failure or success of his favourite county. He is generally
a very kindly man, of innocent tastes and habits, which speaks well for
the humanizing influence of Lord’s and the Oval.

Two clubs which are much frequented by the best class of sporting men
are the comparatively old-established Raleigh (founded in 1858), in
Regent Street, and the newer Badminton (founded in 1876), in Piccadilly,
both of them well-managed institutions.

The Raleigh, which has always enjoyed a reputation for its cooking, in
its earlier days was the scene of many an amusing prank played by
younger members. All this, however, has long been a thing of the past.

A striking change in club-life is the vastly decreased consumption of
alcohol. In former days, quite a number of members used every day to
imbibe a considerable quantity of pernicious brandy and soda, the excess
of which, without doubt, sent so many of the last generation to a
premature grave. I do not by any means wish to imply that such men
became intoxicated. Thirty or forty years ago, the drinking habits, so
prevalent at the beginning of the last century, had already fallen into
great disrepute, but brandy and soda was, for some unknown reason,
considered a fairly harmless drink, and many club-men imbibed small
quantities of it all the day through without in any way showing the
slightest effect. Nevertheless, the continuous stream of alcohol
insidiously ruined many a fine constitution. Sensible men of the present
age study their health far more carefully, and the amount of what are
known as “drinks” served daily in the best West End clubs is now very
small indeed. On the other hand, “teas,” which forty years ago were
little indulged in, are taken by almost everyone.

As late as the early seventies of the past century most clubs contained
a few members of decidedly bibulous habits. These were often by courtesy
known as the “Captain” or “Major,” military titles for which a short
term of service in the auxiliary forces had scarcely qualified them.
They were, however, often original characters, whose occasional
eccentricities deserved the good-humoured toleration with which they
were viewed.

To-day, however, a very different state of affairs prevails, and even
the slightest tendency to habitual excess is seriously resented; a
decided stigma, indeed, attaches to anyone even suspected of
intemperance, whilst any open demonstration of inebriety would certainly
call forth demands for drastic measures being applied to the member
indulging in such a breach of unwritten club law.

The great diminution of drinking amongst the more prosperous classes is
nowhere more strikingly shown than by the great decrease of club
receipts derived from the sale of wine and spirits. On the other hand,
the consumption of mineral waters and other non-alcoholic beverages has
largely increased.

Within the last two decades there has been a marked tendency in West End
clubland to relax the somewhat harsh restrictions formerly in force on
Sunday, which in England is so often a day of dulness and gloom, causing
one to wonder how Longfellow could ever have described it as “the golden
clasp which binds together the volume of the week.” At some clubs it is
still a very quiet day, no billiards or cards being played by members;
but in others “Sabbatarian strictness” has been relaxed. In one or two
clubs a sort of compromise exists, and members are permitted to play
billiards without the services of a marker.

Club customs have, on the whole, changed but little. Curiously enough,
in spite of the increase of democratic ways in most West End clubs, the
custom of sitting down to dinner in evening dress has tended to increase
rather than to diminish. At the same time it must be acknowledged that
the greatest freedom is permitted in matters of costume, whilst the
smart frock-coat, once so conspicuous in clubland, has practically
disappeared. Straw hats and deerstalkers abound on club hat-pegs, and
lounge suits are worn throughout the day till dinner; top-hats and black
coats have decreased in number.

Almost unlimited freedom now prevails as to choice of dress, and
sometimes, perhaps, this licence is carried too far.

In the autumn most members of London clubs become wanderers, their
houses being given over to painters and decorators, whilst they receive
the hospitality of other clubs. A few, amongst which are the National
Liberal and the Garrick, never close; and, indeed, the membership of the
former is too large for this club to be received by any other. The
painting and decorating in clubs which never leave their habitations is
done by easy stages, one or two rooms at a time being given over to the
workmen engaged upon the renovating process which London smoke renders
so necessary.

Whilst club-life, on the whole, has become less formal and ceremonious,
a certain number of old-established clubs still maintain a grave
solemnity of tone, and such institutions generally contain a
considerable number of “permanent officials”—the class which, whatever
party may nominally be in control, really runs the country.

These men, whose lives are passed at various Government Offices, in
course of time acquire a peculiar look and manner, so entirely different
from that of ordinary humanity that the careful observer and student of
the “permanent official” is irresistibly prompted to inquire whether he
can ever have been young? The cut of his clothes, his walk, his
mannerisms, and the stately slowness of his movements, all betoken a
life passed amidst Government forms, schedules, and official papers.
Everything he does is prompted by routine, even to the ordering of a
generally well-chosen and moderate dinner.

As he is perfectly aware of the fact that he belongs to the real ruling
caste of the land, the permanent official not unnaturally exudes the
dignity which he feels is necessary to his high position. One pictures
him in a tornado or an earthquake still speaking in the same measured
tones, and briefly asking (for he is generally a man of few words) who
is responsible?

The permanent official, when married, generally has a very presentable
wife, chosen no doubt, like his dinner, with a view to not upsetting the
even tenor of his daily round. It is, however, almost impossible to
believe that he has ever been in love. If he has, any amorous
communications penned by him must, one is sure, have been carefully
copied and docketed for future reference.

Many permanent officials—but not those of the Foreign Office, who are
generally agreeable men of the world—develop into mere automata,
radiating a sort of orderly gloom.

The majority live to a good age, in latter years evolving into an even
less vivacious type—the “retired permanent official”—very solemn and
silent, not infrequently pompous, speaking scarcely at all.

A foreigner of distinction, owing to his official position, had been
made an honorary member of a well-known London club. The number of
permanent officials included in its membership was such that the club
was a veritable Palace of Silence, and the foreigner, becoming depressed
by the pervading atmosphere of gloom, one day ventured to remark to an
acquaintance, a retired official of high rank: “You seem to have little
conversation here.” “Meet me to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock in the
smoking-room, and we will have a talk,” was the solemn reply. On the
morrow the foreigner duly repaired to the appointed place and met his
friend, who, settling himself upon a comfortable sofa, took out his
watch, looked at it, and said: “I am sorry I can only give you
twenty-five minutes.” For this space of time they talked, or rather the
foreigner did, for the other uttered little but an occasional word.
Precisely as the clock marked the appointed hour the latter rose, and,
somewhat wearily saying good-bye, walked out of the building. Judge of
the foreigner’s horror the next morning when, on opening his paper, he
read that Sir —— ——, his friend of the day before, had fallen down dead
in Pall Mall, stricken by cerebral collapse! The unwonted effort of the
previous day’s conversation had been too much for the poor man. For
years past he had been used to the almost unbroken silence of the club,
which with undeviating regularity he was wont to frequent. The
foreigner, who felt that he was practically guilty of homicide, declared
he would speak no more in English clubs, and would take good care to
warn his foreign friends against any similar murderous tactics should
they come to England.

In many clubs there is a mysterious member or two, about whom nothing
seems to be known. No one can say who he is, what locality gave him
birth, or what his available means of subsistence may be. He is the
child of mystery, nor does he ever attempt to raise the veil, except
when he vaguely alludes to “his people in the North”; but whether he
means the North of England or the North of London no one whom he honours
with his acquaintance is ever able to discover. Everything about such a
man is a mystery, including the circumstances which led to his election.

Whilst eccentricity, for the most part, takes the innocuous form of
avoidance of society, there have been people who have suffered from a
disquieting love of sociability. Such a one used to make a practice of
speaking to all his fellow-members, whether he knew them or not. One
day, however, finding himself seated opposite an old gentleman who was
reading a newspaper, this individual entirely failed to obtain any
answer at all to an incessant flow of talk, so, becoming angry, he at
last kicked up his foot and sent the paper flying into its astonished
reader’s face, the result being that the aggressor very shortly
afterwards retired from the club.

It is said that a little leaven leaveneth the whole lump, and it is
surprising how disagreeable one cantankerous man who uses his club can
make it to those around him. He is always coming upon the scene when not
wanted. If you go up to the library, you find him snoring on the sofa,
with the very book you have come in search of in his useless grasp. If
you dine accidentally at the club, your table is sure to be placed next
to his. Are you having a quiet chat with a friend, most assuredly will
this wretched being drop in and spoil the conversation. He is always
quarrelling with people, and asking you to support his complaints. Such
a man has no friends, and the list of his acquaintances is limited.

In past days old members were sometimes very severe in their comments
upon newly-elected young men of whose ways they did not approve. One of
the latter, just elected to a club, having somehow incurred the wrath of
a certain irascible character, to his amazement heard him saying: “What
an insupportable cub that fellow is! What on earth were the committee
doing to elect him! Why, I’d give him a pony not to belong now.” This
perturbed the new member, who left the club-house thinking what course
he ought to take, and, as luck would have it, met on the staircase a
member who bore the well-deserved reputation of being a thorough man of
the world. Stopping the latter, he told him of the insulting remark, and
inquired what he ought to do. “Do?” was the reply; “why, nothing at
present. After you’ve used the club for another month, you’ll probably
be offered a hundred!”

In more or less every club there are one or two solemn-looking members,
who are seldom known to speak to anyone, but spend their time in what
is, or looks like, deep study. Votaries of almost perpetual silence,
they are easily made to frown at the sound of conversation. The
favourite haunt of such as these is generally the library, which they
regard as their own domain, and where on no account must they be
disturbed.

One of this class, who in the more expansive days of his youth, twenty
years before, had had a great friend who, after leaving the University,
went out to live in the East, was one day, according to his usual wont,
reading in the library of his club, when, to his horror, he heard the
door briskly open. A robust figure, whose countenance seemed not
entirely unfamiliar, strode up to him, and, seizing his hand heartily,
shook it. “Well, old fellow,” said the intruder, “it’s many a long day
since we met. Now let’s hear what you have been doing all these years.”
Without saying a word, the ruffled student raised a warning finger, and
pointed at the placard of “Silence” on the mantelpiece.

“I was glad to see the man again,” said he afterwards; “but he had no
business to break one of our rules.”

Another kind of club-man is the irascible pedant, whose idiosyncrasies
make conversation almost impossible. He will address you; he will
lecture; he will instruct you; but he will not chat with
you—conversation with him is a monologue. He is to preach, you are to
listen. If you interrupt him, he will look at you as if sincerely pained
by your audacity; if you advance an opinion, he will promptly contradict
it; and even if you ask him a question upon a subject of which he knows
nothing, he will reply at enormous length.

It was a man of this kind who once described Niagara as a horrid place
where you couldn’t hear the sound of your own voice.

In former days many clubs included amongst their members a privileged
joker or two, to whom very great tolerance was extended. This type of
individual used to be particularly fond of exercising his propensities
at the expense of the most solemn and pompous of his fellow-members, on
whom he would play all sorts of childish tricks.

On one occasion, for instance, having got possession of an old
gentleman’s spectacles, a joker of this kind took out the glasses. When
the old man found them again, he was much concerned at not being able to
see, and exclaimed: “Why, I’ve lost my sight!” Thinking, however, that
the impediment to vision might be caused by the dirtiness of the
glasses, he then took them off to wipe them, but, not feeling anything,
became still more frightened, and cried out: “Why, what’s happened now?
I’ve lost my feeling, too!”

Some irrepressible jokers have paid for their love of fun by having to
resign their membership. One of them, whose escapades were notorious in
London twenty years ago, sitting half asleep in a certain Bohemian club,
became very much annoyed at a very red-headed waiter who kept buzzing
about his chair. The sight of the fiery locks was eventually too much
for this wild spirit, and, darting up and seizing the man, he emptied an
inkstand over his head before he could escape.

The result, of course, was expulsion from the club, besides which very
substantial compensation was rightly paid to the poor waiter, who
complained that he could not go about his work in a parti-coloured
condition, and it would take some time before the effects of the ink
disappeared.

Members who have developed undue eccentricity occasionally cause
uneasiness to their fellow-clubmen, for it is sometimes difficult
exactly to define the point where personal idiosyncrasies become
disquieting to others.

One individual, whom the writer recollects, used to enter a certain club
and call for all the back numbers which could be obtained of some weekly
paper, and then sit solemnly writing at a table surrounded by pile upon
pile of the periodical in question. After about an hour of this, he
would gather his papers together, and, striding up to the porter’s box,
would say: “Please inform the Prime Minister that, after due
consideration, I have decided that the Cabinet must resign. I will call
next Monday and leave word as to the composition of the new one.”

A very eccentric member of one club had a disquieting craze which caused
him to walk perpetually up and down stairs. The moment he came in of a
morning he started for the top floor, going upstairs with a preoccupied
air, as though he had serious business on hand. Arrived at the topmost
landing, he would strike his forehead with the absent-minded despair of
a short memory, then turn on his heel and run down again. This operation
he would repeat many times a day. The installation of a lift was said to
have been a sad blow to him; at first he regarded it with profound
distrust, until, with increasing years, he discovered its value, when he
became very objectionable to his fellow-members by his excessive use of
it.

Another original character who belonged to a well-known club used to
spend a considerable time every day contemplating himself in a huge
mirror, and bursting into explosive fits of laughter. During the whole
of this man’s membership he was supposed only to have once spoken to a
fellow-member, who, it should be added, was also rather eccentric.

A less misanthropic though highly unconventional club-man used to remain
in bed all day, getting up only about seven, when he would go to his
club to have dinner, which was really a breakfast. This habit, it was
said, had been considerably strengthened by reason of the fact that,
having once broken through it, and got up early in order to witness some
sporting event, he had on his return found himself minus his watch—a
loss which more than ever convinced him of the dangers of early rising.

Eccentric behaviour in a club once led to an amusing election incident.

A well-known character, who had sat for a certain borough for years, got
into considerable trouble at his club—a very exclusive one—owing to
having one wet day taken off his boots in the smoking-room, and sat
warming his stockinged feet before the fire. Complaints were made to the
committee, the members of which, highly indignant, at first proposed to
turn the offender out. Eventually he escaped that extreme indignity,
though he was severely reprimanded.

Shortly after this the culprit, owing to a General Election, found
himself obliged to defend his seat against an exceedingly active Radical
opponent possessed of much caustic wit.

At this time hustings still existed, and candidates exchanged raillery,
amounting occasionally to abuse.

Both candidates happened to have foreign names, and both entreated the
electors to give their votes only to a true-born Englishman.

The sitting member was especially bitter, and indulged in uncompromising
abuse of his opponent—an alien against whose exotic ways he cautioned
the electors.

“Alien indeed!” retorted the other. “Anyhow, I have never been nearly
turned out of a club for indecent exposure, like my traducer!”

“Only my boots!” roared out his opponent.

But all was in vain, and the electors, fully convinced that their old
member had appeared naked in his club, declined to re-elect him.

About two years ago West End clubs were, it is said, at their worst as
regards membership; but since then the tide seems to have turned, and a
few then in a parlous state have once more found the path of prosperity.

As a matter of fact, the competition of restaurants has improved the
cooking in clubs, and many committees have sensibly come to recognize
that an attitude of indifference to modern improvements and the changed
needs of members does not conduce to the well-being of the institutions
over which they preside.

Then, too, a number of clubs which had been tottering for years have
disappeared, with the result that a number of others have gained
members. Of late years also, the craze for founding new clubs seems
rather to have died away, whilst the fashionable “restaurant clubs,”
which for a short time seemed likely to become popular features of West
End life, have entirely ceased to exist.

The chief of these was the Amphitryon, established some twenty years ago
at 41 Albemarle Street, Piccadilly, and presided over by M. Émile Aoust,
once maître d’hôtel at Bignon’s in Paris. The object of the club was to
provide the attractions of a first-rate French restaurant, which at the
same time should be absolutely exclusive. The subscription was three
guineas, and no entrance fee was paid by the first 200 members who
joined the club, amongst whom were the then Prince of Wales and the Duke
of Connaught.

The small club-house was comfortable enough, and the cuisine left little
to grumble at. About 700 members were enrolled, and candidates kept
flocking in. Members were only allowed to introduce three guests at a
time, for the accommodation in the dining-room was very limited.

An inaugural dinner was given to the Prince of Wales, and a highly
successful evening was enjoyed by fourteen selected guests at the cost
of £120. “Kirsch glacé,” one of the _plats_ which figured in the menu,
is said to have caused some amusement, the _k_ being called a misprint
for _h_, the first letter of the name of a prominent foreign financier
then in great favour with smart society.

The chief faults of this club were its expense and its limited
accommodation. A first-class dinner was absurdly expensive, costing
close upon £10 a head. In addition to this, the little tables were, on
account of the smallness of the premises, so closely packed that
intimate conversation was next to impossible. It must be observed,
however, that there were private rooms upstairs which could be reserved
for dinner-parties, and many were given.

After a short time the Amphitryon closed its doors, and left behind it
nothing but the memory of some excellent dinners and a certain number of
heavy unpaid bills.

A somewhat similar institution was the Maison Dorée Club, at No. 38
Dover Street. The committee was an influential one, numbering amongst
its members the Dukes of St. Albans and Wellington, Lord Breadalbane,
Lord Dungarvan, Lord Castletown, Lord Camoys, Lord Lurgan, Prince Henry
of Pless, and Lord Suffield. The entrance fee was two guineas, and the
annual subscription the same sum. The cuisine was under the management
of the Maison Dorée, which was then in the last days of its existence in
Paris.

The club-house was almost too elaborately decorated. Gold, indeed, had
spread even to the area railings, and the lock of the area door itself
was adorned with heavy dull gold! The pantry-maid, it was said, had a
solid gold key to open and shut the latter for the convenience of any
favoured policeman! On the whole, the building presented a most
imposing, if rather gaudy, appearance. The decorations of the
dining-room consisted principally of pastoral scenes painted on tapestry
panels in the French style, whilst a large glass tea-house overhung the
garden, and was supposed to form a highly attractive feature.

The club, however, met with the same fate as the Amphitryon; indeed, it
fared a great deal worse, the latter for a time, at least, having been a
success, which the Maison Dorée never was. Lingering on in a moribund
state, it soon flickered out, its disappearance being followed some time
later by that of the parent restaurant in Paris, which, owing to lack of
support, ended its career, to the regret of all lovers of high-class
gastronomy.

Later on, one or two other restaurants made an attempt to introduce
“supper clubs,” where members might remain after 12.30, the closing hour
which a ridiculous Act of Parliament fixes for all licensed premises.
None of these supper clubs, however, proved successful. Quite naturally,
people soon became tired of seeing the same faces; besides, there is
nothing that amuses ladies so much as scanning and criticizing the
heterogeneous crowds which nightly flock to restaurants after the
theatre. Willis’s—for a time much frequented by the smart world—was
remodelled and spoilt in order to make room for a club of this sort,
with the result that an excellent restaurant lost its popularity, and
finally disappeared altogether.

Not very many years ago, before the registration of clubs was made
compulsory by law, there were many so-called “clubs” in London which
were little but revivals of the old night-houses and gaming-hells,
though the latter were always subject to occasional raids. Whether the
suppression of markedly Bohemian clubs generally was an entirely wise
measure seems somewhat doubtful; the mere hounding of dissipation from
one haunt to another effects no good, and in all probability the best
plan would have been to tolerate a certain number of such resorts,
provided they were orderly and did not constitute a nuisance to the
neighbourhood.

The gambling clubs, often run by very shady characters, undoubtedly did
considerable harm to numbers of pigeons, who, however, would in most
instances have lost their money even had such resorts not existed. The
best known of these so-called “clubs,” however, were started solely to
pillage some rich young dupes who formed the support of such places and
their crowd of most dubious members. Clubs of this kind often provided a
very luxurious supper free, it being well worth the while of the
proprietor to attract anyone likely to keep the place going. As a rule,
the individual in question also laid the odds during the afternoon, and
some colossal pieces of roguery were not infrequently perpetrated in
connection with turf speculation. As late as the early eighties of the
last century, young men about town were exposed to every kind of
insidious robbery. The more blatant forms of West End brigandage seem
now to have abated; but human nature does not change, and very likely
they have merely altered in form.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER VIII

          THE TRAVELLERS’—ORIENTAL—ST. JAMES’—TURF—MARLBOROUGH
           —ISTHMIAN—WINDHAM—BACHELORS’—UNION—CARLTON—JUNIOR
                 CARLTON—CONSERVATIVE—DEVONSHIRE—REFORM


Though, as has before been said, the majority of West End clubs have
been obliged by force of circumstances to relax the exclusiveness which
was formerly one of their most salient features, a few still manage to
retain that social prestige which was the pride of quite a number in the
past.

A conspicuous instance is the Travellers’, a club which from the days of
its foundation has always been somewhat capricious in electing members.
The list of public men who have been blackballed here is considerable.
The late Mr. Cecil Rhodes was rejected in 1895, and at different times
the late Lord Sherbrooke, the late Lord Lytton, Lord Randolph Churchill,
and other public men have met with the same ill fate.

The Travellers’ Club was founded in the second decade of the nineteenth
century by Lord Castlereagh, the present club-house being built by Barry
in 1832. Considerable amusement was aroused by the qualification for
membership (which still exists). This laid down that candidates must
have travelled out of the British Isles to a distance of at least 500
miles from London in a straight line.

The supposed partiality of members for exploration was amusingly set
forth by Theodore Hook in the following lines:


 “The travellers are in Pall Mall, and smoke cigars so cosily,
  And dream they climb the highest Alps, or rove the plains of Moselai.
  The world for them has nothing new, they have explored all parts of
     it;
  And now they are club-footed! and they sit and look at charts of it.”


The club-house would appear to have been little altered since its
erection, with the exception that a recess for smokers has been
contrived in the entrance hall. The building, it should be added,
narrowly escaped destruction on October 24, 1850, when a fire did great
damage to the billiard-rooms. These were, by the way, an afterthought,
and an addition to the original building; but they were by no means an
improvement upon the first design, for they greatly impaired the beauty
of the garden front.

The library at the Travellers’ is a delightful room, most admirably
designed, with a fine classical frieze. A relic preserved here is
Thackeray’s chair; but as the only connection of the great novelist with
this club appears to have been a blackballing, the presence of such a
memento seems rather strange.

Except the dining-room and the library, the interior of the Travellers’
Club is somewhat cold and bare. No pictures decorate its walls, and the
general appearance of the place, whilst highly decorous, is hardly
calculated to delight the eye.

The Travellers’ still clings to certain rules framed in a more formal
age, and smoking is prohibited except in certain rooms. It is rather
curious that, in days when ladies tolerate cigarettes in their very
boudoirs, not a few clubs should still treat smokers in the same way as
prevailed in the days when tobacco was only tolerated in one or two
uncomfortable apartments.

Several distinguished men have belonged to this club, the membership of
which includes many high Government officials—heads of Departments,
Ambassadors, and Chargés d’Affaires. The general tone here is one of
solemn tranquillity; and though in former days there was a regular
muster of whist-players, which included Talleyrand, no game of cards
seems now to be played.

During the season of autumnal renovation the Travellers’ extends its
hospitality to one or two other clubs. A dashing young soldier, becoming
in this way a visitor, and being desirous of playing bridge, called for
a couple of packs of cards and a well-known racing paper. To his intense
disgust the astounded waiter who took the order, after making inquiry,
reported that the cards would have to be obtained from outside, and the
Travellers’ did not take in the paper asked for.

Though in a certain way a sociable club—for a large proportion of the
members are acquainted with one another—the Travellers’ is principally
given up to reading, dozing, and meditation. Of conversation there is
but little.

Another club which was founded during the same epoch as the Travellers’
was the Oriental.

A hundred years ago there were several institutions connected with the
East in the West End. Such were the Calcutta Club, the Madras Club, the
Bombay Club, and the China Club, frequented chiefly by merchants and
bankers. These, however, were in reality associations rather than clubs.

The Bombay Club was located at 13 Albemarle Street, and consisted of one
large news-room and an anteroom. It opened at ten in the morning and
closed at midnight, light refreshments being obtainable of the porter,
whilst smoking was strictly prohibited.

The need for a regular club-house where Anglo-Indians and others might
meet in comfort gradually came to be felt, and in July 1824 the Oriental
Club was started at 16 Lower Grosvenor Street. The original club-house,
it may be added, has now become business premises, being occupied by
Messrs. Collard and Collard. It is said that when the owner of this
house gave it up to the club he sold some of its furniture and effects
to a certain Mr. Joseph Sedley, afterwards immortalized by Thackeray as
the pseudo-collector of Boggley Wallah.

The first steward of the Oriental was a Mr. Pottanco, who had long been
employed by Sir John Malcolm, probably in the East. Members presented
books and pictures, and one, Sir Charles Forbes, cheered the hearts of
the Anglo-Indians by sometimes sending a fine turtle to be converted
into soup.

The first chairman of the Oriental Club was Sir John Malcolm, a very
popular figure in society. Sir John was a great talker, on account of
which he had been nicknamed “Bahawder Jaw,” it was said, by Canning.
There were ten Malcolm brothers, two of them Admirals. All ten seem to
have possessed the same characteristic, for when Lord Wellesley was
assured by Sir John that he and three brothers had once met together in
India, the Governor-General declared it to be “impossible—quite
impossible!” Malcolm reiterated his statement. “I repeat it is
impossible; if four Malcolms had come together, we should have heard the
noise all over India.”

Some of the members of the Oriental Club in old days, no doubt owing to
having resided for prolonged periods in the East, had eccentric ways.
One member was dissatisfied with the Gruyère cheese, calling it French,
not Swiss, and insisted that the waiter who brought it to him should
taste it. The waiter demurred, upon which the member complained of his
misconduct to the committee. The latter, however, took the waiter’s
part, rightly conceiving that it was no part of the waiter’s duty to act
as cheese-taster. In another case, a member removed his boots before the
library fire, and presently walked off in his stockinged feet into
another room. The library waiter, finding the ownerless boots, took them
away, and the member on his return was so greatly annoyed that he
stormed at the waiter, speaking to him, according to the waiter’s
evidence, “very strong.” Here again the committee, to whom it was
referred, sided with the waiter.

There was no provision for smoking in the original club-house of the
Oriental, and permission to smoke within the walls was not accorded for
some forty years, although it was a constant source of dispute between
opposing factions.

There are about thirty portraits in the Oriental Club; several of them
of a high class have been copied for public buildings and institutions
in India, where the individuals portrayed passed most of their careers.

The Iron Duke, Lords Clive, Cornwallis, Wellesley, Lake, Hastings,
Gough, Warren Hastings, Major-General Stringer Lawrence, Sir John
Malcolm, Sir Henry Pottinger, Sir David Ochterlony, and Sir James Outram
are amongst the distinguished men whose portraits adorn this club, which
also possesses a painting of considerable historical interest,
representing the surrender to Marquis Cornwallis of the sons of Tippoo
as hostages for the fulfilment of the treaty of 1792. This was painted
by Walter Brown in 1793, and presented to the club in 1883 by O. C. V.
Aldis, Esq.

Besides paintings and busts which have been presented, there is here a
silver snuff-box, the gift of a member, and a handsome silver
candelabrum presented to the club by Mr. John Rutherford on the
completion of fifty years of membership in 1880.

In the Strangers’ Dining-Room hangs a stag-hunt by Snyders, the figures
by Rubens. The busts in this club include Sir Henry Taylor, by D.
Brucciani; and Sir Jamsetjee Jejeebhoy, by Baron Marochetti; whilst a
curious coloured print after P. Carpenter shows the ground of the
Calcutta Cricket Club on January 15, 1861. A number of fine heads and
sporting trophies presented by members decorate the interior of the
house. It should be added that the library at the Oriental, though not a
large one, is of considerable interest, as many of its books have been
written and presented by members.

Though the St. James’ Club, at 106 Piccadilly, was not, like the
Travellers’ and the Oriental, founded for those who wander far afield,
its membership, owing to the club’s connection with diplomacy, generally
embraces many with an intimate knowledge of foreign countries, and even
the Far East.

The club-house of the St. James’ was formerly the abode of the Coventry
Club, a somewhat Bohemian institution, where there was a good deal of
gambling and a free supper. It seems to have been an amusing place, to
which many diplomatists belonged. This club was established at 106
Piccadilly—formerly Coventry House—in the early fifties of the last
century, and lasted a very short time, being closed in March 1854. In
1860 the house became the residence of Count Flahaut, the French
Ambassador, who added the eagles now to be seen amidst the decorations
of the dining-room ceiling of the present St. James’ Club.

The fine mansion was originally built for Sir Hugh Hunlock by the
architect Kent, on the site of the old Greyhound Inn, and was bought by
the Earl of Coventry, in 1764, for £10,000, subject to the ground-rent
of £75 per annum. Sir Hugh must have found the expenses of completing
the house too much for him, for he does not seem ever to have lived
there, and, according to tradition, Lord Coventry bought the building
before the roof was on.

Nevertheless a relic of Sir Hugh still remains in the area, and may be
seen from Piccadilly; this is a very fine leaden eighteenth-century
cistern, which is embellished with some moulding of good design and the
letters “H. H., 1761.”

It is said that when the house was built it was the only mansion
standing west of Devonshire House.

Up to 1889 there were no pictures or engravings in the St. James’ Club,
but in that year, when considerable additions were made at the back of
the building, a number of prints were presented by the various embassies
and legations. The most valuable gift received was a water-colour
drawing by Turner of the village of Clunie, near Lausanne, given by the
late Sir Julian Goldsmid. Some fine heads, a picture by Herbert
Schmaltz, and more prints were presented by other members. A certain
number of bedrooms exist for the use of the members, and from the point
of view of comfort the club leaves very little to be desired.

The principal artistic feature of interest in the house is the
magnificent ceiling in the large dining-room, which is enriched with a
number of small paintings by Angelica Kauffmann. The centre painting is
surrounded by a number of cartouches set amidst a decorative design of
considerable artistic merit, probably the work of the brothers Adam.

Here and in the adjoining smaller dining-room (where, most sensibly,
smoking is allowed after lunch and dinner) hang modern chandeliers of
admirable design. Both rooms were judiciously restored twelve years ago,
at which time some fine mahogany doors were rescued from the rubbish
heap.

Special features of Coventry House in old days were two octagon rooms,
both of which had fine marble mantelpieces (now covered up) immediately
beneath windows. The octagon room on the first-floor—a boudoir—was, as
its remains still show, a triumph of eighteenth-century ornamentation.
Indeed, the exquisite taste exhibited on the walls, over-door, and
ceiling, give great cause for regret that such a perfect example of
English art should have been defaced in order to form the serving-room
which it now is. The carpet had been worked by Barbara, Countess of
Coventry, wife of the original owner of the mansion; and when the house
ceased to belong to the Coventry family, they took with them this
carpet, which in course of time was divided into two, the separate
portions going to different branches. The portion belonging to the
present Earl was some years ago once more completed by the addition of a
new half worked at the School of Art Needlework, and now forms the
centre of the drawing-room carpet at Croome.

Worked in cross-stitch, it is of many colours on a neutral-tinted
ground; garlands and wreaths tied up with ribbons form part of the
design of this curious heirloom, which has been comparatively uninjured
by time.

In connection with the St. James’ Club, it should be added that,
according to tradition, an underground passage once ran beneath
Piccadilly into the Park opposite, where the Lady Coventry who has just
been mentioned is supposed to have had a garden. This story was probably
suggested by the fact that the Ranger’s Lodge was nearly opposite, and
it is possible that there was some communication between that structure
and Coventry House.

The St. James’ is one of the most agreeable and sociable clubs in
London, and still maintains much of that spirit of vitality which seems
within the last two decades to have deserted so many London clubs.

In the early days of the St. James’ it was located in Bennett Street,
St. James’, and was later moved to No. 4 Grafton Street, now the abode
of the New Club. This is a fine old house, which still retains some of
the features it possessed when it was the residence of Lord Brougham.

In the same house in Bennett Street first originated the Turf Club,
which was evolved from the Arlington.

Of the Turf, which is probably the most exclusive club in London, there
is little to be said; for it is of quite modern foundation, and the
club-house, though comfortable in the extreme, has no particular
interest from an artistic point of view. Like the Athenæum, the Turf
employs a design taken from an antique gem on its notepaper, a centaur
having very appropriately been chosen.

The lighting of the Turf was formerly by candles set in the chandeliers.
The latter still remain, but, now that electric light is used, the
candles are no longer lighted.

Another fashionable club is the Marlborough, opposite Marlborough House
in Pall Mall. This was originally founded as a club where members should
not be restricted in their indulgence in tobacco at a time when a number
of regulations as to this habit existed in other clubs. King Edward VII,
then Prince of Wales, interested himself in the foundation of the
Marlborough Club, having sympathized, it was understood, with the
attempt made in 1866 to modify a rule at White’s which forbade smoking
in the drawing-room. The motion was defeated by a majority of
twenty-three votes, for the old school were bitterly opposed to such an
innovation. In consequence, the Prince, though remaining an honorary
member, ceased to use the club, the newly-founded Marlborough proving
more congenial to his tastes.

At the present day the Marlborough is used chiefly as a lunching club.
At night, like many other clubs, it is now generally more or less empty.

The club-house, being quite modern, contains little to call for mention.
In a former club, however, which stood on the same site, there was in
the days of high play a special room downstairs where money-lenders used
to interview such members as necessity had made their clients. The room
in question was known as the “Jerusalem Chamber.”

The club-house of the Isthmian, at No. 105 Piccadilly, has known many
vicissitudes. At one time it was the Pulteney Hotel, and afterwards it
became the abode of Lord Hertford. Subsequently the house passed into
the hands of the late Sir Julian Goldsmid, who possessed an example of
the work of every living Royal Academician, as well as masterpieces by
Sir Joshua Reynolds and Romney. His collection of works of art was very
fine.

In its early days, when the club-house was in Grafton Street, the
Isthmian was nicknamed the “Crèche.” It was originally founded as a club
for public-school men, and some of its members were very young—a fact
which gave rise to the humorous appellation in question. From Grafton
Street this club migrated to Walsingham House, where it remained until
that short-lived building was pulled down to make way for the palatial
Ritz Hotel.

The Isthmian, it should be added, following the example of two or three
other modern clubs, reserves a portion of its club-house for the
entertainment of ladies, who are allotted a special entrance of their
own in Brick Street.

The nickname of the “Crèche” applied to the Isthmian in its early days
was rather exceptional in its wit, for most of the attempts at humorous
club names have missed their mark. Another amusing instance, however,
was a suggested title for the now long-defunct Lotus, an institution
which was founded for the lighter forms of social intercourse between
ladies of the then flourishing burlesque stage and men about town. This
was the “Frou-Frou”—a delicate allusion alike to the principal founder,
Mr. Russell, and the fairer portion of the membership.

[Illustration:

  OLD MANSIONS IN PICCADILLY, NOW CLUBS.
  From a drawing of 1807.
]

A pleasant social club which has recently been structurally improved,
bedrooms having been added, is the Windham, No. 11 St. James’s Square.
This club owes its name to the fact that the mansion was once the
residence of William Windham, who was considered a model of the true
English gentleman of his day. Though William Windham was a great
supporter of old English sports, including bull-baiting (which he
defended with such success in the House of Commons that only after his
death could a Bill against it be passed), he was at the same time an
accomplished scholar and mathematician. Dr. Johnson, writing of a visit
which Windham paid him, said: “Such conversation I shall not have again
till I come back to the regions of literature, and there Windham is
‘inter stellas luna minores.’”

In this house also lived the accomplished John, Duke of Roxburghe; and
here the Roxburghe Library was sold in 1812. Lord Chief Justice
Ellenborough lived in the mansion in 1814, and subsequently it was
occupied by the Earl of Blessington, who possessed a fine collection of
pictures. The Windham, it should be added, was founded by Lord Nugent
for those connected with each other by a common bond of literary or
personal acquaintance.

The club-house, which is very comfortable, contains a number of prints,
but, as the vast majority of these are modern, they scarcely call for
mention.

The Bachelors’, at the corner of Piccadilly and Park Lane, is
essentially a young man’s club. Only bachelors can be elected, and any
member who becomes a Benedict must submit himself to the ballot in order
to be permitted to remain a member, being also obliged to pay a fine of
£25. Ladies may be introduced as visitors, but, it is almost needless to
add, their introducer is responsible for his guests being of a standing
eligible for presentation at Court.

The same hospitable usage prevails at the Orleans in King Street, a
pleasant little club decorated with sporting engravings, which has
always prided itself upon the excellence of its cuisine.

The Wellington, like the Bachelors’ and Orleans, is another sociable
club which offers its members the privilege of entertaining ladies in a
portion of the building specially set aside for their use. In the
club-house is a collection of fine heads, trophies of the successful
big-game shooting expeditions of sporting members.

A long-established non-political club, essentially English in tone, is
the Union, at the south-west angle of Trafalgar Square. The original
home of this club was Cumberland House, where it was first started in
1805, the chairman then being the Marquis of Headfort. George Raggett,
well known as the manager of White’s, became club-master in 1807, and at
that time the membership was not to be less than 250. The Dukes of
Sussex and York, together with Byron and a number of other well-known
men, joined the club in 1812. Nine years later it was decided to
reconstitute the club and to build a new club-house, and Sir Robert Peel
and four other members of the committee selected the present site. By
that time the membership had increased to 800, and it was the first
members’ club in London. The fine club-house in Trafalgar Square, built
by Sir Robert Smirke, R.A., was opened in 1824. A most comfortable club,
the Union well maintains its long-established reputation for good
English fare and carefully selected wines. In old days its haunch of
mutton and apple tart were widely celebrated, and many gourmets belonged
to it. Amongst these was Sir James Aylott, a two-bottle man, who was one
day shocked to observe James Smith (part author of “The Rejected
Addresses”) with half a pint of sherry before him. After eyeing the
modest bottle with contempt, Aylott at last burst out with: “So I see
you have taken to those d——d life-preservers!”

Most of the furniture at the Union is that supplied by Dowbiggin, the
celebrated upholsterer, seventy or eighty years ago, and there are some
good clocks by the royal clockmaker, Vulliamy. A good deal of the club
plate is silver bearing the date 1822, and there is a good library. No
pictures hang on the walls. The Union has been, ever since its
institution, an abode of solid comfort, and it prides itself upon
keeping up the old traditions of a London club-house as these were
understood a century ago.

Amongst London’s political clubs, the Carlton unquestionably takes the
first place. Originally founded by the great Duke of Wellington and a
few of his most intimate political friends, it was first established in
Charles Street, St. James’s, in the year 1831. In the following year it
removed to larger premises, Lord Kensington’s, in Carlton Gardens. In
1836 an entirely new club-house was built in Pall Mall by Sir Robert
Smirke, R.A.; this was small, and soon became inadequate to its wants,
though a very large addition was made to it in 1846 by Mr. Sydney
Smirke, who in 1854 rebuilt the whole house, copying Sansovino’s Library
of St. Mark at Venice.

This club contains members of every kind of Conservatism, many of them
men of high position in fortune and politics.

The Carlton has been the scene of many important political consultations
and combinations.

It was in the hall here that Lord Randolph Churchill learnt of the
appointment of Mr. Goschen to the Chancellorship of the Exchequer,
which, it is said, he had just resigned under the impression that, being
the only possible man for the position, he would be begged to reconsider
his decision.

He was in the hall with a friend, when a boy came through to put up a
slip of telegraphic news. Lord Randolph stopped him and read the
telegram, after which he said: “All great men make mistakes! Napoleon
forgot Blücher—I forgot Goschen.”

A well-known figure at the Carlton some years ago was Mr. Andrew
Montagu, known to his intimate friends as “the Little Squire,” whose
death created a considerable sensation; for, as was well known, he had
rendered great financial assistance to his party. He had, indeed, played
a more important part in the secret history of his own times than was
realized by the outside world. It has been asserted that about two
millions of his money was out on mortgage—partly advanced to important
politicians, and partly distributed amongst institutions connected with
Tory organizations. Mr. Montagu was a most generous and open-handed man,
and would always use his interest to assist young aspirants to place and
position, though he himself cared nothing for these. He was, it is said,
frequently offered a peerage; but as the particular title which he
desired was claimed by someone else, to whom it was eventually given, he
died plain Mr. Montagu, which he had been perfectly content to remain.

The library upstairs contains a large number of volumes, and a most
complete collection of books necessary to the politician. Smoking is
allowed in the larger room, but not in the small library adjoining.

A number of oil-paintings representing celebrated Conservative statesmen
decorate the walls of the Carlton. In the large entrance hall are
portraits of Lord North, Lord Chatham, Lord Castlereagh, and the great
Sir Robert Peel; on the staircase a portrait of the first Lord
Cranbrook; whilst the first-floor is adorned by fine full-length
pictures of the late Lord Salisbury by Sir Hubert Herkomer, and of Lord
Abergavenny by Mr. Mark Milbanke. The dining-room at the Carlton also
contains several portraits, amongst them Lord Beaconsfield,[6] after
Millais. Mr. Balfour, by Sargent, subscribed for by members, has been
added within recent years. Owing to an entirely new scheme of colour
decoration, the interior of this club-house is now very much improved.
The conversion of the great central hall into a comfortable carpeted
lounge with chairs is also an innovation of a most convenient kind.

Footnote 6:

  One of the dining-room chairs bears the inscription: “Lord
  Beaconsfield’s chair.”

The Carlton possesses a quantity of good silver, and in the way of
comfort stands in front of almost all clubs in the world. Nowhere,
perhaps, are the minor details of everyday life so well looked after;
every kind of notepaper is at the command of members, whilst the
facilities for reference are unequalled. This club has a fine library,
which is presided over by a librarian.

Perhaps the most prosperous club in London is the Junior Carlton, which
owns its own freehold. The property is said to be worth over £200,000.
This palatial club-house is modern in style, but in a small room off the
hall is a fine old mantelpiece, which was originally in one of the
houses pulled down to make way for the new building.

Statues of Lord Beaconsfield and the fourteenth Earl of Derby decorate
the hall, whilst the pictures in the club-house include full-length
portraits of the late Queen Victoria by Sir Hubert Herkomer, and of the
late King Edward by the Hon. A. Stuart-Wortley. This was painted when
the King was Prince of Wales. In the smoking-room hang portraits of Lord
Beaconsfield, Lord Derby, Lord Abergavenny, the Iron Duke, and other
statesmen. A few pictures also hang on the staircase and elsewhere.

The picture of the Duke of Wellington originally represented him
standing in the House of Lords, but for some reason or other the
background of benches was painted out by the artist. Within recent
years, however, the Upper Chamber has once more asserted itself by
bursting through the coat of paint.

The library at the Junior Carlton Club is one of the most delightful
rooms in London—an abode of restful peace which was highly appreciated
by the late Lord Salisbury, who was often to be observed here reading.
It was said that he frequented this room because he was sure of finding
undisturbed quiet. Huge placards, on which are printed the word
“SILENCE,” are on each of the mantelpieces, and the reposeful atmosphere
of the place is seldom troubled by any sound louder than footfalls on
the soft carpet or the turning over of book-leaves.

A round table in this club, used for private dinner-parties, is said to
be the biggest in London; twenty-five people can sit at it.

The Conservative Club, which occupies a portion of the site of the old
Thatched House Tavern (pulled down in 1843), 74 St. James’s Street, was
designed by Sydney Smirke and George Basevi, 1845. The upper portion is
Corinthian, with columns and pilasters, and a frieze sculptured with the
imperial crown and oak wreaths; the lower order is Roman-Doric, and the
wings are slightly advanced, with an enriched entrance porch north and a
bay-window south. The interior was painted in colour by Mr. Sang, by
whom, after long years, it has since been redecorated. This happened a
few years ago, when, after considerable discussion, it was decided to
restore the original scheme of decoration which some little time before
had been discarded in favour of plain white marble.

A bust of the late Queen Victoria is on the landing of the very handsome
staircase of the Conservative Club, and on the first-floor are other
busts, together with a full-length statue of Lord Beaconsfield. A
picture of the Piazza San Marco at Venice, by Canaletto, hangs in the
large smoking-room upstairs.

A feature of this club is the excellent library, which is especially
rich in county histories. It is a quiet, restful room, and has
everything necessary to render it an ideal resort for lovers of books.

The dining-tables in the Conservative Club date from its foundation, and
are of mahogany. The pleasing old custom of removing the tablecloth
after dinner still prevails. Unfortunately, about eleven years ago the
great majority of these little tables were sent to have their surfaces
planed down! The committee of that day (who must have been totally
devoid of any vestige of taste) were of opinion that the surface was
becoming too “old-looking.” The result is, that it will require a great
number of years before these tables regain the beautiful _patine_ which
still distinguishes those—about eight in number—which happily escaped
renovation.

The Devonshire Club, in St. James’s Street, though originally a Liberal
or rather a Whig Club, now includes many shades of opinion, Liberal
Unionists being plentiful. There is a good library here. The club-house,
it is interesting to remember, was once a magnificent Temple of Chance,
over which presided the celebrated Crockford.

[Illustration:

  CROCKFORD’S IN 1828.
  From a drawing by T. H. Shepherd.
]

The present building is, with some alterations, the same as the one
constructed in 1827—on the site of three houses then demolished—for the
famous ex-fishmonger by the brothers Wyatt. The decorations alone, it is
said, cost £94,000, and consist of two wings and a centre, with four
Corinthian pilasters and entablature, and a balustrade throughout; the
ground-floor has Venetian windows, and the upper story large French
windows. The entrance hall has a screen of Roman-Ionic scagliola columns
with gilt capitals, and a cupola of gilding and stained glass. The
staircase was panelled with scagliola, and enriched with Corinthian
columns. The grand drawing-room was in the style of Louis Quatorze, as
it was understood at that day; its ceiling had enrichments of
bronze-gilt, with door paintings à la Watteau. Upon the opening of the
club-house, it was described as “the New Pandemonium.” The gambling-room
(now the dining-room of the Devonshire Club) consisted of four chambers:
the first an anteroom, opening to a saloon embellished to a high degree;
out of it a small curiously-formed cabinet or boudoir, opening to the
supper-room. All these rooms were panelled in the most gorgeous manner,
spaces being adorned with mirrors, silk or gold enrichments, and the
ceilings as gorgeous as the walls. A billiard-room on the upper floor
completed the number of apartments professedly dedicated to the use of
the members. Whenever any secret manœuvre was to be carried on, there
were smaller and more retired places, whose walls might be relied upon
to tell no tales.

Crockford, next to the late M. Blanc, of Monte Carlo fame, was probably
the most efficient manager of a gambling establishment who ever existed.

He possessed great tact, and thoroughly understood how to humour his
clients, most of whose money eventually drifted into his pockets.

A newly-elected member one night, during a lull in play, jokingly said
to Crockford: “I will bet a sovereign against the choice of your
pictures, of which there are many hanging round the walls, that I throw
in six mains.” To this he consented. The member took the box, and threw
in seven times successively, and then walked round the room to make his
selection. There was a St. Cecilia, by Westall, which he had before
admired, and that he chose, which of course provoked a good deal of
laughter. Other members then followed his example; the result being that
they won several of the oil-paintings, which they bore triumphantly
away.

The cook, Louis Eustache Ude, was celebrated throughout Europe, as was
his successor Francatelli. Crockford’s policy was to run his
establishment on the most luxurious lines, making no profit except on
the gambling; and therefore the dinners, though perfect, were very
reasonable in price. In addition, all the dainties of the season, fish,
flesh, and fowl, were cooked after the most approved Parisian models,
and were tortured into shapes that defied recognition. One of the
favourite dishes was Boudin de cerises à la Bentinck—cherry pudding
without the stones—which was named after Lord George, a frequent visitor
to the club. No one was charged for ale or porter, until one day a
hungry member dined off the joint and drank three pints of bottled ale,
after which Crockford made a change in the charges, with the remark that
“a glass or two was all very well, but three pints were too much of a
good thing.”

On one occasion, in the list of game on August 10, appeared some grouse.
The Marquis of Queensberry, a great sportsman, summoned Ude to Bow
Street, and had him fined for infringing the Game Laws. The following
day Lord Queensberry looked at the bill of fare, and no grouse appeared
in it. He was about to sit down to dinner, when a friend came in, who
proposed joining him. Each selected his own dishes. When they were
served, there was a slight hesitation in Ude’s manner, but they
attributed it to the fine he had recently paid. An entrée followed some
excellent soup and fish, Ude saying, “This is my lord’s,” uncovering a
dish containing a mutton cutlet à la soubise, “and this Sir John’s,”
placing the latter as far from the noble Marquis as possible. “Have a
cutlet,” said Lord Queensberry. The Baronet assented. “And you in return
can have some of my entrée.” At last it came to the moment when Sir
John’s dish was to be uncovered. “What on earth is this?” asked Ude’s
prosecutor, as he took up a leg of the salmis; “it cannot be partridge
or pheasant; bring the bill of fare.” The waiter obeyed. “Why, what does
this mean? ‘Salmis de fruit défendu!’—grouse, I verily believe.” Ude
apologized, declaring that the grouse had been in the house before he
was summoned. The Marquis chose to believe his statement, and allowed
the matter to drop.

Some members were very particular and trying to the patience of the
world-famed French cook. At one period of his presidency, the ground of
a complaint formally addressed to the committee was that there was an
admixture of onion in the soubise. This chef was sensitive as to
complaints. Colonel Darner, happening to enter Crockford’s one evening
to dine early, found Ude walking up and down in a towering passion, and
naturally inquired what was the matter. “No matter, Monsieur le Colonel!
Did you see that gentleman who has just gone out? Well, he ordered a red
mullet for his dinner. I made him a delicious little sauce with my own
hands. The price of the mullet was marked as two shillings, and I asked
sixpence for the sauce; this he refuses to pay. The imbecile must think
that the red mullets come out of the sea with my sauce in their
pockets.”

The Devonshire Club possesses some relics of Crockford’s in the shape of
an etching by R. Seymour, which hangs in the corridor smoking-room,
where are also six of the original chairs used in the old gaming-room.
The etching of Crockford was presented by Captain Shean; the chairs, in
1902, by another member—Mr. T. J. Barratt.

[Illustration:

  INTERIOR OF THE REFORM CLUB.
  From a drawing of 1841.
]

The Reform Club, in Pall Mall, took its name from the great Reform
movement, which it was founded to promote, in opposition to the Carlton.
Its virtual founder and first chairman was Edward Ellice, who drew his
wealth from the Hudson Bay Company, and his political influence from his
long representation of Coventry and from his energy in supporting
Reform. It was said that he had more to do with the passing of the
Reform Bill of 1832 than any other man. The club was established in
1836, to be a nursery of the great political idea which that Bill
represented. For a few years it was domiciled in Gwydyr House,
Whitehall. At the house in Pall Mall, some years previously, the
temporary National Gallery had remained in the house of Mr. Angerstein,
whose pictures were the nucleus of the national collection. While,
therefore, the Reform Club was rising to accommodate its members, the
National Gallery was being built in Trafalgar Square to receive the
pictures.

The architect of the new building was instructed to do his best to
produce a club-house finer than any yet built. The Reform is mostly
Italian in style, copied by Barry in some respects from the Farnese
Palace at Rome, designed by Michael Angelo. The chief feature of the
interior is a hall running up to the top of the building, an Italian
cortile surrounded by a colonnade, half Ionic and half Corinthian. The
Reform is about the only one of the older clubs which provides bedrooms
for its members—a convenience much appreciated by members.

Let into the walls of this hall are a number of portraits of Liberal
politicians of the past. Amongst them are Bright and Palmerston. There
are also some busts of former great lights of the party, such as Mr.
Gladstone. A graceful statue of Elektra is another conspicuous ornament
of this well-proportioned hall.

Like the Carlton, the Reform Club possesses a quantity of silver plate,
dating from the time of its foundation.

The kitchen of the Reform was long presided over by Alexis Soyer, one of
the great cooks of history. He came to England on a visit to his
brother, who was chef to the old Duke of Cambridge, son of George III,
and afterwards was cook to several noblemen, till eventually appointed
chef of the club. Soyer created a great sensation in culinary circles by
introducing steam and gas. He cooked some famous political banquets for
the club, among them a dinner to O’Connell, another to Ibrahim Pasha,
and a third to Lord Palmerston. Soyer, indeed, became quite a public
character, being sent to Ireland during the great famine, to teach the
starving people how to dine on little or nothing; and at the worst
period of the Crimean winter it was hoped he might make amends for a
defective commissariat.

Madame Soyer was as clever as her husband in another line: a woman of
considerable artistic attainments, she painted quite prettily in
water-colours.

Both she and the great chef sleep their last sleep in Kensal Green
Cemetery, where a sort of mausoleum bears the appropriate inscription:
“Soyer tranquil.”

One of the Reform Club’s triumphs was the breakfast given there on the
occasion of the Queen’s Coronation, which won high commendation. The
excellent cooking imparted celebrity to the great political banquets
given at the Reform.

Soyer was a man of discrimination, taste, and genius. He was led to
conceive the idea of his great book on cookery—“Gastronomic
Regeneration”—he declared, by observing in the elegant library of an
accomplished nobleman the works of Shakespeare, Milton, and Johnson, in
gorgeous bindings, but wholly dust-clad and overlooked, while a book on
cookery bore every indication of being daily consulted and revered.
“This is fame,” exclaimed Soyer, seizing the happy inference, and
forthwith seized his pen.

John Bright was often at the Reform, where it was said he passed his
time indulging in billiards and abstaining from wine. Other well-known
men who were members were Douglas Jerrold, Sala, William Black, James
Payn, and Thackeray, who became a member in 1840. He used to stand in
the smoking-room, his back to the fire, his legs rather wide apart, his
hands thrust into his trousers pockets, and his head stiffly thrown
backward, while he joined in the talk of the men occupying the
semicircle of chairs in front of him. It is said that on one occasion,
observing beans and bacon on the evening dinner list, he cancelled
without hesitation a dinner engagement elsewhere, on the ground that “he
had met an old friend he had not seen for many a long day.”

At one time a small group of men, which Bernal Osborne nicknamed “the
press gang,” met daily for lunch at a table in one of the windows
looking out upon the gardens in front of Carlton Terrace. This group was
originally composed of James Payn and William Black, J. R. Robinson of
the _Daily News_, J. C. Parkinson, and Sir T. Wemyss Reid, but as time
went on others joined. At these luncheons there was always a great deal
of pleasant and harmless chaff, with some more serious talk, although by
mutual agreement politics were generally tabooed. James Payn was the
life and soul of the party, and dedicated one of the best of his
novels—“By Proxy”—to the group which he had so often enlivened. Another
lively spirit here was William Black, who, though not as brilliant a
talker as Payn, could cap his jests with an epigram or quaint joke of
much flavour.

Bernal Osborne occasionally attended these lunches, where, however, he
curbed that mordant wit which was known to all and feared by most. At
the Reform lunches he was always harmless, though unable to resist
referring to Black’s habit of drinking a pint of champagne at luncheon.
He would point to the bottle, and say: “Young man, in ten years’ time
you will not be doing that.” Ten years later, however, Black recalled
Bernal Osborne’s warnings, and dwelt with pride upon the fact that he
had survived his censor.

The very large political clubs, such as the Constitutional, the Junior
Constitutional, and the National Liberal, hardly come within the scope
of this book. It may, however, be mentioned that, whilst the National
Liberal has an ingeniously contrived system (the idea of which was
originally conceived by Mr. Arthur Williams, sometime M.P. for
Glamorgan) whereby very young men are attracted to join the club,
nothing of the sort seems to have been attempted by any similar
institution purporting to further the spread of Conservative principles.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER IX

 THE NATIONAL—OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE—UNITED UNIVERSITY—NEW UNIVERSITY—NEW
      OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE—UNITED SERVICE—ARMY AND NAVY—NAVAL AND
      MILITARY—GUARDS—ROYAL NAVAL CLUB—CALEDONIAN—JUNIOR ATHENÆUM


About the most valuable artistic possession owned by any London club is
the fine set of Flemish tapestries in the drawing-room of the National
Club, 1 Whitehall Gardens. These were acquired with the club-house in
1845 from Lord Ailsa, who had bought them in Belgium shortly after
Waterloo. The price paid was very moderate—£200—and at the present time
the tapestries in question are in all probability worth over ten times
as much.

A curious and interesting feature at the National is the building which
now serves as a billiard-room; careful inspection reveals that in the
days before the construction of the Thames Embankment this was a
boat-house, up to which water flowed. An old member of the club
perfectly remembers barges coming up the river and unloading the bricks
with which an additional story was built.

The National Club was originally founded for those holding strongly
Evangelical views; the late Lord Shaftesbury, of philanthropic fame, was
a member, and to it some staunch pillars of Protestantism still belong.
Of recent years a number of Government officials and literary men have
somewhat relieved the austerity of tone which formerly prevailed, but
the National yet adheres to most of the practices instituted at its
foundation, and remains the only club where morning and evening prayers
are regularly read.

The tone of the National is rather more intellectual than that of the
majority of West End clubs. It somewhat resembles that of the grave
institutions frequented by Deans and Bishops, where the membership is
limited to those who have been at one of the great Universities.

Of such clubs, the best known is the Oxford and Cambridge, which was
originally started, in 1830, at a meeting presided over by Lord
Palmerston at the British Coffee-house, in Cockspur Street. The club’s
first home was a house in St. James’s Square, where it remained till
suitable premises were built, in 1836–37, on the Crown property in Pall
Mall. These premises it still occupies. The architects were Sir Robert
Smirke and his brother Sydney, who produced an imposing façade on Pall
Mall, with very rich ornamental details. In panels over the upper
windows, seven in number, are arranged several bas-reliefs, executed by
Mr. Nicholl, who was also employed on those of the Fitzwilliam Museum at
Cambridge. The subject of that at the east end of the building is Homer;
then follow Bacon and Shakespeare. The centre panel contains a group of
Apollo and the Muses, with Minerva on his right hand, and a female,
personifying the fountain Hippocrene, on his left. The three remaining
panels represent Milton, Newton, and Virgil.

In addition to many ordinary amenities of club-life, two chief
attractions here are the fine library and the excellent cellar, which
enjoys a well-deserved reputation for fine claret.

The United University Club, the entrance of which is in Suffolk Street,
Pall Mall, was originally housed in a building constructed by W.
Wilkins, R.A., and J. P. Gandy, in 1826. An upper floor, with a
smoking-room, was added in 1852. A few years ago, however, the
club-house was entirely rebuilt from designs by Blomfield, the new
club-house being a sort of compromise between the Adam and Louis Seize
styles. A feature of this club is the very interesting collection of
Oxford University Calendars, with ornately engraved views and scenes,
many of them highly picturesque and quaint. The smoking-room also
contains a number of views of colleges, whilst in the dining-room hang
portraits in oil of the first Duke of Wellington, Lord Melbourne, and
Mr. Gladstone. Membership of this club is limited to 1,000—500 of the
University of Oxford, and 500 of the University of Cambridge.

This was Mr. Gladstone’s favourite club, where he might sometimes have
been seen partaking of a simple dinner, his attention divided between a
chop and some learned work.

Members of this club must have taken a degree at one of the two great
Universities, and many distinguished men have belonged to it—the Church
and the Bar being generally well represented.

The New University Club, in St. James’s Street, built by Alfred
Waterhouse, R.A., in 1868, and the New Oxford and Cambridge, in Pall
Mall, are also flourishing institutions, which, however, do not appear
to contain any pictures or _objets d’art_ of conspicuous interest.

Amongst the most important clubs of London are those used by the
military. In old days most officers spent a good deal of time in London,
many leading a life of luxurious ease. A curious incident illustrating
this occurred in 1858.

In that year, on the occasion of one of the regiments of the Life Guards
being ordered to take part in a course of instruction at Aldershot, a
wealthy Captain tendered his resignation. The Commander-in-Chief,
however, declined to accept it, and eventually the gallant Captain was
persuaded by his Colonel to remain in the regiment, and undergo for a
short period the vicissitudes of camp life. At that time it was with
some difficulty that officers could be obtained for the Household
Cavalry, for to be a military man was often much the same thing as being
a man of pleasure. Clubs were thronged with officers at certain times of
the year. Though this state of affairs has passed away, the service
clubs still retain their popularity. Excellent management distinguishes
these institutions, of which the first to be established was the United
Service. This was founded in May 1831, as the General Military Club for
naval and military officers, by Sir Thomas Graham (afterwards Lord
Lynedoch), Lord Hill, and some other officers. Naval men, however, were
admitted in the following year, when the name was changed. At first it
was only open to officers of field rank, beginning with a Major in the
army, and the corresponding rank of Commander in the navy. The club’s
original abode was in Charles Street, St. James’s; the site of the
present premises in Pall Mall was obtained ten years later on a ninety
years’ lease from the Crown. The old club-house was then sold to the new
Junior United Service Club for £17,442, which considerable sum went to
defray the cost of the new building in Pall Mall. This, with furniture,
amounted to £49,743. Nash was the architect, and it was finished in
November 1828. An addition was made about 1858 by the acquisition of the
lease of the adjoining site, the sum of £34,000 being spent in
connecting it with the older house and adapting it for the purposes of a
club.

The club-house is a fine building with a classical portico in the front
facing Pall Mall. The interior is well planned, and is a good specimen
of the style popular in Nash’s day. The Senior and Junior United
Service, with the Army and Navy, or “Rag,” once received the three
nicknames of “Cripplegate,” “Billingsgate,” and “Hellgate”—the first
from the prevailing advanced years and infirmity of its members; the
second on account of the supposed tendencies of certain officers who
followed the traditions of the army which “swore in Flanders”; and the
last from its love of high play.

The United Service contains many interesting pictures and some
statuary, the most striking example of which, in the entrance hall, is
a colossal bust of the Duke of Wellington, by Pistrucci. Six other
busts represent Lord Seaton, by G. G. Adam; King William IV, by
Joseph; Nelson, by Flaxman; Sir Henry Keppel, by H.S.H. Prince Victor
of Hohenlohe-Langenburg; and Lieutenant-General Lord Cardigan, by
Marochetti (the gift of his widow). The sculptor of the sixth bust,
representing Admiral Sir Thomas M. Hardy, Bart., is unknown.

The pictures in the morning-, coffee-, and smoking-rooms include the
following portraits: Admiral Viscount Exmouth (a copy by S. Lane, after
Lawrence); General Sir John Moore (a copy by W. Robinson, after
Lawrence); Major-General Charles G. Gordon, by Dickinson, from a
photograph; Field-Marshal Lord Raglan, by F. Grant; Field-Marshal Lord
Clyde (a copy by Graves, after F. Grant); Admiral Lord Rodney (a copy by
Bullock, after Reynolds); Field-Marshal H.R.H. the Duke of Cambridge, by
A. S. Cope, A.R.A.; Field-Marshal Sir John F. Burgoyne, by Graves, from
a photograph; Field-Marshal Viscount Combermere, by W. Ross; Charles,
fifth Duke of Richmond, K.G., by A. Baccani; John, first Duke of
Marlborough, by Sir G. Kneller; Field-Marshal the Marquis of Anglesey (a
copy by W. Ross, after Lawrence); General Lord Lynedoch, by Sir T.
Lawrence; Admiral Lord de Saumarez, by S. Lane; General Sir James
Macdonell (a copy by Say); Admiral Earl St. Vincent, by Sir W. Beechey;
Admiral Sir Thomas Troubridge, Bart., by S. Drummond; Earl de Grey, by
H. W. Pickersgill; Field-Marshal Viscount Gough, by Sir F. Grant, R.A.;
Lieutenant-General Lord Saltoun, by Sir T. Lawrence; Vice-Admiral Sir
Francis Drake (a copy by Lane from an original in the possession of the
donor, Sir T. T. Drake); General Sir Ralph Abercrombie, by Colvin Smith;
Admiral of the Fleet Sir George Cockburn, by T. Mackay; Field-Marshal
Sir Edward Blakeney, by Catterson Smith, R.H.A.; General Viscount
Beresford, by Reuben Sayers; Field-Marshal Lord Seaton, by W. Fisher;
General Hon. Sir G. Lowry Cole (a copy by Harrison after Lawrence);
Admiral Sir Pulteney Malcolm (a copy by Dickinson, after Lane); General
Sir J. Frederick Love, by A. Baccani; Field-Marshal Lord Strathnairn, by
Bassano, from a photograph; Admiral Viscount Keith (a copy by Hayes,
after Saunders); Admiral Sir Charles Napier, by J. M. Joy; General
George Augustus Elliott, Lord Heathfield (a copy by S. Lane, after Sir
T. Reynolds); Admiral Earl Howe (a copy by J. Harrison); the Emperor
Napoleon I, by an unknown artist (the gift of Colonel Bivar); Allied
Generals before Sevastopol; Major-General Sir R. Dick, by W. Salter;
General Sir George Brown, by Werner; Field-Marshal Lord Napier of
Magdala (a replica by S. Dickenson); Admiral of the Fleet Sir Thomas
Byam Martin, by T. Mackay.

The grand staircase is embellished by a statue of H.R.H. the Duke of
York, by T. Campbell, and the following pictures: The Battle of
Trafalgar, by C. Stanfield; Admiral Lord Nelson, the head by Jackson,
finished by W. Robinson; Field-Marshal the Duke of Wellington, by W.
Robinson; General Lord Hill, a replica by H. W. Pickersgill; and Admiral
Lord Collingwood, a copy by Colvin Smith, after Owen. There is also a
picture of The Battle of Waterloo, by G. Jones.

In the upper billiard-room is a picture of the Battle of Trafalgar, the
frame of which is wood from the timbers of the _Victory_.

The Junior United Service Club, amongst other valuable pictures,
possesses two from the brush of Sir Thomas Lawrence. Here are also a
number of military relics, including the sword which Lord Hill carried
at Waterloo. A more grim souvenir is some locks of hair from the heads
of women and children massacred during the Indian Mutiny at Cawnpore.

Lord Kitchener and Sir John French are old members of this club.

[Illustration:

  THE ARMY AND NAVY CLUB.
  From an early drawing.
]

The Army and Navy Club, in Pall Mall, known as the “Rag,” possesses one
of the finest club-houses in the world. It was originally established as
the Army Club, but owing to a desire expressed by the Iron Duke, naval
officers were admitted, and the name altered in consequence. The
club-house in Pall Mall was only opened some ten years later, having
been built as a copy of the Palazzo Rezzonico at Venice. The original
model for the building is still in the club. Captain William Duff, of
the 23rd Royal Welsh Fusiliers, first invented the nickname of the
“Rag.” He was a celebrated man about town at a time when
knocker-wrenching and other similar pranks were in favour; Billy Duff’s
exploits in such a line were notorious. Coming in to supper late one
night, the refreshment obtainable appeared so meagre that he nicknamed
the club the “Rag and Famish.” This tickled the fancy of the members,
and a club button, bearing the nickname and a starving man gnawing a
bone, was designed, and for a time worn by many members in evening
dress. Such buttons are still made.

The original premises occupied by the Army and Navy Club, when it was
opened in 1838, were at the corner of King Street and St. James’s
Square, in a house, then numbered 16, which in 1814 had been Lord
Castlereagh’s. Two doors down was the house occupied by Mrs. Boehm in
1815. This lady, who “gave fashionable balls and masquerades,” was
entertaining the Prince Regent at dinner when the news of the victory of
Waterloo arrived. The post-chaise, containing Major Henry Percy, with
the despatches, stopped first at Lord Castlereagh’s, and then went on to
Mrs. Boehm’s. The carriage, out of the windows of which three French
eagles projected, was followed by a great crowd. The site of Mrs.
Boehm’s house now forms part of the East India United Service Club.

Before the Army and Navy Club, another club, the Oxford and Cambridge
New University, occupied No. 16. The Army and Navy remained here until
the purchase of its present freehold site; but while the new house was
being built it moved into No. 13, then known as Lichfield House, and the
next but one to the north-west corner of the square. It was so called
after the Earl of Lichfield, who was Postmaster-General in Lord
Melbourne’s Administration, and it was the home of the club until
February 25, 1851.

The new club-house has a frontage of 80 feet in Pall Mall and 100 feet
in St. James’s Square. The price of the site, together with the
excavations, concreting, and so forth, amounted to £52,000; the building
cost £54,000, and furnishing £10,000 more; so that the total outlay on
the club-house was £116,000. The architects were Messrs. Parnell and
Smith, who adopted as their model the well-known Palazzo Rezzonico,
which occupies a prominent position on the Grand Canal in Venice.
Representations of this palace hang in various rooms of the club. The
builders of the house were Messrs. Trego, Smith, and Appleford, and the
first stone of the new building was laid on May 13, 1848, by Colonel
Daniell, of the Coldstream Guards.

The freeholds purchased by the club included a house owned by the
trustees of the Baroness de Mauley, which had formerly been in the
possession of Spencer, Earl of Wilmington, and afterwards of John, Earl
of Buckinghamshire. This was No. 20, St. James’s Square, which had at
more recent dates been occupied by the Hon. W. Ponsonby and by the
Parthenon and Colonial Clubs. Other properties purchased were the
freehold of Mr. Martineau, No. 3 George Street; Nos. 36 and 37, the
freehold of Mr. Malton; Mrs. Justice’s freehold, No. 38 Pall Mall; and
that of Mr. Tegart, No. 39 Pall Mall.

This club contains some interesting relics; amongst them, in the
smoking-room, is a mantelpiece from the Malmaison, carved by Canova. One
of the figures supporting this, however, is modern, and the difference
from the other carved by the great sculptor can be clearly discerned.

Another treasured possession of the Army and Navy Club is the Nell Gwynn
mirror, which is over the fireplace in the members’ smoking-room. This
was in Lord de Mauley’s house, and is probably a genuine relic. A silver
fruit-knife which is said to have belonged to the celebrated beauty,
bearing the date 1680, has its place in the smoking-room, just below the
mirror. The portrait of her by Sir Peter Lely which hangs in the same
room was presented by a member, and took the place of another for years
said to be Louise de Querouaille. In reality, this represents Mary of
Modena.

As late as the eighteenth century the back room on the ground-floor of
the old house on this site was covered with looking-glass, as was said
to have been the ceiling also. Over the chimney-piece was a picture of
Nell Gwynn, whilst a portrait of her sister hung in another room. The
house then belonged to Thomas Brand, Esq., of the Hoo, in Hertfordshire.

The tradition that Nell Gwynn lived in the house standing on the ground
now occupied by the Army and Navy Club, whilst now generally accepted,
has been questioned by some. According to another tradition it was the
house opposite—up to recent years used as part of the War Office—which
really belonged to the Merry Monarch’s favourite. This, it is said,
communicated by an underground passage with the house pulled down when
the present club was built. The passage was stopped up within the last
fifty years.

Whether or not Nell Gwynn resided in a house on the site of which the
Army and Navy Club now stands, it is at any rate certain that part of it
was connected with the grant made by Charles II to her; for among the
title-deeds of the club property is a deed, dated 1725, which recites
that King Charles II, by letters patent dated April 1 in the seventeenth
year of his reign, gave and granted unto certain persons several pieces
or parcels of ground which formed part of a field or close called Pell
Mell Field, otherwise St. James’s Field. This grant was made on the
nomination of Henry Jermyn, Earl of St. Albans, to Baptist May and
Abraham Cowley, in trust for the second Earl of St. Albans, his heirs
and assigns, for ever. Evelyn records in his Diary that he saw and heard
the King (Charles II) in familiar discourse with “an impudent comedian,
Mrs. Nellie, as they called her,” who was looking over the garden wall
of a house standing on the north side of Pall Mall. The “Mall” was not
then the same as the present street, but an avenue shaded by trees lying
north of it, and following the line of the present south side of St.
James’s Square, so that a house on the north side of Pall Mall might
very well occupy the position of the corner house incorporated with the
club.

A constant frequenter of the Army and Navy Club in old days was Prince
Louis Napoleon, afterwards the Emperor Napoleon III, who always took
great interest in everything connected with it. He had known it as a
young man when—an obscure and impoverished exile—he lived in a modest
lodging in King Street, St. James’s, in the immediate neighbourhood of
the club, which he practically made his home. Soon after his accession
to power in France, he presented the club with the fine piece of
tapestry which hangs on the grand staircase. This is dated 1849, the
year after he became Prince President of the French Republic. It
represents “The Worship of Pales,” and is of Gobelins manufacture in
1784.

The Emperor ever cherished a kindly feeling for the club. When he
returned to England after his downfall, he gladly resumed his honorary
membership, and on his visits to town from Chislehurst he was frequently
seen in the club, lunching constantly in the coffee-room, with his
equerry seated opposite to him. He never failed to express a great
liking for the club, because, as he said, he was always treated in it as
a private person, and, except when he wished it, no particular notice
was taken of him. It may be added that quite a number of interesting
works of art relating to the Bonapartes are possessed by the club, and
are kept in the visitors’ drawing-room.

The Army and Navy Club contains what amounts to quite a collection of
pictures, statuary, and works of art, some acquired by purchase, others
gifts of various members of the club. In the first category is a
colossal bust of Queen Victoria, by Alfred Gilbert, R.A., which is a
replica of that exhibited in the Royal Academy in 1887—the Jubilee year.
Another bust executed for the club, to replace one of plaster which had
been broken, is that of Field-Marshal H.R.H. the Duke of Cambridge, the
President of the club. This bust was executed by Admiral H.S.H. Prince
Victor of Hohenlohe (Count Gleichen), R.N., who was for many years, and
until within a short time of his death, a member of the club. Two
portraits in the inner hall—one of Queen Victoria, the other of the Duke
of Wellington—were purchased by subscription.

Two interesting marble busts of T.R.H. the Prince and Princess of Wales
were presented by Admiral Sir Arthur Cumming, K.C.B. The late Captain J.
S. Manning, 1st Dragoon Guards, made some liberal gifts to the club,
including the clock and marble case on the centre chimney-piece in the
coffee-room. This member also gave several portraits, including one of
the first President of the club, H.R.H. the Duke of Cambridge, and of
Lord Nelson. Two silver snuff-boxes and a picture of the Battle of
Camperdown were likewise presented by him.

In the coffee-room, panelled with portraits of distinguished officers,
are two fine busts of Wellington and Nelson, both presented by members.
A particularly interesting relic in the possession of the club is a
miniature portrait of Lady Hamilton, which was found in Lord Nelson’s
cabin after his death at Trafalgar, and which was presented to the club
by J. Penry Williams, Esq., late 1st Royals. The club also possesses
autograph letters of Lord Nelson and of the first Duke of Wellington.

The Army and Navy started with a smoking-room at the very top of the
house, but in course of time gave up first one and then a second
strangers’ coffee-room to lovers of tobacco. A lift has now been
constructed to convey visitors to the original smoking-room upstairs. A
determined effort was made a few years back to allow smoking in the
beautiful morning-room facing Pall Mall, but this was defeated by a
small section of the older but fast-diminishing set opposed to smoking.

A curious feature of the Army and Navy Club is the position of a
fireplace in the entrance hall, where it is under a short flight of
stairs leading to the main staircase. At first sight one is puzzled to
imagine where the outlet for the smoke can be. In the same club-house is
another fireplace situated directly beneath a window—a most unusual but
agreeable position.

In 1862 the only service clubs existing in London were the United
Service, Junior United Service, and Army and Navy, which were all full.
To meet the want of another, a service club—the Naval and Military—was
founded in March of that year by a party of officers chiefly belonging
to The Buffs, then quartered at the Tower of London. These officers
were: Major W. H. Cairnes, The Buffs; Captain W. Stewart, The Buffs;
Lieutenant F. T. Jones, The Buffs; Captain L. C. Barber, R.E.; and H. H.
Barber, Esq., late 17th Lancers.

The club commenced with 150 members, at an entrance fee of £15 15s., a
home subscription of £5 5s., and a supernumerary subscription of 10s.

The first club-house was at No. 18 Clifford Street. Soon, however, it
was found too small, and at the end of 1863 a move was made to more
commodious premises at No. 22 Hanover Square, where the club remained
until the end of 1865. Cambridge House, full of Palmerstonian
associations, was taken in 1865, and opened in April of the next year.

On the renewal of the lease in 1876, it was determined to make the house
as perfect as possible. Alterations were carried on from December of
that year till April 1878, during which time the original house was
entirely renovated. The structure was also enlarged, a new dining-room,
billiard-rooms, offices, and cellars being added on the site of the
stables and other offices.

The upper smoking-room, in which hangs a portrait of General Sir W.
Nott, G.C.B., and some engravings after Hogarth, was once Lord
Palmerston’s bedroom, from which formerly a small semi-secret staircase
led to Whitehorse Street, by which it is said foreign spies and other
desirable or undesirable persons were admitted. The present card-room
was Lady Palmerston’s bedroom, opening into her boudoir—the octagon
room, which retains a beautiful ceiling.

Mr. Gladstone used to say that Lord and Lady Palmerston once formed a
Ministry in this octagon room.

The present library was the ball-room, and the State apartments were _en
suite_.

The Duke of Cambridge—tenth child of George III—lived at Cambridge House
till his death in 1850, the year in which Queen Victoria, who had gone
to inquire after his health, was struck with a cane by Robert Pate, a
retired officer, just as the royal carriage was driving out of the gate.
Her bonnet was crushed over her forehead, and her cheek hurt.

Pate was transported for seven years.

A number of portraits and busts are in the Naval and Military—the Duke
of Wellington; Napoleon; Nelson, after Hoppner; Queen Victoria, by
Winterhalter; and George III, by Beechey. Some fine heads presented by
members also decorate this club, which is one of the most comfortable
and best managed in London.

An interesting feature is the roll of honour in the corridor. This bears
the names of members who have lost their lives in the service of their
country since the foundation of the club.

The Junior Naval and Military club, almost next door to the Naval and
Military, was founded about ten years ago, and has a large membership,
mostly drawn from officers of junior rank. The club-house is one of the
few modern buildings in London which have a façade of excellent though
restrained design. The exterior of this club affords an agreeable
contrast to most buildings of recent years, being quite free from the
superabundance of decoration which now disfigures so many West End
thoroughfares.

The Guards’ Club was established in 1813 at a house in St. James’s
Street, next Crockford’s. The present club-house, however, was erected
only as far back as 1848; it was built from the designs of Mr. Henry
Harrison. Established for the three regiments of Foot Guards, it seems
originally to have been conducted on a military system. Billiards and
low whist were the only games indulged in. The dinner was, perhaps,
better than at most clubs, and considerably cheaper.

The Guards’ club-house in St. James’s Street fell down on November 9,
1827, in consequence, it was said, of the walls being undermined in the
preparation for building a foundation to the new subscription house
about to be erected next door by Mr. Crockford. The following
epigrammatic verses were written on this occasion:


         “‘Mala vicini pecoris contagia lædunt.’

          What can these workmen be about?
          Do, Crockford, let the secret out,
           Why thus your houses fall.
          Quoth he: ‘Since folks are not in town,
          I find it better to pull down,
           Than have no pull at all.’

         “See, passenger, at Crockford’s high behest,
          Red-coats by black-legs ousted from their nest;
          The arts of peace o’ermatching reckless war,
          And gallant Rouge undone by wily Noir!

                   “‘Impar congressus’ …

          Fate gave the word—the king of dice and cards
          In an unguarded moment took the Guards;
          Contriv’d his neighbours in a trice to drub,
          And did the trick by—turning up a club.

                   “‘Nullum simile est idem.’

          ’Tis strange how some will differ—some advance
          That the Guards’ club-house was pulled down by chance;
          While some, with juster notions in their mazard,
          Stoutly maintain the deed was done by hazard.”


The Guards’ Club, it should be added, is considered as a guard-house,
and can be used by officers on duty.

In St. James’s Square is the East India United Service Club, which was
founded in 1849. The present club-house really consists of two
mansions—Nos. 14 and 15—which were formed into one commodious and
handsome building by the skill of the architect—Mr. Adam Lee. The East
India United is of course an essentially Anglo-Indian club, and many
distinguished officials—civil as well as military—have been members.

A number of pictures and prints are in this club-house, most of the
portraits of famous Anglo-Indians being copies of originals in the India
Office, National Portrait Gallery, and elsewhere.

An interesting piece of plate here is a silver vase presented by the
Patriotic Fund at Lloyd’s to Commodore Sir Nathaniel Dance, H.E.I.C.,
upon the occasion of his defeating a French squadron on February 15,
1804. This was lent to the club in October 1895, by the great-nephew of
the Commodore, G. W. Dance, Esq., B.C.S.

A quite modern military club, which has prospered exceedingly, is the
Cavalry, which was started in 1895 for officers who had served in the
various mounted arms, English and Indian cavalry, Royal Horse Artillery,
and Imperial Yeomanry. Unlike several other clubs started about the same
time, it flourished, and has a membership of 1,300. Here there is a
dining-room to which ladies are admitted as guests, which has no doubt
contributed to the success of the club.

During the last year the comfortable club-house in Piccadilly was
enlarged, and it is now capable of accommodating a larger number of
members than before.

Little is ever heard of the Royal Naval Club—one of the oldest in the
world, for it originated about 1674. Many great Admirals have belonged
to this convivial dining club, including Nelson, who is generally
supposed to have belonged to no club. At one time these dinners were
held in the large dining-room at the Thatched House, in St. James’s
Street, on the walls of which hung the portraits of the Dilettanti
Society, illuminated by wax candles in fine old glass chandeliers.

During the present year yet another military club—the Junior Army and
Navy—has opened its doors at the Clock House, Whitehall, which was
originally built for Lord Carrington.

The Caledonian, in Charles Street, St. James’s, also occupies a mansion
which was once in private hands. The largest house in the street, it was
erected in 1819 for Pascoe Grenfell, and subsequently became the
property of the Beresford family, from whom it was acquired by the
Caledonian Club.

The Junior Athenæum, at the corner of Dover Street, Piccadilly, like the
Caledonian, was not intended for a club, having been built some sixty
years ago, at a cost of £30,000, for Mr. Henry Thomas Hope, whose
initial still remains upon the elaborate cast-iron railings of French
design.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER X

          THE DILETTANTI—THE CLUB—COSMOPOLITAN —KIT-KAT—ROYAL
            SOCIETIES’—BURLINGTON FINE ARTS—ATHENÆUM—ALFRED


Of the many convivial dining clubs which once abounded in London few now
survive, though the famous and venerable Dilettanti Society happily
still flourishes. Its dinners are held at the Grafton Galleries, and
certain quaint old usages are still maintained. A member who speaks of
the Society as “the club” has to pay some petty fine, whilst the
secretary when reading the minutes puts on bands. The presence of these
somewhat ecclesiastical additions to costume in one of the beautiful
portraits belonging to this club once caused the late Mr. Gladstone to
take the picture for that of a Bishop—which aroused some merriment.

The Society was founded about 1734 by a number of gentlemen who had
travelled much in Italy, and were desirous of encouraging at home a
taste for those objects which had contributed so much to their
intellectual gratification abroad. Accordingly they formed themselves
into a Society, under the name of Dilettanti (literally, lovers of the
fine arts), and agreed upon certain regulations to keep up the spirit of
their scheme, which combined friendly and social intercourse with a
serious and ardent desire to promote the arts. In 1751 Mr. James Stuart
(“Athenian Stuart,” as he was called) and Mr. Nicholas Revett were
elected members. The Society liberally assisted them in their excellent
work, “The Antiquities of Athens.” In fact, it was in great measure
owing to the Dilettanti that, after the death of the above two eminent
architects, the work was not entirely relinquished, and a large number
of the plates were engraved from drawings in possession of the Society.
It was mainly through the influence and patronage of the Dilettanti
Society that the Royal Academy obtained its charter. In 1774 the
interest of £4,000 three per cents. was appropriated by the former for
the purpose of sending two students, recommended by the Royal Academy,
to study in Italy or Greece for three years.

In old days the funds of the Society were greatly increased by the
fines. Those paid “on increase of income, by inheritance, legacy,
marriage, or preferment,” were very odd—for instance, 5 guineas by Lord
Grosvenor, on his marriage with Miss Leveson Gower; 11 guineas by the
Duke of Bedford, on being appointed First Lord of the Admiralty; 10
guineas compounded for by Bubb Dodington, as Treasurer of the Navy; 2
guineas by the Duke of Kingston, for a colonelcy of Horse (then valued
at £400 per annum); £21 by Lord Sandwich, on going out as Ambassador to
the Congress at Aix-la-Chapelle, and 2¾d. by the same nobleman, on
becoming Recorder of Huntingdon; 13s. 4d. by the Duke of Bedford, on
getting the Garter, and 16s. 8d. (Scotch) by the Duke of Buccleuch, on
getting the Thistle; £21 by the Earl of Holderness, as Secretary of
State; and £9 19s. 6d. by Charles James Fox, as a Lord of the Admiralty.

The general toasts originally proposed and adopted by the Society were
“_Viva la Virtù_” “Grecian Taste and Roman Spirit,” and “Absent
Members.” To these was added, by a minute of March 7, 1741/2, “_Esto
præclara, esto perpetua_.” On March 29, 1789, it was resolved to add the
toast of “The King,” which was to precede all others. This addition was
no doubt due to the outburst of loyalty which took place when the King
resumed his authority, after his recovery from his first attack of
insanity, on March 10 of the same year.

Walpole was very severe upon the Dilettanti. “The nominal qualification
for membership,” said he, “is having been in Italy, and the real one,
being drunk; the two chiefs are Lord Middlesex and Sir Francis Dashwood,
who were seldom sober the whole time they were in Italy.” Were the owner
of Strawberry Hill to attend a meeting of the Society at the present
time, he would be surprised to observe the sobriety which now prevails.

In the distant past, some of the more juvenile members occasionally did
behave in a riotous manner. On January 30, 1734, for instance, a party
of young men, seven of whom (Harcourt, Middlesex, Boyne, Shirley,
Strode, Denny, and Sir James Gray) were members of the Dilettanti, met
to celebrate the birthday of one of the company present, by a dinner at
the White Eagle Tavern in Suffolk Street. The disorder caused by their
drunken revels attracted a crowd of people, who were led to believe that
the dinner was held to commemorate the execution of Charles I. on that
day, and that a calf’s head had been served at table by way of ridicule.
A bonfire was lit, and on the diners appearing at the windows they were
stoned by the mob, in spite of their protestations of fidelity to the
Government and the King. It ended in a riot, stirred up by a Catholic
priest, which the newspapers converted into an event of historical
importance.

The Dilettanti Society has never lost sight of the main objects for
which it was founded, and in 1855 a project was started for reproducing
by some process of engraving the whole of the Society’s collection of
portraits. Sir Richard Westmacott, R.A., communicated with Mr. George
Scharf, jun. (afterwards Director of the National Portrait Gallery), and
received from him an estimate of the cost of engraving on wood the
thirty-one portraits in question. The cost, however, was probably the
reason which deterred the Society from proceeding in the matter.

The Society once met at the Star and Garter Tavern in Pall Mall, but in
1800 transferred its meetings to a great room in the Thatched House
Tavern in St. James’s Street.

The ceiling here was painted to represent the sky, and was crossed by
gold cords interlacing one another, from the knots of which hung three
large glass chandeliers.

The room formed an admirable setting for the Society’s pictures, the
most remarkable of which are, of course, the three painted by Sir Joshua
Reynolds.

[Illustration:

  A DINNER OF THE DILETTANTI SOCIETY AT THE THATCHED HOUSE.
  From a drawing by T. H. Shepherd.
]

The first of these is a group in the manner of Paul Veronese, containing
the portraits of the Duke of Leeds, Lord Dundas, Constantine Lord
Mulgrave, Lord Seaforth, the Hon. Charles Greville, Charles Crowle,
Esq., and Sir Joseph Banks. Another group in the same style contains
portraits of Sir William Hamilton, Sir Watkin W. Wynne, Richard Thomson,
Esq., Sir John Taylor, Payne Gallwey, Esq., John Smythe, Esq., and
Spencer S. Stanhope, Esq. The portrait of Sir Joshua shows him in a
loose robe, wearing his own hair.

It should be added that earlier portraits in the possession of the
Society are by Hudson, Reynolds’s master.

Some are in eighteenth-century costume, others in Turkish or Roman
dress. There is a convivial spirit in these pictures. Lord Sandwich, for
instance, in a Turkish costume, is shown casting an affectionate glance
upon a brimming goblet in his left hand, while his right holds a flask
of great capacity. Sir Bourchier Wrey is seated in the cabin of a ship
mixing punch and eagerly embracing the bowl, of which a lurch of the sea
would seem about to deprive him; the inscription is, _Dulce est desipere
in loco_. The Dilettanti possess a curious old portrait of the Earl of
Holderness in a red cap, as a gondolier, with the Rialto and Venice in
the background; there is Charles Sackville, Duke of Dorset, as a Roman
senator, dated 1738; Lord Galloway in the dress of a Cardinal. A curious
likeness of one of the earliest of the Dilettanti—Lord le
Despencer—portrays him as a monk at his devotions, clasping a brimming
goblet for his rosary, and with eyes not very piously fixed on a statue
of the Venus de’ Medici. Some of these pictures, indeed, recall the
Medmenham orgies, with which some of the Dilettanti were not unfamiliar.

In 1884 the two groups by Sir Joshua Reynolds and the portrait of
himself were lent by the Society to the Grosvenor Gallery for an
exhibition of the collected works of the great master. In March, 1890,
on the Society’s removing from Willis’s Rooms, the two fine groups by
Sir Joshua were once more deposited on loan with the Trustees of the
National Gallery, until the whole collection of pictures was removed and
rehung in the Society’s new room in the Grafton Gallery.

During recent years the Society has from time to time added to its
pictures.

In January 1894, a portrait of Mr. William Watkiss Lloyd, painted by
Miss Bush, was received by the Society from his daughter, Miss Ellen
Watkiss Lloyd, having been bequeathed to the Society by her late father,
who had for many years been one of its most active and respected
members. After the death of Lord Leighton, President of the Royal
Academy, in January 1896, the Dilettanti, being anxious to obtain a
portrait of one of the most illustrious of their body, decided to have a
copy made of the portrait painted by Lord Leighton of himself for the
Uffizi Gallery at Florence. The work was entrusted to Mr. Charles
Holroyd (now Keeper of the National Gallery of British Art), and
completed before the close of the same year. In February 1896, on the
resignation by Mr. (now Sir) Sidney Colvin of his post as secretary and
treasurer of the Society, the Society ordered that a portrait of that
gentleman should be added to their collection. Sir Edward Poynter
undertook to paint the portrait of Mr. Colvin, which was, by permission
of the Society, sent to the Royal Academy Exhibition of 1897. Another
modern portrait of interest is Sir Edward Ryan, by Lord Leighton.

The Dilettanti, the membership of which at the present day is largely
composed of high legal and Government officials, generally have six
dinners a year, and sometimes more, at the Grafton Galleries. The
ancient ceremonies, including the appointment of a functionary known as
the Imp, are retained. The father of the club at the present day is Mr.
W. C. Cartwright, who was originally introduced by the late Lord
Houghton.

The Thatched House Tavern, in the large room of which the members of the
Dilettanti Society were once wont to assemble, was for a time also the
meeting-place of another somewhat similar society, the Literary Club.
This is now represented by The Club, which is perhaps the most exclusive
institution in Europe. So little known is the existence of this society
that at the foundation of the Turf Club it was at first proposed to call
it The Club; and, indeed, it was some time before the discovery that the
name had been long before appropriated placed the adoption of such an
appellation out of the question. The membership of The Club is limited
in the extreme, which may be realized when it is stated that since its
foundation, in 1764, not 300 members have secured election. Forty,
according to the regulations, is the extreme limit of membership.
Amongst distinguished men who have been members appear the names of Dr.
Johnson, Boswell, Garrick, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Oliver Goldsmith, Burke,
Fox, and Gibbon. In more modern times many prominent personalities have
been members—amongst them Mr. Gladstone, Lord Leighton, Professor
Huxley, Lord Salisbury, Lord Rosebery, Lord Goschen, the Duke of Argyll,
Lord Herschell, Lord Dufferin, Lord Wolseley, Sir Mountstuart Grant
Duff, Mr. Arthur Balfour, Lord Peel, Mr. Asquith, Sir Edward Poynter,
and many others whose names are well known in legal, political,
artistic, and literary circles.

The club was founded in 1764 by Sir Joshua Reynolds and Dr. Samuel
Johnson, and for some years met on Monday evenings at seven. In 1772 the
day of meeting was changed to Friday, and about that time, instead of
supping, they agreed to dine together once in every fortnight during the
sitting of Parliament. In 1773 The Club, which soon after its foundation
consisted of twelve members, was enlarged to twenty; March 11, 1777, to
twenty-six; November 27, 1778, to thirty; May 9, 1780, to thirty-five;
and it was then resolved that it should never exceed forty. It met
originally at the Turk’s Head, in Gerrard Street, and continued to meet
there till 1783, when their landlord died, and the house was soon
afterwards shut up. They then removed to Prince’s, in Saville Street;
and on his house being, soon afterwards, shut up, they removed to
Baxter’s, which afterwards became Thomas’s, in Dover Street. In January
1792, they removed to Parsloe’s, in St. James’s Street; and on February
26, 1799, to the Thatched House, in the same street.

The club received the name of Literary Club at Garrick’s funeral.

In the early days of The Club, Dr. Johnson was exceedingly particular as
to the admission of candidates, and would not hear of any increase in
the number of members. Not long after its institution, Sir Joshua
Reynolds was speaking of the club to Garrick. “I like it much,” said the
great actor briskly; “I think I shall be of you.” When Sir Joshua
mentioned this to Dr. Johnson, the latter, according to Boswell, was
much displeased with the actor’s conceit. “He’ll be of us!” growled he;
“how does he know we will permit him?”

Sir John Hawkins tried to soften Johnson, and spoke to him of Garrick in
a very eulogistic way. “Sir,” replied Johnson, “he will disturb us by
his buffoonery.” In the same spirit he declared to Mr. Thrale that, if
Garrick should apply for admission, he would blackball him. “Who, sir?”
exclaimed Thrale, with surprise: “Mr. Garrick—your friend, your
companion—blackball him?” “Why, sir,” replied Johnson, “I love my little
David dearly—better than all or any of his flatterers do; but surely one
ought to sit, in a society like ours,


              ‘Unelbowed by a gamester, pimp, or player.’”


By degrees the rigour of the club relaxed; some of the members grew
negligent. Beauclerk lost his right of membership by neglecting to
attend. Nevertheless, on his marriage (with Lady Diana Spencer, daughter
of the Duke of Marlborough, and recently divorced from Viscount
Bolingbroke), he claimed and regained his seat in the club. The number
of the members was likewise augmented. The proposition to increase it
originated with Goldsmith. “It would give,” he thought, “an agreeable
variety to their meetings; for there can be nothing new amongst us,”
said he: “we have travelled over each other’s minds.” Johnson was piqued
at the suggestion. “Sir,” said he, “you have not travelled over my mind,
I promise you.” Sir Joshua, less confident in the exhaustless fecundity
of his mind, felt and acknowledged the force of Goldsmith’s suggestion.
Several new members therefore were elected; the first, to his great joy,
was David Garrick. Goldsmith, who was now on cordial terms with the
great actor, zealously promoted his election, and Johnson gave it his
warm approbation.

The meetings of the Literary Club were often the occasion of much
discussion between Edmund Burke and Johnson. One evening the former
observed that a hogshead of claret, which had been sent as a present to
the club, was almost out, and proposed that Johnson should write for
another in such ambiguity of expression as might have a chance of
procuring it also as a gift. One of the company said: “Dr. Johnson shall
be our dictator.” “Were I,” said Johnson, “your dictator, you should
have no wine; it would be my business ‘cavere ne quid detrimenti
respublica caperet.’ Wine is dangerous; Rome was ruined by luxury.”
Burke replied: “If you allow no wine as dictator, you shall not have me
for master of the horse.”

Dr. Johnson for a time completely dominated the club, and once, in his
usual grandiloquent manner, said to Boswell: “Sir, you got into the club
by doing what a man can do. Several of the members wished to keep you
out; Burke told me he doubted if you were fit for it. Now you are in,
none of them are sorry.” _Boswell_: “They were afraid of you, sir, as it
was you proposed me.” _Johnson_: “Sir, they knew that if they refused
you they would probably have never got into another club—I would have
kept them all out.”

At last, owing to his ill-temper and rudeness, the great lexicographer’s
influence in the club sensibly decreased.

The club possesses a very valuable collection of autographs of former
distinguished members, and amongst its memorials is a portrait of Sir
Joshua Reynolds, with spectacles on, similar to the picture in the Royal
Collection; this portrait was painted and presented by Sir Joshua, as
the founder of the club.

Another club which was once the resort of many clever and distinguished
men was the Cosmopolitan, in Charles Street, Berkeley Square. This
ceased to exist not very many years ago. The house in which it held its
meetings had been pulled down, and though the Cosmopolitan migrated to
the Alpine Club, it did not long survive the change. Its meetings were
held twice a week, in the evening, no meals whatever being served,
though light refreshments were supplied. The house in Charles Street had
previously contained the studio of Watts the painter, and a great
feature of the club-room was a very large picture representing a scene
from the “Decameron,” which had been painted by that artist. This is now
in the Tate Gallery. When the Cosmopolitan was dissolved, a certain sum
of money remained, and this, on the suggestion of a former leading
member, is gradually being spent in dinners at which former members from
time to time foregather.

A dining club which for a time attracted considerable attention was the
Roxburghe, which originated under the following circumstances: The Duke
of Roxburghe was a noted bibliophile; the sale of his library, which
excited great interest in 1812, lasted for forty-two days, and on the
evening when the sale had been concluded the club was formed by about
sixteen bibliomaniacs, after a dinner at the St. Albans Tavern, Lord
Spencer being in the chair. The Roxburghe consisted mostly of men
devoted to rare books. Tomes containing alterations in the title-page,
or in a leaf, or in any trivial circumstance, were bought by these
collectors at £100, £200, or £300, though the copies were often of small
intrinsic worth. Specimens of first editions of all authors, and
editions by the early printers, were never sold for less than £50, £100,
or £200. So great became this mania that, in order to gratify the
members of the club, facsimile copies of clumsy editions of trumpery
books were reprinted. In some cases, indeed, it became worth the while
of unscrupulous people to palm off forgeries upon the more credulous of
these collectors.

The club issued various publications, but its costly dinners attracted
more attention than anything else. On one occasion the bill was above £5
10s. per head, and the list of toasts included the “immortal memory” not
only of John, Duke of Roxburghe, but of William Caxton, Dame Juliana
Berners, Wynkyn de Worde, Richard Pynson, the Aldine family, and “The
Cause of Bibliomania all over the World.” In one year, when Lord Spencer
presided over the club feast, the “Roxburghe Revels” thus recorded the
fact: “Twenty-one members met joyfully, dined comfortably, challenged
eagerly, tippled prettily, divided regretfully, and paid the bill most
cheerfully.”

The bill of one of the dinners of the Roxburghe Club held at Grillion’s
Hotel has been preserved. Its curious phraseology is due to the French
waiter who made it out:


                    DINNER (_sic_) DU 17 JUIN, 1815.

                                              £ s. d.
                   20                        20  0  0
                   Desser                     2  0  0
                   Deu sorte de Glasse        1  4  0
                   Glasse pour 6              0  4  0
                   5 Boutelle de Champagne    4  0  0
                   7 Boutelle de harmetage    5  5  0
                   1 Boutelle de Hok          0 15  0
                   4 Boutelle de Port         1  6  0
                   4 Boutelle de Maderre      2  0  0
                   22 Boutelle de Bordeaux   15  8  0
                   2 Boutelle de Bourgogne    1 12  0
                   [Not legible]              0 14  0
                   Soder                      0  2  0
                   Biere e Ail                0  6  0
                   For la Lettre              0  2  0
                   Pour faire une prune       0  6  0
                   Pour un fiacre             0  2  0
                                              —  —  —
                                             55  6  0
                      Waiters                 1 14  0
                                              —  —  —
                                             £57  0  0


Amongst the curious old clubs of the eighteenth century, the Kit-Kat,
founded about 1700, deserves attention. This was composed of thirty-nine
noblemen and gentlemen zealously attached to the House of Hanover, among
them six Dukes and many other peers. The club met at a small house in
Shire Lane, by Temple Bar, where a famous mutton-pie man, by name
Christopher Katt, supplied his pies to the club suppers and gave his
name to the club, although it has been stated that the pie itself was
called “kit-kat.”

The extraordinary title of the club is explained in the following lines:


                “Whence deathless Kit-Kat took its name,
                  Few critics can unriddle;
                 Some say from pastrycook it came.
                  And some from Cat and Fiddle.

                “From no trim beaux its name it boasts,
                  Grey statesmen or green wits.
                 But from the pell-mell peck of toasts
                  Of old cats and young kits.”


A feature of the club was its toasts. Every member was compelled to name
a beauty, whose claims to the honour were then discussed; and if her
name was approved, a special tumbler was consecrated to her, and verses
to her honour engraved on it. Such of these tumblers as still survive
must be very rare. When only eight years old, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
enjoyed the honour of having her charms commemorated on one of these
“toasting tumblers.” Her father, afterwards Duke of Kingston, in a fit
of caprice proposed “The Pretty Little Child” as his toast. The other
members, who had never seen her, objected, but, the child having been
sent for, found her charming, and yielded. The forward little girl was
handed from knee to knee, petted and caressed by the assembled wits.
Another celebrated toast of the Kit-Kat, mentioned by Walpole, was Lady
Molyneux, who, he says, died smoking a pipe.

Several of the more celebrated of these “toasts” had their portraits
hung in the club-room.

The character of the club was political as well as literary, but its
chief aim was the promotion of culture and wit. The members subscribed
the sum of 400 guineas to offer as prizes for the best comedies written.

This club at one period of its existence had a room built for the
members at Barn Elms (now the highly prosperous Ranelagh Club). This was
hung with portraits painted by Kneller, which, being all of one size,
originated the name “Kit-Kat,” which is still in use.

A prominent member of the Kit-Kat Club was the famous Court physician,
Dr. Samuel Garth, who, while dining one evening, protested that he must
leave early, as he had many patients to visit. Nevertheless he lingered
on hour after hour. Sir Richard Steele, who was present, reminded him of
his professional duties, when Garth produced a list of fifteen patients.
“It matters little,” he cried, “whether I see them or not to-night. Nine
or ten are so bad that all the doctors in the world could not save them,
and the remainder have such tough constitutions that they want no
doctors.”

A celebrated early eighteenth-century literary club was the Royal
Society, instituted by a number of literary men who met in Dean’s Court,
there to dine on fish and drink porter. One of these gatherings expanded
into the Club of Royal Philosophers, or, as it came to be called, the
Royal Society Club. They dined together on Thursdays, usually to the
number of six, but sometimes more. A favourite dining-place was
Pontack’s, the celebrated French eating-house in Abchurch Lane, City;
and they also dined at the Devil Tavern, near Temple Bar, and at the
Mitre Tavern, in Fleet Street. In 1780 the club, as it had become, went
to the Crown and Anchor Tavern, in the Strand; and here they remained
for sixty-eight years, only removing to the Freemasons’ Tavern, in Fleet
Street, in 1848. Finally, when the Royal Society was installed at
Burlington House in 1857, the club held its meetings at the Thatched
House, in St. James’s Street, which they frequented until that tavern
was demolished.

As time went on, the cost of the club dinner gradually rose. It began at
1s. 6d. per head, then went to 4s., including wine and 2d. to the
waiter, and was afterwards increased to 10s. The wine was laid in at £45
the pipe, or 1s. 6d. per bottle, and charged by the landlord at 2s. 6d.
This club was sometimes known as Dr. Halley’s, for Halley was said to
have been its founder.

An eccentric member was the Hon. Henry Cavendish, commonly called the
“Club Crœsus.” Though wealthy, he seldom had enough money in his pockets
to pay for his dinner, and his manners were extraordinary. He picked his
teeth with a fork, carried his cane stuck in his right boot, and was
very angry when anyone else hung his hat on the peg he preferred in the
hall. Yet he was not unsociable; he is said to have left a large legacy
to a fellow-member—Lord Bessborough—in gratitude for his pleasant
conversation.

Cavendish was rather a misogynist. One evening a pretty girl chanced to
be at an upper window on the opposite side of the street, watching the
philosophers at dinner. She attracted notice, and one by one they got up
and mustered round the window to admire the fair one. Cavendish, who
thought they were looking at the moon, bustled up to them in his odd
way, and, when he saw the real object of their study, turned away with
intense disgust, and grunted out “Pshaw!”

The President of the Royal Society was always elected president of the
club. Princes, Ministers, men of high rank, and Ambassadors were
entertained together with men of science, great ecclesiastics, and
distinguished soldiers and sailors; Franklin, Jenner, John Hunter, Sir
Joshua Reynolds, Sir Thomas Lawrence, Gibbon, Wedgwood, Turner, De la
Beche, and Brunel were amongst these.

The modern Royal Societies Club, in St. James’s Street, has no
connection with the ancient institution just mentioned. It was founded
in 1894, and its members either belong to learned societies,
Universities, and institutions of the United Kingdom, or are well known
in the spheres of Literature, Science, and Art. The committee possesses
the right of granting the use of certain rooms in the club-house for
lectures or for meetings of any of the societies or institutions
recognized by the constitution of the club. This club has a somewhat
peculiar subscription, town members—that is, those residing within a
radius of twenty miles—paying eight guineas, country members six, and
colonial and foreign members two.

A club which has done much to promote a knowledge and appreciation of
art in London is the Burlington Fine Arts, now at 17 Savile Row. This
was founded in 1866, when the Marquis d’Azeglio, then Sardinian Minister
in London, and a well known connoisseur, was chairman. In the early days
there were 250 members, and the club premises were at No. 177
Piccadilly. At that time the Fine Arts Club was still in existence, and
most of its members joined what was called the Burlington Fine Arts
Club, on account of its premises being opposite Burlington House, into
which the Royal Academy had just moved. Exhibitions of considerable
importance were held in the rooms in Piccadilly, the first chiefly of
French etchings, and the last (in 1870) of original drawings by Raphael
and Michael Angelo. In that year the club moved to Savile Row, where was
built the present gallery, which has been the scene of a series of
annual exhibitions.

The membership of this flourishing association of art-lovers is now 500,
and since the foundation of the club its annual exhibitions have
gathered together many priceless works of art in the club-house. This,
however, contains no furniture or _objets d’art_ calling for mention,
with the exception of an Italian sixteenth-century mirror boldly carved
out of walnut wood in the style of Michael Angelo. The present chairman
is Lord Brownlow, whilst the secretarial duties are most ably performed
by Mr. Beavan.

The foremost modern literary club in England is of course the Athenæum,
which was first established in 1824, under the name of The Society. The
latter appellation was, however, changed to the Athenæum at an inaugural
dinner given at No. 12 Waterloo Place.

Three years later the committee, having obtained possession of a more
convenient site, part of which had been occupied by the recently
demolished Carlton House, entrusted Decimus Burton with the task of
building a suitable club-house. In the course of its construction Croker
insisted that the Scotch sculptor, John Heming, should contribute a
frieze designed as a reproduction of that of the Parthenon—an
ornamentation at the time characterized as an extravagant novelty. In
spite of a good deal of opposition, Croker carried the day, and the
construction of an ice-house, which had been advocated by several
members, was abandoned in order to afford funds for the classical
decoration.

In connection with this was written the epigram:


                       “I’m John Wilson Croker,
                         I do as I please:
                        They ask for an Ice-house,
                         I’ll give ’em—a Frieze.”


The new Athenæum club-house was formally opened in February 1830, some
soirées being given, to which ladies were admitted, though not without
protest. The building, which is of some architectural interest, was
erected on the west end of the courtyard of old Carlton House, the
smoking-room being exactly under what was the Prince Regent’s
dining-room.

In the finely-proportioned hall eight pale primrose pillars on broad
bronzed bases, copied from the Temple of the Winds at Athens, support
the panelled waggon roof, the Pompeian ornamentation being of an
original design. The two statues in niches, “Venus Victrix” and “Diana
Robing,” were chosen by Sir Thomas Lawrence, who also designed the club
seal.

On the right of the hall is the morning-room, redecorated in 1892, when
the ceiling was elaborately painted by Sir Edward Poynter. The bust of
Milton in this room was bequeathed by Anthony Trollope; in the adjoining
writing-room hangs a portrait of Dr. Johnson by Opie, the gift of Mr.
Humphry Ward. The drawing-room upstairs, one of the finest rooms in
London, has no fewer than eleven windows. But the chief glory of the
Athenæum is its library, the view from which embraces the pretty garden,
where a rookery once existed. The annual expenditure on books since 1848
has averaged about £450. The Athenæum library is by far the finest and
most important club library in the world, all departments of foreign as
well as English books being represented by rare and complete examples.
Moreover, there is on its shelves one of the best collections of
reference books in England, and the bookcases are stored with valuable
volumes—rare tomes dealing with history, topography, and archæology, as
well as sumptuously-bound books on art. Of these a number were obtained
under a legacy of the Rev. Charles Turner, and others were left by the
late Mr. Felix Slade. The collection of English pamphlets is also
singularly complete, and includes 21 volumes collected together by Sir
James Mackintosh, 43 by Dr. Nasmith the antiquary, 139 volumes by Morton
Pitt, 23 volumes by Gibbon on historical and financial subjects, 23
volumes devoted to foreign and colonial affairs, and 52 volumes of
smaller publications relating to America. Amongst literary matter of a
lighter description preserved in this library are 26 portfolios
containing newspapers and caricatures collected during the siege of
Paris and the Commune. In a case is preserved a large number of proof
engravings, most of them after portraits of members. These were executed
by George Richmond, R.A., who presented the collection. An interesting
relic of Thackeray is the original manuscript of “The Orphan of
Pimlico,” in the great novelist’s beautiful handwriting.

A portrait of George IV was formerly over the fireplace. Sir Thomas
Lawrence, its painter, was engaged in finishing the sword-knot and
orders only a few hours before his death. He intended to present it to
the club, but, as his executors declined to part with it, the painting
was eventually purchased for £128 10s. This portrait is now in the
museum of the Royal Pavilion at Brighton, having been handed over to the
Corporation of that town in 1858. Busts of Dr. Johnson (presented by Mr.
Percy Fitzgerald) and of Pope (a bequest) are here, together with the
carved armchair used by Dickens at Gad’s Hill, in which, on the day of
his death, the great novelist had been sitting at work on “Edwin Drood.”
Many will remember “The Empty Chair” which appeared in the then
newly-founded _Graphic_ in June 1870. Macaulay’s corner, near the books
on English history, is a well-known feature of this library, which the
late Mark Pattison said he thought the most delightful place in the
world, especially on a Sunday morning. At the table in the south-west
corner Thackeray used constantly to work. A great habitué of the library
in the early days of the club was Isaac Disraeli, who, as befitted the
author of the “Curiosities of Literature,” was one of the earliest
members—indeed, one of the founders of the club. His invariable costume
consisted of a blue coat with brass buttons, a yellow waistcoat, and
knee-breeches. A similar fashion was followed by another member—Dr.
Booth—as late as 1863.

One evening, in or about the year 1830, a non-member, young Benjamin
Disraeli, in defiance of the club rules, coolly walked upstairs to the
library, and there proceeded to confer with his father. He was duly
requested to withdraw, and it is perhaps not extraordinary that the
future Prime Minister should have been blackballed in 1832. The reason
given at the time for this rejection was that his proposer or seconder
had rendered himself particularly unpopular.

It was not until thirty-four years later that the great statesman became
a member of the Athenæum, to which he was admitted under the rule
allowing the committee to elect annually a limited number of persons
“who have attained to distinguished eminence.” As Lord Beaconsfield he
seems to have used the club but little, although, according to
tradition, he abstracted from the library his own “Revolutionary Epick,”
written in 1834.

In a corner of the Athenæum library the late Cardinal Manning, who had
been elected at a time when he was attending the Vatican Council, used
to sit quietly reading. At one time he used the club a good deal, as did
another venerable ecclesiastic, Dr. Tatham, noted for eccentricity and
long sermons. Yet another divine well known at the Athenæum was the
nonagenarian Bishop Durnford, of Chichester. Bishops have always been
more or less abundant at this club, for which reason, when an unusually
large number were collected together for Convocation, Abraham Hayward is
said to have grumbled out: “I see the Bishops are beginning to swarm:
the atmosphere is alive with them; every moment I expect to find one
dropping into my soup.”

There was a great storm amongst the Bishops when Bishop Colenso visited
England, and, as can be imagined, his admission to the Athenæum as an
honorary member was violently opposed.

Samuel Wilberforce, Lord Lytton the novelist, Abraham Hayward (the
Vernon Tuft of Samuel Warren’s “Ten Thousand a Year,” still remembered
by some), and many other celebrated characters, were frequenters of this
peaceful room. Here, too, Theodore Hook dashed off much brilliant work.
This spontaneous and volatile wit at one time used the club a great
deal. He it was who wrote the lines:


  “There’s first the Athenæum Club, so wise, there’s not a man of it
   That has not sense enough for six (in fact, that is the plan of it);
   The very waiters answer you with eloquence Socratical,
   And always place the knives and forks in order mathematical.”


Hook dined much at the Athenæum—often, it was said, “not wisely, but too
well.” The name of his favourite spot in the dining-room—“Temperance
Corner”—is still preserved. Here he used to call for toast-and-water and
lemonade, which the waiters quite understood was his humorous way of
indicating the various alcoholic beverages of which he was so fond. Hook
loved to sit long over his meals, in which respect it is interesting to
remember he was quite unlike Dickens, who often lunched standing, off
sandwiches.

It was at the foot of the Athenæum staircase that the author of
“Pickwick” ended his unfortunate estrangement from Thackeray, being
intercepted by the latter and forced to shake hands.

Intellect rather than love of comfort formerly distinguished most
members of the club, and for this reason, perhaps, the Athenæum has
never been noted for its cooking. “Asiatic Sundays” was the name given
to the Sabbaths, on which curry and rice always appeared on the bill of
fare. Another Athenæum dinner was known for its marrow-bones and jam
roly-poly puddings. Sir Edwin Landseer once denounced an Athenæum
beefsteak in a terse manner: “They say there’s nothing like leather;
this beefsteak is.” A boar’s head on the sideboard was described by a
witty member as the head of a certain member who had at last met with
the thoroughly deserved fate of decapitation.

Kinglake, the historian, lived almost entirely at the Athenæum, even
when aged, infirm, and terribly deaf. People used to say that, when they
talked to him, everybody in the room heard except Kinglake. Like many
deaf men, he was given to shouting in people’s ears, and on one occasion
was heard screaming to Thackeray at the top of his voice: “Come and sit
down; I have something very private to tell you: no one must hear it but
you.” Another distinguished soldier, equally deaf, used to select the
smoking-room of his club for confidential conversations with members of
his staff, putting momentous questions and receiving answers which were
given in such a loud tone that everyone heard his official secrets.

The Athenæum has never been very favourable to the stage. Some of the
great actors of the past, however, belonged to it, notably Sir Henry
Irving, who was a most popular member.

Other actor members were Charles Mathews the elder, Macready, Charles
Mayne Young, Charles Kemble, Charles Kean, and Daniel Terry.

Considering the partiality of literary men for tobacco, it seems curious
that the only smoking-room in this club used to be in the basement. To
supply a pressing need, an upper floor was a short time ago constructed
at the top of the building; and smokers can now be conveyed by a lift,
put in at the time of the alterations in 1900.

Membership of the Athenæum would seem to favour a man’s chances of
living to a green old age, and certain members have belonged to the club
for an extraordinary number of years. Mr. Lettsom Elliot, for instance,
who died in 1898, had been a member since 1824, when he was elected at
the first committee meeting of the club. Mr. Elliot had kept a copy of
the first list of members, and in 1882 he had a reprint of this
produced, which forms a record of considerable interest. On this
committee were Chantrey, the sculptor; John Wilson Croker; Sir Humphry
Davy; Sir Thomas Lawrence; Sir James Mackintosh; Tom Moore, the poet;
Sir Walter Scott; together with some others. Amongst distinguished
ordinary members have been Benjamin Brodie; Mark Isambard Brunel, the
engineer; Dibdin; Isaac Disraeli; Lord Ellenborough; Michael Faraday;
John Franklin; Henry Hallam; James Morier, the diplomatist, and author
of “Haji Baba”; Samuel Rogers; Sir John Soane, who bequeathed to the
nation the Soane Museum in Lincoln’s Inn Fields; Joseph Turner; Charles
Kemble; Charles Mathews the elder; Westall, the artist; David Wilkie;
Henry Holland; Blanco White, a friend of Coleridge’s; Whately; Newman;
Jekyll, the wit; John Stuart Mill; and Herbert Spencer.

The last-named was fond of playing billiards in the club, where he is
said to have made the famous remark to a very skilful antagonist:
“Though a certain proficiency at this game is to be desired, the skill
you have shown seems to argue a misspent youth.”

A club which somewhat resembled the present Athenæum in character was
the Alfred, founded in 1808 for men of letters, travellers, and the
like. It was first started at a house in Albemarle Street, when it
appears to have been a very solemn institution. A member, indeed, not in
sympathy with its tone, called it the “dullest place in the world, where
bores prevailed to the exclusion of every other interest, and one heard
nothing but idle reports and twaddling opinions. It is,” said he, “the
asylum of doting Tories and drivelling quidnuncs.”

Lord Byron, however, called it “a pleasant club—a little too sober and
literary, perhaps, but, on the whole, a decent resource on a rainy day.”

In 1811, three years after its foundation, there were no fewer than 354
candidates for six vacancies, but this happy state of affairs did not
last.

Sir William Fraser described the Alfred as having been “a sort of minor
Athenæum,” which perhaps caused a wag to say the title should be changed
from Alfred to “Halfread.”

Lord Alvanley, who was a member, once said at White’s: “I stood the
Alfred as long as I could, but when the seventeenth Bishop was proposed
I gave in; I really could not enter the place without being put in mind
of my Catechism.” The Bishops, it is said, resigned the club when a
billiard-table was introduced. In the course of time the Alfred
languished, and was finally dissolved in 1855.

Hatred of tobacco, it is said, caused the end of the Alfred. A certain
influential section of members persistently opposing any improvement in
the smoking-room, which was at the top of the house and stigmatized as
an “infamous hole,” the committee would make no concession, and so the
club was eventually closed.

When it was evident that the Alfred could not maintain an independent
existence (though perfectly solvent), a sort of coalition was formed
with the Oriental. A large number of members were admitted to the latter
without entrance fee, but most of the Alfred members joined other clubs,
especially the Athenæum.

A flourishing little literary club of modern origin is the Savile, in
Piccadilly. This possesses a very curious table, which was purchased
some years ago. It would appear to have been made during the
mid-Victorian period, and is embellished with a number of curious
designs in various woods—masterpieces of the inlayer’s art. Amongst
these is a portrait of the late Queen Victoria.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER XI

      THE GARRICK—JOCKEY CLUB AT NEWMARKET—ROYAL YACHT SQUADRON AT
                            COWES—CONCLUSION


Though various London clubs possess a certain number of pictures and
_objets d’art_, the Garrick stands alone in the ownership of a unique
collection. This, however, has been described so frequently that any
detailed treatment would be superfluous.

The Garrick was originally started at 35 King Street, Covent Garden, in
1831, “for the purpose of bringing together the ‘patrons’ of the drama
and its professors, and also for offering literary men a rendezvous.”

The club-house had been a family hotel. It was comfortable enough when
it was first transformed into the home of the Garrick Club, but in
course of time the building was found insufficient for the increased
number of members, and in 1864 the club removed to a new house built for
them a little farther west than the old one, in the then newly-made
Garrick Street—a classic region associated with the old club-house.

The new Garrick was built by Mr. Marrable, who cleverly surmounted
certain difficulties connected with the back of the building.

The bulk of the Garrick Club collection consists of the gallery formed
by the elder Mathews, who had a passion for collecting theatrical
portraits, and who purchased most of the pictures owned by Mr. Harris,
the old lessee of Covent Garden.

Mrs. Mathews, the actor’s wife and biographer, describes how the
pictures were saved from the swindling tenant who robbed them of their
rent in the King’s Road cottage. Mathews’s “giant hobby,” as she calls
it, was then (1814) in its infancy; but the Mr. Tonson who succeeded
them in the cottage begged to be allowed to retain the pictures, which
were at that time hanging in one small room. Mathews, who would as soon
have left behind him an eye or a limb as these his treasures, managed to
retain them. Later on he built at his house at Hampstead a special
gallery for his pictures, which had then considerably increased in
number. Many writers came there to see them, all of whom were not
equally appreciative. When, however, Mathews found a real judge of art,
he called it “receiving a dividend,” and would launch out into all sorts
of disquisitions as to his treasures, enlivened by anecdotes and
imitations of the persons portrayed. Inquisitive people, who came to see
the actor as a celebrity rather than to inspect his pictures, irritated
and exasperated him by their behaviour and their mistakes, which were
often absurd. Harlowe’s fine picture of Mrs. Siddons as Lady Macbeth was
taken for a portrait of Mrs. Mathews; Dewilde’s exquisite portrait of
Miss De Camp—Mrs. Charles Kemble—in male attire, in “The Gentle
Shepherd,” was praised as being Master Betty. One individual, who had
evidently never entered a London theatre, asked why there was no
portrait of Milton. Eventually all the pictures were exhibited in Oxford
Street, and there still exists a catalogue of this exhibition, to which
a characteristic article of Charles Lamb’s, which appeared in the
_London Magazine_, is prefixed.

During Mathews’s lifetime the collection was removed to the Garrick
Club. It then practically passed into the possession of a member, Mr.
John Durrant, who eventually gave the pictures to the club.

There are many good portraits of Mathews at the Garrick, of which the
most remarkable is, perhaps, the one by Harlowe, who depicted him in
four perfectly different and distinct characters—a tribute to the
actor’s versatility. The four characters are those of Fond Barneyl, the
idiot newsvendor of York; another weak-minded simpleton catching a fly;
Mr. Wiggins, an extraordinarily stout man, in a farce called “Mrs.
Wiggins”; and Mathews himself in ordinary day dress. Another good
portrait, by Clint, A.R.A., shows Liston and Mathews in “The Village
Lawyer,” the former as Sheepface, the latter as Scout. Liston impressed
people on casual acquaintance with an idea of inveterate gravity; as
Sheepface he fairly amazed Mathews, and in this part made him laugh so
much that he was hardly able to go on.

Two of the finest pictures in the Garrick are those representing Garrick
and Mrs. Pritchard in “Macbeth,” and Garrick and Mrs. Cibber in “Venice
Preserved.” Zoffany, who excelled in theatrical portraiture, painted
both of these. Another portrait by him shows the great actor as Lord
Chalkstone.

The fine picture of Macbeth is highly interesting on account of
Garrick’s costume. Though a stage reformer, he did not dare to discard
old traditions of dress, and played the Highland thane in a long-skirted
blue coat with crimson cuffs, and a full-bottomed wig of the Georgian
period. Occasionally he acted Macbeth in the costume of a fashionable
gentleman of the day—a suit of black silk, with silk stockings, and
shoes, buckles at the knees and feet, a full-bottomed wig, and sword.

Benjamin West once asked Garrick why he adhered to this ridiculous
usage, to which he replied that he was afraid of his audience, who would
have thrown bottles at him if he had dared to change. John Philip
Kemble, when stage-manager at Drury Lane, finally corrected the
absurdities of stage costume, although Henderson appears to have
preceded him in this respect. In Romney’s picture of Henderson as
Macbeth, which is in the club, the chieftain appears as a medieval
warrior wearing body armour, with arms and legs bare. In 1772 Macklin
played Macbeth at Covent Garden in the dress of a Highlander, but, being
a clumsy old man, he is said to have looked more like a Scotch piper
than a warrior. Kemble, oddly enough, first played Othello in the full
uniform of a British General—as Macbeth he wore a hearse-like plume in
his bonnet; whilst Mrs. Crough, the singer, who played the First Witch,
wore powdered hair and the fashionable costume of her day.

Garrick excelled in the art of facial expression. When he sat to
Gainsborough, he paid, it is said, no fewer than sixteen visits to his
studio, and on each occasion wrought a change in his features. At length
the painter, declaring he could not paint a man with such a “Protean
phiz,” threw down his brush in despair. Garrick sat to Hogarth as
Fielding, after the novelist’s death, when the painter wished to paint a
posthumous likeness of the great writer. Dressed in a suit of Fielding’s
clothes, the actor cleverly assumed his features, look, and attitude.
Small wonder that Johnson, when he heard that Garrick’s face was growing
wrinkled, exclaimed: “And so it ought, for whose face has experienced so
much wear and tear as his?”

At times this great actor would indulge in very unconventional
behaviour. Acting in a tragedy in which a Mr. Thomas Hurst—who was a
brandy-merchant—took a part, Garrick, conceiving Hurst too tame to
support him, reproved him publicly on the stage. “Mr. Hurst,” said he,
“if you will put MORE _British spirit_ into your _acting_, and LESS in
your _brandy_, you may send me _two gallons_ to-morrow morning.” Whether
the brandy-merchant was offended or not, history does not relate; but he
took care to remember the order, which he sent the following day,
writing at the bottom of the bill of parcels: “As per your order last
night, on the stage of Drury Lane Theatre.”

Garrick once set up a man in a snuff-shop, and actually recommended his
snuff, known as “No. 37,” from the stage, as a result of which the
snuff-merchant realized an ample fortune.

Garrick, as is well known, was not devoid of vanity, and was at times
fond of praising himself. During one evening at the Sublime Society, he
remarked that so many manuscript plays were sent him to read, that in
order to avoid losing them and hurting the feelings of the poor devils
the authors, he made a point of ticketing and labelling the play that
was to be returned, that it might be forthcoming at a moment’s notice.
“A fig for your hypocrisy!” exclaimed Murphy across the table. “You
know, Davy, you mislaid my tragedy two months ago, and I make no doubt
you have lost it.” “Yes,” replied Garrick; “but you forget, you
ungrateful dog, that I offered you more than its value, for you might
have had two manuscript farces in its stead.”

Amongst the many fascinating actresses of other days who smile from the
Garrick walls, some mention must be made of Mrs. Oldfield—Pope’s
Narcissa. Mrs. Oldfield was supposed to be the daughter of a Captain
Oldfield. Her early years were passed with an aunt, who kept the Mitre
Tavern in St. James’s Market. At this resort she attracted attention for
her recitation of one of Beaumont and Fletcher’s comedies, and Rich, the
celebrated manager, gave her an engagement at Drury Lane. Starting at a
small salary, she quickly rose to speaking parts, and soon became the
leading lady on the stage of that day. She went to the theatre in a
chair escorted by two footmen, and, seldom mixing with her
fellow-actors, enjoyed a unique position in spite of a by no means
severe morality. She had one son by Arthur Maynwaring, and afterwards
lived under the protection of General Churchill, a brother of the great
Duke of Marlborough. It is said that Queen Caroline remarked to her one
day: “I hear that you and the General are married.” “Madam,” replied the
actress discreetly, “the General keeps his own secrets.” Mrs. Oldfield’s
children married well; her granddaughter became the wife of Lord Walpole
of Wolterton, and was the direct ancestress of the present writer. The
American novelist Mr. Winston Churchill is, I believe, a descendant of
the sprightly actress.

From time to time the original collection at the Garrick Club has been
largely increased, and some of the additions are notable. One of the
most admirable modern portraits in the club now hangs over the
morning-room mantelpiece. It represents the late Sir Henry Irving in
morning dress, and was painted and presented by Sir John Millais.
Another good portrait of the veteran Phelps as Cardinal Wolsey, in
scarlet robes, is the work of that talented artist and actor—Mr.
Forbes-Robertson. Mr. Henry Neville, who died but recently, was painted
as Count Almaviva, by Mr. W. John Walton; and Sir Squire and Lady
Bancroft are represented in marble statuettes, done by the late Prince
Victor of Hohenlohe. A picture of Sir John Hare in one of his most
successful creations—Benjamin Goldfinch in “A Pair of Spectacles”—has
recently been added.

In the Garrick are preserved some small silver candlesticks, formed of
little figures representing harlequins and the like. These were
presented by the writer’s great-uncle, Edward Walpole, known as Adonis
Walpole on account of his good looks. The rest of the set is in the
possession of Lady Dorothy Nevill.

There have been many “characters” amongst Garrick members in former
days, of whom, perhaps, the most original was Tom Hill, who was an
authority upon most things—grave or gay.

Born in 1760 at Queenhithe, he became a dry-salter, but, having
sustained financial losses in 1810, retired about that year to rooms in
the Adelphi, where he lived comfortably enough. A great collector of
books, chiefly old poetry, and theatrical relics, he was very well known
in literary and stage circles.

Hill is said to have been the original of Paul Pry, but this is
doubtful. The great joke in connection with him was his age. James Smith
once said that it was impossible to discover his age, for the parish
register had been burnt in the Fire of London; but Hook capped this:
“Pooh, pooh!”—Tom’s habitual exclamation—“he’s one of the Little Hills
that are spoken of as skipping in the Psalms.”

Till within three months of his death, Hill usually rose at five, took a
walk to Billingsgate, and brought the materials for his breakfast home
with him to the Adelphi. At dinner he would eat and drink like a
subaltern of five-and-twenty, and one secret of his continued vitality
was that a day of abstinence and repose uniformly followed a festivity.
He then nursed himself most carefully on tea and dry toast, tasted
neither meat nor wine, and went to bed by eight o’clock. But perhaps the
grand secret was the easy, imperturbable serenity of his temper, which,
when he died in 1841 at the age of eighty-one, enabled him to look
twenty years younger. It was probably due to this fact, also, that his
cheerfulness remained unimpaired, in spite of the comparative poverty of
his later years.

Hill’s collection of old English poetry was dispersed in 1810, whilst
other rarities and memorials which he had got together took Evans, of
Pall Mall, a week to sell by auction. These included some very
interesting autograph letters, and among the memorials were Garrick’s
Shakespeare cup, a vase carved from the Bard’s mulberry-tree, and a
block of wood from Pope’s willow at Twickenham.

The late sittings for which the Garrick was formerly renowned seem to
have become more or less things of the past.

Supper at the Garrick some twenty-five years ago was, especially on
certain nights, a regular institution. The late Sir Henry Irving and Mr.
Toole were regular attendants, often sitting very late at the long table
in the smaller dining-room, where the supper-table was regularly laid.
Many of those who assembled round the festive board have now, like the
before-mentioned theatrical stars, joined the great majority.

At that time, except for lunch, the Garrick Club was not, during the
day, used by so many members as at present, nor was the club-house so
comfortable or the pictures and relics displayed to such advantage.
Those desirous of smoking were also hampered by restrictions, which have
since been removed. As a result of the enlightened policy pursued in
recent years, this club is now one of the most sociable and agreeable in
London, whilst its membership is still largely composed of men well
known in the literary and theatrical worlds.

The Arts Club, now in Dover Street, was formerly located at 17 Hanover
Square. “Sweet Seventeen,” as it came to be called, was a fine old
Georgian house, with marble mantelpieces and ceilings painted by
Angelica Kauffmann. Some of the rooms were originally panelled, and the
staircases were of old oak; but all these fine things are now dispersed,
and the house has been pulled down. At the time when it was occupied by
the Arts Club the walls were further adorned by pictures which were lent
for exhibition, and which completed a _tout ensemble_ of singular charm.

Another club of which much has been written is the Savage, started in
1855. This Bohemian institution has always had a number of celebrities
on its list. In its early days the membership included George
Cruikshank, J. L. Toole, Paul Bedford, Shirley Brooks, Dion Boucicault,
and George Augustus Sala. Sala’s name appears in the first list, and he
served on the first committee, but although he twice joined the club he
was not a “Savage” when he died. Other notable members of those days
were “Mike” Halliday, Arthur Sketchley, Sir Squire Bancroft, Sothern,
Henry S. Leigh, “Tom” Robertson, Lord Dunraven (then Lord Adair), Joseph
Hatton, Kendal, George Henty the war-correspondent (who won great fame
as a writer of boys’ books), W. S. (now Sir William) Gilbert, and Arthur
Sullivan the composer.

In connection with Bohemian clubs, some mention of the Players’ Club, at
16 Granmercy Park, New York, may not be out of place. The club in
question was opened on the last night of 1888 by the late Mr. Edwin
Booth, who, having purchased the building, remodelled and furnished it
as a club-house, and presented the title-deed to the members as a free
gift.

Membership of the Players’, like that of the Garrick, is not confined to
actors alone. It also resembles the latter club in that it contains many
prints and mementoes of great theatrical stars who have passed away,
including a priceless collection of costumes and properties. The memory
of Edwin Booth is commemorated firstly by the conservation, in an
untouched condition, of the bedroom in which the last years of his life
were passed; and secondly by the Booth library, containing a fine
collection of volumes bequeathed to the club by the great actor.

The contents of Edwin Booth’s bedroom are kept exactly as in his
lifetime, even to the last book he read, with a mark on the last page
the great actor turned. A chair and skull used by him in “Hamlet” are
also here.

On the last night of the old year, club custom at the Players’ ordains
that about midnight a loving-cup should be passed round amongst members,
in order that they may drink to the memory of the founder.

“Ladies’ day” is an annual festival of this club, held on Shakespeare’s
birthday—April 23rd—on which date a number of ladies, either connected
with or interested in the stage, are entertained.

This and “founders’ night” are the only two functions held, and
consequently invitations are very highly prized. Each member is allowed
but two cards of admission.

Another Bohemian New York club is the Lambs. The funds to pay off a
mortgage of 36,000 dollars on the club-house in West Thirty-sixth Street
were raised in a highly characteristic manner. For the space of one week
a company consisting entirely of stars—actors, musicians, and
authors—formed themselves into a minstrel troupe and toured through
eight cities, with the result that they made 67,000 dollars. Each member
of this troupe on its dispersal received one dollar as a souvenir of his
services.

The present club-house of the Lambs, at West Forty-fourth Street, cost
no less than 300,000 dollars. It is a most luxurious building furnished
with every modern convenience, and contains a theatre where the Lambs
hold their famous Gambols, and where plays never performed elsewhere are
played. Besides their private Gambols, the Lambs give an annual public
Gambol at a New York Theatre, to see which the public can obtain tickets
through members.

The Lambs are exceedingly charitable to any of their number who may be
overwhelmed by misfortune or sickness, and, indeed, membership of the
club has been said to constitute an insurance against adversity. Many a
stricken actor has had reason to bless the club, which on one occasion,
through a benefit performance organized in conjunction with the players,
obtained a comfortable annuity for an actor who had been seized by an
incurable malady.

Whilst hardly a club in the sense now usually understood, the Jockey
Club possesses rooms at Newmarket, and a number of sporting prints are
to be seen here. The most interesting relic in the possession of the
club, however, is a hoof of Eclipse, formed into an inkstand. On the
front are the royal arms in gold in high relief, and on the pedestal is
the following inscription: “This piece of plate, with the hoof of
Eclipse, was presented by His Most Gracious Majesty William the Fourth
to the Jockey Club, May 1832.” This hoof was originally given as a prize
in a Challenge race (rather like “The Whip”) run on Ascot Thursday. The
King gave an additional £200, and there was a £100 sweepstake between
members of the Jockey Club. It was run for soon after it was presented,
in the year of the great Reform Bill, on the same afternoon that
Camarine and Rowton ran a dead-heat for the Gold Cup, and over the same
course. One subscriber scratched, and, of the other two, Lord
Chesterfield, with the famous Priam (Conolly up), beat General Grosvenor
and Sarpedon, ridden by John Day. In 1834 Lord Chesterfield won again
with Glaucus (Bill Scott up), beating Gallopade, who had won for Mr.
Cosby the year before. Twelve months later the hoof was challenged for
by Mr. Batson, but there was no reply. It is much to be regretted that
no sporting event is now connected with this historic hoof. Considering
how small an interest the contests for the Whip have excited of late
years, there is little likelihood of this relic being again run for on
Newmarket Heath.

Eclipse is closely connected with the history of the Jockey Club. This
race-horse of historic memory lived for twenty-five years, and the years
in question just coincided with the period during which the Jockey Club
grew into a powerful body. It was also the time of the foundation of the
Derby, the Oaks, and the St. Leger. Then it was that the Jockey Club
first began to be quoted as a real and powerful authority, and when its
rulings were first accepted by racing men. The sentence of “warning
off,” originally established by precedent, was legally recognized in
1827, when, in the case of the Duke of Portland _v._ Hawkins, a man to
whom the Jockey Club objected was successfully proceeded against for
trespass on the freehold property of the club.

Although the memory of Eclipse is intimately connected with the history
of the Jockey Club, it is a rather remarkable thing that his owner never
succeeded in obtaining admittance to that exclusive circle. Colonel
O’Kelly’s one great grievance, which led him persistently to denounce
the Jockey Club, was the stubborn refusal of the members to elect him.

On one occasion, when Colonel O’Kelly was making a contract with a
jockey, he stipulated as a special condition that he should never ride
for any of the _black-legged_ fraternity. The consenting jockey saying
“he was at a loss to know who the Captain meant by the black-legged
fraternity,” he instantly replied, with his usual energy: “Oh, ——, my
dear, and I’ll soon make you understand who I mean by the black-legged
fraternity! There’s the Duke of Grafton, the Duke of Dorset,” etc.,
naming the principal members of the Jockey Club, “and all the set of
_thaves_ that belong to the humbug societies and _bugaboo_ clubs, where
they can meet and rob one another without fear of detection.”

Though old O’Kelly was never admitted, his nephew Andrew became a member
soon after his uncle’s death.

The Jockey Club appears to have been founded about 1752. The first
public mention of the new association—which is to be found in Mr. John
Pond’s “Sporting Kalendar”—evidently assumes the familiarity of his
readers with the club; for it makes the simple announcement for 1752 of
“a contribution free plate by horses the property of noblemen and
gentlemen belonging to the Jockey Club,” and by the May meeting of 1753
two “Jockey Club Plates” were being regularly run for. The list of
members as shown by these and similar races run for between this year
and 1773, and the date when the “Racing Calendar” was first produced by
James Weatherby, “Keeper of the Matchbook,” indicate very clearly what
were the objects of a club the origin and early history of which are
wrapped in considerable obscurity.

Another very exclusive institution is the Royal Yacht Squadron at Cowes,
which was originally founded by a number of noblemen and gentlemen (as
the old-world phrasing ran) desirous to promote the science of marine
architecture and the naval power of the kingdom. Prize cups were
frequently given to be sailed for, not only by their own vessels, but by
those of other clubs; the pilot and fishing vessels of the Island were
not forgotten; and liberality and national utility were the main objects
of the club. The result of all this was that great improvement in the
construction of ships was absolutely forced upon the Government of that
day.

On June 1, 1815, a body of gentlemen met at the Thatched House Tavern in
St. James’s Street, under the presidency of Lord Grantham, and decided
to form a club which should consist only of men who were interested in
the sailing of yachts in salt water. These gentlemen nominated
themselves with others to the number of forty-two to form a list which
should constitute the original members of the club, decided upon a small
subscription, and drew up a few simple rules to govern their
newly-formed yacht club.

The original idea of the club would seem to have been merely an
association of those yacht-owners who frequented Cowes during the
summer, and it was to be maintained by a couple of annual meetings—one
in the spring at the Thatched House, the other at a dinner at the hotel
at East Cowes. There was at first no club-house, and the subscription
was only two guineas. The qualification for any future candidate was the
possession of a yacht of a certain tonnage, the payment of an entrance
fee of three guineas, and the occupation of such a social position as
should commend him to the members of the club, who would consider the
matter at a general meeting.

The original title was the Yacht Club, and the rules relating to
yachting were few and simple. Every member, upon payment of his three
guineas to the secretary and treasurer, was entitled to two copies of
the signal-book, “and will be expected to provide himself with a set of
flags according to the regulations contained therein.” That same
signal-book was the subject of a great deal of anxious consideration
during the next few years. The club paid Mr. Finlaison £45 for printing
the first copies, which they soon found to be based upon a wrong system,
and appointed a committee to consider the matter, who called in “the
well-known skill and experience of Sir Home Popham, K.C.B.,” to assist
them in devising a new set. A few years later these also were found
wanting “as clumsy and inconvenient,” by reason of the number of flags
employed, when the Yacht Club adopted the code “composed by Mr.
Brownrigg, midshipman of H.M.S. _Glasgow_, it being thought that two
flags, two pennants, and an ensign are all that can be required.”

Members were requested to register the name, rig, tonnage, and port of
registry, of their vessels with the secretary, and the club adopted as a
distinguishing ensign “a white flag with the Union in the corner, with a
plain white burgee at the masthead.”

Lord Uxbridge, afterwards the first Marquis of Anglesey, of Waterloo
fame, was one of the original founders of the club. He was very proud of
the whiteness of the decks of his famous cutter, the _Pearl_, and when
he gave a passage to Lord Adolphus FitzClarence, who wore carefully
varnished boots which left marks on the deck after a shower, he told off
one of his hands to follow the offender with a swab and remove the mark
of each footstep.

The first Commodore of the club was the Hon. Charles Pelham, so popular
in later years as Lord Yarborough, and as the owner of the two famous
yachts called the _Falcon_. Lord Yarborough’s memory was so revered
among his club-mates that when his son came up for election, nearly half
a century later, all the formalities of the ballot were dispensed with,
and he was elected with acclamation.

Another original member was Lord FitzHarris, and his official yacht, the
_Medina_, of eighty tons, was always to be seen at the earlier functions
of the club. “She was the connecting link,” wrote his son, “between the
ships painted by Van de Velde and those which preceded ironclads. She
was built in William the Third’s reign, and her sides were elaborately
gilded. She was highest by the stern, with such a deep waist forward as
to endanger her going down head foremost if she shipped a heavy sea. She
had very little beam, and her complement consisted of Captain Love,
R.N., the master, and twelve men.”

Sir William Curtis, the founder of the present banking house of Robarts,
Lubbock and Co., was another member. The Prince Regent often stayed with
him upon his luxurious yacht, the _Emma Maria_. Sir William was an
amiable and charitable man, of whom many amusing stories were told. He
went with George IV to Scotland in 1822, and appeared in complete
Highland costume at Holyrood, even down to the knife stuck in his
stocking. The King himself appeared in a kilt, and, it was said, was
much chagrined to find Curtis the only man in the room similarly clad.
The Baronet, on the other hand, was flattered to think that he alone
shared the Highland costume with His Majesty, and asked King George if
he did not think him well dressed. “Yes,” replied that monarch, “only
you have no spoon in your hose.”

In 1821 the Yacht Club, for some obscure reason, changed the original
white ensign and jack with a white burgee to a red ensign and burgee. In
1824 they added the letters R.Y.C. and a crown and foul anchor to the
burgee; in 1826 they changed the ensign to a jack with a white border,
without any explanation being recorded in the minutes.

In 1824 the club began to feel the want of a meeting-place at Cowes, and
a year later the Gloucester Hotel became its first habitation. To meet
the increased expenses resulting from the change, we may note that the
annual subscription was raised in the year of removal successively to £5
and to £8, the entrance fee to £10, and the tonnage qualification for
the boats of new members was raised from 20 to 30 tons.

After the vacation of Cowes Castle by Lord Anglesey, the Governor, the
Squadron acquired the old building, and, after a good deal of money had
been expended in alterations, the club took up its abode there in 1858.
Then began a new era in its history, and, owing to the interest taken by
the then Prince of Wales, its importance as an exclusive social
institution greatly increased.

One of the most pleasant rooms in the present well-appointed club-house
is the library, over which the late Mr. Montagu Guest used to preside.
The collection of books here dates from 1835, when members were first
invited to increase the number of volumes owned by the club either by
donations of money or gifts of books.

In the castle hang a number of pictures connected with the history of
the club. These include portraits of Lord Yarborough, the Earl of
Wilton, and other notabilities connected with the past history of the
Squadron. As a club-house, the old castle is one of the pleasantest in
the world. It is an ideal retreat for members tired of town, for whose
use a number of excellent bedrooms are provided. The Royal Yacht
Squadron is singularly fortunate in its secretary, a retired naval
officer of much urbanity and tactful charm.

The Royal Yacht Club, as it was called in the early days of its
existence, did much to improve naval architecture, and was without doubt
of considerable national utility.

Lord Yarborough’s _Falcon_ was a very fine vessel, as was the Duke of
Norfolk’s 210-ton cutter _Arundel_, which was said to be one of the
finest and fastest of its kind in the world. Lord Belfast quite put the
naval authorities to shame with his brig, the _Water Witch_. Taking the
given length of the worst and most despised class of vessels in King
William IV’s navy—that called the “ten-gun brig”—he declared that he
would construct a brig that should not only be superior for the purposes
of war, but should actually be made to outsail any vessel in the royal
navy—rather a bold declaration this, it must be acknowledged, more
particularly as two vessels built upon an improved and scientific plan
were to be opposed to him. To work, however, his lordship went, and the
product of his labours was the celebrated _Water Witch_, built for him
by Mr. Joseph White, of East Cowes, on the model of his former yachts,
the _Harriet_, _Thérèse_, and _Louisa_, and precisely the length of the
ten-gun brig, which, though incapable of either fighting or running,
was, unfortunately, quite capable of going to the bottom.

Lord Yarborough enforced naval discipline on board the _Falcon_, the
crew of which were paid extra wages on condition that they submitted to
the usual rules in force on British vessels of war. These included
flogging under certain circumstances, and it is said that, in
consideration of the additional sum paid by Lord Yarborough, some of the
crew cheerfully submitted to the occasional application of the
cat-o’-nine-tails.

Indeed, before the _Falcon_ left Plymouth Sound for a cruise, all hands
cordially signed a paper setting forth the usefulness of a sound
flogging in cases of extremity, and their perfect willingness to undergo
the experiment whenever it was deemed necessary for the preservation of
good order.

In the early days of the club only two instances of blackballing seem to
have occurred. One was in the person of a noble Duke who had been
scratched off the list on account of not paying his annual subscription,
who, when he sought re-election, was excluded as a matter of course. The
other individual was the owner of a yacht like a river barge, with a
flat bottom, and he was rejected more in joke than otherwise, it being
reported that his yacht was two months on her voyage from the Thames to
Cowes, and that, moreover, the bulkhead and chimney in the cabin were of
_brick_!

The candidates of that day, as may be judged from their almost
invariable success in the ballot, were generally of a highly acceptable
description. The same, perhaps, can hardly be said of some in recent
years, when, in accordance with the spirit of the age, certain
individuals, whose only claim to social consideration lay in their
wealth, have made attempts to force the Squadron portals.

One of these received what was perhaps the most severe rebuff ever
sustained by a candidate, in the shape of no fewer than seventy-eight
black balls, which figure, it was said, would have been increased to
eighty had his proposer and seconder attended the election. It should be
added that the name of the candidate in question had been submitted for
election at the instigation of a highly important personage whose
suggestions it was impossible to ignore.

A prominent figure at the Squadron from about 1834 to 1882 was the late
Mr. George Bentinck, well known as Big Ben. Mr. Bentinck was very bluff
and outspoken, and when in Parliament he once administered a violent
lecture to both front benches, shaking his finger at the distinguished
offenders who sat on both, and saying: “You know you have all ratted;
the only difference between you is that some of you have ratted twice.”

He was no fair-weather yachtsman, and had the greatest contempt for
people who did not live on board their vessels, who employed captains or
sailing-masters, and who confined their yachting to the safe waters of
the Solent. He had no notion, as he said, of a Cowes captain who always
wanted to be ashore with his wife, so he commanded his own ships with
the strictest discipline, and with the thorough respect of his crew.
When in harbour, his first officer always knocked at his cabin door and
reported eight bells. “Are the boats up?” was Mr. Bentinck’s inquiry.
“Yes, sir.” “Very well, make it so;” and after that hour there was no
going ashore for anybody. He was always delighted to take friends on a
sea-voyage, but could never be induced to give any particulars as to
where bound or the probable length of the cruise, and very much resented
an inquiry on either point. People, accordingly, who accompanied him
always settled their affairs for a reasonable period, not knowing when
they would return. One of Mr. Bentinck’s trips from Cowes to Gibraltar
took forty-two days owing to bad weather, and on another voyage he
declared that his yacht, the _Dream_, once shipped twenty tons of water
in the Baltic. A somewhat unflattering caricature of Mr. Bentinck is
preserved in the club-house at Cowes.

Another well-known member of the Squadron was Lord Cardigan, of
Balaclava fame, who exhibited considerable eccentricity as a yachtsman.
Whilst out sailing one day, his skipper said: “Will you take the helm,
my lord?” “No, thank you,” was the reply; “I never take anything between
meals.” Lord Cardigan was certainly not much of a sailor, and, according
to tradition, was accustomed to appear in a costume which included
military spurs. He was also, according to all accounts, a man of
somewhat unconciliatory temper, thoroughly imbued with a high sense of
the importance of his great social position. He was born in the closing
years of the eighteenth century, and was at strife with most of his
acquaintance throughout his career of seventy-one years. He was very
late in choosing the army as a profession, as he entered the service in
1824, at the age of twenty-seven, and by 1830 was a Lieutenant-Colonel,
promotion being easy for a rich nobleman in the days of purchase.

Whilst the Royal Yacht Squadron at Cowes occupies a unique position as
the chief yachting club and authority in the United Kingdom, it cannot
boast a history dating back as far as an Irish yacht club—the “Royal
Cork”—which traces its origin from a very ancient yachting club existing
at Cork as far back as 1720. This would seem to have been a highly
convivial institution, for one of the rules ran: “Resolved that no
admiral do bring more than two dozen of wine to his treat, for it has
always been deemed a breach of the ancient rules and constitution of the
club, except when my lords the judges are invited.”

At that date the rules and constitutions were described as being
ancient, and some of the customs connected with the club (curious
records of which are in the possession of the Royal Cork Yacht Club)
were picturesque and curious.

Once a year the “Water Club” took part in a ceremony, something like
that performed by the Doge of Venice, when he was wedded to the
Adriatic. A contemporary writer thus describes this function: “A set of
worthy gentlemen, who have formed themselves into a body which they call
the ‘Water Club,’ proceed a few leagues out to sea once a year in a
number of small vessels, which for painting and gilding exceed the
King’s yacht at Greenwich and Deptford. Their admiral, who is elected
annually, and hoists his flag on board his little vessel, leads the van
and receives the honours of the flag. The rest of the fleet fall in
their proper stations, and keep their line in the same manner as the
King’s ships. This fleet is attended with a prodigious number of boats
with their colours flying, drums beating, and trumpets sounding, which
forms one of the most agreeable and splendid sights your lordship can
conceive.”

The rules of this club dealt largely with conviviality. Rule XIV, for
instance, laid down “that such members of the club as talk of sailing
after dinner be fined a bumper.”

In 1737 it was ordered “that for the future, unless the company exceed
the number of fifteen, no man be allowed more than one bottle to his
share and a peremptory.”

The Royal Thames Yacht Club springs from the Cumberland Society which
was formed of members who had sailed for the Duke of Cumberland’s Cup.
His Grace himself was wont to present this cup to the winner at a
function of considerable solemnity. The boats of the society were all
anchored in line, flying the white flag with the St. George’s cross. The
captains waited in skiffs, and only boarded their boats when the Duke
appeared in his gilded barge and proceeded to the boat of the Commodore
of the fleet. The victorious captain was then summoned to that vessel
and introduced to the Duke, who filled the cup with claret and drank the
health of the winner, to whom he thereupon presented the cup. The winner
then pledged the health of His Royal Highness and his Duchess, and the
whole squadron sailed to Mr. Smith’s tea-gardens at the Surrey end of
Vauxhall Bridge, then a pleasant rural spot.

The owner of the gardens in question, Mr. Smith, seems to have held the
post of Commodore in the society during the first five years of its
incorporation, and a year or two later his establishment took the name
of the society’s patron, and was thenceforward known as Cumberland
Gardens.

It was the rule, after the annual dinner, for members to adjourn to
Vauxhall, close by, where they finished a jovial evening.

                  *       *       *       *       *

At the present day there exist a multitude of other clubs, but scarcely
any of them come within the scope of this volume—which the writer hopes
may prove not unwelcome both as a record of interesting club possessions
and as a modest contribution to the history of English social life.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                 INDEX


 Addison, Joseph, 19, 33

 Ad Libitum Club, the, 52, 53

 Albion Hotel, the, 3

 Alfred Club, the, 283

 Allen, Lord, 81, 82

 Almack, William, 100

 Almack’s, 95, 100

 Alpine Club, the, 267

 Alvanley, Lord, 79, 80–82, 283

 American clubs, 295, 296

 Amphitryon Club, the, 204–206

 Apollo Club, the, 1

 Arbuthnot, 26

 Archer, Thomas, Lord, 31

 Arlington Club, the (now the Turf Club), 181

 Armstrong, Colonel, 81

 Army and Navy Club, the, 244–251, 256;
   Junior, 256

 Arnold, Samuel James, 39–43

 Arthur, John, 71, 75

 Arthur, Robert, 75

 Arthur’s, 63, 69–71, 144, 145, 148, 256

 Arts Club, the, 294

 Ashburton, Dunning, Lord, 115

 “Asiatic Sundays” at the Athenæum, 280

 Athenæum Club, the, 148, 162, 164, 256, 275–283;
   Junior, 256

 Aubrey, Lieutenant-Colonel, 188

 Aylott, Sir James, 222–223


 Bachelors’ Club, the, 221

 Badminton Club, the, 192

 Baker, Mr., Master of Lloyd’s, 21

 Baldwin Club, the, 189

 Banderet, Henry, 104, 106

 Bath Club, the, 163

 Bathurst, Benjamin, 122

 Batson’s, 9

 Beaconsfield, the Earl of, 278–279

 Beauclerc, Topham, 265, 266

 Beaufort, Henry, Duke of, 66, 67, 165

 Bedford Coffee-house, the, 28

 Bedford, Francis, Duke of, 29

 Beefsteak Club, the first, 19;
   the present, 52, 53, 184

 Beefsteaks, the Sublime Society of, 37–53, 87, 131

 Belfast, Lord, 304

 Bentinck, George (“Big Ben”), 306–307

 Bentinck, Lord George, 160–161

 Bentinck, Lord Henry, 188

 Bessborough, the Earl of, 112, 114

 Black, William, 235, 236

 Blackballing, 160, 164

 “Bloods,” 13

 Bold Bucks, the, 17

 Bolingbroke, Viscount, 26

 Boodle’s (formerly the Savoir Vivre), 63–69, 98, 145, 165

 Booth, Edwin, 295

 Boswell, James, 267

 Bourke, the Hon. Algernon, 50, 85, 86

 Bowes, the late Mr., 56

 Brackley, Lord, 160–161

 Bridge, introduction of, 188

 Bright, John, 235

 British Coffee-house, the, 12

 Broadhurst, Mr., 21

 Brook Club, the (New York), 34

 Brooks’s, 63, 98, 99–122, 129, 145, 189, 256

 Brooks, the proprietor of the club-house, 98, 100, 101, 103, 104

 Brothers’ Club, the, 26

 Brougham, Lord, 120–121, 188



 Brummell, Beau, 78–80, 109–110, 172

 Bucks, the Society of, 33

 Burke, Edmund, 266

 Burlington Fine Arts Club, the, 274–275

 Button’s, 3, 24, 27

 Byerley, Thomas, 12

 Byng, the Hon. Frederick, 121–122

 Byron, Lord, 283


 Caledonian, 256

 Cambridge Beefsteak Club, the, 55

 Camelford, Lord, and the “blood,” 13–14

 Candidates for election, 158

 Cardigan, Lord, 307–308

 Carlton Club, the, 147, 148, 223–225, 256

 Castle Tavern, the, kept by Belcher and Spring, 32

 Cavalry Club, the, 255

 Cavendish, the Hon. Henry, 272–273

 Chapter Coffee-house, the, 9, 10, 11

 Chatterton, 10

 Chelmsford Beefsteak Club, the, 54

 Cheshire Cheese, the, 4–7

 Child’s, 3, 9

 Churchill, Lord Randolph, 224

 Cibber, Colley, 76

 Cider Cellar, the, 31

 City Pickwick Club, the, 20

 Clarke, Chamberlain, 8

 Clarke, Sir Edward, 20

 Club, the first, 1;
   evolution of the, 2;
   increase in the number of clubs, 135;
   change in club-life, 136;
   opposition to improvements, 138;
   washed silver in change, and other customs, 145;
   smoking in clubs, 146;
   strangers visiting clubs, 147;
   bedrooms for members, 151;
   increased comfort, 151–152;
   clubs of to-day and their members, 156;
   elections and committees, 157;
   hall-porters, 174;
   porters’ boxes, 177;
   late sittings, 178;
   the Garrick the “latest” club, 183;
   foreign clubs taxed, 185;
   sporting-club-men, 191;
   decrease in drinking, 192;
   club-men and their foibles, 195–203;
   restaurant clubs, 205;
   registration of clubs, 207

 Club-man, the modern, 139

 Cocoa-tree, the, 1, 3, 63, 128–132

 Coffee-houses, 1, 2, 3

 Colenso, Bishop, 279

 Committee, the club, 158

 Conservative Club, the, 133, 147, 227–228

 Constitutional Club, the, 236

 Cooking, club, 170

 Cosmopolitan Club, the, 267–268

 Coventry, Lord, 215

 Coventry House, 217

 Crockford, Benjamin, 190, 228–232, 254

 Crockford’s, 94, 185, 186, 190–191, 229–232

 Croker, John Wilson, 275

 Crown and Anchor Tavern, 35

 Cunningham, Colonel, 13

 Curtis, Sir William, 302–303


 Daffy Club, the, 32

 Damer, Colonel, 232

 Daniel’s, 9

 Davies’s “Life of Garrick” _quoted_, 76

 Defoe, Daniel, 19

 Devonshire Club, the, 228–232

 Devil Tavern, the, 1

 Dickens and the George and Vulture, 20;
   his chair, 278;
   reconciliation with Thackeray, 280

 Dickens Club, the, 7

 Digby, Sir Kenelm, 31

 Dilettanti Society, 256, 257–263

 Disraeli, Isaac, 278

 Dryden, John, 24, 25, 28

 Dudley, Lord, 35

 Duff, Captain William, 244

 Durnford, Bishop, 279


 East India United Service Club, the, 254–255

 Eccentric members, 198

 Eclipse, the race-horse, 297–298

 Edinburgh Club, the, 59

 Edward VII, King, 165, 204, 205, 219

 Edwards, Mr., and the introduction of coffee-houses, 18

 Elections, 157



 Ellice, Edward, 232

 Elliot, Lettsom, 282

 Essex Head, the, 8

 Estcourt, Richard, 19

 Etiquette at coffee-houses, 17–18

 Evans’s, 31–32

 “Everlasting,” the, 34


 Fines, 182

 Fitzgerald, George Robert, 115–118

 FitzHarris, Lord, 302

 Foote, Samuel, 28–29

 Forrest’s, 3

 Fox, Charles James, 102, 106, 111, 120, 125–127

 Fox Club, the, 124, 126–127

 Francis, Sir Philip, 110–111

 Fraser, Sir William, 283


 Gambling, French and English, 185–187

 Gambling clubs, 185–188

 Gardner, Mr. John, 19

 Garraway’s Coffee-house, 3, 12, 21–23

 Garrick, David, 28–29, 37, 265, 288–290

 Garrick Club, the, 148, 183, 193, 256, 285–294

 Garth, Dr. Samuel, 271

 Garway, Thomas, 22

 Gay, 26

 Gayner, the late Mr., 65–68

 George III, King, 3

 George IV, King, 99, 111–114, 133, 171, 173, 302–303

 George and Vulture, the first coffee-house, 18, 19, 20

 George’s, 9

 Giles’s, 3

 Gladstone, W. E., 107, 166, 239, 257

 Golden Fleece Club, the, 34

 Goldsmid, Sir Julian, 219

 Goldsmith, Oliver, 10, 266

 Goosetree’s, 98, 109

 Graham’s Club, 188

 Granville, Lord, 108

 Great Bottle Club, the, 33

 Greaves, Samuel, 8

 Grecian, the, 3

 Green, John, 31–32

 Greville, Charles, 160–161

 Gronow’s “Reminiscences” _quoted_, 137

 Groom’s, 19

 Guards’ Club, the, 148, 253–254, 256

 Guests, 147, 148

 Gurney, Hudson, 58

 Gwynn, Nell, 247


 Haggis Club, the, 59

 Haines, Thomas, 27–28

 Hall-porter, the, 174

 Hamlin’s, 9

 Hammond, Mr., 11

 Hawkins, Sir John, 265

 Hayward, Abraham, 279

 Heidegger, John James, 71–74

 Hell-Fires, the, 17, 19

 Hill, Thomas, 292–293

 Hogarth, William, 19, 29, 37, 289

 Hole-in-the-Wall Club, the, 57

 Hood, Tom, _quoted_, 150

 Hook, Theodore, _quoted_, 143, 179, 189, 210, 279–280

 House-dinners, 145, 146

 Humbugs, the, 33

 Hunlock, Sir Hugh, 215

 Hurst, Thomas, 289


 Irving, Sir Henry, 20, 281

 Isthmian Club, the, 219–220


 “Je ne sçai quoi” Club, the, 33

 Jerdan, William, 42

 Jockey Club, the, 297–299

 Johnson, Dr., 2, 4, 5–8, 149, 151, 221, 265, 289

 Johnson Club, the, 6–7

 Jonathan’s, 3, 12

 Jones, Inigo, 29

 Jonson, Ben, 1, 4

 Junior Athenæum Club, the, 256

 Junior Carlton Club, the, 147, 173, 226–227, 256

 Junior Constitutional Club, the, 236

 Junior Naval and Military Club, the, 253

 Junior United Service Club, the, 244, 251, 256


 Kemble, John, 32, 49

 Kemble, John Philip, 288

 King of Clubs, the, 34

 Kinglake, Alexander, 281

 King’s Coffee-house, 29

 King’s Head, the, 7

 Kit-Kat Club, the, 270

 Kneller, Sir Godfrey, 29–30


 Lade, Sir John, 126

 Lambs’ Club, the (New York), 296

 Landseer, Sir Edwin, 281

 Late sittings, 178

 Lawn-market Club, the, 59

 Leech, John, 20

 Leinster, the Duke of, 39

 Lely, Sir Peter, 29

 Lewis, T., 25

 Lindley, Ozias, 57

 Literary Club, the, 263–267

 Little-man’s Coffee-house, 12

 Lloyd’s Coffee-house, 21

 Locker, Frederick, 63

 London Coffee-house, the, 20

 Lotus Club, the, 220

 Low, David, 30, 31

 Lowther, Sir James, 9

 Lying Club, the, 33


 Macaulay, Lord, 278

 M’Clean, the highwayman, 94

 Macklin, Charles, 288

 Mackreth, Sir Robert, 91, 129

 Maison Dorée Club, the, 206

 Malcolm, Sir John, 212–213

 Manning, Cardinal, 279

 Marlborough Club, the, 147, 218–219

 Martindale, John, 77

 Mathews, Charles, 286–287

 Mermaid Tavern, the, 1

 Miles and Evans’s, 98

 Military clubs, 240

 Mills, Pemberton, 80

 Mitre Tavern, 6, 8

 Montagu, the Duke of, 72–74

 Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley, 270–271

 Montfort, Lord, 90–91, 94

 Morris, Charles, 47–50

 “Mug-house clubs,” 24

 Murphy, Arthur, 290


 Nando’s, 3

 Napoleon III, the Emperor, 82, 248–249

 National Club, the, 237–238

 National Liberal Club, the, 195, 236

 National Sporting Club, the, 32

 Naval and Military Club, the, 251–253, 256

 Norfolk, Charles, eleventh Duke of, 46–50, 131–132

 Northumberland, the Countess of, 77

 North’s, 9


 Octagon rooms at St. James’s Club, 217;
   at Naval and Military, 252

 October Club, the, 34

 Odd Fellows’ Club, 33

 O’Kelly, Colonel, 298–299

 Oldfield, Mrs., 290–291

 Old Man’s Coffee-house, 3, 12

 Old Slaughter’s, 3

 Orford, the Earl of (Admiral Russell), 31

 Oriental Club, the, 211–215

 Orleans Club, the, 221

 Orsay, Count d’, 82, 86

 Osborne, Bernal, 236

 “Ourselves,” 7

 Oxford, Robert Harley, Earl of, 26

 Oxford and Cambridge Club, the, 148, 238–239, 240

 Oxford and Cambridge New University Club, the, 245

 Ozinda’s, 3


 Past Overseers’ Society, the, 59–62

 Pattison, Mark, 278

 Payn, James, 235, 236

 Peele’s Coffee-house, 8

 Pelham, Henry, 94

 Percival, the late Mr., 83, 84

 “Percy Anecdotes,” the, 13

 Percy Coffee-house, the, 12

 Permanent official, the, 195–197

 Piazza Coffee-house, the, 30

 Pilgrims, the Society of, 33

 Pinche’s School, Dr., 20

 Pitt, William, 99

 Players’ Club, the (New York), 295–296

 Pon’s Coffee-house, 14

 Pope, Alexander, 25, 26

 Porters’ boxes, 177

 Portland Club, the, 188

 Pratt’s, 36



 Prince of Wales Coffee-house, the, 13

 Pulteney, William (afterwards Earl of Bath), 89–90

 Purl Drinkers, the, 33


 Queen’s Arms, the, 8

 Queensberry, the Marquis of, 230–231


 Radcliffe, Dr., 29–30

 Raggett, father and son, 77, 78, 83, 222

 Raikes, Dandy, 120

 Rainbow, the (now Groom’s), 19

 Raleigh Club, the, 192

 Reform Club, the, 232–236

 Restaurant clubs, 204

 Revett, Nicholas, 258

 Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 265

 Rich, Henry, 37

 Rivers, Lord, 93

 Robertson, Joseph, 13

 Robin’s, 12

 Rogers, Samuel, 35

 Rosee, Pasqua, 18, 19

 Roxburghe Club, the, 268–269

 Royal Cork Yacht Club, the, 308

 Royal Exchange, the, 11, 12

 Royal Naval Club, 255

 Royal Societies’ Club, the, 273–274

 Royal Society Club, the, 272–273

 Royal Thames Yacht Club, the, 310

 Royal Yacht Squadron, 299–308

 Rules and regulations, 167–170

 Rump Steak Club, 7


 St. Dunstan’s, 7

 St. James’ Club, the, 184, 215–218, 256

 St. James’ Coffee-house, 3

 St. Leger, Colonel, 119–120

 Sala, George Augustus, his definition of “club,” 135, 235, 294

 Salisbury, Lord, 226

 Salting, George, 134

 Samsonic Society, the, 33

 Savage Club, the, 294

 Savile Club, the, 284

 Savoir Vivre, the (now Boodle’s), 65

 Sawdust Club, 7

 Scott, General, 94–95

 Scriblerus Club, the, 26

 Selwyn, George, 95–97, 109, 112–114, 130–131

 Shakespeare, 1, 4

 Shand, the hall-porter at the Turf Club, 174

 Shenstone, 9

 Sheridan, R. B., 30, 111–115, 133

 Silver, change given in washed, 145

 Simpson, William, 6

 Smith, Bobus, 34–35

 Smith, Major-General (“Hyder Ali”), 111

 Smith, Tippoo, 111

 Smoking in taverns and clubs, 4, 146, 281, 283–284

 Smyrna, the, 3, 12

 Snuff-boxes formerly in clubs, 146

 Soaping Club, the Edinburgh, 59

 “Social Villagers,” the, 34

 Soyer, Alexis, 233–235

 Spencer, Herbert, 282–283

 Spenser, Edmund, 34

 Spring, Samuel, 173

 Steele, Sir Richard, 19, 75, 271

 Stepney, Sir Thomas, 119–120, 171

 Stewart, Admiral Keith, 115–117

 Strangers in clubs, 147

 Stuart, James, 258

 Sunday at clubs, 194

 Supper clubs, 207

 Sussex, the Duke of, 38–41

 Swift, Jonathan, 19, 25, 26, 27

 Sydney, Viscount, 100

 Sylvester, Joshua, 4


 Tatham, Dr., 279

 _Tatler_, the, _quoted_, 23, 75

 Taylor, William, 58

 Taxes on club funds in France and Germany, 185

 Temperance, growth of, 193–194

 Thackeray _quoted_, 150, 211, 212, 235, 278, 280

 Thatched House Club, the, 131–134

 Thatched House Tavern, the, 256, 260, 263, 300

 The Club, 263–267

 Thespian Club, the, 33

 Thornhill, Sir James, 30

 Thrale, Henry, 8, 265

 Tobacco-box belonging to Past Overseers of St. Margaret’s, Westminster,
    59–62



 Todd, Harry, 6

 Tom’s, 2, 3, 12, 24, 28

 Tourville, Admiral de, 31

 Travellers’ Club, the, 148, 162, 163, 209–211, 256

 Truby’s, 3

 True Blue Club, the, 56

 Turf Club, the, 162, 174, 181, 184, 218, 256, 263

 Tyrawley, Lord, and the Frenchmen, 14–17


 Ude, Louis Eustache, 230, 231, 232

 Union Club, the, 222

 United Service Club, the (at first the General Military Club), 240–244,
    251, 256

 United University Club, the, 239, 240

 Uxbridge, Lord, 301–302


 Vernon, Admiral, 21

 Visitors in clubs, 147


 Walpole, Horace, _quoted_, 77, 87, 128, 129, 259

 Walpole, Sir Robert, 21, 89–90

 “Water Club,” the, 309

 Watier’s Club, 171–172

 Webster, Sir Whistler, 77, 83

 Wellington, the Duke of, 86

 Wellington Club, the, 222

 West, Benjamin, 288

 West, James, 31

 West, Thomas (proprietor of Tom’s), 24–25

 Wet Paper Club, the, 11

 Whistler, 53

 White, Francis, 71

 White, Mrs., 71, 74, 75

 White’s, 2, 3, 50, 69–71, 74–98, 99, 129, 144, 145, 146, 165, 169, 189,
    191, 256

 Wilberforce, Samuel, 109

 Wilbraham, Roger, 110–111

 Wilkes, John, 19, 37

 Will’s, 3, 12, 24, 25, 28

 Windham, William, 220–221

 Windham Club, the, 220


 Yarborough, Lord, 302, 305

 York, Frederick, Duke of, 99, 119–120

 Young Man’s Coffee-house, 3, 12


 Zoffany, 29


                                THE END




              BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD


------------------------------------------------------------------------




 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.
    ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).