Pope was cut adrift from Button's through the controversy as to

which was the better version of the Iliad, his or Tickell's. As the

latter belonged to the Addisonian circle, the opinion at Button's

turned in favour of his version, especially as Addison himself

thought Tickell had more of Homer than Pope. This ended Pope's

patronage of Button's, and, indeed, it was not long ere the glory it

had known began to wane. Various causes combined to take away one

and another of its leading spirits, and when the much-talked-of

Daniel Button passed away in 1730 it was to a pauper's grave. Yet

farewell of so famous a house should not be made with so melancholy

a story. There is a brighter page in its history, which dates three

years earlier. Aaron Hill had been so moved by the misfortunes of

his brother poet, Richard Savage, that he had penned an appeal on

his behalf and arranged for subscriptions for a volume of his poems.

The subscriptions were to be left at Button's, and when Savage

called there a few days later he found a sum of seventy guineas

awaiting him. Hill may, as has been asserted, have been a bore of

the first water, but that kindly deed may stand him in stead of

genius.

CHAPTER IV.

FURTHER WEST.

Several favourite coffee-houses might once have been found in the

neighbourhood of Charing Cross. One of these bore the name of the

Cannon and was much frequented by John Philpot Curran, of whom it

was said "there never was so honest an Irishman," and Sir Jonas

Barrington, that other Irish judge who was at first intended for the

army, but who, on learning that the regiment to which he might be

appointed was likely to be sent to America for active service,

declined the commission, and requested that it might be bestowed on

"some hardier soldier." Evidently Sir Jonas desired no further

acquaintance with cannon than was involved in visiting the

coffee-house of that name. The legend is that he and Curran affected

one particular box at the end of the room, where they might be seen

almost any day.

[Illustration: BRITISH COFFEE-HOUSE.]

In the same vicinity, but close to the Thames-side, was the

coffee-house kept by Alexander Man, and known as Man's. The

proprietor had the distinction of being appointed "coffee, tea, and

chocolate-maker" to William III, which gave him a place in the vast

army of "By Appointment" tradesmen, and resulted further in his

establishment being sometimes described as the Royal Coffee-house.

This resort had a third title, Old Man's Coffee-house, to

distinguish it from the Young Man's, which was situated on the other

side of the street.

Of greater note than any of these was the British coffee-house which

stood in Cockspur Street. There is a record of its existence in

1722, and in 1759 it was presided over by the sister of Bishop

Douglas, who was described as "a person of excellent manners and

abilities." She was succeeded by a Mrs. Anderson, on whom the

enoomium was passed that she was "a woman of uncommon talents and

the most agreeable conversation." As the names of these ladies

suggest, they were of Scottish birth, and hence it is not surprising

to learn that their house was greatly in favour among visitors from

north of the Tweed. That the Scottish peers were sometimes to be

found here in great numbers is the only conclusion to be drawn from

an incident recorded by Horace Walpole. There was a motion before

the House of Lords for which the support of the Scots was required,

and the Duke of Bedford wrote to sixteen of their number to solicit

their votes, enclosing all the letters under one cover directed to

the British coffee-house. It was under this roof, too, that the

Scottish club called The Beeswing used to meet, one of whose members

was Lord Campbell, that legal biographer who shared with most of his

countrymen the ability of "getting on." The club in question

consisted of about ten members, and the agreement was to meet once a

month at the British coffee-house to dine and drink port wine. The

other members included Spankie, Dr. Haslam, author of several works

on insanity, Andrew Grant, a merchant of considerable literary

acquirements, and George Gordon, known about town as "the man of

wit." The conversation is described as being as good as any to be

enjoyed anywhere in the London of that day, and the drinking was

voted "tremendous." The last-named fact is one illustration out of

many that during the latter years of their existence the

coffee-houses of London did not by any means confine their liquors

to the harmless beverage from which they took their name.

[Illustration: SLAUGHTER'S COFFEE-HOUSE.]

Among the earliest coffee-houses to be established in the West-end

of London was that opened by Thomas Slaughter in St. Martin's Lane

in 1692 and known as Slaughter's. It remained under the oversight of

Mr. Slaughter until his death in 1740, and continued to enjoy a

prosperous career for nearly a century longer, when the house was

torn down. The bulk of its customers were artists, and the famous

men numbered among them included Wilkie, Wilson, and Roubiliac. But

the most pathetic figure associated with its history is that of

Abraham De Moivre, that French mathematician who became the friend

of Newton and Leibnite. Notwithstanding his wonderful abilities he

was driven to support himself by the meagre pittances earned by

teaching and by solving problems in chess at Slaughter's. In his

last days sight and hearing both failed, and he finally died of

somnolence, twenty hours' sleep becoming habitual with him. By the

time of De Moivre's death, or shortly after, the character of the

frequenters of Slaughter's underwent a change, for when Goldsmith

alluded to the house in 1758 it was to make the remark that if a man

were passionate "he may vent his rage among the old orators at

Slaughter's Coffee-house, and damn the nation, because it keeps him

from starving."

Politics and literature were the topics most under discussion at the

Smyrna coffee-house which had its location on the north side of Pall

Mall. It makes its appearance in an early number of the Tatler,

where reference is made to "that cluster of wise heads" that might

be found "sitting every evening from the left hand side of the fire,

at the Smyrna, to the door." Five months later Steele entered into

fuller particulars.

"This is to give notice," he wrote, "to all ingenious gentlemen in

and about the cities of London and Westminster, who have a mind to

be instructed in the noble sciences of music, poetry, and politics,

that they repair to the Smyrna coffee-house in Pall-mall, betwixt

the hours of eight and ten at night, where they may be instructed

gratis, with elaborate essays, by word of mouth on all or any of the

above-mentioned arts. The disciples are to prepare their bodies with

three dishes of bohea, and purge their brains with two pinches of

snuff. If any young student gives indication of parts, by listening

attentively, or asking a pertinent question, one of the professors

shall distinguish him, by taking snuff out of his box in the

presence of the whole audience." And the further direction is given

that "the seat of learning is now removed from the corner of the

chimney on the left towards the window, to the round table in the

middle of the floor over against the fire; a revolution much

lamented by the porters and chairmen, who were much edified through

a pane of glass that remained broken all last summer."

That Steele and Addison knew their Smyrna well may be inferred from

their familiar references to the house, and there are equal proofs

that Swift and Prior were often within its doors. The Journal to

Stella has many references to visits from the poet and the satirist,

such as, "The evening was fair, and I walked a little in the Park

till Prior made me go with him to the Smyrna Coffee-house, where I

sat a while, and saw four or five Irish persons, who are very

handsome, genteel fellows, but I know not their names." From Prior's

pen there is an allusion to be found in the manuscripts of the

Marquis of Bath in a letter the poet addressed to Lord Harley from

London in the winter of 1719. Prior was lying low on that visit to

town, for the main purpose of his presence was medicinal. "I have

only seen Brown, the surgeon," he writes, "to whom, I have made an

_auricular confession_, and from him have received _extreme

unction_, and applied it, which may soften the obduracy of my

ear, and make it capable of receiving the impression of ten thousand

lies which will be poured into it as soon as I shall take my seat at

the Smyrna."

Two other figures not unknown to fame haunt the shades of the

Smyrna, Beau Nash and Thomson of the "Seasons." It is Goldsmith who

tells of the first that he used to idle for a day at a time in the

window of the Smyrna to receive a bow from the Prince of Wales or

the Duchess of Marlborough as they drove by; and of the second is it

not on record that he in person took subscriptions at the Smyrna for

the "Four Seasons?"

In the Cocoa-Tree Club of to-day may be found the direct

representative of the most famous Tory chocolate-house of the reign

of Queen Anne. It had its headquarters first in Pall Mall, but

removed not long after to St. James's Street, the Mecca of clubland

at the present time. Perhaps the best picture of the house and its

ways is that given by Gibbon, who in his journal for November 24th,

1762, wrote: "I dined at the Cocoa-Tree with ------, who, under a

great appearance of oddity, conceals more real humour, good sense,

and even knowledge, than half those who laugh at him. We went thence

to the play, the 'Spanish Friar,' and when it was over, retired to

the Cocoa-Tree. That respectable body, of which I have the honour of

being a member, affords every evening a sight truly English; twenty,

or perhaps thirty, of the first men in the kingdom in point of

fashion and fortune, supping at little tables covered with a napkin

in the middle of a coffee room, upon a bit of cold meat or a

sandwich, and drinking a glass of punch. At present we are full of

King's Councillors and Lords of the Bedchamber, who, having jumped

into the ministry, make a very singular medley of their old

principles and language with their modern one." It is easy to infer

from Gibbon's account, what was a fact, that by his time the house

had been turned into a club, the use of which was restricted to

members, as at the present time. The change was made before 1746,

when the Cocoa-Tree was the rendezvous of the Jacobites. One of the

most curious features of the present premises is a carved palm-tree

which is thrust up through the centre of the front rooms on the

first and second floors. What its age is no one knows, nor who was

responsible for the freak of botanical knowledge implied by

utilizing a palm-tree as symbolical of cocoa.

Soon after the transformation of the house into a club it became

notorious for the high play which went on under the shadow of the

palm-tree. Walpole, for example, tells the story of a gamble between

an Irish gamester named O'Birne and a young midshipman named Harvey

who had just fallen heir to a large estate by his brother's death.

The stake was for one hundred thousand pounds, and when O'Birne won

he said, "You can never pay me." But the youth replied, "I can, my

estate will sell for the debt." O'Birne, however, had some scruples

left, so said he would be content with ten thousand pounds, and

suggested another throw for the balance. This time Harvey won, and

it would be interesting to know that the lesson had not been lost.

But Walpole does not throw any light on that matter.

Another lively scene took place under the palm-tree of the

Cocoa-Tree late in the eighteenth century. The principal figure on

that occasion was Henry Bate, that militant editor of the Morning

Post whose duel at the Adelphi has already been recorded. It seems

that Mr. Bate, who, by the way, held holy orders, and eventually

became a baronet under the name of Dudley, was at Vauxhall one

evening with a party of ladies, when Fighting Fitzgerald and several

companions met them and indulged in insults. An exchange of cards

followed, and a meeting was arranged for the following morning at

the Cocoa-Tree to settle details of the inevitable duel. Fitzgerald,

however, was late, and by the time he arrived apologies had been

tendered and accepted by Mr. Bate. When Fitzgerald arrived on the

scene with a Captain Miles he insisted on a boxing-match with the

supposed captain, who, he affirmed, had been among the assailants of

the previous night. Mr. Bate objected, inasmuch as he did not

recognize Mr. Miles, and moreover scouted the indignity of settling

such a matter with fists. He was willing to decide the dispute with

sword or pistol. Fitzgerald, however, roused Bate's ire by dubbing

him a coward. After that it did not take many minutes to form a ring

under the shade of the palm-tree, and in less than a quarter of an

hour the "coward" had pulverized Captain Miles in an eminently

satisfactory manner.

Earlier and more sedate references to the Cocoa-Tree are in

existence, There is, for example, a letter from General William

Stewart, of October 27th, 1716, addressed to the father of William

Pitt, placing this incident on record: "The other night, at the

Cocoa-Tree, I saw Colonel Pitt and your brother-in-law Chomeley. The

former made me a grave bow without speaking, which example I

followed. I suppose he is directed to take no notice of me." Nor

should the lively episode placed to the credit of a spark of the

town in 1726 be overlooked. "The last masquerade," says a letter of

that period, "was fruitful of quarrels. Young Webb had quarrelled at

the Cocoa-Tree with Oglethorp, and struck him with his cane; they

say the quarrel was made up." But "Young Webb" was evidently

spoiling that night for more adventures, for while still in his cups

he went to the masquerade and, meeting a German who had a mask with

a great nose, he asked him what he did with such an ornament, pulled

it off and slapped his face. "He was carried out by six grenadiers,"

is the terse climax of the story.

Florio was, of course, a frequenter of the Cocoa-Tree. And that his

manners there as elsewhere must have been familiar is illustrated by

the fact that one of the waiters addressed an epistle to him in the

following terms: "Sam, the waiter at the Cocoa-Tree, presents his

compliments to the Prince of Wales." The rebuke was characteristic:

"You see, Sam, this may be very well between you and me, but it

would never do with the Norfolks and Arundels!"

Of course the house has its George Selwyn story. An American captain

began it by asserting that in his country hot and cold springs were

often found side by side, which was convenient, for fish could be

caught in the one and boiled in the other in a few minutes. The

story was received as belonging to the "tall" order, until Selwyn

gravely accepted it as true, because at Auvergne he had met a

similar experience, with the addition that there was a third spring

which supplied parsley and butter for the sauce.

Just as the Tories were faithful to the Cocoa-Tree, so the Whigs

were stout in their loyalty to the St. James's coffee-house nearby.

This was the resort named by Steele as the origin of the political

news served up in the Tatler, and it was favoured with many

references in the Spectator of Addison, The latter gives an amusing

account of a general shiftround of the servants of the house owing

to the resignation of one of their number, and in a later paper,

devoted to coffee-house speculations on the death of the King of

France, he gives the place of honour to the Whig resort as providing

the most reliable information. "That I might be as near the

fountain-head as possible, I first of all called at St. James's,

where I found the whole outward room in a buzz of politics. The

speculations were but very indifferent towards the door, but grew

finer as you advanced to the upper end of the room, and were so very

much improved by a knot of theorists, who sat in the inner room,

within the steams of the coffee-pot, that I there heard the whole

Spanish monarchy disposed of, and all the line of Bourbon provided

for in less than a quarter of an hour."

Politics, however, did not claim all the interest of the frequenters

of the St. James's. Verdicts were passed upon the literary products

of the day in much the same manner as at Button's, and it should not

be forgotten that Goldsmith's "Retaliation" had its origin at a

meeting at this house.

[Illustration: OLD PALACE YARD, WESTMINSTER]

To judge from their present-day dignified appearance, no one would

imagine that the Old Palace and the New Palace Yards at Westminster

ever tolerated such mundane things as coffee-houses and taverns

within their precincts. The evidence of history, however, shows that

at one time there were numerous establishments of both kinds

situated under the shadow of Westminster Hall and the Abbey. A

drawing not more than a century old shows several such buildings,

and the records of the city enumerate public houses of the sign of

the Coach and Horses, and the Royal Oak, and the White Rose as being

situated in the Old Palace Yard, while the coffee-houses there

included Waghorne's and Oliver's. Nor was it different with New

Palace Yard. In the latter were to be found Miles's coffee-house and

the Turk's Head, both associated with James Harrington, that early

republican whose "Oceana" got him into so much trouble. One story

credits Cromwell with having seized the manuscript of that work, and

with its restoration having been effected by Elizabeth Clay-pole,

the favourite daughter of the Protector, whom Harrington is said to

have playfully threatened with the theft of her child if her father

did not restore his. The author of "Oceana" seems to have thought

the occasion of Cromwell's death a favourable one for the discussion

of his political theories, and hence the Rota club he founded, which

used to meet at Miles's. Aubrey gives a vivid account of the room at

the coffee-house where the club met, with its "large oval-table,

with a passage in the middle for Miles to deliver his coffee. About

it sat his disciples and the virtuosi. Here we had (very formally) a

ballotting box, and ballotted how things should be carried by way of

Tentamens. The room was every evening full as it could be crammed."

But when it became obvious that the Restoration would soon be an

accomplished fact the meetings at Miles's came to a sudden end. And

shortly after, Harrington was committed to the Tower to meditate

upon ideal commonwealths amid less congenial surroundings.

Westminster Hall itself had a coffee-house at the beginning of the

last century. It was named Alice's, presumably after the proprietor,

and was on one occasion the scene of a neat version of the

confidence trick. The coffee-house was used almost entirely by

barristers engaged in the different courts of law then held in

Westminster Hall, and they availed themselves of the house for

robing before going to the courts, and as the storeroom of their

wigs and gowns when the business of the day was ended. Armed with

this knowledge, a needy individual by the name of William Lill

applied to the waiter at Alice's, and made a request for a Mr.

Clarke's gown and wig, saying that he had been sent by a well-known

lawyers' wig-maker and dresser. It happened, however, that Mr.

Clarke's clerk had a little before fetched away the wig and gown Mr.

Lill was so anxious to receive. But when the waiter imparted that

information he did not lose his self-possession. He also wanted, he

said, Mr. Ellison's wig and gown. Taken with the man's knowledge of

the barrister's names, the waiter not only handed over the wig and

gown, but also informed the obliging Mr. Lill that when Mr. Ellison

was last in court he had left his professional coat and waistcoat at

the coffee-house; perhaps Mr. Lill would take those too. Mr. Lill

readily obliged, and disappeared. Later in the day the waiter's wits

began to work. Being, too, in the neighbourhood of the wig-maker's

shop, it occurred to him to drop in. There he learnt that no Mr.

Lill had been sent for any wigs or gowns. The alarmed waiter next

proceeded to Mr. Ellison's office, to learn there that no messenger

had been sent to Alice's. At this stage the waiter, as he

subsequently confessed, had no doubt but that Mr. Lill was "an

impostor." Mr. Lill was more. He was courageous. Having secured his

prey so simply on the one day, he came back on another, trusting, no

doubt, that his waiter friend would be as obliging as before. But it

was not to be; a few questions confirmed the waiter's suspicions

that Mr. Lill really was "an impostor;" and a police-officer

finished the story. One feels rather sorry for Mr. Lill. Of course

it was wrong of him to annex those wigs and gowns, and sell them for

theatrical "properties," but it is impossible not to admire the

pluck of a man who stole from a lawyer in the precincts of a

lawcourt. Alice's deserves immortality if only for having been the

scene of that unique exploit.

By far the most curious of the coffee-houses of old London was that

known as Don Saltero's at Chelsea. There was nothing of the don

really about the proprietor, whose unadorned name was James Salter.

The prefix and the affix were bestowed by one of his customers,

Vice-Admiral Munden, who, having cruised much upon the coast of

Spain, acquired a weakness for Spanish titles, and bestowed a

variant of one on the Chelsea coffee-house keeper.

That same Mr. Salter was an odd character. Not content with serving

dishes of coffee, nor with drawing people's teeth and cutting their

hair, he indulged in attempts at fiddle-playing and set up a museum

in his house.

[Illustration: DON SALTERO'S COFFEE-HOUSE.]

Steele's description of a visit to this manysided resort is by far

the best picture of its owner and its contents. "When I came into

the coffee-house," he wrote, "I had not time to salute the company,

before my eye was diverted by ten thousand gimcracks round the room,

and on the ceiling. When my first astonishment was over, comes to me

a sage of thin and meagre countenance; which, aspect made me doubt,

whether reading or fretting had made it so philosophic: but I very

soon perceived him to be of that sect which the ancients call

Gingivistæ; in our language, tooth-drawers. I immediately had a

respect for the man; for these practical philosophers go upon a very

rational hypothesis, not to cure, but to take away the part

affected." And then follows that delightful dissertation which

linked Mr. Salter in the line of succession with the barber of Don

Quixote. But Steele could not forgive the Chelsea barber and

coffee-house keeper one thing. "I cannot allow the liberty he takes

of imposing several names (without my license) on the collections he

has made, to the abuse of the good people of England; one of which

is particularly calculated to deceive religious persons, to the

great scandal of the well-disposed, and may introduce heterodox

opinions. He shews you a straw hat, which I know to be made by Madge

Peskad, within three miles of Bedford; and tells you, 'It is Pontius

Pilate's wife's chambermaid's sister's hat.' To my knowledge of this

very hat it may be added, that the covering of straw was never used

among the Jews, since it was demanded of them to make bricks without

it."

Don Saltero had a poetic catalogue of his curiosities, of which one

verse ran:

"Monsters of all sorts here are seen,

Strange things in nature as they grew so;

Some relics of the Sheba Queen,

And fragments of the famed Bob Crusoe."

These treasures, however, could not avert the fate which was due to

befall the house on January 8th, 1799, when the lease of the

building and all within were disposed of by public sale. A

philosophic journalist, not possessing Steele's sense of humour,

gravely remarked of the Don's gimcracks that they, with kindred

collections, helped to cherish the infancy of science, and deserved

to be appreciated as the playthings of a boy after he is arrived at

maturity. Happily the Don himself did not survive to see his

precious treasures fetch less than ten shillings a-piece.

III.

THE CLUBS OF OLD LONDON.

CHAPTER I.

LITERARY.

Pending the advent of a philosophical historian who will explain the

psychological reason why the eighteenth century was distinguished

above all others in the matter of clubs, the fact is to be noted in

all its baldness that the majority of those institutions which are

famous in the annals of old London had their origin during that

hundred years. One or two were of earlier date, but those which made

a noise in the world and which for the most part survive to the

present time were founded at the opening of the eighteenth century

or later in its course.

Although the exact date of the establishment of the Kit-Cat club has

never been decided, the consensus of opinion fixes the year

somewhere about 1700. More debatable, however, is the question of

its peculiar title. The most recent efforts to solve that riddle

leave it where the contemporary epigram left it:

"Whence deathless Kit-Cat took his name,

Few critics can unriddle;

Some say from pastry-cook it came,

And some from Cat and Fiddle.

From no trim beaus its name it boasts,

Gray statesmen or green wits;

But from this pell-mell pack of toasts

Of old Cats and young Kits."

Equally undecided is the cause of its origin. Ned Ward, however, had

no doubts on that score. That exceedingly frank and coarse historian

of the clubs of London attributed the origin of the club to the

astuteness of Jacob Tonson the publisher. That "amphibious mortal,"

according to Ward, having a sharp eye to his own interests,

"wriggled himself into the company of a parcel of poetical young

sprigs, who had just weaned themselves of their mother university"

and, having more wit, than experience, "put but a slender value, as

yet, upon their maiden performances." Paced with this golden

opportunity to attach a company of authors to his establishment, the

alert Tonson baited his trap with mutton pies. In other words,

according to Ward, he invited the poetical young sprigs to a

"collation of oven-trumpery" at the establishment of one named

Christopher, for brevity called Kit, who was an expert in pastry

delicacies. The ruse succeeded; the poetical young sprigs came in a

band; they enjoyed their pies; and when Tonson proposed a weekly

meeting of a similar kind, on the understanding that the poetical

young sprigs "would do him the honour to let him have the refusal of

all their juvenile products," there was no dissentient voice. And

thus the Kit-Cat club came into life.

Some grains of truth may be embedded in this fanciful narrative.

Perhaps the inception of the club may have been due to Tonson's

astuteness from a business point of view; but at an early stage of

the history of the club it became a more formidable institution. Its

membership quickly comprised nearly fifty nobles and gentlemen and

authors, all of whom found a bond of interest in their profession of

Whig principles and devotion to the House of Hanover, shortly to be

established on the throne of England in the person of George I.

Indeed, one poetical epigram on the institution specifically

entitles it the "Hanover Club."

It seems that the earliest meetings of the club were held at an

obscure tavern in Shire Lane, which no longer exists, but ran

parallel with Chancery Lane near Temple-bar. This was the tavern

kept by Christopher Cat, and when he removed to the Fountain tavern

in the Strand the club accompanied. Its principle place of meeting,

however, was at the mansion of Tonson at Barn Elms, where a room was

specially built for its accommodation. The dimensions of this room

were responsible for the application of the term Kit-Cat to

portraits of a definite size. Thus, on the suggestion of Tonson the

portraits of the members were painted by Sir Godfrey Kneller for the

bookseller, but as the walls of the room at Barn Elms were not lofty

enough to accommodate full-lengths, the painter reverted to a canvas

measuring thirty-six by twenty-eight inches, a size of portrait

which preserves the name of Kit-Cat to this day.

Apart from its influence on the nomenclature of art, the club is

memorable for the additions it caused to be made to the poetic

literature of England. One of the customs of the club was to toast

the reigning beauties of the day regularly after dinner, and the

various poets among its members were called upon to cast those

toasts in the form of verse, which were afterwards engraved on the

toasting-glasses of the club. Addison was responsible for one of

those tributes, his theme being the Lady Manchester:

"While haughty Gallia's dames, that spread

O'er their pale cheeks an artful red,

Beheld this beauteous stranger there,

In native charms divinely fair;

Confusion in their looks they show'd;

And with unborrow'd blushes glow'd."

But the Earl of Halifax and Sir Samuel Garth were the most prolific

contributors to Kit-Cat literature, the former being responsible for

six and the latter for seven poetical toasts. For the Duchess of St.

Albans, Halifax wrote this tribute:

"The line of Vere, so long renown'd in arms,

Concludes with lustre in St. Albans charms.

Her conquering eyes have made their race complete;

They rose in valour, and in beauty set."

To the Duchess of Beaufort these lines were addressed:

"Offspring of a tuneful sire,

Blest with more than mortal fire;

Likeness of a mother's face,

Blest with more than mortal grace;

You with double charms surprise,

With his wit, and with her eyes."

Next came the turn of Lady Mary Churchill:

"Fairest and latest of the beauteous race,

Blest with your parent's wit, and her first blooming face;

Born with our liberties in William's reign,

Your eyes alone that liberty restrain."

Other ladies celebrated by Halifax included the Duchess of Richmond,

Lady Sutherland, and Mademoiselle Spanheime. To Garth fell the task

of singing the attractions of Lady Carlisle, Lady Essex, Lady Hyde,

and Lady Wharton, the first three have two toasts each. Perhaps the

most successful of his efforts was the toast to Lady Hyde.

"The god of wine grows jealous of his art,

He only fires the head, but Hyde the heart.

The queen of love looks on, and smiles to see

A nymph more mighty than a deity."

Whether the businesslike Tonson derived much profit from his

contract with the poetical young sprigs does not transpire; it is of

moment, however, to recall that the members of the club did

something to encourage literature. They raised a sum of four hundred

guineas to be offered as prizes for the best comedies. It may be

surmised that Thomas D'Urfey stood no chance of winning any of those

prizes, for he was too much of a Tory to please the Kit-Cat members.

Hence the story which tells how the members requested Mr. Cat to

bake some of his pies with D'Urfey's works under them. And when they

complained that the pies were not baked enough, the pastrycook made

the retort that D'Urfey's works were so cold that the dough could

not bake for them.

For all their devotion to literature, the Kit-Cats did not forget to

eat, drink, and be merry. That their gatherings were convivial

enough is illustrated by the anecdote of Sir Samuel Garth, physician

to George I as well as poet. He protested at one meeting that he

would have to leave early to visit his patients. But the evening

wore on and still he stayed, until at length Steele reminded him of

his engagements. Whereupon Garth pulled out a list of fifteen

patients, and remarked, "It matters little 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 no doctors are needed by them." It is to be hoped that the

bottle had not circulated so freely on that evening when the little

girl who afterwards became Lady Mary Wortley Montagu was ushered

into the presence of the members. Her proud father, Lord Kingston,

nominated her as a toast, but as the members protested that they did

not know her, the child was sent for on the spot. On her arrival the

little beauty was elected by acclamation. That triumph, she

afterwards declared, was the happiest hour of her life.

Despite the fact that it had no formal constitution, and that

membership therein depended upon a lady's favour, the Blue-Stocking

Club was too important a factor in the literary life of old London

to be overlooked. It owed its existence to Elizabeth Robinson, who

as the wife of Edward Montagu found herself in the possession of the

worldly means essential to the establishment of a literary salon. It

had its origin in a series of afflictions. Mrs. Montagu first lost

her only child, and shortly after her mother and favourite brother.

These bereavements put her on the track of distractions, and a visit

to Bath, where she made the acquaintance of the poet Young, appears

to have suggested that she would find relief from her sorrows in

making her house in London a meeting-place for the intellectual

spirits of the capital. At first she confined her enterprise to the

giving of literary breakfasts, but these were soon followed by

evening assemblies of a more pretentious nature, known as

"conversation parties." The lady was particular to whom she sent her

invitations. In a letter to Garrick, inviting him to give a recital,

she wrote: "You will find here some friends, and all you meet must

be your admirers, for I never invite Idiots to my house." Unless

when Garrick or some famous French actor was invited to give a

recital, no diversion of any kind was allowed at these gatherings;

card-playing was not tolerated, and the guests were supposed to find

ample enjoyment in the discussion of bookish topics.

Why Mrs. Montagu's assemblies were dubbed the Blue-Stocking Club has

never been definitely decided. On the one hand the term is supposed

to have originated from the fact that Benjamin Stillingfleet, taking

advantage of the rule which stipulated that full dress was optional,

always attended in blue worsted instead of black silk stockings. But

the other theory derives the name from the fact that the ladies who

frequented the gatherings wore "blue stockings as a distinction" in

imitation of a fashionable French visitor of the time.

Plenty of ridicule was bestowed upon Mrs. Montagu and her

"conversation parties," but there SEEMS some truth in the contention

of Hannah More that those "blue-stocking" meetings did much to

rescue fashionable life from the tyranny of whist and quadrille.

Whether Mrs. Montagu really possessed any literary ability is a

matter which does not call for discussion at this late hour, but it

is something to her credit that she was able to attract under her

roof such men as Horace Walpole, Dr. Johnson, Burke, Garrick,

Reynolds, and many other conspicuous figures of the late eighteenth

century. The hostess may have wished her guests to credit her with

greater knowledge than she really had; Johnson said she did not know

Greek, and had but a slight knowledge of Latin, though she was

willing her friends should imagine she was acquainted with both; but

the same authority was willing to admit that she was a very

extraordinary woman, and that her conversation always had meaning.

But, as usual, we must turn to a member of her own sex for the last

word in the matter. Fanny Burney met her frequently, and made

several recording entries in her diary. Here is the first vignette:

"She is middle-sized, very thin, and looks infirm; she has a

sensible and penetrating countenance, and the air and manner of a

woman accustomed to being distinguished, and of great parts. Dr.

Johnson, who agrees in this, told us that a Mrs. Hervey, of his

acquaintance, says she can remember Mrs. Montagu _trying_ for

this same air and manner. Mr. Crisp has said the same: however,

nobody can now impartially see her, and not confess that she has

extremely well succeeded." And later there is this entry: "We went

to dinner, my father and I, and met Mrs. Montagu, in good spirits,

and very unaffectedly agreeable. No one was there to awaken

ostentation, no new acquaintance to require any surprise from her

powers; she was therefore natural and easy, as well as informing and

entertaining."

Almost to the end of her long life Mrs. Montagu maintained her

Blue-Stocking Club. So late as 1791, when she had reached her

seventy-first year, she gave a breakfast of which Fanny Burney

wrote: "The crowd of company was such that we could only slowly make

our way in any part. There could not be fewer than four or five

hundred people. It was like a full Ranelagh by daylight." That other

breakfast-giver, Samuel Rogers, who only knew Mrs. Montagu towards

the close of her life, described her as "a composition of art" and

as one "long attached to the trick and show of life." But the most

diverting picture of the Queen of the Blue-Stockings was given by

Richard Cumberland in a paper of the Observer. In answer to one of

her invitation cards he arrived at her salon before the rest of the

company, and had opportunity to observe that several new

publications, stitched in blue paper, were lying on the table, with

scraps of paper stuck between the leaves, as if to mark where the

hostess had left off reading. Vanessa, for under that title did

Cumberland present Mrs. Montagu, entered the room shortly

afterwards, dressed in a petticoat embroidered with the ruins of

Palmyra. The lady is made to mistake the author for the inventor of

a diving-bell, and to address him accordingly, with delightful

results. The various visitors are described in the same humourous

manner, and then comes the climax. "Vanessa now came up, and

desiring leave to introduce a young muse to Melpomene, presented a

girl in a white frock with a fillet of flowers twined round her

hair, which hung down her back in flowing curls; the young muse made

a low obeisance in the style of an oriental Salaam, and with the

most unembarrassed voice and countenance, while the poor actress was

covered with blushes, and suffering torture from the eyes of all the

room, broke forth as follows." But the recorder of that particular

meeting of the Blue-Stocking Club could endure no more. He fled the

house as hastily as though he had just learnt it was infected with

the plague.

Although several lists are printed which profess to give the names

of "the principal clubs of London," they may be searched in vain for

that one which can rightly claim to be The Club. Nevertheless,

ignorance of its existence can hardly be reckoned a reproach in view

of the confession of Tennyson. When asked by a member, the Duke of

Argyll, to allow him to place his name in nomination, Tennyson

rejoined, "Before answering definitely, I should like to know

something about expenses. 'The Club?' It is either my fault or my

misfortune that I have never heard of it." When the poet made that

confession he was in his fifty-sixth year, and up to that time,

apparently, had not read his Boswell. Or if he had, he was not aware

that the club Reynolds had founded in 1764 under the name of The

Club, of which the title had subsequently been changed to the

Literary Club, still existed under its original designation.

Another fact is likely to confuse the historian of this club unless

he is careful. Owing to the fact that Dr. Johnson was one of the

original members, and dominated its policy after his usual

autocratic manner, it is sometimes known as Dr. Johnson's Club.

However, there is no disputing the fact that the credit of its

origin belongs to the "dear knight of Plympton," as the great

painter was called by one of his friends. The idea of its

establishment at once won the approval of Johnson, and it started on

its illustrious career having as its members those two and Edmund

Burke, Dr. Nugent, Topham Beauclerk, Bennet Langton, Oliver

Goldsmith, Anthony Chamier and Sir John Hawkins. Soon after its

foundation, the number of members was increased to twelve, then it

was enlarged to twenty, and subsequently to twenty-six, then to

thirty, and finally to thirty-five with a proviso that the total

should never exceed forty.

To set forth a list of the members of The Club from 1764 to the

present year would be to write down the names of many of the men

most eminent in English history. In Boswell's time those who had

been admitted to its select circle included David Garrick, Adam

Smith, Edward Gibbon, Sir William Jones, Sir William Hamilton,

Charles James Fox, Bishop Percy, Dr. Joseph Warton, and Richard

Brinsley Sheridan. In more modern days the members have included

Tennyson, Macaulay, Huxley, Gladstone, Lord Acton, Lord Dufferin, W.

H. E. Lecky and Lord Salisbury. The limit of membership is still

maintained; it is yet the rule that one black ball will exclude; and

the election of a member is still announced in the stilted form

which Gibbon drafted by way of a joke: "Sir, I have the pleasure to

inform you that you had last night the honour to be elected as a

member of The Club."

As The Club had no formal constitution it was an easy matter to

regulate its gatherings by the convenience of the members. Thus, at

first the meetings were held at seven on Monday evenings, then the

day was changed to Friday, and afterwards it was resolved to come

together once a fortnight during the sitting of Parliament. Although

admission was so strictly guarded that its membership was accounted

a rare honour, The Club does not appear to have been in a

flourishing condition in its second decade. Otherwise Beauclerk

would hardly have written, "Our club has dwindled away to nothing;

nobody attends but Mr. Chamier, and he is going to the East Indies.

Sir Joshua and Goldsmith have got into such a round of pleasures

that they have no time." Two or three years later Edmund Malone, the

literary critic and Shakesperian scholar, was moving heaven and

earth to secure his own election. "I have lately," he wrote to a

member, "made two or three attempts to get into your club, but have

not yet been able to succeed--though I have some friends

there--Johnson, Burke, Steevens, Sir J. Reynolds and Marlay--which

in so small a society is a good number. At first they said, I think,

they thought it a respect to Garrick's memory not to elect one for

some time in his room--which (in any one's case but my own I should

say) was a strange kind of motive--for the more agreeable he was,

the more need there is of supplying the want, by some substitute or

other. But as I have no pretensions to ground even a hope upon, of

being a succedaneum to such a man--the argument was decisive and I

could say nothing to it. 'Anticipation' Tickell and J. Townshend are

candidates as well as myself--and they have some thoughts of

enlarging their numbers; so perhaps we may be all elected together.

I am not quite so anxious as Agmondisham Vesey was, who, I am told,

had couriers stationed to bring him the quickest intelligence of his

success."

Malone appears to have thought that it was a mere subterfuge to

instance the death of Garrick as a reason for not electing him. But

it was nothing of the kind. The Club did actually impose upon itself

a year's widowhood, so to speak, when Garrick died. And yet his

election had not been an easy matter. That was largely his own

fault. When Reynolds first mentioned The Club to him, he ejaculated

in his airy manner, "I like it much; I think I shall be of you." Of

course Reynolds reported the remark to Johnson, with a result

that might have been anticipated. "_He'll_ be of _us_," Johnson

repeated, and then added, "How does he know we will _permit_

him? The first duke in England has no right to hold such language."

Other recorders of Johnson's conversation credit him with

threatening to black-ball the actor, and with the expression of the

wish that he might have one place of resort where he would be free

of the company of the player. Whatever Johnson's attitude was, the

fact remains that Garrick's election was opposed for a considerable

time, though when he was made a member he approved himself a welcome

addition to the circle.

Unconsciously amusing is the account Boswell gives of his own

election. The Club had been in existence some nine years when the

fatal night of the balloting arrived. Beauclerk had a dinner party

at his house before the club-meeting, and when he and the other

members left for the ceremony the anxious Boswell was committed to

the hospitality of Lady Di, whose "charming conversation" was not

entirely adequate to keep up his spirits. In a short time, however,

the glad tidings of his election came, and the fussy little Scotsman

hurried off to the place of meeting to be formally received. It is

impossible to read without a smile the swelling sentences with which

he closes his narrative. He was introduced "to such a society as can

seldom be found. Mr. Edmund Burke, whom I then saw for the first

time, and whose splendid talents had long made me ardently wish for

his acquaintance; Dr. Nugent, Mr. Garrick, Dr. Goldsmith, Mr.

(afterwards Sir William) Jones, and the company with whom I had

dined. Upon my entrance, Johnson placed himself behind a chair, on

which he leaned as on a desk or pulpit, and with humourous formality

gave me a charge, pointing out the conduct expected from me as a

good member of this club." There was probably more than "humourous

formality" at the back of Johnson's mind that night. He was

responsible for Boswell's election, and may well have had a doubt or

two as to how that inconsequential person would behave in such a

circle.

As Johnson had had his way in the case of Boswell, he could not very

well object when some were proposed as members with whom, from the

political and religious point of view, he had little sympathy. But

he had the grace to regard the matter with philosophy. When its

numbers were increased to thirty, he declared he was glad of it, for

as there were several with whom he did not like to consort,

something would be gained by making it "a mere miscellaneous

collection of conspicuous men, without any determinate character."

The political difficulty was felt by other members. That fact is

oppressively illustrated by an account of a meeting recorded by Dr.

Burney, the father of the talented Fanny, in a letter to his

daughter, dated January 3lst, 1793, at a time, consequently, when

excitement still ran high at the execution of Louis XVI of France:

"At the Club on Tuesday, the fullest I ever knew, consisting of

fifteen members, fourteen all seemed of one mind, and full of

reflections on the late transaction in France; but, when about half

the company was assembled, who should come in but Charles Fox! There

were already three or four bishops arrived, hardly one of whom could

look at him, I believe, without horror. After the first bow and cold

salutation, the conversation stood still for several minutes. During

dinner Mr. Windham, and Burke, jun., came in, who were obliged to

sit at a side table. All were _boutonnés_, and not a word of

the martyred king or politics of any kind was mentioned; and though

the company was chiefly composed of the most eloquent and loquacious

men in the kingdom, the conversation was the dullest and most

uninteresting I ever remember at this or any such large meeting."

There were evidently serious disadvantages then in the mixed nature

of the club, as there have been since. For example, how did

Gladstone meet Huxley after his Gadarene swine had been so

unmercifully treated by the man of science?

When Johnson reached his seventy-fourth year, and found himself the

victim of infirmities which prompted him to seek his social

intercourse near at hand, he conceived the idea of founding what was

known as his Essex Street Club. One of his first invitations was

sent to Reynolds, but the painter did not see his way to join. The

members included the inevitable Boswell, the Hon. Daines Barrington,

famous for his association with Gilbert White, and others whom

Boswell noted as men of distinction, but whose names are no more

than names at this distance. Johnson drew up the rules of the club,

which restricted its membership to two dozen, appointed the meetings

on Monday, Thursday and Saturday of each week, allowed a member to

introduce a friend once a week, insisted that each member should

spend at least sixpence at each gathering, enforced a fine of

threepence for absence, and laid down the regulation that every

individual should defray his own expense. And a final rule

stipulated a penny tip for the waiter. The meeting-place was a

tavern in Essex Street, known as the Essex Head, of which the host

was an old servant of Mr. Thrale's. Boswell, as in duty bound,

seeing he was a member, declared there were few societies where

there was better conversation or more decorum. And he added that

eight years after the loss of its "great founder" the members were

still holding happily together. But it was founded too late in the

day to gather around it many notable Johnsonian associations, and

after his death it was, on Boswell's showing, too happy to have any

history.

Among the informal clubs of old London, a distinguished place

belongs to that assemblage of variously-talented men, who, under the

title of the Wittenagemot abrogated to themselves the exclusive use

of a box in the north-east corner of the Chapter coffee-house. It

found a capable if terse historian in one of its members, who

explains that the club had two sections. The one took possession of

the box at the earliest hour of the morning, and from their habit of

taking the papers fresh from the news-men were called the Wet Paper

Club. In the afternoon the other section took possession, and were

as keen to scan the wet evening papers as their colleagues to peruse

those of the forenoon. Among the members of the Wittenagemot were

Dr. Buchan, the author of a standard treatise on medicine, who

although a Tory was so tolerant of all views that he was elected

moderator of the meetings; a Mr. Hammond, a manufacturer, who had

not been absent for nearly forty-five years; a Mr. Murray, a

Scottish Episcopal minister, who every day accomplished the feat of

reading through at least once all the London papers; a "growling

person of the name of Dobson, who, when his asthma permitted, vented

his spleen" upon both sides of politics; and Mr. Robison the

publisher, and Richard, afterwards Sir Richard, Phillips, so keenly

alert in recruiting for his Monthly Magazine that he used to attend

with a waistcoat pocket full of guineas as an earnest of his good

intentions and financial solvency.

Perhaps, however, the most original member of the Wittenagemot was a

young man of the name of Wilson, to whom the epithet of "Long-Bow"

was soon applied on account of the extraordinary stories he retailed

concerning the secrets of the upper ten. Just as he appeared to be

established in the unique circle at the Chapter he disappeared, the

cause being that he had run up a bill of between thirty and forty

pounds. The strange thing was, however, that the keeper of the

coffee-house, a Miss Bran, begged that if any one met Mr. Wilson

they would express to him her willingness to give a full discharge

for the past and future credit to any amount, for, she said, "if he

never paid us, he was one of the best customers we ever had,

contriving, by his stories and conversation, to keep a couple of

boxes crowded the whole night, by which we made more punch, and

brandy and water, than from any other single customer." But the

useful Long-Bow Wilson was never seen again, and several years later

the Wittenagemot itself died of disintegration. It was more

fortunate, however, than scores of similar clubs in old London, of

which the history is entirely wanting.

CHAPTER II.

SOCIAL AND GAMING.

Neither of the literary societies described in the previous chapter

could claim to be a club in the present accepted meaning of that

term. Even Dr. Johnson's famous definition, "An assembly of good

fellows, meeting under certain conditions," needs amplification.

Perhaps the most satisfactory exposition is that given in "The

Original" which was applied in the first instance to the Athenæum.

"The building," said Walker, "is a sort of palace, and is kept with

the same exactness and comfort as a private dwelling. Every member

is a master without any of the trouble of a master. He can come when

he pleases, and stay away as long as he pleases, without anything

going wrong. He has the command of regular servants without having

to pay or to manage them. He can have whatever meal or refreshment

he wants, at all hours, and served up with the cleanliness and

comfort of his own house. He orders just what he pleases, having no

interest to think of but his own. In short, it is impossible to

suppose a greater degree of liberty in living." This is somewhat

copious for a definition, but it would be difficult to put into

smaller compass the various traits which marked the social and

gaming clubs of old London.

All those qualities, however, were not in evidence from the first.

They were a matter of growth, of adaptation to needs as those needs

were realized. The evolution of the club in that sense is nowhere

better illustrated than in the case of White's, which can claim the

proud honour of being the oldest among London clubs. It was

established as a Chocolate-house about 1698, and as such was a

resort open to all. Even in those days it was notorious for the high

play which went on within its walls. Swift has recorded that the

Earl of Oxford never passed the building in St. James's Street

without bestowing a curse upon it as the bane of half the English

nobility. And a little later it was frankly described as "a Den of

Thieves."

[Illustration: ST. JAMES'S STREET. (_Showing White's on the left

and Brooks's on the right_.)]

Fire destroyed the first White's a little more than a generation

after it was opened. Its owner at that time was one named Arthur,

and the account of the conflagration tells how his wife leaped out

of a window two stories high onto a feather bed and thus escaped

without injury. George II went to see the fire, accompanied by the

Prince of Wales, both of whom encouraged the firemen with liberal

offers of money. But royal exhortations did not avail to save the

building; it was utterly consumed, with a valuable collection of

paintings.

Two or three years after the opening of the new building White's

ceased to be a public resort as a Chocolate-house and became a club

in the strict meaning of the word. It remained under the direction

of Mr. Arthur till his death in 1761, and then passed into the

control of Robert Mackreth, who had begun his career as a

billiard-marker in the establishment. Mackreth married Arthur's only

daughter a few months after her father's death, and thus gained an

assured hold on the property, which he seems to have retained till

his death, although managing the club through an agent. This agent

was known as "the Cherubim," and figures in the note Mackreth

addressed to George Selwyn when he retired from the active oversight

of the club. "Sir," he wrote, "Having quitted business entirely and

let my house to the Cherubim, who is my near relation, I humbly beg

leave, after returning you my most grateful thanks for all favours,

to recommend him to your patronage, not doubting by the long

experience I have had of his fidelity but that he will strenuously

endeavour to oblige." Before this change took place the club had

removed to its present premises, which, however, have been

considerably altered both inside and out. The freehold of the house

realized forty-six thousand pounds when offered for sale a

generation ago.

From a study of the club records, which extend back to 1736, it is

possible to trace its evolution to the close corporation it has

become. Rules of a more and more stringent nature were gradually

adopted, but at the same time its reputation for gambling was on the

increase. There was hardly any probability upon which the members

did not stake large sums of money. The marriage of a young lady of

rank led to a bet of one hundred guineas that she would give birth

to a child before a certain countess who had been married several

months earlier; another wager was laid that a member of infamous

character would be the first baronet hung; and when a man dropped

dead at the door of the club and was carried into the building, the

members promptly began betting whether he was dead or not, and

protested against the bleeding of the body on the plea that it would

affect the fairness of the wagers. Well might Young write in one of

his epistles to Pope:

"Clodio dress'd, danc'd, drank, visited, (the whole

And great concern of an immortal soul!)

Oft have I said, 'Awake! exist! and strive

For birth! nor think to loiter is to live!'

As oft I overheard the demon say,

Who daily met the loiterer in his way,

'I'll meet thee, youth, at White's:' the youth replies,

'I'll meet thee there,' and falls his sacrifice;

His fortune squander'd, leaves his virtue bare

To every bribe, and blind to every snare."

Another witness to the prevalent spirit of White's at this time is

supplied by Lord Lyttelton in a private letter, wherein he wrote

that he had fears, should his son become a member of that club, the

rattling of a dice-box would shake down all the fine oaks of his

estate.

Mackreth manifested great worldly wisdom in addressing himself to

George Selwyn when he retired from the active management of the

club, for he knew that no other member had so much influence in the

smart set of the day. Selwyn was a member of Brooks's as well, and

for a time divided his favours pretty equally between the two

houses, but in his latter years seems to have felt a preference for

White's. The incidental history of the club for many years finds

more lively chronicle in his letters than anywhere else, for he was

constant in his attendance and was the best-known of its members.

Through those letters we catch many glimpses of Charles James Fox at

all stages of his strange career. We see him, for example, loitering

at the club drinking hard till three o'clock in the morning, and

find him there sitting up the entire night preceding his mother's

death, planning a kind of "itinerant trade, which was of 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." Later, we

see the brilliant statesman flitting about the club rooms, "as much

the minister in all his deportment, as if he had been in office

forty years."

Among the countless vignettes of club life at White's as they crop

up in Selwyn's letters it is difficult to pick and choose, but a few

taken almost at random will revive scenes of a long-past time. Here

is one of a supper-party in 1781: "We had a pretty group of

Papists--Lord Petres at the head of them--some Papists reformed, and

one Jew. A club that used to be quite intolerable is now becoming

tolerating and agreeable, and Scotchmen are naturalized and received

with great good humour. The people are civil, not one word of party,

no personal reflections." A few days later Selwyn tells this story

against himself. "On my return home I called in at White's, and in a

minute or two afterwards Lord Loughborough came with the Duke of

Dorset, I believe the first time since his admittance. I would be

extraordinarily civil, and so immediately told him that I hoped Lady

Loughborough was well. I do really hope so, now that I know that she

is dead. But the devil a word did I hear of her since he was at your

house in St. James's Street. He stared at me, as a child would have

done at an Iroquois, and the Duke of Dorset seemed _tout

confus_. I felt as if I looked like an oaf, but how I appeared

God knows. I turned the discourse, as you may suppose." And here is

a peep of a gambling party at faro. "I went last night to White's,

and stayed there till two. The Pharo party was amusing. Five such

beggars could not have met; four lean crows feeding on a dead horse.

Poor Parsons held the bank. The punters were Lord Carmarthen, Lord

Essex, and one of the Fauquiers; and Denbigh sat at the table, with

what hopes I know not, for he did not punt. Essex's supply is from

his son, which is more than he deserves, but Malden, I suppose,

gives him a little of his milk, like the Roman lady to her father."

Other glimpses might be taken such as would give point to

Rowlandson's caricature of a later day in which he depicted a scene

in "The Brilliants" club-room. The rules to be observed in this

convivial society set forth that each member should fill a bumper to

the first toast, that after twenty-four bumper toasts every member

might fill as he pleased, and that any member refusing to comply

with the foregoing was to be fined by being compelled to swallow a

copious draught of salt and water. Rowlandson did not overlook the

gambling propensities of such clubs, as may be seen by his picture

of "E O, or the Fashionable Vowels." By 1781 there were swarms of

these E O tables in different parts of London, where any one with a

shilling might try his luck. They had survived numerous attempts at

their suppression, some of which dated as far back as 1731.

[Illustration: THE BRILLIANTS. _(A Rowlandson Caricature of London

Club Life in the 18th Century.)_]

All the characteristic features of White's were to be found at

Brooks's club on the opposite side of St. James's Street, the chief

difference between the two being that the former was the recognized

haunt of the Tories and the latter of the Whigs. This political

distinction is underlined in Gillray's amusing caricature of 1796,

in which he depicted the "Promised Horrors of the French Invasion."

The drawing was an ironical treatment of the evil effects Burke

foretold of the "Regicide Peace," and takes for granted the landing

of the French, the burning of St. James's Palace and other

disasters. According to the artist, the invaders have reached the

vicinity of the great clubs, and are wreaking vengeance on that

special Tory club--White's--while Brooks's over the way is a scene

of rejoicing. The figures hanging from the lamp-post are those of

Canning and Jackson, while Pitt, firmly lashed to the Tree of

Liberty, is being vigorously flogged by Fox.

During the earlier years of its history Brooks's was known as

Almack's, its founder having been that William Almack who also

established the famous assembly-rooms known by his name. The club

was opened in Pall Mall as a gaming-salon in 1763, and it speedily

acquired a reputation which even White's would have been proud to

claim. Walpole relates that in 1770 the young men of that time lost

five, ten, fifteen thousand pounds in an evening's play. The two

sons of Lord Holland lost thirty-two thousand pounds in two nights,

greatly, no doubt, to the satisfaction of the Hebrew money-lenders

who awaited gamblers in the outer room, which Charles Fox

accordingly christened the Jerusalem Chamber. While it still

retained its original name, Gibbon became a member of the club, and

Reynolds wished to be. "Would you imagine," wrote Topham Beauclerk,

"that Sir J. Reynolds is extremely anxious to be a member of

Almack's? You see what noble ambition will make men attempt." Gibbon

found the place to his liking. "Town grows empty," he wrote in June,

1776, "and this house, where I have passed very agreeable hours, is

the only place which still invites the flower of English youth. The

style of living, though somewhat expensive, is exceedingly pleasant;

and, notwithstanding the rage of play, I have found more

entertainment and even rational society here than in any other club

to which I belong."

[Illustration: PROMISED HORRORS OF THE FRENCH INVASION. _(From a

Caricature by Gillray.)_]

Two years later Almack's became Brooks's. Why the original

proprietor parted with so valuable a property is not clear, but the

fact is indisputable that in 1778 the club passed into the

possession of a wine merchant and moneylender of the name of Brooks,

whose fame was celebrated a few years later by the poet Tickell.

"Liberal Brooks, 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 was the new owner who built the premises in which the club still

meets, but that particular speculation does not appear to have

prospered, for the story is that he died in poverty. Under the new

regime the house kept up its reputation for high play. But there was

a time soon after the change when its future did not look promising.

Thus in 1781 Selwyn wrote: "No event at Brooks's, but the general

opinion is that it is _en decadence_. Blue has been obliged to

give a bond with interest for what he has eat there for some time.

This satisfies both him and Brooks; he was then, by provision, to

sup or dine there no more without paying. Jack Townshend told me

that the other night the room next to the supper room was full of

the insolvents or freebooters, and no supper served up; at last the

Duke of Bolton walked in, ordered supper; a hot one was served up,

and then the others all rushed in through the gap, after him, and

eat and drank in spite of Brooks's teeth." A state of affairs which

goes far to explain why the club was in a precarious condition.

Charles Fox was of course as much at home at Brooks's as White's. It

was, naturally, more of a political home for him than the Tory

resort. This receives many illustrations in the letters of Selwyn,

especially at the time when he formed his coalition with Lord North.

Even then he managed to mingle playing and politics. "I own," wrote

Selwyn, "that to see Charles closeted every instant at Brooks's by

one or other, that he can neither punt or deal for a quarter of an

hour but he is obliged to give an audience, while Hare is whispering

and standing behind him, like Jack Robinson, with a pencil and paper

for mems., is to me a scene la plus _parfaitement que l'on puisse

imaginer_, and to nobody it seems more risible than to Charles

himself." The farce was being continued a few days later. "I stayed

at Brooks's this morning till between two and three, and then

Charles was giving audiences in every corner of the room, and that

idiot Lord D. telling aloud whom he should turn out, how civil he

intended to be to the Prince, and how rude to the King."

[Illustration: GAMBLING SALOON AT BROOKS'S CLUB.]

Notwithstanding his preference for White's, Selwyn exercised his

voting power at Brooks's in a rigid manner. For some reason,

probably because he could not boast a long descent, Sheridan's

nomination as a member provoked his opposition. Fox, who had been

enamoured of Sheridan's witty society, proposed him on numerous

occasions and all the members were earnestly canvassed for their

votes, but the result of the poll always showed one black ball. When

this had gone on for several months, it was resolved to unearth the

black-baller, and the marking of the balls discovered Selwyn to be

the culprit. Armed with this knowledge, Sheridan requested his

friends to put his name up again and leave the rest to him. On the

night of the voting,--and some ten minutes before the urn was

produced, Sheridan arrived at the club in the company of the Prince

of Wales, and on the two being shown into the candidates'

waiting-room a message was sent upstairs to Selwyn to the effect

that the Prince wished to speak to him below. The unsuspecting

Selwyn hurried downstairs, and in a few minutes Sheridan had him

absorbed in a diverting political story, which he spun out for a

full halfhour. Ere the narrative was at an end, a waiter entered the

room and by a pre-arranged signal conveyed the news that Sheridan

had been elected. Excusing himself for a few minutes, Sheridan

remarked as he left to go upstairs that the Prince would finish the

story. But of course the Prince was not equal to the occasion, and

when he got hopelessly stuck he proposed an adjournment upstairs

where Sheridan would be able to complete his own yarn. It was then

Selwyn realized that he had been fooled, for the first to greet him

upstairs was Sheridan himself, now a full member of the club, with

profuse bows and thanks for Selwyn's "friendly suffrage." Happily

Selwyn had too keen a sense of humour not to make the best of the

situation, and ere the evening was over he shook hands with the new

member and bade him heartily welcome.

Far less hilarious was that evening when the notorious George Robert

Fitzgerald forced his way into the club. As this bravo had survived

numerous duels--owing to the fact, as was stated after his death,

that he wore a steel cuirass under his coat--and was of a generally

quarrelsome disposition, he was not regarded as a desirable member

by any of the London clubs. But he had a special desire to belong to

Brooks's, and requested Admiral Keith Stewart to propose him as a

candidate. As the only alternative would have been to fight a duel,

the admiral complied with the request, and on the night of the

voting Fitzgerald waited downstairs till the result was declared.

When the votes were examined it was discovered that every member had

cast in a black ball. But who was to beard the lion in his den

below? The members agreed that the admiral should discharge that

unpleasant duty, and on his protesting that he had fulfilled his

promise by proposing him, it was pointed out, that as there was no

white ball in the box, Fitzgerald would know that even he had not

voted for his admission. Posed for a moment the admiral at length

suggested that one of the waiters should be sent to say that there

was one black ball, and that the election would have to be postponed

for another month. But Fitzgerald would not credit that message, nor

a second which told him a recount had shown two black balls, nor a

third which said that he had been black balled all over. He was sure

the first message implied a single mistake, that the second had been

the result of two mistakes instead of one, and the third convinced

him that he had better go upstairs and investigate on his own

account. This he did in spite of all remonstrance, and when he had

gained the room where the members were assembled he reduced the

whole company to perplexity by asking each in turn whether he had

cast a black ball. Of course the answer was in the negative in every

case, and the triumphant bully naturally claimed that he had

consequently been elected unanimously. Proceeding to make himself at

home, and to order numerous bottles of champagne, which the waiters

were too frightened to refuse, he soon found himself sent to

Coventry and eventually retired. As a precaution against a

repetition of that night it was resolved to have half a dozen sturdy

constables in waiting on the following evening. But their services

were not required. Fighting Fitzgerald never showed himself at the

club again, though he boasted everywhere that he had been elected

unanimously.

Perhaps it is hardly surprising that the national dish of England

was laid under contribution for the name of a club, but it is

somewhat confusing to find that in addition to the Beef Steak Club

founded in the reign of Queen Anne there was a Beef Steak Society of

which the origin is somewhat hazy. The former society is described

with great gusto by Ned Ward, who had for it many more pleasant

adjectives than he could find for the Kit-Cat Club. The other

society appears to have owed its existence to John Rich, of Covent

Garden theatre, and the scene-painter, George Lambert. For some

unexplained reason, but probably because of its bohemian character,

the club quickly gained many distinguished adherents, and could

number royal scions as well as plebeians in its circle. According to

Henry B. Wheatley, the "room the society dined in, a little Escurial

in itself, was most appropriately fitted up: the doors, wainscoting,

and roof of good old English oak, ornamented with gridirons as thick

as Henry VII's Chapel with the portcullis of the founder. The

society's badge was a gridiron, which was engraved upon the rings,

glass, and the forks and spoons. At the end of the dining-room was

an enormous grating in the form of a gridiron, through which the

fire was seen and the steaks handed from the kitchen. Over this were

the appropriate lines:--

"'If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well

It were done quickly."

Saturday was from time immemorial the day of dining, and of late

years the season commenced in November and ended in June. The last

elected member of the fraternity was known as Boots, and, no matter

how high his social rank, there were certain lowly duties he had to

discharge until set free by another newcomer. There was another

officer known as the Bishop, whose duty it was to sing the grace,

and to read to each new member, who was brought in blindfolded, the

following oath of allegiance: "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 of this sublime society. So Beef and

Liberty be your reward." Although there is a Beef Steak Club in

existence to-day, it must not be identified with either of the two

described above.

Another St. James's Street club which can date back to the middle of

the eighteenth century is that known as Boodle's. The building was

erected somewhere about 1765, but has been materially improved in

more recent years. Presumably it takes its singular and not

euphonious name from its founder, but on that point no definite

information is forthcoming. Practically its only claim to

distinction resides in the fact that Gibbon, who was almost as fond

of clubs as Pepys was of taverns, was a member, as readers of his

correspondence will recollect. In 1773 and the following year the

great historian appears to have used the club as his writing-room,

for many of his letters of those years are on Boodle's note-paper.

One of the epistles recalls the fact that the clubs of London were

wont to hold their great functions, such as balls or masquerades, at

the Pantheon in Oxford Street, erected as a kind of in-town rival to

Ranelagh. It was opened in 1772, and on the fourth of May two years

later Gibbon wrote: "Last night was the triumph of Boodle's. Our

masquerade cost two thousand guineas; a sum that might have

fertilized a province, vanished in a few hours, but not without

leaving behind it the fame of the most splendid and elegant

_fête_ that was perhaps ever given in a seat of the arts and

opulence. It would be as difficult to describe the magnificence of

the scene, as it would be easy to record the humour of the night.

The one was above, the other below, all relation. I left the

Pantheon about five this morning." Gibbon does not note that two

"gentlemen," coming from that masquerade dressed in their costumes,

"used a woman very indecently," and were so mauled by some

spectators that they had difficulty in escaping with their lives. It

is to be hoped they were not members of Boodle's, who, on the whole,

appear to have been somewhat inoffensive persons. At any rate they

allowed Gibbon ample quietude for his letter-writing.

Two other clubs of some note in their day are now nothing but a

memory. The first of these, the Dover House, was formed by George IV

when Prince of Wales in opposition to Brooks's, where two of his

friends had been black-balled. He placed it in the care of one

Weltzie, who had been his house steward, and for a time it

threatened to become a serious rival to the other establishments in

St. James's Street. There is Selwyn's confession that the club began

to alarm the devotees of Brooks's, for it lived well, increased in

numbers, and was chary in the choice of members. That, surely, was

the club of which Selwyn tells this vivid story. "The Duke of

Cumberland holds a Pharaoh Bank, deals standing the whole night; and

last week, when the Duke of Devonshire sat down to play, he told him

there were two rules; one was, 'not to let you punt more than ten

guineas;' and the other, 'no tick.' Did you ever hear a more

princely declaration? Derby lost the gold in his pocket, and the

Prince of Wales lent him fifty guineas; on which the Duke of

Cumberland expressed some surprise, and said he had never lent fifty

pounds in his whole life. 'Then,' says the Prince of Wales, 'it is

high time for you to begin.'"

Notwithstanding the promise it gave, Weltzie's club does not seem to

have had a protracted history. Nor did the Alfred Club survive a

half century. It was one of the earliest clubs to cater for a

distinct class, and may have failed because it was born out of due

time. This resort for men of letters, and members of kindred taste,

does not appear to have been a lively place in its first years, for

at that time Lord Dudley described it as the dullest place in the

world, full of bores, an "asylum of doting Tories and drivelling

quidnuncs." Nor was Byron, another member, much more complimentary.

His most favourable verdict pronounced the place a little too sober

and literary, while later he thought it the most tiresome of London

clubs. Then there is the testimony of another member who said he

stood it as long as he could, but gave in when the seventeenth

bishop was proposed, for it was impossible to enter the place

without being reminded of the catechism.

Because Arthur's Club is described as having been founded in 1811

that is no reason for overlooking the fact that its age is much more

venerable than that date would imply. The word "founded" is indeed

misleading; a more suitable term would be "reconstructed." For that

is what happened in 1811. The club can really trace an ancestry back

to 1756, when it was the "Young Club" at Arthur's, the freedom of

which Selwyn desired to present in a dice box to William Pitt. That

the club has maintained the old-time spirit to a remarkable degree

may be inferred from the fact that no foreigners are admitted as

members, and from the further regulation which does not allow a

member to entertain a friend at the club. There is a "Strangers'

room" in which visitors may wait for members, and where they may be

served with light refreshments as a matter of courtesy, but none

save members are allowed in the public rooms of the building. This

rigid exclusiveness has not militated against the prosperity of the

club. Despite a high entrance fee and a considerable annual

subscription, candidates have to wait an average of three years for

election to its limited circle of six hundred. Which goes to show

that the old type of London club is in no danger of extinction just

yet.

IV.

PLEASURE GARDENS OF OLD LONDON.

CHAPTER I.

VAUXHALL.

Numerous and diversified as were the outdoor resorts of old London,

no one of them ever enjoyed the patronage of the gardens at

Vauxhall. Nor can any pleasure resort of the English capital boast

so long a history. For nearly two centuries, that is, from about

1661 to 1859, it ministered to the amusement of the citizens.

At the outset of its career it was known as New Spring Gardens, and

it continued to be described as Spring Gardens in the official

announcements, till 1786, although for many years previously the

popular designation was Vauxhall. The origin of that name is

involved in obscurity, but it is supposed to have been derived from

a family of the name of Faux who once held the manor.

For the earliest pictures of the resort we must turn to the pages of

Pepys, whose first visit to the gardens was paid in May, 1662. On

this occasion he was accompanied by his wife, the two maids, and the

boy, the latter distinguishing himself by creeping through the

hedges and gathering roses. Three years later Pepys went to the

gardens on several occasions within a few weeks of each other, the

first visit being made in the company of several Admiralty friends,

who, with himself, were ill at ease as to what had been the result

of the meeting between the English and Dutch fleets. Still, on this,

the "hottest day that ever I felt in my life," Pepys did not fail to

find enjoyment in walking about the garden, and stayed there till

nine o'clock for a moderate expenditure of sixpence. Not many days

later he was back again, this time alone and in a philosophic mood.

The English fleet had been victorious, and the day was one of

thanksgiving. So the diarist strolled an hour in the garden

observing the behaviour of the citizens, "pulling of cherries, and

God knows what." Quite a different scene met his gaze on his third

visit that year; the place was almost deserted, for the dreaded

plague had broken out and London was empty. Then came the year of

the Great Fire, and Pepys was in too serious a mood to wend his way

to Vauxhall. But he had recovered his spirits by the May of 1667,

and gives us this record of a visit of that month: "A great deal of

company, and the weather and garden pleasant: and it is very

pleasant and cheap going thither, for a man may go to spend what he

will, or nothing, all as one. But to hear the nightingale and other

birds, and hear fiddles, and there a harp, and here a Jew's trump,

and here laughing, and there fine people walking, is mighty

divertising. Among others, there were two pretty women alone, that

walked a great while, which being discovered by some idle gentlemen,

they would needs take them up; but to see the poor ladies how they

were put to it to run from them, and they after them, and sometimes

the ladies put themselves along with other company, then the other

drew back; at last, the last did get off out of the house, and took

boat and away. I was troubled to see them abused so; and could have

found in my heart, as little desire of fighting as I have, to have

protected the ladies." But a time was to come, on a later visit,

when Pepys found himself in the company of a couple who were just as

rude as the gentlemen he had a mind to fight. For on a May evening

the next year he fell in with Harry Killigrew and young Newport, as

"very rogues as any in the town," who were "ready to take hold of

every woman that comes by them." Yet Pepys did not shake their

company; instead he went with the rogues to supper in an arbour,

though it made his heart "ake" to listen to their mad talk. When

sitting down to his diary that night he reflected on the loose

company he had been in, but came to the conclusion that it was not

wholly unprofitable to have such experience of the lives of others.

Perhaps he really enjoyed the experience; at any rate, he was back

again the following evening, and saw the young Newport at his tricks

again. Nor was that rogue singular in his behaviour. Pepys had other

illustrations on subsequent visits of the rudeness which had become

a habit with the gallants of the town.

By the numerous references which may be found in the comedies of the

Restoration period it is too obvious that Vauxhall fully sustained

its reputation as a resort for the "rogues" of the town. But,

happily, there are not lacking many proofs that the resort was also

largely affected by more serious-minded and respectable members of

the community. It is true they were never free from the danger of

coming in contact with the seamy side of London life, but that fact

did not deter them from seeking relaxation in so desirable a spot.

There is a characteristic illustration of this blending of amusement

and annoyance in that classical number of the Spectator wherein

Addison described his visit to the garden with his famous friend Sir

Roger de Coverley. As was usual in the early days of the eighteenth

century, and for some years later, the two approached the garden by

water. They took boat on the Thames, at Temple-stairs, and soon

arrived at the landing-place. It was in the awakening month of May,

when the garden was in the first blush of its springtime beauty.

"When I considered," Addison wrote, "the fragrancy of the walks and

bowers, with the choirs of birds that sung upon the trees, and the

loose tribe of people that walked under their shades, I could not

but look upon the place as a kind of Mahometan paradise. Sir Roger

told me it put him in mind of a little coppice by his house in the

country, which his chaplain used to call an aviary of nightingales.

'You must understand,' said the knight, 'there is nothing in the

world that pleases a man in love so much as your nightingale. Ah,

Mr. Spectator, the many moon-light nights that I have walked by

myself, and thought on the widow by the music of the nightingale!'

He here fetched a deep sigh." But the worthy old man's fit of musing

was abruptly broken by too tangible a reminder that this was indeed

a kind of Mahometan paradise.

[Illustration: TICKETS FOR VAUXHALL.]

Up to 1732 Vauxhall appears to have been conducted in a haphazard

way. That is, no settled policy had been followed in its management

or the provision of set attractions. The owner seems to have

depended too much on the nightingales, and the natural beauties of

the place. From the date mentioned, however, a new regime began. At

that time the garden passed into the control of Jonathan Tyers, who

introduced many alterations and improvements. A regular charge was

now made for admission, and season tickets in the shape of silver

medals were instituted. Several of these were designed by Hogarth,

in recognition of whose services in that and other ways Mr. Tyers

presented him with a gold ticket entitling him to admission for

ever. Among the improvements dating from this new ownership was

adequate provision of music. An orchestra was erected, and in

addition to instrumental music many of the most famous singers of

the day were engaged. The innovations of Mr. Tyers have left their

impress on the literature of the place in prose and verse. A

somewhat cloying example of the latter is found in an effusion

describing the visit of Farmer Colin in 1741:

"Oh, Mary! soft in feature,

I've been at dear Vauxhall;

No paradise is sweeter,

Not that they Eden call.

"Methought, when first I entered,

Such splendours round me shone,

Into a world I ventured,

Where rose another sun:

"While music, never cloying,

As skylarks sweet, I hear:

The sounds I'm still enjoying,

They'll always soothe my ear."

Ten years later Mr. Tyers was paid a more eloquent tribute by the

pen of Fielding. Perhaps he took his beloved Amelia to Vauxhall for

the purpose of heightening his readers' impression of her beauty,

for it will be remembered that she was greatly distressed by the

admiration of some of the "rogues" of the place; but incidentally he

has a word of high praise for the owner of the garden. "To delineate

the particular beauties of these gardens would, indeed," the

novelist writes, "require as much pains, and as much paper too, as

to rehearse all the good actions of their master, whose life proves

the truth of an observation which I have read in some ethic writer,

that a truly elegant taste is generally accompanied with an

excellency of heart." But Fielding does not quite dodge his

responsibility to say something of the place itself, only he is

adroit enough to accentuate his words by placing them in the mouth

of the fair Amelia. "The delicious sweetness of the place," was her

verdict, "the enchanting charms of the music, and the satisfaction

which appears on every one's countenance, carried my soul almost to

heaven in its ideas." That her rapture should have been spoilt by

the impertinents who forced themselves on the little party later, is

a proof that the evils which Pepys lamented were still in evidence

at the middle of the eighteenth century.

And another proof may be cited to show that Vauxhall was at the time

in high favour with the smart set. It occurs in a letter to Lord

Carlisle of July, 1745. The correspondent of the peer thinks he will

be interested in a piece of news from Vauxhall. One of the boxes in

the garden was, he said, painted with a scene depicting a gentleman

far gone in his cups, in the company of two ladies of pleasure, and

his hat lying on the ground beside him. This appealed so strongly to

a certain marquis as typical of his own tastes that he appropriated

the box for his own use, stipulating, however, that a marquis's

coronet be painted over the hat. Notwithstanding the high character

attributed to him by Fielding, Mr. Tyers agreed to the proposal, and

the waiters were given authority to instruct any company that might

enter that box that it belonged to the marquis in question, and must

be vacated if he came on the scene.

Although changes were made from time to time, the general

arrangement of Vauxhall remained as it existed at the height of Mr.

Tyers' tenancy. The place extended to about twelve acres, laid out

in formal walks but richly wooded. The principal entrance led into

what was known as the Grand Walk, a tree-lined promenade some three

hundred yards in length, and having the South Walk parallel. The

latter, however, was distinguished by its three triumphal arches and

its terminal painting of the ruins of Palmyra. Intersecting these

avenues was the Grand Cross Walk, which traversed the garden from

north to south. In addition there were those numerous "Dark Walks"

which make so frequent an appearance in the literature of the place.

Other parts of the garden were known as the Rural Downs, the Musical

Bushes, and the Wilderness. In the farthest removed of these the

nightingales and other birds for which Vauxhall was famous

contributed their quota to the attractions of the place.

[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO VAUXHALL.]

In addition to the supper-boxes and pavilions, which were arranged

in long rows or in curving fashion, the buildings consisted of the

orchestra and the Rotunda, the latter being a circular building

seventy feet in diameter. It was fitted up in a style thought

attractive in those days, was provided with an orchestra where the

band played on wet evenings, and was connected with a long gallery

known as the Picture Room. The amusements provided by the management

varied considerably. Even at their best, however, they would be

voted tame by amusement-seekers of the twentieth century. Fireworks

took their place on the programme in 1798, and nearly twenty years

later what was deemed a phenomenal attraction was introduced in the

person of Mme. Saqui of Paris, who used to climb a long rope leading

to the firework platform, whence she descended to the accompaniment

of a "tempest of fireworks." One of the earliest and most popular

attractions was that known as the Cascade, which was disclosed to

view about nine o'clock in the evening. It was a landscape scene

illuminated by hidden lights, the central feature of which was a

miller's house and waterfall having the "exact appearance of water."

More daring efforts were to come later, such as the allegorical

transparency of the Prince of Wales leaning against a horse held by

Britannia, a Submarine Cavern, a Hermit's Cottage, and balloon

ascents. The most glorious of these attractions presented a sordid

sight by daylight, but in the dim light of the countless lamps hung

in the trees at night passed muster with the most critical.

[Illustration: THE CITIZEN AT VAUXHALL.]

Enough evidence has been produced to show how the "rogues" amused

themselves at Vauxhall, but the milder pleasures of sober citizens

have not been so fully illustrated. Yet there is no lack of

information on that score. There is, for example, that lively paper

in the Connoisseur which gives an eavesdropping report of the

behaviour and conversation of a London merchant and his wife and two

daughters. The Connoisseur took notes from the adjoining box.

"After some talk, 'Come, come,' said the old don, 'it is high time,

I think, to go to supper.'

"To this the ladies readily assented; and one of the misses said,

'Do let us have a chick, papa.'

"'Zounds!' said the father, 'they are half-a-crown a-piece, and no

bigger than a sparrow.'

"Here the old lady took him up, 'You are so stingy, Mr. Rose, there

is no bearing with you. When one is out upon pleasure, I love to

appear like somebody: and what signifies a few shillings once and

away, when a body is about it?'

"This reproof so effectually silenced the old gentleman, that the

youngest miss had the courage to put in a word for some ham

likewise: accordingly the waiter was called, and dispatched by the

old lady with an order for a chicken and a plate of ham. When it was

brought, our honest cit twirled the dish about three or four times,

and surveyed it with a very settled countenance; then taking up the

slice of ham, and dangling it to and fro on the end of his fork,

asked the waiter how much there was of it.

"'A shilling's worth, Sir,' said the fellow.

"'Prithee,' said the don, 'how much dost think it weighs? An ounce?

A shilling an ounce! that is sixteen shillings per pound! A

reasonable profit truly! Let me see, suppose now the whole ham

weighs thirty pounds; at a shilling per ounce, that is, sixteen

shillings per pound, why! your master makes exactly twenty-four

pounds of every ham; and if he buys them at the best hand, and salts

and cures them himself, they don't stand him in ten shillings

a-piece.'

"The old lady bade him hold his nonsense, declared herself ashamed

for him, and asked him if people must not live: then taking a

coloured handkerchief from her own neck, she tucked it into his

shirt-collar (whence it hung like a bib), and helped him to a leg of

the chicken. The old gentleman, at every bit he put into his mouth,

amused himself with saying, 'There goes two-pence, there goes

three-pence, there goes a groat. Zounds, a man at these places

should not have a swallow as wide as a torn-tit.'"

But having been launched on a career of temporary extravagance, the

honest citizen grew reckless. So he called for a bottle of port, and

enjoyed it so much as to call for a second. But the bill brought him

to his senses again, and he left Vauxhall with the conviction that

one visit was enough for a lifetime.

So long as Vauxhall existed the thinness and dearness of its plates

of ham were proverbial. There is a legend to the effect that a man

secured the position of carver on the understanding that he was able

to cut a ham so thin that the slices would cover the entire garden.

Writer after writer taxed his ingenuity to find metaphors applicable

to those shadowy slices. One scribe in 1762 declared that a

newspaper could be read through them; Pierce Egan decided that they

were not cut with a knife but shaved off with a plane; and a third

averred that they tasted more of the knife than anything else.

Of course Goldsmith made his philosophical Chinaman visit Vauxhall,

the other members of the party consisting of the man in black, a

pawnbroker's widow, and Mr. Tibbs, the second-rate beau, and his

wife. The Chinaman was delighted, and, by a strange coincidence,

Addison's metaphor crops up once more in his rapturous description.

"The illuminations began before we arrived, and I must confess that,

upon entering the gardens, I found every sense overpaid with more

than expected pleasure; the lights everywhere glimmering through the

scarcely moving trees; the full-bodied concert bursting on the

stillness of the night; the natural concert of the birds, in the

more retired part of the grove, vying with that which was formed by

art; the company gaily-dressed looking satisfaction, and the tables

spread with various delicacies, all conspired to fill my imagination

with the visionary happiness of the Arabian lawgiver, and lifted me

into an ecstasy of admiration. 'Head of Confucius, cried I to my

friend, 'this is fine! this unites rural beauty with courtly

magnificence: if we except the virgins of immortality that hang on

every tree, and may be plucked at every desire, I do 'not see how

this falls short of Mahomet's paradise!'"

But the Celestial rhapsody was interrupted by Mr. Tibbs, who wanted

to know the plan of campaign for the evening. This was a matter on

which Mrs. Tibbs and the widow could not agree, but an adjournment

to a box in the meantime was accepted as a compromise. Even there,

however, the feminine warfare was continued, to the final triumph of

Mrs. Tibbs, who, being prevailed upon to sing, not only distracted

the nerves of her listeners, but prolonged her melody to such an

extent that the widow was robbed of a sight of the water-works.

No account of Vauxhall however brief should overlook the attractions

the place had to the sentimental young lady of the late eighteenth

century. From the character of the songs which the vocalists

affected it might be inferred that love-lorn misses were expected to

form the bulk of their audience. Perhaps that was so; for the Dark

Walks were ideal places in which to indulge the tender sentiment.

The elder daughter of the Connoisseur's citizen confessed a

preference for those walks because "they were so solentary," and Tom

Brown noted that the ladies who had an inclination to be private

took delight in those retired and shady avenues, and in the windings

and turnings of the little Wilderness, where both sexes met and were

of mutual assistance in losing their way.