was very near being a clever man. He was a sort of busy idler; and his
ruling passion was that of visiting remarkable criminals in prison,
and obtaining their histories from their own lips. A murder had been
committed, by one Patch, upon a Mr. Bligh, at Deptford; the evidence
was circumstantial, but the inference of his guilt was almost
irresistible; still many well-disposed persons doubted the man's
guilt, and amongst them was Sir John, who thought the anxiety could
only be relieved by Patch's confession. For this end, Sir John
importuned the poor wretch incessantly, but in vain. Patch persisted
in asserting his innocence, till, wearied with Hippisley's
applications, he assured the Baronet that he would reveal to him, on
the scaffold, all that he knew of Mr. Bligh's death. Flattered with
being made the depository of this mysterious communication, Sir John
mounted the scaffold with Patch, and was seen for some minutes in
close conference with him. It happened that a simple old woman from
the country was in the crowd at the execution. Her eyes, intent upon
the awful scene, were fixed, by an accidental misdirection, upon Sir
John, whom she mistook for the person who was about to be executed;
and not waiting till the criminal was actually turned off, she went
away with the wrong impression; the peculiar face, and above all, the
peculiar nose (a most miraculous organ), of Hippisley, being indelibly
impressed upon her memory. Not many days after, the old lady met Sir
John in Cheapside; the certainty that he was Patch, seized her so
forcibly that she screamed out to the passing crowd, "It's Patch, it's
Patch; I saw him hanged; Heaven deliver me!"--and then fainted. When
this incident was first related at the Steaks, a mock inquest was set
on foot, to decide whether Sir John was Patch or not, and unanimously
decided in the affirmative.
Cobb, Secretary of the East India Company, was another choice spirit
at the Steaks: once, when he filled the vice-chair, he so worried the
poor president, an Alderman, that he exclaimed, "Would to Heaven, I
had another vice-president, so that I had a _gentleman_ opposite to
me!"--"Why should you wish any such thing?" rejoined Cobb; "you cannot
be more opposite to a gentleman than you are at present."
After the fire at Covent Garden, the Sublime Society were
re-established at the Bedford, where they met until Mr. Arnold had
fitted up apartments for their reception in the English Opera House.
The Steaks continued to meet here until the destruction of the Theatre
by fire, in 1830; after which they returned to the Bedford; and, upon
the re-building of the Lyceum Theatre, a dining-room was again
provided for them. "The room they dine in," says Mr. Cunningham, "a
little Escurial in itself, is most appropriately fitted up--the doors,
wainscoting, and roof, of good old English oak, ornamented with
gridirons as thick as Henry the Seventh's Chapel with the portcullis
of the founder. Everything assumes the shape, or is distinguished by
the representation, of their emblematic implement, the gridiron. The
cook is seen at his office through the bars of a spacious gridiron,
and the original gridiron of the Society, (the survivor of two
terrific fires) holds a conspicuous position in the centre of the
ceiling. Every member has the power of inviting a friend." The
portraits of several worthies of the Sublime Society were painted: one
brother "hangs in chain," as Arnold remarked in alluding to the civic
chain in which he is represented; it was in allusion to the toga in
which he is painted, that Brougham, being asked whether he thought it
a likeness, remarked that it could not fail of being like him, "there
was so much of the _fur_ (thief) about it."
The author of the _Clubs of London_, who was a member of the Sublime
Society, describes a right in favouring them, "a brotherhood, a
sentiment of equality. How you would laugh to see the junior member
emerging from the cellar, with half-a-dozen bottles in a basket! I
have seen Brougham employed in this honourable diplomacy, and
executing it with the correctness of a butler. The Duke of Leinster,
in his turn, took the same duty.
"With regard to Brougham, at first sight you would not set him down as
having a natural and prompt alacrity for the style of humour that
prevails amongst us. But Brougham is an excellent member, and is a
remarkable instance of the peculiar influences of this peculiar
Society on the human character. We took him just as the schools of
philosophy, the bar, the senate, had made him. Literary, forensic, and
parliamentary habits are most intractable materials, you will say, to
make a member of the Steaks, yet no man has imbibed more of its
spirit, and he enters its occasional gladiatorship with the greatest
glee."
Admirable were the offhand puns and passes, which, though of a legal
character, were played off by Bolland, another member of the Society.
Brougham was putting hypothetically the case of a man convicted of
felony, and duly hanged according to law; but restored to life by
medical appliances; and asked what would be the man's defence if again
brought to trial. "Why," returned Bolland, "it would be for him to
plead _a cord_ and satisfaction." ["Accord and satisfaction" is a
common plea in legal practice.] The same evening were talked over Dean
Swift's ingenious but grotesque puns upon the names of antiquity, such
as Ajax, Archimedes, and others equally well known. Bolland remarked
that when Swift was looking out for those humorous quibbles, it was
singular that it should never have occurred to him that among the
shades that accost Æneas in the sixth book of the Æneid, there was a
Scotchman of the name of Hugh Forbes. Those who had read Virgil began
to stare. "It is quite plain," said Bolland: "the ghost exclaims,
'Olim Euphorbus eram.'"
The following are the first twenty-four names of the Club, copied from
their book:--[13]
George Lambert.
John Boson.
William Hogarth.
Henry Smart.
John Rich.
John Huggins.
Lacy Ryan.
Hugh Watson.
Ebenezer Forrest.
William Huggins.
Robert Scott.
Edmund Tuffnell.
Thomas Chapman.
Thomas Salway.
Dennis Delane.
Charles Neale.
John Thornhill.
Charles Latrobe.
Francis Niveton.
Alexander Gordon.
Sir William Saunderson.
William Tathall.
Richard Mitchell.
Gabriel Hunt.
The following were subsequent members:--
Francis Hayman.
Mr. Beard.
Theo. Cibber.
Mr. Wilkes.
Mr. Saunders Welsh.
Thomas Hudson.
John Churchill.
Mr. Williamson.
Lord Sandwich.
Prince of Wales.
Mr. Havard.
Chas. Price.
In 1805 the members were--
Sir J. Boyd.
Estcourt.
J. Travanion, jun.
Earl of Suffolk.
Crossdill.
J. Kemble, expelled for his mode of conduct.
Prince of Wales.
Charles Howard, Duke of Norfolk.
Mingay.
Johnson.
Scudamore.
Haworth.
November 6th, 1814:--
Stephenson.
Cobb.
Richards.
Sir J. Scott, Bart.
Foley.
Arnold.
Braddyll.
Nettleshipp.
Middleton.
Denison.
Johnson.
Scudamore.
Nixon.
T. Scott.
Wilson.
Ellis.
Walsh.
Linley.
Duke of Norfolk.
Mayo.
Duke of Sussex.
Morrice.
Bolland.
Lord Grantley.
Peter Moore.
Dunn, Treasurer of Drury Lane Theatre.
When the Club dined at the Shakspeare, in the room with the Lion's
head over the mantelpiece, these popular actors were members:--
Lewis.
Irish Johnson.
Munden.
Fawcett.
Pope.
Holman.
Simmonds.
Formerly, the table-cloths had gridirons in damask on them; their
drinking-glasses bore gridirons; as did the plates also. Among the
presents made to the Society are a punch-ladle, from Barrington
Bradshaw; Sir John Boyd, six spoons; mustard pot, by John Trevanion,
M.P.; two dozen water-plates and eight dishes, given by the Duke of
Sussex; cruet-stand, given by W. Bolland; vinegar-glasses, by Thomas
Scott. Lord Suffolk gave a silver cheese-toaster; toasted or stewed
cheese being the wind-up of the dinner.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] At the sale of the curiosities belonging to Mr. Harley, the
comedian, at Gower-street, in November, 1858, a silver gridiron, worn
by a member of the Steaks, was sold for 1_l._ 3_s._
[13] This and the subsequent lists have been printed by Mr. John
Green.
CAPTAIN MORRIS,
THE BARD OF THE BEEF-STEAK SOCIETY.
Hitherto we have mentioned but incidentally Charles Morris, the Nestor
and the laureate of the Steaks; but he merits fuller record. "Alas!
poor Yorick! we knew him well;" we remember his "political vest," to
which he addressed a sweet lyric--"The Old Whig Poet to his Old Buff
Waistcoat."[14] Nor can we forget his courteous manner and his
gentlemanly pleasantry, and his unflagging cheerfulness, long after he
had retired to enjoy the delights of rural life, despite the early
prayer of his racy verse:--
"In town let me live then, in town let me die;
For in truth I can't relish the country, not I.
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,
Oh! give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall."
This "sweet shady side" has almost disappeared; and of the palace
whereat he was wont to shine, not a trace remains, save the name.
Charles Morris was born of good family, in 1745, and appears to have
inherited a taste for lyric composition; for his father composed the
popular song of _Kitty Crowder_. For half a century, Morris moved in
the first circles of rank and gaiety: he was the "Sun of the table,"
at Carlton House, as well as at Norfolk House; and attaching himself
politically as well as convivially to his table companions, he
composed the celebrated ballads of "Billy's too young to drive us,"
and "Billy Pitt and the Farmer," which were clever satires upon the
ascendant politics of their day. His humorous ridicule of the Tories
was, however, but ill repaid by the Whigs; at least, if we may trust
the Ode to the Buff Waistcoat, written in 1815. His 'Songs Political
and Convivial,' many of which were sung at the Steaks' board, became
very popular. In 1830, we possessed a copy of the 24th edition, with a
portrait of the author, half-masked; one of the ditties was described
to have been "sung by the Prince of Wales to a certain lady," to the
air of "There's a difference between a Beggar and a Queen;" some of
the early songs were condemned for their pruriency, and were omitted
in subsequent editions. His best Anacreontic is the song _Ad Poculum_,
for which Morris received the Gold Cup from the Harmonic Society:
"Come, thou soul-reviving cup;
Try thy healing art;
Stir the fancy's visions up,
And warm my wasted heart.
Touch with freshening tints of bliss
Memory's fading dream.
Give me, while thy lip I kiss,
The heaven that's in thy stream.
As the witching fires of wine
Pierce through Time's past reign,
Gleams of joy that once were mine,
Glimpse back on life again.
And if boding terrors rise
O'er my melting mind,
Hope still starts to clear my eyes,
And drinks the tear behind.
Then life's wintry shades new drest,
Fair as summer seem;
Flowers I gather from my breast,
And sunshine from the stream.
As the cheering goblets pass,
Memory culls her store;
Scatters sweets around my glass,
And prompts my thirst for more.
Far from toils the great and grave
To proud ambition give,
My little world kind Nature gave,
And simply bade me live.
On me she fix'd an humble art,
To deck the Muse's groves,
And on the nerve that twines my heart
The touch of deathless love.
Then, rosy god, this night let me
Thy cheering magic share;
Again let hope-fed Fancy see
Life's picture bright and fair.
Oh! steal from care my heart away,
To sip thy healing spring;
And let me taste that bliss to-day
To-morrow may not bring."
The friendship of the Duke of Norfolk and Charles Morris extended far
beyond the Steaks meetings; and the author of the _Clubs of London_
tells us by what means the Duke's regard took a more permanent form.
It appears that John Kemble had sat very late at one of the night
potations at Norfolk House. Charles Morris had just retired, and a
very small party remained in the dining-room, when His Grace of
Norfolk began to deplore, somewhat pathetically, the smallness of the
stipend upon which poor Charles was obliged to support his family;
observing, that it was a discredit to the age, that a man, who had so
long gladdened the lives of so many titled and opulent associates,
should be left to struggle with the difficulties of an inadequate
income at a time of life when he had no reasonable hope of augmenting
it. Kemble listened with great attention to the Duke's _jeremiade_;
but after a slight pause, his feelings getting the better of his
deference, he broke out thus, in a tone of peculiar emphasis:--"And
does your Grace sincerely lament the destitute condition of your
friend, with whom you have passed so many agreeable hours? Your Grace
has described that condition most feelingly. But is it possible, that
the greatest Peer of the realm, luxuriating amidst the prodigalities
of fortune, should lament the distress which he does not relieve? the
empty phrase of benevolence--the mere breath and vapour of generous
sentiment, become no man; they certainly are unworthy of your Grace.
Providence, my Lord Duke, has placed you in a station where the wish
to do good and the doing it are the same thing. An annuity from your
overflowing coffers, or a small nook of land, clipped from your
unbounded domains, would scarcely be felt by your Grace; but you would
be repaid, my Lord, with usury;--with tears of grateful joy; with
prayers warm from a bosom which your bounty will have rendered happy."
Such was the substance of Kemble's harangue. Jack Bannister used to
relate the incident, by ingeniously putting the speech into blank
verse, or rather the species of prose into which Kemble's phraseology
naturally fell when he was highly animated. But, however expressed, it
produced its effect. For though the Duke (the night was pretty far
gone, and several bottles had been emptied) said nothing at the time,
but stared with some astonishment at so unexpected a lecture; not a
month elapsed before Charles Morris was invested with a beautiful
retreat at Brockham, in Surrey, upon the bank of the river Mole, and
at the foot of the noble range of which Box Hill forms the most
picturesque point.
The Duke went to his rest in 1815. Morris continued to be the laureate
of the Steaks until the year 1831, when he thus bade adieu to the
Society in his eighty-sixth year:--
"Adieu to the world! where I gratefully own,
Few men more delight or more comfort have known:
To an age far beyond mortal lot have I trod
The path of pure health, that best blessing of God;
And so mildly devout Nature temper'd my frame,
Holy patience still sooth'd when Adversity came;
Thus with mind ever cheerful, and tongue never tired,
I sung the gay strains these sweet blessings inspired;
And by blending light mirth with a moral-mix'd stave,
Won the smile of the gay and the nod of the grave.
But at length the dull languor of mortal decay
Throws a weight on its spirit too light for its clay;
And the fancy, subdued, as the body's opprest,
Resigns the faint flights that scarce wake in the breast.
A painful memento that man's not to play
A game of light folly through Life's sober day;
A just admonition, though view'd with regret,
Still blessedly offer'd, though thanklessly met.
Too long, I perhaps, like the many who stray,
Have upheld the gay themes of the Bacchanal's day;
But at length Time has brought, what it ever will bring,
A shade that excites more to sigh than to sing.
In this close of Life's chapter, ye high-favour'd few,
Take my Muse's last tribute--this painful adieu!
Take my wish, that your bright social circle on earth
For ever may flourish in concord and mirth;
For the long years of joy I have shared at your board,
Take the thanks of my heart--where they long have been stored;
And remember, when Time tolls my last passing knell,
The 'old bard' dropp'd a tear, and then bade ye--Farewell!"
In 1835, however, Morris revisited the Society, who then presented him
with a large silver bowl, appropriately inscribed, as a testimonial of
their affectionate esteem; and the venerable bard thus addressed the
brotherhood:--
"Well, I'm come, my dear friends, your kind wish to obey,
And drive, by light mirth, all Life's shadows away;
And turn the heart's sighs to the throbbings of joy,
And a grave aged man to a merry old boy.
'Tis a bold transformation, a daring design,
And not past the power of Friendship and Wine;
And I trust that e'en yet this warm mixture will raise
A brisk spark of light o'er the shade of my days."
Shortly after this effusion, he thus alluded to the treasured gift of
the Society:--
"When my spirits are low, for relief and delight,
I still place your splendid Memorial in sight;
And call to my Muse, when care strives to pursue,
'Bring the Steaks to my Memory and the Bowl to my view.'
When brought, at its sight all the _blue devils_ fly,
And a world of gay visions rise bright to my eye;
Cold Fear shuns the cup where warm Memory flows;
And Grief, shamed by Joy, hides his budget of Woes.
'Tis a pure holy fount, where for ever I find
A sure double charm for the Body and Mind;
For I feel while I'm cheer'd by the drop that I lift,
I'm Blest by the Motive that hallows the Gift."
How nicely tempered is this chorus to our Bard's "Life's a Fable:"--
"Then roll along, my lyric song;
It seasons well the table,
And tells a truth to Age and Youth,
That Life's a fleeting fable.
* * * * *
Thus Mirth and Woe the brighter show
From rosy wine's reflection;
From first to last, this truth hath past--
'Twas made for Care's correction.
Now what those think who water drink,
Of these old rules of Horace,
I sha'n't now show; but this I know,
His rules do well for _Morris_.
Old Horace, when he dipp'd his pen,
'Twas wine he had resort to;
He chose for use Falernian juice,
As I choose old Oporto;
At every bout an ode came out,
Yet Bacchus kept him twinkling;
As well aware more fire was there,
Which wanted but the sprinkling."
* * * * *
At Brockham, Morris "drank the pure pleasures of the rural life" long
after many a gay light of his own time had flickered out, and become
almost forgotten. At length, his course ebbed away, July 11, 1838, in
his ninety-third year; his illness, which was only of four days, was
internal inflammation. The attainment of so great an age, and the
recollection of Morris's associations, show him to have presented a
rare combination of mirth and prudence. He retained his _gaîté de
coeur_ to the last; so that with equal truth he remonstrated:
"When Life charms my heart, must I kindly be told,
I'm too gay and too happy for one that's so old?"
The venerable Bard's remains rest near the east end of his parish
church of Betchworth, in the burial-ground: the grave is simply marked
by a head and foot-stone, with an inscription of three or four lines:
he who had sung the praises of so many choice spirits, has not here a
stanza to his own memory: such is, to some extent, the natural
_sequitur_ with men who outlive their companions. Morris was staid and
grave in his general deportment. Moore, in his _Diary_, has this odd
note: "Linley describes Colman at the Beefsteak Club quite drunk,
making extraordinary noise while Captain Morris was singing, which
disconcerted the latter (who, strange to say, is a very grave, steady
person) considerably." Yet, Morris could unbend, with great simplicity
and feeling. We have often met him, in his patriarchal "blue and buff"
(blue coat and buff waistcoat), in his walks about the lovely country
in which he resided. Coming, one day, into the bookseller's shop, at
Dorking, there chanced to be deposited a pianoforte; when the old Bard
having looked around him, to see there were no strangers present, sat
down to the instrument, and played and sang with much spirit the air
of "The girl I left behind me:" yet he was then past his eightieth
year.
Morris's ancient and rightful office at the Steaks was to _make the
punch_, and it was amusing to see him at his laboratory at the
sideboard, stocked with the various products that enter into the
composition of that nectareous mixture: then smacking an elementary
glass or two, and giving a significant nod, the fiat of its
excellence; and what could exceed the ecstasy with which he filled the
glasses that thronged around the bowl; joying over its mantling
beauties, and distributing the fascinating draught
"That flames and dances in its crystal bound"?
"Well has our laureate earned his wreath," (says the author of _The
Clubs of London_, who was often a participator in these delights). "At
that table his best songs have been sung; for that table his best
songs were written. His allegiance has been undivided. Neither hail,
nor shower, nor snowstorm have kept him away: no engagement, no
invitation seduced him from it. I have seen him there, 'outwatching
the bear,' in his seventy-eighth year; for as yet nature had given no
signal of decay in frame or faculty; but you saw him in a green and
vigorous old age, tripping mirthfully along the downhill of existence,
without languor, or gout, or any of the privileges exacted by time for
the mournful privilege of living. His face is still resplendent with
cheerfulness. 'Die when you will, Charles,' said Curran to him, 'you
will die in your youth.'"
FOOTNOTES:
[14] See Century of Anecdote, vol. i. p. 321.
BEEF-STEAK CLUBS.
There are other Beef-steak Clubs to be chronicled. Pyne, in his _Wine
and Walnuts_, says: "At the same time the social Club flourished in
England, and about the year 1749, a Beef-steak Club was established at
the Theatre Royal, Dublin, of which the celebrated Mrs. Margaret
Woffington was president. It was begun by Mr. Sheridan, but on a very
different plan to that in London, no theatrical performer, save one
_female_, being admitted; and though called a Club, the manager alone
bore all the expenses. The plan was, by making a list of about fifty
or sixty persons, chiefly noblemen and members of Parliament, who were
invited. Usually about half that number attended, and dined in the
manager's apartment in the theatre. There was no female admitted but
this _Peg Woffington_, so denominated by all her contemporaries, who
was seated in a great chair at the head of the table, and elected
president for the season.
"'It will readily be believed,' says Mr. Victor, in his _History of
the Theatres_, who was joint proprietor of the house, 'that a club
where there were good accommodations, such a _lovely president_, full
of wit and spirit, and _nothing to pay_, must soon grow remarkably
fashionable.' It did so; but we find it subsequently caused the
theatre to be pulled to pieces about the manager's head.
"Mr. Victor says of Mrs. Margaret, 'she possessed captivating charms
as a jovial, witty bottle companion, but few remaining as a mere
female,' We have Dr. Johnson's testimony, however, who had often
gossiped with Mrs. Margaret in the green-room at old Drury, more in
the lady's favour.
"This author (Victor) says, speaking of the Beef-steak Club, 'It was a
club of ancient institution in every theatre; when the principal
performers dined one day in the week together (generally Saturday),
and authors and other geniuses were admitted members.'"
The Club in Ivy-lane, of which Dr. Johnson was a member, was
originally a Beef-steak Club.
There was also a political Club, called "the Rump Steak, or Liberty
Club," in existence in 1733-4. The members were in eager opposition to
Sir Robert Walpole.
At the Bell Tavern, Church-row, Houndsditch, was held the Beef-steak
Club, instituted by Mr. Beard, Mr. Dunstall, Mr. Woodward, Stoppalear,
Bencroft, Gifford, etc.--_See Memoirs of Charles Lee Lewis_, vol. ii.
p. 196.
CLUB AT TOM'S COFFEE-HOUSE.