A REFLECTIVE writer, with the power to vividly recall a past age and
contrast it with the present, might find ample inspiration in the rooms
to which Mr. Irving presently invites us. It is Saturday night. On this
last day in every acting week it is his habit to sup at the theatre,
and, in spite of his two performances, he finds strength enough to
entertain a few guests, sometimes a snug party of three, sometimes
a lively company of eight or ten. We descend a carpeted staircase,
cross the stage upon the remains of the snow scene of the “Corsican
Brothers,” ascend a winding stair, pass through an armory packed with
such a variety of weapons as to suggest the Tower of London, and are
then ushered into a spacious wainscoted apartment, with a full set of
polished ancient armor in each corner of it, an antique fireplace with
the example of an old master over the mantel, a high-backed settee in
an alcove opposite the blind windows (the sills of which are decorated
with ancient bottles and jugs), and in the centre of the room an old
oak dining-table, furnished for supper with white cloth, cut glass, and
silver, among which shine the familiar beet-root and tomato.
“This was the old Beefsteak Club room,” says our host; “beyond there is
the kitchen; the members dined here. The apartments were lumber-rooms
until lately.”
Classic lumber-rooms truly! In the history of the clubs no association
is more famous than the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks. The late
William Jerdan was the first to attempt anything like a concise sketch
of the club, and he wrote his reminiscences thereof for me and “The
Gentleman’s Magazine” a dozen years ago, in the popular modern days
of that periodical. Jerdan gave me an account of the club in the days
when he visited it. “The President,” he said,—“an absolute despot
during his reign,—sat at the head of the table adorned with ribbon
and badge, and with the insignia of a silver gridiron on his breast;
his head, when he was oracular, was crowned with a feathery hat, said
to have been worn by Garrick in some gay part on the stage. He looked
every inch a king. At the table on this occasion were seated the
Bishop, Samuel Arnold, the patriotic originator of English opera, and
strenuous encourager of native musical talent. He wore a mitre, said
to have belonged to Cardinal Gregorio; but be that as it might, it
became him well as he set it on his head to pronounce the grace before
meat, which he intoned as reverently as if he had been in presence
of the Archbishop of Canterbury instead of a bevy of Steakers. Near
him was John Richards, the Recorder, whose office in passing sentence
on culprits was discharged with piquancy and effect. Captain Morris,
the Laureate, occupied a distinguished seat; so also did Dick Wilson,
the Secretary, a bit of a butt to the jokers, who were wont to extort
from him some account of a Continental trip, where he prided himself
on having ordered a ‘boulevard’ for his dinner, and _un paysan_ (for
_faisan_) to be roasted; and last of all I can recall to mind, at the
bottom of the plenteous board sat the all-important ‘Boots,’ the
youngest member of the august assembly. These associated as a sort of
staff with a score of other gentlemen, all men of the world, men of
intellect and intelligence, well educated, and of celebrity in various
lines of life—noblemen, lawyers, physicians and surgeons, authors,
artists, newspaper editors, actors,—it is hardly possible to conceive
any combination of various talent to be more efficient for the object
sought than the Beefsteaks. The accommodation for their meetings was
built, expressly for that end, behind the scenes of the Lyceum Theatre,
by Mr. Arnold; and, among other features, was a room with no daylight
to intrude, and this was the dining-room, with the old gridiron on the
ceiling, over the centre of the table. The cookery on which the good
cheer of the company depended was carried on in what may be called the
kitchen, in full view of the chairman, and served through the opposite
wall, namely, a huge gridiron with bars as wide apart as the ‘chess’
of small windows, handed hot-and-hot to the expectant hungerers. There
were choice salads (mostly of beet root), porter, and port. The plates
were never overloaded, but small cuts sufficed till almost satiated
appetite perhaps called for one more from the third cut in the rump
itself, which His Grace of Norfolk, after many slices, prized as the
grand essence of bullock!”
Other times, other manners. The rooms are still there. The gridiron is
gone from the ceiling, but the one through which sliced bullock used
to be handed “hot-and-hot” to the nobility of blood and intellect
remains. It and the kitchen (now furnished with a fine modern
cooking-range) are shut off from the dining-room, and neither porter
nor port ever weighs down the spirits of Mr. Irving’s guests. He
sometimes regales a few friends here after the play. The _menu_ on
these occasions would contrast as strangely with that of the old days
as the guests and the subjects of their conversation and mirth. It is
classic ground on which we tread, and the ghosts that rise before us
are those of Sheridan, Perry, Lord Erskine, Cam Hobhouse, and their
boon companions. Should the notabilities among Irving’s friends be
mentioned, the list would be a fair challenge to the old Beefsteaks. I
do not propose to deal with these giants of yesterday and to-day, but
to contrast with Jerdan’s picture a recent supper of guests gathered
together on an invitation of only a few hours previously. On the left
side of Irving sat one of his most intimate friends, a famous London
comedian; on the right, a well-known American tragedian, who had not
yet played in London; opposite, at the other side of the circular-ended
table, sat a theatrical manager from Dublin, and another of the same
profession from the English midlands; the other chairs were occupied by
a famous traveller, an American gentleman connected with literature and
life insurance, a young gentleman belonging to English political and
fashionable society, the editor of a Liverpool journal, a provincial
playwright, and a north-country philanthropist. The repast began with
oysters, and ran through a few _entrées_ and a steak, finishing with a
rare old Stilton cheese. There were various salads, very dry sherry
and Champagne, a rich Burgundy, and, after all, sodas and brandies
and cigars. The talk was “shop” from first to last,—discussions of
the artistic treatment of certain characters by actors of the day and
of a previous age, anecdotes of the stage, the position of the drama,
its purpose and mission. Every guest contributed his quota to the
general talk, the host himself giving way to the humor of the hour,
and chatting of his career, his position, his hopes, his prospects,
his ambition, in the frankest way. Neither the space at my disposal
nor the custom of the place will permit of a revelation of this social
dialogue; for the founder of the feast has revived, with the restored
Beefsteak rooms, the motto from Horace’s “Epistles” (paraphrased by the
old club Bishop), which is still inscribed on the dining-room wall:—
“Let no one bear beyond this threshold hence,
Words uttered here in friendly confidence.”