LONDON CLUBS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
THE ST. JAMES’ CLUB
(FORMERLY COVENTRY HOUSE)
_From a Water-colour Drawing by W. Walcot_
]
LONDON CLUBS
THEIR HISTORY & TREASURES
_By_
RALPH NEVILL
AUTHOR OF “THE MERRY PAST,” “LIGHT COME, LIGHT GO,” ETC.
[Illustration]
LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS
MDCCCCXI
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WITH NINE PLATES
_All rights reserved_
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NOTE
The Author wishes to acknowledge the valuable assistance he has received
from several Secretaries of Clubs mentioned in this volume, particularly
Captain CHARLES PERCY SMITH, who supplied him with information of
considerable interest.
His best thanks are also due to the Committee of the St. James’ Club for
having courteously allowed him to reproduce the water-colour drawing
shown in the Frontispiece.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGES
The Origin of Clubs in 1–32
Coffee-houses and Taverns.
CHAPTER II
Curious Clubs of the 33–62
Past—Pratt’s—Beefsteak
Clubs, Old and New
CHAPTER III
Clubs of St. James’s 63–98
Street—Boodle’s, Arthur’s,
and White’s
CHAPTER IV
Brooks’s, the Cocoa-tree, and 99–134
the Thatched House
CHAPTER V
Changes in Club-Life and Ways 135–155
CHAPTER VI
Elections—Committees—Regulations—Rules 156–177
CHAPTER VII
Late 178–208
Sittings—Fines—Cards—Characters—Supper
Clubs
CHAPTER VIII
The Travellers’—Oriental—St. 209–236
James’—Turf—Marlborough—Isthmian
—Windham—Bachelors’—Union—Carlton—Junior
Carlton—Conservative—Devonshire—Reform
CHAPTER IX
The National—Oxford and 237–256
Cambridge—United
University—New
University—New Oxford and
Cambridge—United
Service—Army and Navy—Naval
and Military—Guards’—Royal
Naval Club—Caledonian—Junior
Athenæum
CHAPTER X
The Dilettanti—The 257–284
Club—Cosmopolitan—Kit-Kat—Royal
Societies’—Burlington Fine
Arts—Athenæum—Alfred
CHAPTER XI
The Garrick—Jockey Club at 285–310
Newmarket—Royal Yacht
Squadron at Cowes—Conclusion
INDEX 311–316
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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
TO
FACE
PAGE
The St. James’ Club _Frontispiece_
Badges and Ring of the Sublime 38
Society of Beefsteaks
Badge of the Ad Libitum Club 38
White’s Club previous to 1811 78
Promised Horrors of the French 100
Invasion, by Gillray
Old Mansions in Piccadilly, 220
now Clubs
Crockford’s in 1828 228
Interior of the Reform Club 232
The Army and Navy Club 244
A Dinner of the Dilettanti 260
Society at the Thatched
House
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LONDON CLUBS
CHAPTER I
THE ORIGIN OF CLUBS IN COFFEE-HOUSES AND TAVERNS
The modern club, with its luxuries and comforts, has its origin in the
tavern and coffee-house of a long-past age. The resorts in question have
long since entirely changed their character, although they were once
important features of London life, and were used by all classes for
purposes of conviviality and conversation.
The appellation “club” seems to have come into use at the time when
coffee-houses began to be popular in London. The first notable London
club, of course, was the Mermaid, in Broad Street, which was supposed to
have been founded by Raleigh, and which was the reputed scene of many
witty combats between Shakespeare and Ben Jonson. The latter himself
originated another club—the Apollo—which had its meetings at the Devil
Tavern, near Temple Bar.
In course of time many landlords perceived the advantage which would
accrue to their business from the setting apart of special rooms for
privileged customers; and gradually a number of fairly exclusive clubs
came into being.
Thus Tom’s, a coffee-house till 1764, in that year, by a guinea
subscription, was easily converted into a fashionable club. In the same
way White’s and the Cocoa-tree changed their character from
chocolate-house to club. When once a house had customers enough of
standing and good repute, well acquainted with each other, it was quite
worth while to purchase the power of excluding all but subscribers, and
to turn the place into a club; for by such a proceeding undesirable
characters, who could obtain constant admission to an open house, were
at once kept outside the doors.
The evolution of the modern club has been so simple that it can be
traced with great ease. First the tavern or coffee-house, where a
certain number of people met on special evenings for purposes of social
conversation, and incidentally consumed a good deal of liquid
refreshment; then the beginnings of the club proper—some well-known
house of refreshment being taken over from the proprietor by a limited
number of clients for their own exclusive use, and the landlord retained
as manager; and finally the palatial modern club, not necessarily
sociable, but replete with every comfort, and owned by the members
themselves. In such places, however, the old spirit of club-life is
generally lost. Dr. Johnson, for example, can be imagined passing
through the portals of one of these huge buildings, and saying: “Sir,
this may be a palace, but it is no club.” There is no doubt that in a
great measure he would be right.
It is believed that the first house in Pall Mall ever used as a club was
No. 86, originally built for Edward, Duke of York, brother of George
III. It was opened as a “subscription house,” and called the Albion
Hotel towards the end of the last century.
In the early part of the eighteenth century there were said to be no
fewer than 2,000 coffee-houses in London. Every profession, trade,
class, party, had its favourite coffee-house. The lawyers discussed law
or literature, criticized the last new play, or retailed the legal
scandal at Nando’s or the Grecian, not very far away from the Temple. At
such places the young bloods of the Inns of Court paraded their gowns in
the morning, and swaggered in their lace coats and Mechlin ruffles at
night, after the theatre. City men met to discuss the rise and fall of
stocks, and to settle the rate of insurance, at Garraway’s or
Jonathan’s; parsons exchanged University gossip or discussed points of
theology at Truby’s or at Child’s, in St. Paul’s Churchyard; whilst
military men mustered to grumble over their grievances at Old or Young
Man’s, near Charing Cross. The St. James’s and the Smyrna were the
headquarters of the Whig politicians, whereas the Tories frequented the
Cocoa-tree or Ozinda’s, in St. James’s Street; Scotchmen had their house
of call at Forrest’s, Frenchmen at Giles’s or Old Slaughter’s, in St.
Martin’s Lane; the gamesters shook their elbows in White’s and the
chocolate-houses round Covent Garden; and the leading wits gathered at
Will’s, Button’s, or Tom’s, in Great Russell Street, where, after the
theatre, there was piquet and the best of conversation till midnight. At
all these places, except a few of the most aristocratic coffee or
chocolate houses of the West End, smoking was allowed.
Many of these old taverns must have been exceedingly comfortable places,
and the few which survive have an especial charm. They carry one’s
thoughts irresistibly to the days when Dr. Johnson blew his cloud by the
side of an old-fashioned fireplace, and occasionally floored some
unhappy wight with the sledge-hammer of his conversation.
One of the last, if not the last, hostelries, which still retains its
ancient appearance, is the Cheshire Cheese. This well-known house is
half-way up Fleet Street, on the northern side. It remains, I believe,
substantially as it was when, seven years after the Restoration, it was
rebuilt on the site of that older Cheshire Cheese where Shakespeare and
many other Elizabethan wits were wont to meet.
Ben Jonson was a frequent visitor, and here occurred his dispute with
Sylvester as to which of them could make the best couplet in the
shortest time. The latter began:
“I, Sylvester,
Kiss’d your sister.”
The other’s retort was:
“I, Ben Jonson,
Kiss’d your wife.”
“But that’s not rhyme,” said Sylvester. “No,” said Jonson, “but it’s
true.”
The original courtyard of the Cheshire Cheese is now roofed over with
glass, and here may be seen some interesting old prints. These include
two by H. Bunbury—“A City Hunt” and “Hyde Park, 1780”; while others are,
“Destruction of the Bastille, July 14, 1789,” after a painting by H.
Singleton, and a line engraving by James Heath, from a painting by F.
Wheatley of “The Riot in Broad Street on the 17th of June, 1773.”
Dr. Johnson is supposed to have passed many an evening here, and from
his time down to the present day unbroken links of tradition connect the
Cheshire Cheese of the twentieth century with the Cheshire Cheese of the
eighteenth.
The seat on which legend reports that the redoubtable lexicographer sat
is one of the most treasured relics of the dining-room. Above it hangs a
copy of the famous portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds, now preserved in the
National Gallery. Underneath may be read the following inscription: “The
Favourite Seat of Dr. Johnson. Born 18th Septr., 1709. Died 13th Decr.,
1784. In him a noble understanding and a masterly intellect were united
with grand independence of character and unfailing goodness of heart,
which won the admiration of his own age and remain as recommendations to
the reverence of posterity. ‘No, Sir! there is nothing which has yet
been contrived by man by which so much happiness has been produced as by
a good tavern.’—JOHNSON.”
A number of quaint pictures and prints are to be found scattered over
the house.
Upstairs is another copy of Sir Joshua’s oil-painting of the Doctor.
This, it is said, dates back to Johnson’s time, and was painted in order
that it might adorn the room at the Mitre, in Chancery Lane, where the
club founded by Dr. Johnson first held its meetings. Dr. Johnson’s Mitre
has long since been pulled down, but the club he founded still exists,
and it meets several times a year in what was formerly the coffee-room.
This is now known as “William’s room,” on account of the portrait of
William Simpson which hangs over the fireplace. William began to be a
waiter at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese Chop-house in 1829, and his portrait,
as the inscription below says, “was subscribed for by the gentlemen
frequenting the coffee-room, and presented to Mr. Dolamore (the
landlord) to be handed down as an heirloom to all future landlords of
‘Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese,’ Wine Office Court, Fleet Street.” The name of
the artist is unknown.
In the opposite room is a picture of another waiter—a portrait of Henry
Todd, as the inscription informs us, who commenced as waiter at Ye Olde
Cheshire Cheese February 27, 1812. It was painted by Wageman, July 1827,
and “subscribed for by the gentlemen frequenting the coffee-room, and
presented to Mr. Dolamore (the landlord) in trust to be handed down as
an heirloom to all future landlords of the Old Cheshire Cheese, Wine
Office Court, Fleet Street.”
Besides being the meeting-place of the Mitre Club, the Cheshire Cheese
is used by a number of clubs resembling somewhat those which were so
popular with a long-vanished generation. These are: The Johnson Club,
founded about twenty-five years ago; the Sawdust Club, founded 1906;
“Ourselves,” founded 1897; St. Dunstan’s, founded 1890; the Rump Steak
Club; the Dickens Club. The Johnson Club is literary and social in
character, and consists of thirty-one members, who sup together annually
on or about December 13th, the anniversary of the Doctor’s death.
Various other meetings are held throughout the year.
The Doctor was certainly the most typical club-man of a past age, and
his name is connected with quite a number of social clubs which held
their meetings at coffee-houses and taverns. Indeed, no more clubbable
man than the writer of the famous Dictionary ever lived; but, then,
sociability was the main object of the clubs of his day, whereas the
modern tendency is more towards comfort and efficient management than
anything else. In most large modern clubs quite a number of members are
totally unknown to their fellows, and there is no reason why a member
should speak to anyone at all unless he wishes to do so. The majority of
the larger modern clubs are in reality merely comfortable
caravanserais—hotels receiving a certain number of selected visitors who
recognize no social obligations within the club walls except such as
regulate ordinary civilized behaviour.
Dr. Johnson founded several social clubs at the taverns and
coffee-houses which he loved to frequent. One of these was the King’s
Head, Ivy Lane, Paternoster Row, a famous beefsteak house, and here he
spent every Tuesday evening in conversation with the members of a social
club of his own foundation.
At the Queen’s Arms, in St. Paul’s Churchyard, the Doctor in later years
founded a club of a similar sort, and Boswell records that he was also
desirous of having a City club, the members of which he suggested that
Boswell should collect. “Only,” added the great lexicographer, “don’t
let there be any patriots.”
Yet another club instituted by Dr. Johnson was one which met thrice a
week at the Essex Head, in Essex Street, Strand, at the time when that
tavern was kept by Samuel Greaves—an old servant of Mr. Thrale’s.
Failure to attend was penalized by a fine of twopence.
The Mitre Tavern in Fleet Street, so often referred to by Boswell, was
Dr. Johnson’s favourite supper-place, and here was planned the
celebrated tour to the Hebrides. It is interesting to remember, in this
connection, that Chamberlain Clarke, who died in 1831, aged ninety-two,
was the last survivor of those friends with whom Dr. Johnson forgathered
at the Mitre.
Peele’s Coffee-house, at Nos. 177, 178, Fleet Street, which afterwards
became a tavern, was also supposed to have been a haunt of Dr. Johnson,
whose portrait, painted on the keystone of a chimney-piece, for years
after his death formed one of the attractions of the house. The artist
was supposed to have been Sir Joshua Reynolds. Peele’s was once noted
for its collection of old newspapers. Here were preserved files from the
following dates: The _Gazette_, 1759; _Times_, 1780; _Morning
Chronicle_, 1773; _Morning Post_, 1773; _Morning Herald_, 1784; _Morning
Advertiser_, 1794.
Nearly every literary man of that time had his favourite coffee-house.
George’s, at No. 213 Strand, near Temple Bar, was the resort of
Shenstone, who found it an economical place. Probably it was for this
reason that the eccentric Sir James Lowther, a very rich man, but
penurious, also went there. On his first visit he got the proprietors to
change a piece of silver in order to pay twopence for his coffee. A few
days later he returned expressly to tell the woman that she had given
him a bad halfpenny, and demanded another in exchange for it.
Clients of this coffee-house could read pamphlets and papers for a very
moderate subscription.
London hours were very different in those days. Three o’clock, or at
latest four, was the dining hour of the most fashionable people, for in
the country no such late hours had been adopted. In London, therefore,
the men began to assemble soon after six at the coffee-house they
frequented—unless, indeed, they were setting in for hard drinking, which
seems to have prevailed much less in private houses than in taverns.
The conversation varied in different coffee-houses. In those about the
Temple, legal matters formed the principal subject of discussion. On the
other hand, at Daniel’s, the Welsh coffee-house in Fleet Street, it was
mostly of births, pedigrees, and descents; Child’s and the Chapter, upon
glebes, tithes, advowsons, rectories, and lectureships; North’s, undue
elections, false pollings, scrutinies, and the like; Hamlin’s, infant
baptism, lay ordination, free-will, election, and reprobation; Batson’s,
the prices of pepper, indigo, and saltpetre; and all those about the
Exchange, where the merchants met to transact their affairs, were in a
perpetual hurry about stock-jobbing—cheating, and tricking widows and
orphans, and committing spoil and rapine on the public, malicious people
said.
In some coffee-houses and taverns political feeling ran high. One noted
chop-house near Holborn lost its business owing to the democratic
character of a number of its frequenters, and eventually had to be shut
up. A new landlord, however, seeking to restore its prosperity,
exhibited the sign of the King’s Head, referring to which a friend said
to him: “Do you think your new sign will keep away old customers? Why,
there is not one of them but would like as much as ever to have a chop
at the King’s Head.”
The Chapter Coffee-house in Paternoster Row, an ancient building with
low rooms and heavy beams, was in the eighteenth century the resort of
all the booksellers and publishers; and the literary hacks, the critics,
and even the wits, used to go there in search of ideas or employment.
This was the place about which Chatterton wrote, in those delusive
letters he sent to his mother at Bristol, while he was starving in
London. The Chapter also retained traditions of Oliver Goldsmith.
In later years it became the tavern frequented by University men and
country clergymen who were up in London for a few days, and, having no
private friends or access into society, were glad to learn what was
going on in the world of letters, from the conversation which they were
sure to hear in the coffee-room.
At one time leather tokens were issued by the proprietor; and the
Chapter was noted for being entirely managed by men, no women servants
being kept.
In the north-east corner of the coffee-room was a box known as the
Witenagemote, which in the early morning was occupied by a group of
individuals nicknamed the Wet Paper Club. The name was derived from
their habit of opening the papers as soon as these were brought in by
the newsman, and reading them before they were dried by the waiter; a
dry paper was regarded as a stale commodity. In the afternoon another
party enjoyed the wet evening papers.
A gentleman who was considered a fixture in this box was Mr. Hammond, a
Coventry manufacturer, who evening after evening, for nearly forty-five
years, was always to be found in the same place, and during the entire
period was well known for his severe and often able comments on the
events of the day. Here he pontificated throughout the days of Wilkes,
of the American War, and of the French War, and, being on the side of
liberty, was constantly in opposition to almost everyone else.
The Chapter continued to be a coffee-house up to 1854, when it became a
tavern.
The Royal Exchange was the resort of all the trading part of the City,
foreign and domestic, from half an hour after one till near three in the
afternoon; but the better sort generally met in the Exchange Alley a
little before, at three celebrated coffee-houses called Garraway’s,
Robin’s, and Jonathan’s. In the first the people of quality who had
business in the City, and the most considerable and wealthy citizens,
congregated. In the third met buyers and sellers of stock.
The Royal Exchange Coffee-house resembled a gaming-house more than
anything else, being full of gamesters, with the same sharp, intent
looks, with the difference only that there it was selling of Bank stock,
East India, South Sea, and lottery tickets, instead of the cards and
dice dear to ordinary gamblers.
The British Coffee-house in the West End was much frequented by
Scotchmen, whilst a mixture of all sorts went to the Smyrna, not very
far away. There were other little coffee-houses much frequented in this
neighbourhood—Young Man’s for officers, Old Man’s for stockjobbers,
paymasters, and courtiers, and Little Man’s for sharpers. Here there
were two or three faro tables upstairs.
After the theatre fashionable men went to Tom’s and Will’s
Coffee-houses, where they played piquet and indulged in conversation.
Here you might see blue and green ribbons and stars sitting familiarly
with private gentlemen, and talking with the same freedom as if they had
left their quality and degrees of distance at home—a sight which amazed
foreigners not used to the liberty of speech permitted in England.
A favourite resort of literary men was the Percy Coffee-house in
Rathbone Place, Oxford Street. This was used by Thomas Byerley and
Joseph Robertson, who together produced the “Percy Anecdotes” in 1820,
writing as Sholto and Reuben Percy. A large sum was realized by the work
in question, which began in 1820 and ran into forty-four parts.
The West End coffee-houses were often disturbed by the eccentricities of
the “bloods.” A wild band, for instance, frequented the Royal
Chocolate-house in St. James’s Street, where on one occasion a dispute
at hazard produced a quarrel, which became general throughout the room;
and, as they fought with their swords, three gentlemen were mortally
wounded. The affray was at length ended by the interposition of the
Royal Guards, who were compelled to knock the parties down
indiscriminately with the butt-ends of their muskets, as entreaties and
commands were of no avail. On this occasion a footman of Colonel
Cunningham’s, greatly attached to his master, rushed through the swords,
seized and literally carried him out by force without injury.
Lord Camelford, of duelling notoriety, one evening entered the Prince of
Wales Coffee-house, Conduit Street, and, as was his usual custom, sat
down and began to read the papers. A dashing fellow, and in his own
opinion a first-rate blood, happening to come in, threw himself on the
opposite seat of the same box, and, in a consequential tone, bawled:
“Waiter! bring me a pint of madeira and a couple of wax candles, and put
them in the next box.” He then drew over to himself Lord Camelford’s
candles, and began to read, which proceeding merely caused his lordship
to look indignant, whilst he continued reading his paper. The waiter
soon reappeared, and announced the completion of the gentleman’s
commands, who immediately lounged round to his own box. Lord Camelford,
having now finished his paragraph, called out, in a mimicking tone:
“Waiter! bring me a pair of snuffers.” These being quickly brought, his
lordship laid down his paper, walked round the table at which the
“blood” sat, snuffed out both the candles, and retired to his seat.
Boiling with rage and fury, the indignant beau roared out: “Waiter,
waiter! who the devil is this fellow that dares to insult a gentleman?
What is he? What do they call him?” “Lord Camelford, sir,” replied the
other in a tone scarcely audible. The coxcomb, horror-struck at the name
of the dangerous nobleman, said tremblingly, “What have I to pay?” and,
on being told, quietly laid down his money and sneaked away, leaving his
madeira untasted.
Disturbances were frequently caused in coffee-houses by dashing bucks
who attempted either to dominate or to upset the domination of others.
At the west end of Cecil Court, in St. Martin’s Lane, there existed,
towards the end of the reign of George II, Pon’s Coffee-house, much
frequented by foreigners of distinction, officers, and men about town.
In the course of time the foreigners began to dominate this place,
always contriving to get one of themselves into the chair, and occupying
special seats which were kept for them alone. This created much
ill-feeling, and at length reached the ears of the celebrated Lord
Tyrawley, at that time a gay spark about town. Discussing the foreign
ascendancy which prevailed in this place, Lord Tyrawley said, in his
vigorous way: “It is all your own fault. The Frenchmen see you are
afraid of them, and therefore behave with insolence. I am sure they are
cowards, and if I was in the company I would undertake to insult the lot
with impunity, and leave the room without being questioned or prevented
by any one of them.” This led to a conversation, which ended in a bet
that Lord Tyrawley would carry his threat into execution, and on an
appointed day he proceeded to action.
Having made arrangements with a confederate, his lordship entered the
room in time enough to take his seat in the president’s chair
unquestioned, according to the law of the place. Afterwards the
confederate, pretending to be a stranger, seated himself unnoticed, in
the same manner, in the deputy chairman’s place at the bottom. As the
Frenchmen dropped in, one by one, they were surprised to perceive the
posts of honour thus unusually occupied. They whispered and muttered to
each other as their numbers increased, but at last took their seats
anywhere they could. In tones of discontent, deep but not loud, one
whispered to his neighbour: “Connaissez-vous celui-là?” pointing to the
new president. “Non.” “Ni l’autre?” “Non.” “Ni moi, non plus; ma foi,
c’est singulier! Ah! les drôles! Eh bien, tout-à-l’heure le président
viendra, et alors nous verrons comme tout cela va finir!” At last the
French president arrived, and, finding the post of honour unexpectedly
filled by the two dashing officers of rank, quietly took his seat, like
his countrymen, where he could find it. The others, who were interested
in the scene, seated themselves at the lower end of the table, whilst
the few French who had come early seated themselves as near to the new
president as they could.
The two intruders enjoyed the scene in secret, but behaved with
politeness and affability to all, in their respective circles, till at
last dinner was served. Lord Tyrawley formally did the honours—tasted
the soup, put on a critical look, and asked those who were near him to
taste, and favour him with their opinions. They were surprised at his
assurance, but several tasted, and said simultaneously, “Assez
bien—comme à l’ordinaire—qu’en pensez-vous?” and so on. Lord Tyrawley
then exclaimed: “It is most execrable stuff, and only fit to be placed
before pigs! Waiter” (the man crept forward trembling), “what do you
bring this stuff here for?” The astonished servant looked silently
towards the Frenchmen, in the hopes of catching a hint, when Tyrawley,
in a rage, vociferated: “Don’t answer me, sir! take it away, and bring
me the next dish—take it away instantly, I say!” So saying, he seized
his own plate in both hands, raised it above his head, and then dashed
it with all his force, with its flat bottom, into the midst of the soup,
which spread, in a circular sheet, upon the table and the clothes of all
who sat at that end of it. The Frenchmen started with horror and
surprise, springing from their seats to save their clothes, while his
confederate jumped up, exclaiming: “What do you mean by that, sir?” “I
mean to say,” said Lord Tyrawley, with provoking coolness, “the soup is
very bad.” “Nonsense, sir,” said the apparently enraged deputy chairman;
“you have insulted every man here, and I will see that you give me
immediate satisfaction.” “Oh, sir,” said the Peer, very coolly, “if you
are for that sport, I will indulge you at once.” So saying, each took
down his hat and sword with great dignity, and, the challenger strutting
after the challenged, both descended into the courtyard. The bespattered
foreigners, finding a duel was in progress, crowded the window for good
places to see the sight, till it was quite full. The combatants took
their ground, drew, and began a very furious-looking assault; one fought
retreating, the other pushing him back till they were at the end of the
court in St. Martin’s Lane, when they took off their hats, bowed
gracefully to the astonished Frenchmen, and walked away arm in arm,
laughing and kissing their hands to the company they had left, leaving
them to enjoy their spoiled dinner and well-greased clothes as they were
best able.
The great dread of the peaceful citizens who frequented taverns and
coffee-houses was an incursion by members of the clubs known as Bold
Bucks and Hell-Fires—for the most part composed of deliberately
abandoned villains. The Bold Bucks were given up to licentiousness of an
unbridled kind; blind and bold love was their motto, and their main
object seems to have been the assimilation of man to brute.
The Hell-Fires, as may be gathered from their appellation, aimed at an
even more transcendent malignity, and derided the forms of religion as a
trifle.
A regular code of etiquette was observed at coffee-houses. At most of
these, though not at the fashionable West End ones, a penny was usually
laid on the bar on entering, which entitled the guest to the use of the
room and of the news-sheet. Every rank of life, except perhaps the very
lowest, was represented at one or other of these houses. Men met there
to transact business, talk politics, discuss the latest play or poem, to
play dice or cards. To one man the coffee-house was an office for
business, where he received, and from which he dated, his letters; to
another, a place in which to push his fortunes among patrons; to most, a
lounging-place in which to discuss the news and pass away the time. The
advertisements of the day are full of allusions to them. One gentleman
loses his watch or his sword, and will give a reward if they are
returned to Tom’s or Button’s, “and no questions asked.” Another, one
Brown, “late City Marshall,” will settle all affairs that he had in his
hands while holding that office, if the persons interested will repair
to “Mr. Gibbon’s Coffee-House at Charing Cross.”
The first coffee-house—that is, the first house where coffee was sold to
the public in England—is said to have been the George and Vulture, in
George Yard, Lombard Street, a house still in existence.
About 1652 a Turkey merchant, Mr. Edwards by name, is supposed to have
brought to London from Smyrna a Ragusan youth, Pasqua Rosee by name,
specially to prepare coffee for him every morning. This servant he
eventually allowed to sell the new-fashioned infusion publicly, and
eventually the Ragusan established the first coffee-house in London, at
St. Michael’s Abbey, Cornhill, under the title of Pasqua Rosee’s Inn,
afterwards known to fame as the George and Vulture.
The old Rainbow in Fleet Street, now known as Groom’s, was the second
coffee-house; but the owner of the Rainbow apparently did not purvey a
very attractive form of the new beverage, for he was indicted by the
Vestry for selling “a strong drink called Coffee which annoyed the
neighbourhood by its evil smell.”
Curiously enough, both houses, Groom’s and the George and Vulture, now
belong to the same proprietor, Mr. John Gardner, who, when he recently
purchased the lease of the former, also acquired the original
coffee-making recipe.
As a coffee-house the George and Vulture was a well-known resort of
poets, wits, and satirists. The servants appear to have been very
enterprising in attracting customers, for they would rush out and seize
passers-by, crying: “Coffee, sir; tea, sir! Walk in and try a fresh
pot!”
At the George and Vulture, Swift discussed the South Sea Bubble with his
friends. Here, too, came Richard Estcourt, of Drury Lane, and founded
the first Beefsteak Club. At a later period this coffee-house, on
account of its sign, was especially popular with patriotic clubs.
Amongst its patrons were Addison and Steele, whilst Daniel Defoe seems
also to have been a visitor.
In Georgian days the old coffee-house became one of the most popular
resorts of John Wilkes, and there also went Hogarth and other well-known
men of the day, whilst members of the Hell-Fire Club were constant
though unwelcome visitors.
In later times Charles Dickens immortalized the George and Vulture by
making it an abode of Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller; the old hostelry was
also selected by the great novelist as being the place where subpœnas
were served on Mr. Pickwick’s friends in the famous case of Bardell and
Pickwick. Dickens’s affection for “the George” is now perpetuated by the
City Pickwick, a social club which holds its meetings there.
Dickens is supposed to have obtained the idea for the name of Tom Pinch
from Dr. Pinche’s school, which in early Victorian days occupied the
site of the Deutsche Bank, close to the George and Vulture, in George
Yard. Sir Henry Irving was a pupil here, as was that still surviving
legal luminary, Sir Edward Clarke.
Another resort full of old-world memories—the London Coffee-house, on
Ludgate Hill, where John Leech’s father and grandfather were
proprietors—occupied a Roman site. In 1800, behind this house, in a
bastion of the City Wall, was found a sepulchral monument, dedicated to
a faithful wife by her husband, a Roman soldier. Here also were found a
fragment of a statue of Hercules and a female head. In front of the
coffee-house, immediately west of St. Martin’s Church, stood Ludgate.
This coffee-house was within the rules of the Fleet Prison; and in the
coffee-house were “locked up” for the night such juries from the Old
Bailey Sessions as could not agree upon verdicts. In later days it
became a tavern.
A curious incident once occurred in this house. Mr. Broadhurst, the
famous tenor, by singing a high note caused a wineglass on the table to
break, the bowl being separated from the stem. Brayley, the topographer,
was present at the time.
Lloyd’s, now such a well-known institution, originated in a coffee-house
of that name, which flourished as early as the very beginning of the
eighteenth century.
Lloyd’s Coffee-house was originally in Lombard Street, at the corner of
Abchurch Lane, subsequently in Pope’s-head Alley, where it was called
“New Lloyd’s Coffee-house”; but on February 14, 1774, it was removed to
the north-west corner of the Royal Exchange, where it remained until the
destruction of that building by fire. When the Royal Exchange was
rebuilt, special rooms were set aside for Lloyd’s, which assumed the
form in which it flourishes to-day.
Lloyd’s, as a place for insuring ships, was at first started by an
astute individual who saw the possibilities of a meeting-place for
underwriters and insurers of ships’ cargoes.
As early as the year 1740, it is recorded that Mr. Baker, Master of
Lloyd’s Coffee-house, in Lombard Street, waited on Sir Robert Walpole
with the news of Admiral Vernon’s capture of Portobello. This was the
first account received thereof, and, as it proved to be true, Sir Robert
was pleased to order Mr. Baker a handsome present.
Another resort, somewhat similar to Lloyd’s, was Garraway’s
Coffee-house—the first place where tea was sold in England. It was
during the time of the South Sea Bubble that this became the scene of
great mercantile transactions. The original proprietor was Thomas
Garway, tobacconist and coffee-man. He issued the following curious
circular: “Tea in England hath been sold in the leaf for six pounds, and
sometimes for ten pounds the pound weight, and in respect of its former
scarceness and dearness, it hath been only used as a regalia in high
treatments and entertainments, and presents made thereof to princes and
grandees till the year 1651. The said Thomas Garway did purchase a
quantity thereof, and first publicly sold the said tea in leaf and
drink, made according to the directions of the most knowing merchants
and travellers into those eastern countries; and upon knowledge and
experience of the said Garway’s continued care and industry in obtaining
the best tea, and making drink thereof, very many noblemen, physicians,
merchants, and gentlemen of quality, have ever since sent to him for the
said leaf, and daily resort to his house in Exchange Alley, aforesaid,
to drink the drink thereof; and to the end that all persons of eminence
and quality, gentlemen and others, who have occasion for tea in leaf,
may be supplied, these are to give notice that the said Thomas Garway
hath tea to sell from ‘sixteen to fifty shillings per pound.’”
In 1673 there were some great sales of wine at Garraway’s. These took
place “by the candle”—that is, by auction while an inch of candle burnt.
In the _Tatler_, No. 147, we read: “Upon my coming home last night, I
found a very handsome present of French wine left for me, as a taste of
216 hogsheads, which are to be put to sale at £20 a hogshead, at
Garraway’s Coffee-house, in Exchange Alley,” etc. A sale by candle is
not, however, by candlelight, but during the day. Such sales took place
by daylight, and at the commencement of the sale, when the auctioneer
had read a description of the property and the conditions on which it
was to be disposed of, a piece of candle, usually an inch long, was lit,
the last bidder at the time the light went out being declared the
purchaser.
Garraway’s was famous for its sandwiches and sherry, pale ale, and
punch. The sandwich-maker, it was said, occupied two hours in cutting
and arranging the sandwiches before the day’s consumption commenced. The
sale-room was on the first-floor, with a small rostrum for the seller,
and a few rough wooden seats for the buyers. Sales of drugs, mahogany,
and timber, were its speciality in the fifties of the last century, when
twenty or thirty property and other sales sometimes took place in a day.
The walls and windows of the lower room were covered with sale
placards—unsentimental evidences of the mutability of human affairs.
In 1840 and 1841, when the tea speculation was at its height, and prices
were fluctuating sixpence and eightpence per pound on the arrival of
every mail, Garraway’s was frequented every night by a host of the
smaller fry of dealers, and there was much more excitement than ever
occurred on ’Change when the most important intelligence arrived.
Champagne flowed, and everyone ate and drank, and went, as he pleased,
without the least question about the bill; yet everything was paid,
though such a state of affairs continued for several months.
At one time many taverns were the meeting-places of “mug-house clubs,”
amusing resorts where gentlemen, lawyers, and tradesmen used to meet in
a great room, seldom under a hundred in number.
Such assemblies usually had a president, who sat in an armchair some
steps higher than the rest of the company, to keep the whole room in
order. A harp played all the time at the lower end of the room; and
every now and then one or other of the company rose and entertained the
rest with a song, some being good singers. Here nothing was drunk but
ale, and every gentleman had his separate mug, which he chalked on the
table where he sat, as it was brought in. A free-and-easy atmosphere
pervaded the place, and everyone did and said exactly what he pleased.
A number of these “mug-house clubs” were to be found in Cheapside and
its vicinity, and others about Covent Garden, a district which formerly
abounded in well-known coffee-houses. In the eighteenth century, in
Russell Street alone, were three of the most celebrated: Will’s,
Button’s, and Tom’s. Will’s, as is well known, was closely connected
with Dryden, the _Tatler_, and the _Spectator_; and its wits’ room, on
the first-floor, was celebrated throughout the town. So was Button’s,
with its lion’s head letter-box, and the young poets in the back room.
Tom’s, No. 17, on the north side of Russell Street, and of a somewhat
later date, was taken down in 1865. The premises remained, with but
little alteration, long after they ceased to be a coffee-house. It was
named after its original proprietor, Thomas West, who, November 26,
1722, threw himself, in a delirium, from the second-floor window into
the street, and died immediately. The upper portion of the premises was
the coffee-house, under which lived T. Lewis, the bookseller, Pope’s
publisher.
Will’s Coffee-house, known as the Wits’, which was very celebrated in
its day, was at No. 23, Russell Street, Bow Street. Dryden first made it
a resort of wits. The poet used to sit in a room on the first-floor, and
his customary seat was by the fireside in the winter, and at the corner
of the balcony, looking over the street, in fine weather; he called the
two places his winter and his summer seat. In the eighteenth century
this room became the dining-room. In Dryden’s day people did not sit in
boxes, as subsequently, but at various tables which were dispersed
through the room. Smoking was permitted in the public room, and was then
much in vogue; indeed, it does not seem to have been considered a
nuisance, as it was some years later. Here, as in other similar places
of meeting, the visitors divided themselves into parties; the young
beaux and wits, who seldom approached the principal table, thought it a
great honour to have a pinch out of Dryden’s snuff-box.
In later years Will’s Coffee-house became an open market for libels and
lampoons.
Swift thought little of the frequenters of Will’s; he used to say the
worst conversation he ever heard in his life was to be heard there. The
wits (as they were called), said he disparagingly, used formerly to
assemble at this house; that is to say, five or six men who had written
plays or at least prologues, or had a share in a miscellany, came
thither, and entertained one another with their trifling compositions,
assuming as grand an air as if they had been the noblest efforts of
human nature, or as if the fate of kingdoms depended on them.
It was Swift who framed the rules of the Brothers’ Club, which met every
Thursday. “The end of our club,” said he, “is to advance conversation
and friendship, and to reward learning without interest or
recommendation. We take in none but men of wit or men of interest; and
if we go on as we began, no other club in this town will be worth
talking of.”
The Brothers’, which was really a political club, broke up in 1713, and
the next year Swift formed the celebrated Scriblerus Club, an
association rather of a literary than a political character. Oxford and
St. John, Swift, Arbuthnot, Pope, and Gay were members. Satire upon the
abuse of human learning was their leading object. The name originated as
follows: Oxford used playfully to call Swift _Martin_, and from this
sprang Martinus Scriblerus. Swift, as is well known, is the name of one
species of swallow (the largest and most powerful flier of the tribe),
and martin is the name of another species, the wall-swallow, which
constructs its nest in buildings.
The Scriblerus Club broke up owing to quarrels between Oxford and
Bolingbroke. Swift tried the force of humorous expostulation in his
fable of the “Fagot,” where the Ministers are called upon to contribute
their various badges of office to make the bundle strong and secure, but
all was in vain. And at length, tired with this scene of murmuring and
discontent, quarrel, misunderstanding, and hatred, the Dean, who was
almost the only mutual friend who laboured to compose these differences,
made a final effort at reconciliation; but his scheme entirely failed.
Button’s Coffee-house was another resort of wits. Here, in the early
part of the reign of Queen Anne, Swift first began to come, being known
as “the mad parson.” He knew no one; no one knew him. He would lay his
hat down on a table, and walk up and down at a brisk pace for half an
hour without speaking to anyone, or seeming to pay attention to anything
that was going forward. Then he would snatch up his hat, pay his money
at the bar, and walk off without having opened his lips. At last he went
one evening to a country gentleman, and very abruptly asked him: “Pray,
sir, do you know any good weather in the world?” After staring a little
at the singularity of Swift’s manner and the oddity of the question, the
gentleman answered: “Yes, sir, I thank God I remember a great deal of
good weather in my time.” “That is more,” replied Swift, “than I can
say. I never remember any weather that was not too hot or too cold, too
wet or too dry; but, however God Almighty contrives it, at the end of
the year ’tis all very well.”
At Tom’s Coffee-house in 1764 was formed a high-class club of about 700
members, paying each a guinea subscription. A card-room was on the
first-floor.
The club flourished, so that in 1768, “having considerably enlarged
itself of late,” Thomas Haines, the then proprietor, took in the front
room of the next house westward as a coffee-room. The front room of No.
17 was then appropriated exclusively as a card-room for the subscription
club, each member paying one guinea annually, the adjoining apartment
being used as a conversation-room.
Tom Haines—Lord Chesterfield, as he was called, on account of his good
manners—was succeeded by his son. The house ceased to be a coffee-house
in 1814.
It would be interesting to know what has become of the old snuff-box—a
most curious relic. It was a big tortoiseshell box, bearing on the lid,
in high relief in silver, the portraits of Charles I and Queen Anne; the
Boscobel oak, with Charles II amid its branches; and at the foot of the
tree, on a silver plate, was inscribed “Thomas Haines.” At Will’s the
small wits grew conceited if they dipped but into Mr. Dryden’s
snuff-box, and at Tom’s the box probably received similar veneration.
The Bedford Coffee-house, in the north-west corner of the Piazza, was
another celebrated Covent Garden resort.
Here in its palmy days, about 1754, Foote reigned supreme, his great
rival being Garrick, who, however, usually got the worst of the verbal
duels which constantly occurred. Garrick in early life had been in the
wine trade, and had supplied the Bedford with wine; he was thus
described by Foote as living in Durham Yard, with three quarts of
vinegar in the cellar, calling himself a wine-merchant.
Leaving the Bedford one night in company with Garrick, Foote dropped a
guinea; and not being able to find it, exclaimed: “Where on earth can it
be gone to?” “Gone to the devil, I think,” replied Garrick, who had
assisted in the search. “Well said, David!” was Foote’s reply. “Let you
alone for making a guinea go farther than anybody else.”
Tom King’s Coffee-house—a rough shed just beneath the portico of St.
Paul’s Church—was a regular Covent Garden night-house. This haunt of
night-birds is shown in the background of Hogarth’s print of “Morning,”
where the prim maiden lady, walking to church, is confronted by two
fuddled beaux from King’s Coffee-house caressing two frail women. At the
door a drunken brawl is proceeding, whilst swords and cudgels are being
freely used.
The Piazza (known in the reign of Charles I as the “Portico walke”) in
Covent Garden, the destruction of a portion of which, in 1858, was, from
an artistic point of view, to be deplored, was erected between 1634 and
1640 by Inigo Jones, who also built St. Paul’s Church for Francis, Duke
of Bedford. Though a more ambitious scheme was originally conceived,
only the north and east sides were, however, built, and half of the
latter was destroyed by fire about the middle of the eighteenth century.
Several distinguished artists lived in the Piazza, including Sir Peter
Lely and Zoffany. Sir Godfrey Kneller came into the Piazza the year
after Lely died, and the house he occupied was near the steps leading
into Covent Garden Theatre. He had a garden at the back, reaching as far
as Dr. Radcliffe’s, in Bow Street. Kneller was fond of flowers, and had
a fine collection. As he was intimate with Radcliffe, he permitted him
to have a door into his garden; but Radcliffe’s servants gathering and
destroying the flowers, Kneller sent him word he must shut up the door.
Radcliffe replied peevishly: “Tell him he may do anything with it but
paint it.” “And I,” answered Sir Godfrey, “can take anything from him
but physic.” Sir James Thornhill also lived in the same neighbourhood.
The Piazza Coffee-house, in Covent Garden, was a favourite resort of
Sheridan’s. Here it was that he sat during the burning of Drury Lane
Theatre in 1809, calmly taking some refreshment, which excited the
astonishment of a friend. “A man may surely be allowed to take a glass
of wine by his own fireside,” said Sheridan.
On the site of the Piazza Coffee-house was built the Floral Hall, in the
Crystal Palace style of architecture, if the latter word be applicable
to such a building. Henrietta Street, close by, was once well known for
what seems to have been the first family hotel ever established in
London, opened by David Low in 1774.
Gold, silver, and copper medals were struck and distributed by the
landlord, as advertisements of his house—the gold to the Princes, silver
to the nobility, and copper to the public generally. Mrs. Hudson
succeeded him, and advertised her hotel “with stabling for one hundred
noblemen and horses.” The next proprietors were Richardson and Joy.
For years the hotel was famous for its dinner and coffee-room—called the
“Star,” from the number of men of rank who frequented it. One day the
Duke of Norfolk entered the dining-room, and ordered of the waiter two
lamb chops, at the same time inquiring: “John, have you a cucumber?” The
waiter replied in the negative—it was so early in the season; but he
would step into the market and inquire if there were any. The waiter did
so, and returned with—“There are a few, but they are half a guinea
apiece.” “Half a guinea apiece! Are they small or large?” “Why, rather
small.” “Then buy two,” was the reply.
Low had purchased the house from the executors of James West, President
of the Royal Society, and it had originally been the mansion of Sir
Kenelm Digby, who had his laboratory at the back. In course of time it
was practically rebuilt by the Earl of Orford, better known as Admiral
Russell, who in 1692 defeated Admiral de Tourville. The façade of the
house originally resembled the forecastle of a ship, and the fine old
staircase was formed of part of the vessel Admiral Russell commanded at
La Hogue; on it were handsomely carved anchors, ropes, and the coronet
and initials of Lord Orford, who died there in 1727. The house was
afterwards occupied by Thomas, Lord Archer, who had a well-stocked
garden at the back. Mushrooms and cucumbers were his especial hobby.
In course of time Evans, of Covent Garden Theatre, removed here from the
Cider Cellar in Maiden Lane, and, using the large dining-room for a
singing-room, prospered until 1844, when he resigned the property to Mr.
John Green, well known as Paddy Green, under whose rule the excellence
of the entertainment attracted so great an accession of visitors that
there was built, in 1855, on the site of the old garden (Sir Kenelm
Digby’s), a handsome hall, to which the former singing-room formed a
sort of vestibule. This was hung with portraits of celebrated actors and
actresses collected by the proprietor.
The gallery was said to occupy part of the site of the cottage in which
the Kembles occasionally resided during the zenith of their fame at
Covent Garden Theatre. Kemble first saw the light there.
In the early seventies Evans’s ceased to attract, and, after undergoing
various vicissitudes and sheltering several clubs, the house finally
became the headquarters of boxing, being now occupied by the National
Sporting Club. The original staircase remains, and a number of prints
recalling the palmy days of the prize-ring decorate the walls of the
club-house.
Ninety years ago, it should be added, the prize-fighting fraternity had
a club of their own, called the Daffy Club, which met at the Castle
Tavern, Holborn, then kept by the famous boxers, Tom Belcher and Tom
Spring. The walls of the long room in which it met were adorned by a
number of sporting prints and portraits of famous pugilistic heroes,
amongst them Belcher himself, Gentleman Jackson, Dutch Sam, Gregson,
Humphreys, Mendoza, Cribb, Molyneux, Gulley, Randall, Turner, Martin,
Harmer, Spring, Neat, Hickman, Painter, Scroggins, Tom Owen, and many
others.
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