CURIOUS CLUBS OF THE PAST—PRATT’S—BEEFSTEAK CLUBS, OLD AND NEW
Many curiously-named clubs existed in the past. Addison, for instance,
speaking of the clubs of his time, mentions several the names of which
were probably merely humorous exaggerations. Names such as the Mum Club,
the Ugly Club, can hardly be considered to have been in actual use.
Real clubs were the Lying Club, for which untruthfulness was supposed to
be an indispensable qualification; the Odd Fellows’ Club; the Humbugs
(which met at the Blue Posts, in Covent Garden); the Samsonic Society;
the Society of Bucks; the Purl Drinkers; the Society of Pilgrims, held
at the Woolpack, in the Kingsland Road; the Thespian Club; the Great
Bottle Club; the Aristocratic “Je ne sçai quoi” Club, held at the Star
and Garter, in Pall Mall, of which the Prince of Wales and the Dukes of
York, Clarence, Orleans, Norfolk, Bedford, and other notabilities, were
members; the Sons of the Thames Society; the Blue Stocking Club; the “No
Pay No Liquor” Club, held at the Queen and Artichoke, in the Hampstead
Road, and of which the ceremony, on a new member’s introduction, was,
after his paying a fee on entrance of one shilling, that he should wear
a hat throughout the first evening of his membership, made in the shape
of a quart pot, and drink to the health of his brother members in a gilt
goblet of ale. At Camden Town met the “Social Villagers,” in a room at
the Bedford Arms.
One of the first clubs was the October Club, composed of some hundred
and fifty staunch Tories, chiefly country Members of Parliament. They
met at the Bell, in King Street, Westminster—that street in which
Spenser starved, and Dryden’s brother kept a grocer’s shop. A portrait
of Queen Anne, by Dahl, hung in the club-room.
Another queer eighteenth-century institution was the Golden Fleece Club,
the members of which assumed fancy names, such as Sir Timothy Addlepate,
Sir Nimmy Sneer, Sir Talkative Dolittle, Sir Skinny Fretwell, Sir Rumbus
Rattle, Sir Boozy Prate-all, Sir Nicholas Ninny Sip-all, Sir Gregory
Growler, Sir Pay-little, and the like. The main object of this club
seems to have been a very free conviviality.
Perhaps the most eccentric club of all was “the Everlasting,” which,
like the modern Brook Club of New York, professed to go on for ever, its
doors being kept open night and day throughout the year, whilst the
members were divided into watches like sailors at sea.
The craze for queerly-named clubs lasted into the nineteenth century;
for instance, the King of Clubs was the fanciful name of a society
founded about 1801 by Bobus Smith. At first it consisted of a small knot
of lawyers, whose clients were too few, or too civil, to molest their
after-dinner recreations; a few literary characters; and a small number
of visitors, generally introduced by those who took the chief part in
conversation, and seemingly selected for the faculty of being good
listeners.
The King of Clubs sat on the Saturday of each month in the Strand, at
the Crown and Anchor Tavern, which at that time was a nest of boxes,
each containing its club, and affording excellent cheer, though
afterwards desecrated by indifferent dinners and very questionable wine.
The object of the club was conversation. Everyone seemed anxious to
bring his contribution of good sense or good-humour, and the members
discussed books and authors and the prevalent topics of the day, except
politics, which were excluded.
Rogers, the banker poet, was a member of the King of Clubs. His funereal
appearance gained him the nickname of the Dug-up Dandy, and all sorts of
jokes were made concerning him. Once, when Rogers had been at Spa, and
was telling Ward (afterwards Lord Dudley) that the place was so full
that he could not so much as find a bed to lie in, and that he was
obliged on that account to leave it, “Dear me,” replied Ward, “was there
no room in the churchyard?” At another time Murray was showing him a
portrait of Rogers, observing that “it was done to the life.” “To the
death, you mean,” replied Ward. Amongst other amusing sallies of the
same kind was his asking Rogers: “Why don’t you keep your hearse,
Rogers? You can well afford it.”
A good example of what most of the little old-fashioned clubs of other
days were like is furnished by Pratt’s, which, though not of very great
antiquity, occupies curious old-world premises just off St. James’s
Street. This quaint and agreeable little club, still a flourishing
institution, appears to have been founded about 1841; the old manuscript
records of elections still exist. Though Pratt’s has recently been
reorganized, its distinctive features have not been impaired, and the
house remains much in its original condition—the kitchen downstairs,
with its old-fashioned open fire, quaint dresser filled with salmon-fly
plates, old-world furniture and prints, forming a delightful relic of
the past. A curious niche in this room would seem to have once served as
a receptacle for cards or dice, in the days when the house was used for
gambling, and raids by the authorities were common.
Next the kitchen is the dining-room, in which is a long table; the walls
here are hung with old prints of the time when the club was founded.
Both this room and the kitchen have very curious mantelpieces, the upper
portions of which are formed of classical friezes which would seem to
have been brought here from some old mansion. Throughout the quaint
little building are cases of stuffed birds and fish, and the accessories
and general appearance produce a singular effect not lacking in
old-world charm.
Pratt’s formerly opened only late in the evening, but its hours now
admit of members lunching; indeed, whilst great care has been taken to
preserve the original spirit of the club, many modern improvements
unobtrusively carried out make it a most comfortable resort, whilst the
convenience of members has been studied by the addition of four
bedrooms.
By far the most interesting of the old dining clubs was the Sublime
Society of Beefsteaks, founded about 1735 by Rich, the famous harlequin
and machinist of Covent Garden Theatre. At first it consisted of
twenty-four members, but the number was afterwards increased. Hogarth,
Wilkes, and many other celebrated men, were members of this society,
which had many curious customs.
Its officials consisted of a President of the Day, Vice-President,
Bishop, Recorder, and Boots.
The meetings were originally held in a room at Covent Garden Theatre.
The President took his seat after dinner throughout the season,
according to the order in which his name appeared on “the rota.”
He was invested with the badge of the society by the Boots. His duty was
to give the chartered toasts in strict accordance with the list before
him; to propose all resolutions that had been duly made and seconded; to
observe all the ancient forms and customs of the society; and to enforce
them on others. He had no sort of power inherent in his position; on the
contrary, he was closely watched and sharply pulled up if he betrayed
either ignorance or forgetfulness on the smallest matter of routine
connected with his office. In fact, he was a target for all to shoot at.
A Beefeater’s hat and plume hung on the right-hand side of the chair
behind him, and a three-cornered hat (erroneously believed to have
belonged to Garrick) on the left. When putting a resolution, the
President was bound to place the plumed hat on his head and instantly
remove it. If he failed in one or the other act, he was equally reminded
by being called to order in no silent terms. The most important
obligation imposed on him was the necessity of singing, whether he could
sing or not, the song of the day.
The Vice was the oldest member of the society present, and had to carry
out the President’s directions without responsibility.
The Bishop sang the grace and the anthem.
The most important official of all was the Recorder. He had to rebuke
everybody for offences, real or imaginary, and with him lay the duty of
delivering “the charge” to each newly-elected member, which was a
burlesque function.
The Boots was the last elected of the members, and there was a grave
responsibility attached to his office. He was the fag of the
brotherhood, and had to arrive before the dinner-hour, not only to
decant the wine, but to fetch it from the cellar. This latter custom was
persevered in until the destruction of the old Lyceum by fire, and was
only then abandoned by reason of the inaccessibility of the cellar, when
the society returned to the new theatre, the rebuilt Lyceum, in 1838. No
one was exempted from this ordeal, and woe to him who shirked or
neglected it. The greatest enjoyment seemed to be afforded, both to
members and guests, by summoning Boots to decant a fresh bottle of port
at the moment when a hot plate and a fresh steak were placed before him.
[Illustration:
ORIGINAL BADGE OF THE SUBLIME SOCIETY.
]
[Illustration:
LATER BADGE.
]
[Illustration:
RING.
]
[Illustration:
BADGE OF THE AD LIBITUM CLUB.
]
[Illustration:
REVERSE OF AD LIBITUM BADGE.
]
The Duke of Sussex was Boots from the date of his election (April, 1808)
to April, 1809, when a vacancy occurred, and Mr. Arnold senior was
elected, releasing His Royal Highness from the post. Indeed, until the
society ceased to exist, the Duke of Leinster, who had duly served his
apprenticeship (although he drank nothing stronger than water himself),
constantly usurped the legitimate duties of the Boots by arriving before
him and performing the accustomed, but not forgotten, services of the
day.
When any Boots showed signs of temper, or any member was unruly or
infringed the rules of the society, a punishment was in store for him.
It was moved and seconded that such delinquent should be put in the
white sheet and reprimanded by the Recorder; and if the “Ayes had it”
(and they always did have it), the sentence was carried out.
The offending party was taken from the room by two members bearing
halberds, preceded by a third carrying the sword, and was brought back
again in the garb of penitence (the tablecloth). Then, after a lecture
from the Recorder, severe or humorous according to the nature of his
offence, he was allowed to resume his place at the table.
It happened that Brother the Duke of Sussex was put in the white sheet
under the following circumstances: His Royal Highness had come to the
“Steaks” with Brother Hallett, and on the road the watch-chain belonging
to the latter had been cut and his bunch of seals stolen. The cloth
removed, Hallett addressed the President, recounted the loss he had
sustained, and charged the Duke as the perpetrator of the robbery. The
case was tried on the spot; and the evidence having clearly established
the criminality of the accused (to a Beefsteak jury), it was moved and
resolved that His Royal Highness should forthwith be put into the white
sheet and reprimanded for an act which might have been considered a
fault had the victim been a stranger, but which became a crime when that
victim was a Brother. There was no appeal. His Royal Highness
reluctantly rose, was taken out in custody, brought before the Recorder
(Brother Richards), and received a witty but unsparing admonition for
the offence of which he had been unanimously found guilty. For a wonder,
His Royal Highness took it ill. He resumed his seat, but remained silent
and reserved. No wit could make him smile, no bantering could rouse him,
and at an unusually early hour he ordered his carriage and went away.
The next day Mr. Arnold, who had been the mover of the resolution, went
to the palace to smooth the ruffled plumes of his royal confrère, and
took his son with him. In those days the Duke rode on horseback, and as
they turned out of the gate leading from the gardens to the portico his
horse was at the door and His Royal Highness in the act of coming out.
By the time they neared the entrance his foot was in the stirrup, and he
saw them approaching. Without a moment’s hesitation he withdrew his
foot, released the bridle, and, with both his enormous hands extended,
advanced three or four steps to meet Mr. Arnold.
“I know what you’ve come about,” he called loudly out in his accustomed
note (probably B flat), and wringing both Mr. Arnold’s hands until he
winced with pain—“I know what you’ve come about! I made a fool of myself
last night. You were quite right, and I quite wrong, so I shall come
next Saturday and do penance again for my bad temper.”
Sometimes a member turned sulky when made to do penance. On one occasion
an individual of a touchy disposition was put into the white sheet and
brought before the President, who admonished him as a parent would a
child—a Beefsteak sermon without its usual bathos. The recipient
listened to the harangue without moving a muscle of his face. The
lecture done, he resumed his seat, but at the next meeting sent in his
resignation.
Saturday was the day on which the dinners were held. Each member was
allowed to bring one visitor. If he brought a second, he had to borrow a
name; in default of obtaining it, the visitor was doomed to retire.
Visitors, unlike members, were not subjected to any humorous penalties,
but were most ceremoniously treated. They were never unduly urged to
drink more than might be agreeable to them; one bumper in the evening
was alone imperative, but it might be drunk in water. They were never
pressed, though always asked, to sing. A “suggestion” to sing was the
adopted word.
The only call to which it was imperative for the visitor to respond was
“a toast.” If he hesitated too long, he was, perhaps abruptly, told he
might give anything the world produced—man, woman, or child, or any
sentiment, social or otherwise. Sometimes it happened that such
prompting was in vain, and the confused guest would nine times out of
ten propose the only toast he was prohibited from giving—“The prosperity
of the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks.”
Members were responsible for their guests, who were made to understand
that whatever passed within the walls of the S.S.B.S. was sacred.
William Jerdan, Editor of the _Literary Gazette_, was a visitor, and at
a late hour he was observed to take a note of a brilliant repartee that
had been made.
The President, by whose side he sat, pointed to the motto over the
chimney-piece:
“Ne fidos inter amicos
Sit qui dicta foras eliminet.”[1]
Footnote 1:
Let none beyond this threshold bear away
What friend to friend in confidence may say.
“Jerdan,” he said, “you understand those words?”
“I understand one,” said Jerdan, looking sharply round—“sit; and I mean
to do it.”
Authors, and dramatic authors in particular, were mercilessly chaffed
when they dined with the Sublime Society. Cobb, whose farce “The
First-Floor” achieved great popularity, used to accept the satire and
raillery of members with great good-humour, generally silencing them one
by one. Storace composed some of his finest music for Cobb’s comic
operas, “The Haunted Tower” and “The Siege of Belgrade,” which achieved
success. An Indian opera, “Ramah Drûg,” did not. Cobb was much chaffed
about these operas, especially about the first-named.
“Why ever,” one night said Arnold, “did you call your opera by such a
name? There was no spirit in it from beginning to end!” “Anyhow,”
exclaimed another inveterate punster, “‘Ramah Drûg’ was the most
appropriate title possible, for it was literally ramming a drug down the
public throat.” “True,” rejoined Cobb; “but it was a drug that evinced
considerable power, for it operated on the public twenty nights in
succession.” “My good friend,” said Arnold triumphantly, “that was a
proof of its weakness, if it took so long in working.” “You are right,
Arnold, in that respect,” retorted Cobb. “Your play” (Arnold had brought
out a play, which did not survive the first night) “had the advantage of
mine, for it was so powerful a drug as to be thrown up as soon as it was
taken!”
The first and last Saturdays of the season, and the Saturday in Easter
week, were “private.”
On these days no visitors were invited. The accounts were gone into, and
the amount of the “whip” to regulate the past or accruing expenses
decided, the qualifications of such candidates as were anxious, on the
occasion of a vacancy, to join the society discussed, and other matters
connected with its well-being debated.
Each member paid 5s. for his dinner, and 10s. 6d. for his guest. The
entrance fee was £26 5s. until 1849, when it was reduced to £10 10s.,
and there were generally two annual whips of £5 each.
After the destruction of Covent Garden Theatre, where it had met for
seventy years, the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks migrated to the Bedford
Coffee-house, where it remained till the building of the Lyceum Theatre
in 1809, in a special room of which it took up its abode till 1830, when
the Lyceum also was burnt down.
After this it adjourned to the Lyceum Tavern, in the Strand, and thence
returned to the Bedford Coffee-house, where it remained until 1838, when
a suite of rooms was built for it under the new roof of the Lyceum. The
original gridiron, dug out of the ruins of Covent Garden and the Lyceum,
formed the centre ornament of the dining-room ceiling. The entire room
and ceiling were in Gothic architecture, and the walls were hung with
paintings and engravings of past and present members, the former the
work of Brother Lonsdale. Folding-doors, the entire width of the room,
connected it with an anteroom. When the doors were opened on the
announcement of dinner, an enormous grating in the form of a gridiron,
through which the fire was seen and the steaks handed, afforded members
a view of the kitchen.
There was no blackballing, but every would-be member had to be invited
at least twice as a guest, in order that his qualifications might be
ascertained, and then, if he were put up, he was certain to be elected.
As a matter of fact, the formality of a ballot was gone through, though
there were no rejections.
When a new member was initiated, he and the visitors were requested
after dinner to withdraw to an anteroom, where port and punch were
provided for them.
The newly-elected member was then brought in blindfolded, accompanied on
his right by the Bishop with his mitre on, and holding the volume in
which the oath of allegiance to the rules of the society was inscribed,
while on his left stood some other member holding the sword of state.
Behind were the halberdiers. These were all decked out in the most
incongruous and absurd dresses—in all probability originally obtained
from Covent Garden Theatre.
“The charge” was then delivered by the Recorder. In it he dwelt on the
solemnity of the obligations the new member was about to take on
himself. He was made to understand, in tones alternately serious and
gay, the true brotherly spirit of the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks;
that while a perfect equality existed among the Brethren, such equality
never should be permitted to degenerate into undue familiarity; that
while badinage was encouraged in the freest sense of the word, such
badinage must never approach to a personality; and that good fellowship
must be united with good breeding. Above all, attention was drawn to the
Horatian motto over the chimney-piece, and the aspirant was warned that
ignominious expulsion was the fate of him who carried beyond those walls
words uttered there in friendship’s confidence.
That done, the following oath, dating from the origin of the society,
was administered:
OATH.
YOU SHALL ATTEND DULY,
VOTE IMPARTIALLY,
AND CONFORM TO OUR LAWS AND ORDERS OBEDIENTLY.
YOU SHALL SUPPORT OUR DIGNITY,
PROMOTE OUR WELFARE, AND AT ALL TIMES
BEHAVE AS A WORTHY MEMBER IN THIS SUBLIME SOCIETY.
SO BEEF AND LIBERTY BE YOUR REWARD.
This was read aloud, clause by clause, by the Bishop, and repeated by
the candidate; at the end the book was rapidly exchanged by the cook,
who was called the Serjeant, for the bone of beef that had served for
the day’s dinner, carefully protected by a napkin, and after the words
“SO BEEF AND LIBERTY BE MY REWARD”
he was desired to kiss the book. Instead of this he kissed its
substitute, and by reason of a friendly downward pressure from behind he
generally did so most devoutly.
The bandage was then removed from his eyes; the book on which he had
sworn the oath was still before him; and amid the laughter and
congratulations of his Brethren he again took his seat as a member of
the Sublime Society, and the excluded guests were readmitted.
The Serjeant was a very important figure at the meetings of the Sublime
Society, and the office was well filled by Heardson, the cook, whose
picture was engraved by J. R. Smith (the print hangs in the modern
Beefsteak). So great was his affection for the “Society” that one of his
last requests was to be carried into the club-room to take a farewell
glance at the familiar scene, and this he was allowed to do.
A great supporter of the Beefsteak Society was the old Duke of Norfolk,
and when he dined there he would be ceremoniously ushered to the chair
after dinner, and invested with an orange-coloured ribbon, to which a
silver medal, in the form of a gridiron, was suspended. In the chair he
comported himself with great urbanity and good-humour.
Above all things, this Duke of Norfolk loved long sittings, during which
he would consume prodigious quantities of wine, which seemed to affect
him but very little. Occasionally, however, towards the close of the
evening, the Duke, without exhibiting any symptom of inebriety, became
immovable in his chair, as if deprived of all muscular volition. When at
his own house he had an especial method of obviating the inconveniences
of such a state, and would ask someone to ring the bell three times.
This was the signal for bringing in a kind of easy litter, consisting of
four equidistant belts, fastened together by a transverse one, which
four domestics placed under him, and thus removed his enormous bulk,
with a gentle swinging motion, up to his apartment. Upon these occasions
the Duke would say nothing, but the whole thing was managed with great
system and in perfect silence.
Another prominent member was Charles Morris, who greatly enlivened the
dinners by his wit, high spirits, and singing. When he was in town
nothing kept him away, even when he was nearly eighty years of age.
“Die when you will, Charles,” said Curran, “you’ll die in your youth.”
And his words were verified, for his spirits remained unquenched till
within a few days of his death. Morris wrote many songs which he would
sing himself. The following is a specimen of his talents in that
direction:
“Let them rail who think fit, at my ways or my wit;
I reply to the foes of good living:
‘Heaven bade me be gay—to enjoy’s to obey,
And mirth is my prayer of thanksgiving.’
When the crabbed with spleen would o’ershadow life’s scene,
I light up a spark to dispel it;
And if snarlers exclaim, ‘What’s this laughing fool’s name?’
Next verse of my ballad will tell it.
“I’m a brat of old Horace—the song-scribbling Morris,
More noted for rhyme than for reason;
One who roars and carouses, makes noise in all houses,
And takes all good things in their season.
To this classic of joy, I became when a boy
A pupil most ardent and willing;
And through life as a man, I’ve stuck fast to this plan,
And passed it in flirting and filling.”
In his eighty-sixth year Morris bade adieu to the Sublime Society in
verse, but four years later, in 1835, he revisited it, and the members
then presented him with a large silver bowl, appropriately inscribed, as
a testimonial of their affectionate esteem.
As was his habit, Morris did not fail to allude to the gift in verse:
“When my spirits are low, for relief and delight,
I still place your splendid Memorial in sight;
And call to my Muse, when care strives to pursue,
‘Bring the Steaks to my Mem’ry, the Bowl to my view.’”
The bowl in question eventually passed into the hands of the present
Beefsteak Club; most unfortunately, it was some years ago taken away by
thieves, who managed to obtain access to the club premises, and it has
never been recovered.
Charles Morris had very slender means to support his family, but owing
to the generosity of the old Duke of Norfolk he was able to retire to a
charming rural retreat near Dorking, embosomed amidst the undulating
elevations of Surrey. Here, however, he seems not to have been entirely
at ease, regretting no doubt the sweet, shady side of Pall Mall, of
which he had so gracefully sung.
The Duke assisted Morris, owing, it was said, to the kindly suggestion
of Kemble, the actor, who one night had been dining at Norfolk House
when the Beefsteak bard had also formed one of the party. When the
latter had gone, a few guests only remaining with the Duke, who liked
late sittings, His Grace began to deplore, somewhat pathetically, the
smallness of the stipend upon which poor Charles was obliged to support
his family, observing that it was a discredit to the age that a man who
had so long gladdened the lives of so many titled and opulent associates
should be left to struggle with the difficulties of an inadequate income
at a time of life when he had no reasonable hope of augmenting it.
Kemble, who had been listening attentively, then broke out in peculiarly
emphatic tones: “And does your Grace sincerely lament the destitute
condition of your friend, with whom you have passed so many agreeable
hours? Your Grace has described that condition most feelingly. But is it
possible that the greatest peer of the realm, luxuriating amidst the
prodigalities of fortune, should lament the distress which he does not
relieve? The empty phrase of benevolence, the mere breath and vapour of
generous sentiment, become no man; they certainly are unworthy of your
Grace. Providence, my Lord Duke, has placed you in a station where the
wish to do good and the doing it are the same thing. An annuity from
your overflowing coffers, or a small nook of land clipped from your
unbounded domains, would scarcely be felt by your Grace; but you would
be repaid with usury, with tears of grateful joy, with prayers warm from
a bosom which your bounty will have rendered happy.”
The Duke said nothing at the time, except stare with astonishment at so
unexpected a lecture; but not a month elapsed before Charles Morris was
snugly invested in a beautiful sequestered retreat surrounded by pretty
grounds.
Captain Morris lived to the age of ninety-two, dying in July, 1838. He
lies in Betchworth Churchyard, near the east end; his grave is simply
marked by a head- and foot-stone, with an inscription of three or four
lines; he who had sung the praises of so many choice spirits has not
here a stanza to his own memory.
As time went on, the old customs and toasts of the Sublime Society
became out of date, and, though certain modifications were attempted, it
ceased to exist in 1869, when its effects were sold. The following is a
list of the most important of them.
An oak dining-table with President’s cap, a mitre and a gridiron carved
in three separate circular compartments at the top. This relic of past
conviviality is now at White’s Club, having been purchased by the Hon.
Algernon Bourke some years ago.
A carved oak President’s chair—now, I believe, at Sandringham—and a
number of members’ chairs copied in oak from the Glastonbury Chair, the
backs carved with the gridiron and the arms and initials of each member.
A few of these chairs belong to a firm of brewers.
Forty-seven engraved portraits of members, glazed in oak frames, on
which were metal gridirons. One or two of these are in the possession of
the present Beefsteak Club.
Other _objets d’art_ and curiosities were—
The ribbon and badge of the President in the form of a silver gridiron,
dated 1735.
Two brown stoneware jugs, with silver lids and mounts, the thumb-pieces
gridirons.
A fine _couteau de chasse_, with engraved and pierced blade, the handle
formed of a group of Mars, Venus, and Cupid, in silver, the mounting of
the sheath of open-work silver, chased with arabesque figures, scrolls,
and flowers. The reputed work of Benvenuto Cellini; inscribed “Ex Dono
Antonio Askew, M.D.”
An oval ivory snuff-box, with a cameo of Dante on the lid and
inscription inside: “Presented to the S.S.B.S. by B. G. B. [Dr.
Babington], an honorary member. The cameo of Dante on the lid of this
box was carved by its donor, and its wood formed part of a mummy-case
brought by him from Egypt in 1815; the surrounding ivory was turned by a
friend”—in a leather case.
A circular snuff-box, formed of oak dug from the ruins of the old Lyceum
Theatre, after its destruction by fire; a silver shield engraved with
the gridiron on the lid.
A wooden punch-ladle, with open-work handle, and ten doilys.
A cigar-case, formed of a curious piece of oak.
A pair of halberds.
A large Oriental punch-bowl, enamelled with figures, butterflies, and
flowers, inside and out, in a case. Presented by Lord Saltoun, K.G.
Another enamelled with figures and baskets of flowers in medallions,
with red and gold scale borders. Presented by Baron Heath.
A ditto, enamelled with figures.
A fluted ditto, with flowers.
The President’s hat, a hat said to have belonged to Garrick, and a
Cardinal’s hat.
The mitre of the late Cardinal Gregorio, presented to the Sublime
Society of the Beefsteaks by Brother W. Somerville, in silk case.
Facsimile of an agreement between Rich and C. Fleetwood, framed and
glazed.
Bust of John Wilkes, in marble.
There was in addition to this a certain amount of plate, including cases
of silver forks, engraved with members’ names. One of these cases now
belongs to the Beefsteak Club.
At one time the members wore a uniform consisting of a blue coat and
buff waistcoat, with brass buttons impressed with the gridiron and
motto, “Beef and Liberty.”
They also wore rings bearing the same devices. One of these rings,
presented within recent years by a member, is in the Beefsteak Club,
which also possesses a number of badges and other relics connected with
the Sublime Society and with the Ad Libitum Club, a kindred
organization, of which Heardson also appears to have been the cook.
The device of the Ad Libitum was more ornate and graceful than that of
the Sublime Society, with which it seems to have been closely connected,
though membership of the one did not necessarily imply membership of the
other. As far as can be ascertained, no records of the Ad Libitum have
been preserved.
The present Beefsteak Club—less convivial in its ways than the Sublime
Society—was founded about 1876, and its original dining-place was a room
in the building known till its demolition, some years ago, as Toole’s
Theatre. When this was pulled down, it migrated to premises specially
built for it in Green Street, Leicester Square. The membership is small,
and consists mostly of men well known in the political, theatrical, and
literary worlds. Opening only in the afternoon, it is used chiefly as a
place for dining and supping amidst congenial and pleasant conversation.
The club consists of one long room, which has a high-pitched roof in the
design of which gridirons are cleverly interposed. Here are hung a
quantity of old prints, the majority of them after Hogarth. A number of
etchings by Whistler (who was a member) are also to be seen. The
Beefsteak owns a good deal of silver, much of which has been presented
from time to time by members; the practice of giving plate being a usage
of the club. The most valuable possession is a tankard of solid gold, on
which are inscribed the names of those members who took part in the Boer
War. This was purchased by subscription amongst the members. The example
of the Sublime Society is followed in respect of there being one long
table in the place of the separate small ones in use at other clubs.
There formerly existed a number of curious dining societies and clubs in
the provinces, and some of these still survive, amongst the number of
which is the Chelmsford Beefsteak Club, established in 1768. There does
not appear to be any book older than 1781, but in the middle of a book
which commences in 1829 is written a list of the members from February
5, 1768, to October 18, 1850; and as the whole is in the same
handwriting, it is clear the earlier lists of members must have been
copied from an older book, which has now disappeared.
The oldest book in the possession of the club is one for entering the
attendances of members, and commences October 12, 1781. At that time the
members appear to have dined together weekly.
At the monthly dinners of the club, the chairman proposes the following
toasts:
(_a_) “Church and Queen.”
(_b_) “The Prince of Wales and the Rest of the Royal Family.”
(_c_) “Our Absent Members.”
(_d_) “Our Visitors, if any.”
No one is allowed to stand when proposing or replying to a toast.
Morning dress is worn at dinner.
One of the last of the old school of members of this club was Admiral
Johnson, elected 1842, who was the midshipman who supported Nelson’s
head as he lay dying in the cockpit of the _Victory_. It was no uncommon
thing for the Admiral to have three bottles of port put before him at 8
o’clock, which he consumed by about 9.30. He was always called upon for
a song, and he used to sing about fourteen verses of “On board the
_Arethusa_.” His usual hour for retirement was about 10.30, when he
would be escorted to his pony, and would ride home to Baddow, three
miles away. Admiral Johnson remembered the time when the fine for any
member being unfortunate enough to be presented with twins by his wife
was the presentation of a pair of buckskin breeches to each member of
the club, and he boasted of still possessing a pair that Thomas W.
Bramston, whilst member for the county, had to pay him.
At many old county dining clubs penalties of this sort were enforced:
members were fined for marrying, for becoming a father, or for moving to
another house; and such fines usually consisted of a certain number of
bottles of wine. Other quaint usages included the forfeiture of some
small sum for refusing to take the chair at dinner or for leaving it to
ring the bell, for allowing a stranger to pay for anything consumed, and
similar delinquencies.
Another Beefsteak Club was that at Cambridge, the members of which
belonged to the University. This club, now for some years in abeyance,
was a quaint survival from the past, and exactly reproduced the dinner
of eighteenth-century sportsmen. Twenty-five years ago, when it still
flourished, it usually consisted of but four or five members, but guests
could be invited. The dining costume was a blue cutaway coat with brass
buttons, and buff waistcoat, the tie being secured with a bull’s head.
The dinner was entirely composed of various dishes of beef, beer only
being drunk; some curious old songs were sung, and the toasts, regulated
by inflexible precedent, were drunk in port from glasses of a size
regulated by immemorial custom. Amongst these toasts was the health of
the late Mr. Bowes, who, when he was an undergraduate at Cambridge, won
the Derby with Mundig. This horse, after a tremendous struggle, beat
Ascot, belonging to the present writer’s grandfather, by half a neck.
The dinners used to be held at the Red Lion Inn, the head-waiter of
which hostelry, Dunn by name, was supposed to be the only individual
alive accurately acquainted with the exact rules and traditions of the
club. The proceedings were enlivened by music played on a fiddle by a
well-known Cambridge character, White-headed Bob.
The Cambridge Beefsteak Club possessed a good deal of plate, valued at
about £1,500. It had also an income of some £200 a year, arising from
sums of money left to it by former members.
A somewhat similar Cambridge dining club was the True Blue, which also
had few members. They met several times in a term, wearing
eighteenth-century dress and white wigs; as a matter of fact, the cost
of this costume often deterred men from joining, as did the rule that a
new member should drink off a bottle of claret at a draught. This
unpleasant custom, which might well have been modified, seems to have
killed the club, for I fancy that, like the Cambridge Beefsteak, it has
not met for many years.
A remarkable little provincial club which flourished at Norwich at the
beginning of the nineteenth century was the Hole-in-the-Wall Club, where
a number of clever men used to meet. One of the principal figures here
was Dr. Frank Sayers, a poet of no mean inspiration, a sound antiquary,
an elegant scholar, and an accomplished gentleman. His accustomed chair
was kept for him every Monday, and it would have been a profanation had
any other occupant filled it. He was a man of admirable wit, and the
characters around him, which no skill of selection could have got
together in any other club or in any other town, afforded unfailing
objects of his innocent and unwounding pleasantry.
Amongst other eccentric frequenters of the Hole-in-the-Wall was Ozias
Lindley, a Minor Canon of the cathedral, and Sheridan’s brother-in-law.
He was subject, beyond anyone living, to fits of absent-mindedness. He
out-Parson-Adamized Parson Adams. One Sunday morning, as he was riding
through the Close, on his way to serve his curacy, his horse threw off a
shoe. A lady whom he had just passed, having remarked it, called out to
him: “Sir, your horse has just cast one of his shoes.” “Thank you,
madam,” returned Ozias; “will you, then, be kind enough to put it on?”
In preaching, he often turned over two or three pages at once of his
sermon; and when a universal titter and stare convinced him of the
transition, he observed coolly, “I find I have omitted a considerable
part of my sermon, but it is not worth going back for,” and then went on
to the end.
Hudson Gurney, at one time M.P. for Newport, Isle of Wight, was also a
frequenter of the snug club-room of the Hole-in-the-Wall, and used to
bask in the sunshine of Sayers’s festive conversation. His own heart,
too, at that time beat high with frolic and hilarity. Hudson’s was, from
his earliest prime, a clear, distinguishing intellect. He was a
well-read man, and his poetry, no fragment of which is in print, except
his admirable translation of the Cupid and Psyche of Apuleius into
English verse, was by no means of a secondary kind.
At this club William Taylor smoked his evening pipe, and lost himself in
the cloudier fumes of German metaphysics and German philology. Taylor’s
translation of Bürger’s “Leonore,” though apparently now forgotten, was
said to be better than the original. While his erudition was unlimited,
however, it was principally concerned with books that were not readable
by others. His most amusing quality (and it was that which kept an
undying grin upon the laughter-loving face of Sayers) was his
everlasting love of hypothesis, and it was impossible to withstand the
imperturbable gravity with which he put forth his wild German paradoxes.
He proved, to the thorough dissatisfaction of those who knew not how to
confute him, and to the unspeakable amusement of those who thought it
not worth their while—and that, too, by a chemical analysis of colours,
and the processes by which animal heat and organic structure affect
them—that the first race of mankind was green! Green, he said, was the
primal colour of vegetable existence—the first raiment in which Nature
leaped into existence; the colour on which the eye loved to repose; and,
in the primeval state, the first quality that attracted man to man, and
bound him up in the circles of those tender charities and affinities
which kept the early societies of the race together.
At one time Edinburgh was celebrated for its quaint clubs, one of which
was the Soaping Club, the motto of which was, that “Every man should
soap his own beard”—that is, “indulge his own humour.” The Lawn-market
Club was an association of dram-drinking, gossiping citizens, who met
every morning early, and, after proceeding to the post-office to pick up
letters and news, adjourned to the public-house to talk and drink. The
Edinburgh, a “Viscera” club, flourished till quite a late date; the
members of this were pledged to dine off food from the entrails of
animals, such as kidneys, liver, and tripe. This club seems to have
rather resembled the more modern Haggis Club.
There were at one time a number of parochial clubs in London. That of
the parish of St. Margaret’s, Westminster, which still exists, and which
consists of “Past Overseers,” possesses a unique heirloom, which is at
the same time an important chronological record of public events.
In 1713 a small fourpenny tobacco-box, bought at Horn Fair, Charlton,
Kent, was presented by Mr. Monck, a member of the Society of Past
Overseers, to his colleagues.
Seven years later, in 1720, the donor was commemorated by the addition
of a silver lid to the box. In 1726 a silver side case and bottom were
added. In 1740 an embossed border was placed upon the lid, and the
under-part enriched with an emblem of Charity. In 1746 Hogarth engraved
inside the lid a bust of the Duke of Cumberland, with allegorical
figures and scroll commemorating the Battle of Culloden. In 1765 an
interwoven scroll was added to the lid, enclosing a plate with the arms
of the City of Westminster, and inscribed: “This Box to be delivered to
every succeeding set of Overseers, on penalty of five guineas.”
The original Horn box being thus ornamented, additional ornamentation in
the shape of cases continued to be provided by the senior overseers for
the time being. These were embellished with silver plates engraved with
emblematical and historical subjects and busts. Among the first are a
view of the fireworks in St. James’s Park to celebrate the Peace of
Aix-la-Chapelle, 1749; Admiral Keppel’s action off Ushant, and his
acquittal after a court-martial; the Battle of the Nile; the repulse of
Admiral Linois, 1804; the Battle of Trafalgar, 1805; the action between
the _San Fiorenzo_ and _La Piémontaise_, 1808; the Battle of Waterloo,
1815; the bombardment of Algiers, 1816; view of the House of Lords at
the trial of Queen Caroline; the Coronation of George IV; and his visit
to Scotland, 1822.
Features of great interest are: Portraits of John Wilkes, churchwarden
in 1759; Nelson, Duncan, Howe, Vincent; Fox and Pitt, 1806; George IV as
Prince Regent, 1811; the Princess Charlotte, 1817; and Queen Charlotte,
1818.
In 1813 a large silver plate was added to the outer case, with a
portrait of the Duke of Wellington, commemorating the centenary of the
agglomeration of the box. Local occurrences are also commemorated: The
interior of Westminster Hall, with the Westminster Volunteers attending
Divine service at the drumhead on the Fast Day, 1803; the Old Sessions
House; a view of St. Margaret’s from the north-east; the west front
tower; and the altar-piece. On the outside of the first case is a clever
engraving of a cripple. The top of the second case represents the
Governors of the Poor in their board-room. It bears this inscription:
“The original Box and cases to be given to every succeeding set of
Overseers, on penalty of fifty guineas, 1783.”
In 1785 Mr. Gilbert exhibited the box to some friends after dinner. That
night thieves broke into his house, and carried off all the plate that
had been in use; but the box had been removed beforehand to a
bedchamber.
In 1793 Mr. Read, a Past Overseer, detained the box because his accounts
were not passed. An action was brought for its recovery, which was long
delayed, owing to two members of the society giving Read a release,
which he successfully pleaded as a bar to the action. This rendered it
necessary to take proceedings in equity, and a bill was filed in
Chancery against all three, Read being compelled to deposit the box with
Master Leeds until the end of the suit. Three years of litigation
ensued. Eventually the Chancellor directed the box to be restored to the
Overseers’ Society, and Mr. Read paid in costs £300. The extra costs
amounted to £76 13s. 11d., owing to the illegal proceedings of Mr. Read.
The sum of £91 7s. was at once raised, and the surplus spent upon a
third case of octagon shape. The top records the triumph: Justice
trampling upon a prostrate man, from whose face a mask falls upon a
writhing serpent. A second plate, on the outside of the fly-lid,
represents the Lord Chancellor Loughborough pronouncing his decree for
the restoration of the box, March 5, 1796.
On the fourth case is shown the anniversary meeting of the Past
Overseers’ Society, with the churchwardens giving the charge previous to
delivering the box to the succeeding overseer. He, on his side, is bound
to produce it at certain parochial entertainments, with at least three
pipes of tobacco, under the penalty of six bottles of claret, and to
return the whole, with some addition, safe and sound, under a penalty of
200 guineas.
In more recent days additions to this box, forming records of various
important public events, have from time to time been added. A
tobacco-stopper of mother-of-pearl, with a silver chain, is enclosed
within the box, and completes this unique memorial.
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