ELECTIONS—COMMITTEES—REGULATIONS—RULES
The transformation of the West End of London has entailed the
destruction of numbers of the old box-like Georgian houses, and when the
demand for new clubs arose, the quaint little shops in Pall Mall and St.
James’s Street—almost the last survival of which is Lock’s hat-shop—were
gradually demolished, in order to make way for huge edifices of palatial
appearance. New political clubs, new professional clubs, new social
clubs, sprang into existence, till what was a luxury for the few became
a comparative necessity for the many.
In these days rich men often belong to a great number of clubs, and the
present writer was told by a well-known cosmopolitan that his
subscriptions of this kind amounted at one time to no less than £200 a
year. This, however, included various racing and yachting clubs, as well
as two or three on the Continent.
There are now clubs accessory to almost every kind of pursuit and sport,
and the number increases every year. At the present time London alone
possesses more than two hundred, whereas sixty or seventy years ago only
about thirty existed. About one hundred have been founded during the
past thirty years, dividing between them no fewer than some 120,000
members. At the beginning of the nineteenth century there were probably
not more than 1,200 men who belonged to clubs; at the present day there
are probably considerably more than 200,000!
The revolution as regards clubs in London only commenced about a quarter
of a century ago, and has raged with unabated energy ever since till
to-day. People in every rank of life have their club, and the social
distinction which was formerly attached to membership of a number of
these institutions has in consequence sustained a considerable decline,
even fashionable West End clubs having lost much of their old prestige.
In consequence of this there would seem to be a somewhat gloomy future
in store for some of these formerly exclusive institutions, not a few of
which, like old families of ancient lineage, do their best to conceal
the straitened condition of their finances, generally produced by
paucity of members.
Clubs into which admission could only be gained, twenty or thirty years
ago, by those whose names had been on the candidates’ book for nine,
ten, or even twelve years, are now obliged to elect members put down
only a year or two before. In some cases, indeed, it is to be feared
that amalgamation with another club is the only policy which will
prevent complete extinction and restore healthy vitality. In certain
instances, it must be confessed, an apathetic committee, not alive to
the changed and changing conditions of club-life, is responsible for the
decadence of the institution over which it presides.
An absolute essential to the prosperity of a club is a good committee;
the best of all is that which consists of three elements. In the first
place, it should contain two or three well-known men to act as
figureheads, their names being a guarantee for the social standing of
the club. In the second, one or two members ought to be thoroughly
conversant with business matters, and well fitted to deal with the
details of club finance. And, lastly, a certain proportion of its
members ought to be men well in touch with the life of the club, and
therefore thoroughly acquainted with its needs. They should have a wide
knowledge of men and social matters, in order to exercise due
discrimination in dealing with candidates for election; and this is
especially important in a club where the ordinary members do not take
part in the ballot. In these days there are many with axes to grind, and
strange things have been done in some West End clubs of late years in
order to secure the election of candidates. At times, indeed, certain
individuals have become noted for their lack of discretion in proposing
individuals whom, for some reason or other, they desired to conciliate.
As a matter of fact, the hold which the City has obtained over West End
life is largely responsible for the election of many a member to clubs
where, thirty or forty years ago, his admission would have been quite
out of the question.
In old days everyone in the West End, more or less, knew everyone else;
for society was then a very limited circle compared with what it is
to-day, when people come and go with such startling rapidity that it
grows increasingly difficult to discover who and what a candidate may
be.
Considerable ingenuity has occasionally been exercised in the direction
of concealing the antecedents of an undesirable but wealthy candidate.
The election of rich men to a club merely because they are rich has, on
occasion, been defended by the vague plea that it is not a bad thing for
a club; as a matter of fact, it is a very bad thing indeed. Whilst a
candidate of this sort is usually exceedingly anxious to be elected, it
is not unusual, when his aim is achieved, for him to trouble himself no
more, his desire having merely been to figure in the list of members. A
man of this sort, who had taken infinite trouble to secure election to a
certain club, and been successful in his efforts, had no sooner been
notified of his membership than he calmly remarked: “Ah, well, I don’t
suppose I shall use the place, except to wash my hands on my way to the
Park!”
It is, indeed, men of moderate means rather than the very rich who use a
club most, and who are therefore its principal support. Millionaires and
financiers seldom spend much in their clubs, for, possessed of highly
trained chefs and luxurious houses, they have naturally little
temptation to spend their spare time elsewhere. The pleasures of social
intercourse which can be enjoyed at the club are equally easy to obtain
at home.
In old days it was exceedingly difficult for men engaged in business to
obtain admission to a fashionable West End club.
The son of a famous financier was once up for election to a fashionable
club, and all his friends in the club attended to support him. In those
days the ballot took place at night, and as eleven o’clock approached
the club became abnormally full; indeed, members came into the
drawing-room, where the election was held, who had not been seen in the
club for years. It was, however, soon evident to the proposer and
seconder that the crowd of members present had not come to support their
candidate. Realizing the situation, they took their stand by the
ballot-box, and as each of the strangers stepped up to record his vote,
one said to the other: “Here comes another assassin.”
At White’s, blackballing was carried to such an extreme about the year
1833 that the rules had to be altered, and one blackball was no longer
allowed to exclude.
At that time the system of rejection had been carried to a ludicrous
pitch. “We must pill that man,” a member would say; “it will do him
good.” “We really cannot have that fellow,” said another; “I saw him
wearing a black tie in the evening.” Sometimes there were personal
grudges or family quarrels which kept out candidates for years.
In the early part of the last century, Charles Greville and Lord George
Bentinck had some difference about a turf transaction. Greville was
anxious for the election of Viscount Brackley, afterwards Earl of
Ellesmere; Lord George was equally determined that Viscount Brackley, as
Greville’s nominee, should remain outside the club. He never failed to
attend the ballot and drop in his black ball.
Lord George was accustomed to take his dinner very late. He usually
dined at the club at eleven o’clock, at which hour the ballots also took
place. On one occasion, when Lord Brackley was up for election, Greville
was delighted to find, as he thought, that Lord George was for once
absent. “It’s all right this time,” said he, as the ballot-box was
brought to him; “Bentinck’s downstairs at dinner, and I shall get
Brackley in at last.” “Will you?” said a voice near him. He had not
noticed Lord George sitting beside him on the sofa.
People who ought to know better sometimes exhibit the most lax conduct
in lending their aid to the candidature of disagreeable individuals,
whom for some reason or other it may suit them to please. On one
occasion the members of a certain somewhat exclusive club were much
disgusted at the conduct of a newly-elected member. It was eventually
discovered that the objectionable individual had been proposed by a
prominent political personage, whose candidate could not very well have
been rejected. The matter created great irritation, and it was
eventually hinted to the proposer that the new member was anything but
popular.
“He’s a disagreeable man, I know; but then, you see, it doesn’t matter,
for I so seldom use the club,” was the grossly egotistical reply. No
wonder the political party of which this individual is considered one of
the shining lights has of late years had a hard struggle to hold its
own!
One of the most original reasons for putting down a candidate was that
given by a somewhat unpopular member of a certain club. An acquaintance,
looking through the candidates’ book, observed that a name recently
inscribed was that of an individual whom his proposer had always
denounced as a regular club bore.
“Why ever did you put him down?” asked the astonished member. “I thought
you particularly disliked him.”
“Certainly I do,” was the reply; “and as, above all things, I wish to
prevent his getting in here, I thought the best way of insuring his
being pilled would be to propose him myself, being well aware that
anyone whom I may support will have but a very slight chance of escaping
a good many black balls.”
Committee-men are not infrequently placed in a very uncomfortable
position when asked by friends to give their support to doubtful
candidates. A man of the world, well known for his ingenuity, used to
get out of the difficulty by invariably replying: “My dear fellow, you
may rely on me to do the proper thing.”
With the vast increase of London clubs, an altogether different state of
affairs has arisen as regards the numbers of candidates waiting to come
up for election, and which in the majority of instances is far less
difficult than was formerly the case; few even of the old-established
clubs have been able to maintain their ancient exclusiveness.
The Athenæum, Turf, and Travellers’ are still, however, not at all easy
about electing members. The latter, founded about 1819, in its early
days attracted a good deal of notice from the fact that a candidate for
admission was required to have been 500 miles distant from London; and a
considerable sensation was once caused by the discovery that several
members, who had originally entered their names, had not travelled the
prescribed distance. An investigation was made, and the newspapers of
the day published lists of places a visit to which was a sufficient
qualification for membership of the Travellers’.
In former days, candidates sometimes had to wait for many years before
coming up for election. Owing, however, to various causes—of which the
chief was, perhaps, the great increase in the number of West End
clubs—this period now rarely exceeds two, or at most three, years. The
Bath Club is, I believe, an exception, because the facilities for
swimming and other exercises which this institution affords to its
members (drawn from both sexes) has caused a very large number of names
to be inscribed upon its books. In consequence of this, a candidate must
now expect a delay of several years before his name comes up for ballot.
At not a few old-established clubs a paucity of candidates has been
produced by past injudicious and indiscriminating pilling. Men thinking
of joining the club became aware of the fate which might befall them,
and so in time the reputation of more than one club for extreme
exclusiveness has led from dire necessity to the other extreme of
letting in almost anyone willing to join.
Club committees occasionally contain a member who has an innate tendency
to blackball everybody; in such cases a “pill” is always found in the
box, even when the candidate is perfectly eligible. An individual of
this sort was once considerably rebuffed. During an election it was
found that the minimum quorum of committee-men was not present, for they
were one short. To rectify matters, a notorious blackballer was hunted
up at his rooms, and told that an election was in progress. He rushed
back to the club, and at once voted, in most cases putting in a black
ball, according to his wont; but as his was the only adverse vote, the
rules having been observed, all candidates were elected. At the Athenæum
as many as ninety-three black balls were once allotted to an unpopular
candidate. But the greatest instance of blackballing probably ever known
took place some years ago at a ladies’ club, where one candidate
received three more black balls than the number of members present—a
case of excessive zeal indeed!
At one West End club, where the election of members was conducted in a
somewhat peculiar manner, a curious incident once happened.
Here the election was by the members in general, and not by a committee,
and the ballot was held in a room on the left of the entrance hall. At
one time it used to be a regular custom for the friends of a candidate
to hang about the door of this room canvassing in his favour, whilst, if
possible, detaining anyone likely to insert a black ball, by all
possible means. During a certain election, a visitor, coming to call
upon a friend at his club, found himself, on passing its portals, almost
forcibly bustled into this room, and eventually, thoroughly confused,
made to vote for an individual who would otherwise not have gained
admission to the club.
While, as a rule, the resignation of a member or several members on
account of their candidates being rejected, or for some other reason,
does not affect the prosperity of a club, there have been instances of
serious injury being inflicted upon a club’s prestige by the defection
of some very influential member. Many years ago the prosperity of
White’s was seriously affected by the displeasure shown by the late King
at the continuance of some old-fashioned and absurd regulations as to
smoking; and Boodle’s, now in such a flourishing condition, was terribly
damaged at one time when the late Duke of Beaufort withdrew his name.
The blackballing of candidates submitted for election by prominent
members occasionally leads to much acrimonious comment, and sometimes
causes a number of resignations.
Election or non-election to a club depends in some cases upon many
different causes, and a young man about whom nothing is known at all
often stands a better chance than a distinguished individual who during
his life has made enemies. Occasionally rejection is a compliment.
The resignation of members disappointed at the failure of their
candidate is unreasonable, for a club is in reality a republic, where
everyone is equal, and no one has any right to level a pistol at the
heads of his fellow-members, or of his committee, whilst saying: “Vote
for my candidate, or I will leave the club.” Such an act is but a
revolutionary protest against the equality of club-life. If an
influential or popular member supports some candidate, the latter has
the advantage of the influence of his support, but there the preference
should end. The question really is not whether a particular candidate
deserves or does not deserve to be admitted, but whether the club
chooses to elect him, and anything beyond this is a breach of those
principles which conduce to the prosperity of clubland.
The best method of filling up vacancies in the membership of a club
would really be selection rather than election, and there is no valid
reason why such a method of recruiting the membership of clubs should
not generally prevail. Were such a reasonable system in vogue, no one
would be submitted to the barbarous mortification of being rejected. As
things are now, anyone who has obtained a reputation is bound to make
enemies, and the more widely he is known, the more enemies he is certain
to have. Indeed, a prominent individual has often a very bad chance of
being elected under the system generally observed, an absurdity
emphasized by the fact that the late Mr. Gladstone was once rejected for
the club at Biarritz.
Anyone whose life has been passed amidst publicity must have offended
many. Some hate him merely because they happen never to have met him,
and others because they have done so. Others hate him because their
friends do, and others, again, disapprove of him merely on political
grounds. It is, indeed, impossible to enumerate the variety of motives
which cause people to hate each other with reason, and even without
reason. This being so, one may well doubt the expediency of compelling
men to undergo the disgrace of being rejected for a club, according to
the system which at present prevails. As matters stand now, a
candidate’s rejection implies that he is unfit to be a member; but in
reality, in a large number of cases, it simply means that he is of
sufficient importance to have attracted the ill-will, envy, or dislike
of a number of people, many of whom know him only by repute.
Another desirable reform, though one which is unlikely ever to be
carried out, would consist in investing committees or members with the
power of ejection as well as election. There would be little hardship in
a rule conferring the right of exclusion in cases of general
unpopularity, and this probably would seldom have to be exercised, as
the very fact of its existence would act as a check.
Within recent years a good many club committees have shown a tendency in
the direction of the multiplication of rules.
The old aristocratic clubs of the past troubled themselves little with
regulations and restrictions. In fact, they were excessively lenient.
With the gradual incursion of the commercial class into West End life,
however, a very different state of affairs has been brought about.
All over Europe, and especially in England, the _bourgeoisie_ adore
regulating somebody or something, and the tendency remains long after
members of this class have entered what are known as fashionable
circles, and managed to obtain a hold upon the committees of exclusive
clubs. In such a position, not a few of them have added largely to the
number of rules, some of which in certain clubs are multiplied to the
point of absolute absurdity.
Occasionally edicts of this kind possess a certain unconscious humour,
as is well exemplified in a by-law, still amongst the rules of a certain
club, which sets forth that “Members smoking pipes may not sit or stand
in the windows.”
Whether legally such an edict can be enforced would seem to be very
doubtful. It is certainly within the right of a committee to prohibit
pipe-smoking altogether, and such a regulation prevails in several
clubs; in many more it is an unwritten law. In rooms, however, in which
pipe-smoking is allowed, it is certainly not within the powers of a
committee to define exactly where members shall station themselves
whilst “blowing their cloud.” As a matter of fact, committee-men not
infrequently fall into the error of thinking that a club committee can
issue any decrees it likes. Such, however, is very far from being the
case, and the reports of various lawsuits between individual members and
certain committees will show that in the majority of instances the
latter have not proved victorious.
If, for instance, the subscription of a club be raised, members who
joined before the alteration cannot be compelled to pay more than their
original subscription. The great increase in club rules and regulations
has sometimes produced confusion as to what members may or may not do—a
state of affairs which was non-existent when the older West End clubs
were founded.
The nature of the regulations then in vogue may be realized from an
inspection of a number of interesting volumes, dating back to 1737,
still preserved at White’s, in which are inscribed the names of members
of the old and new clubs, together with the few rules in force in the
eighteenth century.
The books of rules issued in the middle of the last century contain very
much the same provisions. The earlier books are entirely in manuscript,
some of them elaborately bound; whilst those issued about 1840, though
smaller, are beautifully printed, and they still retain a certain air of
old-world luxury. The register of members kept by the proprietor of
White’s about seventy years ago much resembles one of those huge
gilt-edged tomes which were in use for registering various matters
connected with the Court of Versailles before the French Revolution. The
calligraphy in this volume and in some of the earlier club lists is
remarkable for its graceful and ornate character. Looking at them, one
realizes what an exclusive coterie frequented the old club-house in the
days when the aristocracy of England ruled supreme.
West End club committees of old days were extremely conciliatory
regarding any minor breach of club law, in many cases straining a point
to overlook delinquencies which were not directly injurious to the best
interests of the members generally. Considerable laxity existed as to
debts incurred in a club, coffee-room accounts extending into three
figures being common; some of these were liquidated only at long
intervals. Expelling, or even threatening to expel, a member was
considered a step of extreme gravity, and one to be avoided by all
possible means.
During the last twenty-five years, however, club-life, like everything
else, has become “more strenuous,” and anyone who habitually breaks the
rules is soon made to realize that he must either alter his ways or go.
Committee-men, it should be added, whether good, bad, or indifferent,
generally have a rather difficult task, for they are certain to arouse
the opposition of some professional grumbler or other who is ever ready
to blame. As a matter of fact, very often the best-meant schemes are the
most unpopular, and there is a peculiar type of committee-man who often
incurs the hostility of members on account of his merits. This is the
individual who, possessed of an especial gift for management, takes the
direction of a club into his own hands, and, becoming practically an
autocrat, resents interference with his policy, which, it may be added,
is not infrequently a sound one, for this type of man has generally made
club management his hobby. Nevertheless, let him do as well as possible,
sooner or later his rule will become unpopular, members disliking the
idea of a one-man domination.
It cannot be said that the majority of house committees are in any way
zealous about carrying out their functions. Where club cooking and its
material are above all criticism, the credit generally lies with the
efficient secretary, who in reality runs most clubs.
Some clubs have numberless sub-committees to deal with different details
of management—wine committee, cigar committee, and goodness knows what
else. It is, however, doubtful whether the united efforts of all the
committee-men and sub-committee-men in the world are as successful as
those of one dominating individual, who knows exactly what the needs of
a club really are, and gets them satisfied. On the whole, the cooking
and food in West End clubs is very fair, and in many cases, if some
further degree of attention were devoted to minor details, would be
above criticism.
A deplorable tendency, however, is the neglect of that old-fashioned
English cookery which in perfection is the delight of true
gastronomists.
What is wanted in clubs is the very best material properly served and
cooked. Alas! it is to be feared that, with the exception of a very few
clubs, the best of everything now goes to the palatial restaurants, who
absolutely will not purchase the indifferent meat, game, and vegetables
which are foisted upon more easy-going customers.
The craze for elaborate cooking in clubs would appear to have been
originated by George IV when Prince Regent. During dinner one evening at
Carlton House, the conversation chancing to turn upon club dinners, Sir
Thomas Stepney described them as being intensely dull, owing to their
eternal joints, beefsteaks, or boiled fowl with oyster sauce, followed
by an apple tart. Upon this the Prince, who was much interested, sent
for Watier, his own chef, and invited him then and there to take a house
and organize a dinner club. Accordingly a club was started at 81
Piccadilly, by Watier; Madison, the Prince’s page, being manager; and
Labourier, one of the cooks from the royal kitchen, chef. It was soon
joined by the principal dandies, including Beau Brummell, and became the
scene of much high play, chiefly at macao.
Brummell one day, when he had lost a large sum, called to the waiter:
“Bring me a flat candlestick and a pistol”; upon which another member,
Mr. Hythe, reputed as mad as a hatter, produced a couple of loaded
pistols from his pocket, which he placed on the table, coolly saying:
“Mr. Brummell, if you wish to put an end to your existence, I am
extremely happy to offer you the means without troubling the waiter.”
During another evening’s play, Raikes began to rally Jack Bouverie,
brother of Lord Heytesbury, on his bad luck, and the latter took it in
such bad part that he threw his play-bowl full of counters at Raikes’s
head. A great row ensued. Watier’s closed about 1819, many of its
leading members being then utterly ruined. After this the club-house was
run by a set of blacklegs as a common gaming-house, which eventually was
taken over by Crockford, who, in partnership with a man named Taylor,
set up a very successful hazard bank.
Though Watier’s had but a short existence, it lasted long enough to give
men about town a taste for elaborate cooking, and no doubt contributed
to send many good old English dishes out of fashion.
Owing to the large staff of servants maintained in most clubs, life is
rendered very easy for the members, though a certain number are ever
complaining of inattention on the part of the servants. These, as a
matter of fact, are kept more or less in perpetual motion. On the
whole, they are a most civil class of men, and for this reason
thoroughly deserve the Christmas subscription which serves as a sort
of gigantic, but quite justifiable, tip. This is a comparatively new
institution. It must be realized that club servants are not overpaid,
and when upon duty their work is particularly severe. The electric
bells never cease ringing until the club closes; every member expects
his wants to command immediate attention, and not a few are capricious
and exacting. In some of the big clubs the total of the contributions
is considerable—considerably over £500. This seems large, but, as
there are over 1,000 members in several clubs, such a sum is only what
might be expected.
Club servants are an especial class apart, and some waiters change
constantly from club to club. This, of course, is not the case at
certain of these institutions, such as the Junior Carlton, which, having
a servants’ pension fund, attracts the very best class. In all clubs,
however, there are generally two or three old and popular servants who
are looked upon as regular features of the place.
In the past, certain old retainers often became privileged characters,
and presumed upon their position. A waiter named Samuel Spring, having
on one occasion to write to George IV, when the latter was Prince of
Wales, commenced his letter as follows: “Sam, the waiter at the
Cocoa-tree, presents his compliments to the Prince of Wales,” etc. His
Royal Highness next day saw Sam, and, after noticing the receiving of
his note and the freedom of the style, said: “Sam, this may be very well
between you and me, but it will not do with the Norfolks and Arundels.”
The most important servant in a club is, of course, the hall-porter. To
fill this post to perfection, very exceptional qualities are required.
A hall-porter, in his capacity as a trusted and confidential club
servant, is acquainted with many delicate matters, and for this reason
should be a man of tact; he must, besides, discriminate between those
visitors a member may wish to see and those to whom the answer “Out of
town” must be given, in tones which admit of no further inquiry. He must
ever be on guard, carefully scanning every stranger who passes the club
portals, and, like royalty, should possess an unerring and inexhaustible
memory for faces. He must, of course, know every member by sight, and
never be obliged to ask his name, even when long absence abroad may have
altered his appearance, and rendered him almost unrecognizable to
acquaintances of other days. A good hall-porter, in short, should know
everything and everybody.
A Scotch hall-porter—Shand, of the Turf Club—was a great character in
his way. Somewhat blunt and bluff by nature, he was very outspoken about
anything which did not meet with his approval, and at times would hazard
caustic remarks as to various phases of the club-life. Shand was
possessed of considerable shrewdness and common-sense, and it was
sometimes said that in certain matters his advice was better than that
of any two first-class lawyers together. Shand had his likes and
dislikes amongst members. This he made little attempt to conceal, his
manner varying in a marked degree. He was no respecter of persons, but
on account of his shrewdness and many sterling qualities was allowed
much latitude.
On one occasion a member, before leaving for the country, instructed
Shand to forward a packet of photographs when it should arrive. The
gentleman was away two months, but no photographs were sent to him. On
his return to town he went to the Turf, where, much to his astonishment,
he was handed a proof photograph which had, he found, arrived six weeks
before. Shand was interrogated as to his reasons for not obeying
instructions. “You said photographs,” replied he. “Seeing there was only
one, and knowing you were away with your wife, I was not going to be
such a fool as to send it.”
Many of the old school of club porters rather despised confirmed
bachelors who yielded to the allurements of matrimony. “No, sir,” said
one of these to an inquirer, “Mr. —— don’t come here now as he used;
since his marriage his habits ain’t reg’lar.”
Club porters are very cognizant of the peculiar ways of members, and
quick to notice anything out of harmony with the general tenor of
club-life. The porter at a club where most of the members were so old
and infirm that quantities of crutches were left in the hall was
genuinely shocked to see a new member going quickly upstairs.
Failure to recognize faces—which, in justice to club porters it should
be said, is in their case comparatively rare—has on occasion led to
serious consequences.
The hall-porter of a certain great club, quartered upon another during
the autumnal period of renovation, was one day asked by a member who
strode hurriedly into the club, “Are there any letters for Mr. X.?”
giving a name in the club list. The porter looked hard at the gentleman,
for he could not positively convince himself for the moment that he knew
his face as one of the 1,500 members of the club. His gaze, however, was
met unflinchingly, and the new arrival’s air and appearance generally
giving no cause for suspicion, the porter, having eventually concluded
that this must be a member who had been out of England for some time,
handed over the letters, with which the gentleman retired into the inner
recesses of the club.
Half an hour or so later a jeweller arrived and asked for Mr. X., to
whom he handed over a valuable piece of jewellery worth several hundreds
of pounds, which, he told the hall-porter on leaving, this gentleman (as
to whose social position and solvency there could be no question) had
ordered two days ago by letter.
In due course Mr. X., after giving instructions that no letters were to
be forwarded, departed, taking the piece of jewellery with him.
What was the hall-porter’s horror the next morning to find himself
confronted by another, and this time a real, Mr. X., who, on being told
the story of his double, at once dashed off to Scotland Yard. The first
Mr. X., it appeared, was an adroit swindler, who having by some means
discovered that the real Mr. X., an exceedingly wealthy man, had ordered
a jeweller to meet him at the club with a recent purchase, sent a
telegram from the latter saying that the setting would not be completed
till the next day, and had then gone to the club and personated this
member, who he knew only used it upon rare occasions.
Another more impudent fraud was the case of a discharged club waiter,
who, disguising himself in a pair of blue spectacles, actually walked
into the club-house from which he had been dismissed two days before,
and, giving a well-known member’s name, cashed a cheque. He victimized
two other clubs in the same manner, and was eventually detected at a
fourth.
One of the smaller West End clubs was formerly renowned for its
mechanical hall-porter, an individual who had but an arm and a leg, and
moved, it was said, entirely by machinery, the creaking of which, people
declared, could be heard when he handed out letters.
A word here as to the porters’ boxes which now exist in every club. In
former days very few, if any, of these institutions contained such a
convenience. The porter used to sit in a chair in the hall, with a rack
containing the members’ letters behind him. He played much the same part
as the head-footman who opens the door at a private house. As late as
the eighties of the last century there was no porter’s box at White’s,
and the same state of affairs prevailed at Boodle’s up to quite recent
years. In former days, when life was more simple, there was little
necessity for the complicated arrangements of bells, telephones, and
speaking-tubes, which are essential to the life of a modern club.
Members then did not dash in and out, and clubland was distinguished by
its air of grave solemnity and calm.
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