BROOKS’S, THE COCOA-TREE, AND THE THATCHED HOUSE  
At one time considerable rivalry existed between White’s and Brooks’s. Great festivities took place all over the country in the spring of 1789, and both White’s and Brooks’s gave balls, which seem to have occasioned much unpleasant feeling between the party of the Prince of Wales and that of the Court.
 
Pitt was a member of both clubs (having been elected to Brooks’s in 1781, on the proposal of Fox), but he had a decided partiality for White’s.
 
The Prince detested White’s as the chosen club of Pitt, who had opposed him during the King’s illness, and, as soon as the entertainment was announced, forbade his friends to attend it, and it is said, together with the Duke of York, sent their tickets to be sold at a public library.
 
Three weeks later, on April 21, Brooks’s followed with a grand ball at the Opera House, one of the tickets for which is framed in the “strangers’ room” on the ground-floor of the club. As a matter of fact, the Prince’s conduct towards the ball at White’s gave a party character to that at Brooks’s, with the result that all the ladies of the Court refused to attend.
 
Brooks’s was originally in Pall Mall, on or near the site of the present Marlborough Club, and the 100precise date of its removal into St. James’s Street cannot be positively fixed; but certain it is that the existing house was built by Brooks, from designs by Holland, the architect, in 1778, and in a letter to G. Selwyn, dated in October of that year, T. Townshend—afterwards first Viscount Sydney—says: “As a proof of our increasing opulence, I need only show the New Opera House, which is now fitting up at a monstrous expense … and Brooks’s new house, fitted up with great magnificence, which is to be opened in a week or ten days.” It was in consequence of these great expenses that the annual subscription was doubled.
 
The originator of Brooks’s seems to have been the Scotsman Almack, whose real name was Macall, and in its early days the club consisted of 150 members at an annual subscription of four guineas, with the proviso that, “in case that proportion falls short of 400 guineas on the whole, such deficiency shall be made good to Mr. Almack.” But this small number of members soon expanded, and by 1776 had been doubled, by successive additions of twenty, thirty, fifty, and fifty. Fifteen years passed, and in 1791 another 150 were added, and 100 more in 1816, bringing the numbers up to 550. Twenty-five more were added in 1823, and a like number in 1857, bringing the total up to 600, at which it remained till 1901, when it was raised to 650, the present number.
 
At the end of 1778 the club moved into its present premises, the new house being owned by Brooks or Brookes, and after that date his name was assumed as a title.
 
PROMISED HORRORS OF THE FRENCH INVASION, BY GILLRAY.
Showing both White’s and Brooks’s Clubs.
 
The subscription, fixed at four guineas in 1764, 101was before 1779 raised to eight, and on May 25 in that year the committee, or whatever was the governing body, granted Brooks an extra two guineas for two years only, “in consideration of the great expense he hath been at in erecting and fitting up his house”—viz., the present house. Brooks compounded with those that were willing, for sixteen guineas paid down in advance.
 
On April 17, 1791, the subscription was again raised to ten guineas, and in addition an entrance fee of five guineas was imposed; and it was further resolved that every member should pay one guinea in addition to the subscription for that year, “in order that the new Regulations about Dinner, Forfeits, etc., may take place immediately.”
 
So matters continued until 1815, when the subscription was increased to eleven guineas, “in consideration of the great expense the Masters of the Club had been put to by various alterations of the Club-house.”
 
On March 18, 1817, an additional guinea was imposed—to be paid on January 1, 1818—for the express purpose of increasing the size of the coffee-room.
 
In 1828 it was resolved that the extra guinea added to the annual subscription in 1815 should be reserved to form a fund, to be invested in the names of the trustees, to be employed as the club should thereafter direct. The present subscription is eleven guineas.
 
The original rules are very strict on the subject of arrears, Rule XX providing that all subscriptions shall be paid between March 1 and June 25; otherwise 102the defaulter is to be ipso facto excluded and his name erased. This excellent provision, however, seems to have been more honoured in the breach than in the observance, for on June 8, 1800, Griffin, who was the Master, was “authorized to inform members that, being in arrears, they are no longer members of the Club, and the Managers have directed him to recover the arrears due to him.” Yet, notwithstanding the resolution of the managers, on May 3, 1806, Griffin reported the arrears to amount to ￡6,000, which large sum had in 1809 increased to ￡10,000.
 
This generous confidence of the Masters in the ultimate solvency of members endured until the death of Banderet, in spite of a periodical protest against the large amount of house accounts outstanding for dinners and other disbursements; and on one occasion it is said that he represented to the managers that a certain member was ￡800 in his debt, and, although he was quite ready to trust the gentleman to any amount, he did think that, under the circumstances, he need not insist upon having ortolans for his dinner every night.
 
There is a very general impression that the eleventh guinea of the subscription, still paid, was first imposed to pay the debts of C. J. Fox, but of this there is no evidence whatever. That Fox’s debts were paid by his friends is certain, and that he had many friends in Brooks’s is equally so, and they doubtless were the chief contributors, but as individuals only; the idea that Brooks’s ever contributed in its corporate capacity is absolutely without foundation.
 
103The regulations passed in 1828 laid down that dinner at 10s. 6d. per head shall be ready at a quarter before six every day from November 1 to the Prince of Wales’s birthday (August 12th). “If the number at dinner shall not exceed four, they shall have no reckoning to pay but for wine, fruits, etc. If the number exceeds four, the 2 guineas shall be deducted from the whole reckoning.”
 
Dinner was served at half-past four; and the bill was brought in at seven. Supper began at eleven, and ended at half an hour after midnight. The cost of the dinner was 8s. a head, and of the supper 6s.; and anyone who had been present during any part of the meal hours paid his share of the wine, in accordance with the old law of British conviviality.
 
No gaming was allowed in the “eating room” except “tossing up for reckonings,” under the penalty of paying the whole bill of the members present.
 
The ballot took place between eleven at night and one in the morning, which custom continued until 1844, when the hours were altered to between three and five in the afternoon. A single black ball excluded, and a member who joined any other club, except White’s, was at once struck off the books.
 
As manager of the club, Brooks appears to have been a most accommodating individual. He is described by Tickell, in a copy of verses addressed to Sheridan, as
“Liberal Brookes, whose speculative skill
Is hasty credit and a distant bill;
Who, nursed in clubs, disdains a vulgar trade,
Exults to trust, and blushes to be paid.”
 
104It may be added that, as a consequence of the above-mentioned diffidence, Brooks died a poor man in 1782. Indeed, according to tradition, his creditors were so rapacious that, in order to defeat them, his body was interred in a small vault, still existing, under the pavement of St. James’s Street. For this, however, there is no sort of evidence in the records of the club, and the legend may have been suggested by the smallness of the vault, which would just contain a coffin.
 
Brooks was succeeded in the management by a Mr. Griffin, whose name can be traced down to 1815, though for the six years preceding this date the management figures as “Griffin and Co.” In 1815, however, he disappears, and at some subsequent time the mastership devolved upon Wheelwright, who in 1824 took Halse into partnership, and in 1831 retired; whereupon Halse took Henry Banderet into partnership, himself retiring in 1846, and receiving a grant from the club of ￡500 on account of his interest in the unexpired lease of the house, and 50 guineas for the surrender of his lodging therein. From that time until his death in 1880, Banderet continued Master; and to him is to be attributed the credit of having established in Brooks’s that refined if somewhat solemn comfort which resembles rather the luxury of a first-class private house than a club, and which has led to its being humorously described as “like dining in a Duke’s house with the Duke lying dead upstairs.” His attention to his duties as Master was unremitting, and it was said that, during the thirty-four years in which he filled that post, he had never been known to 105be absent, except on one occasion when he was persuaded to take a holiday; but he found himself so miserable that by noon he was back at Brooks’s, which he never afterwards left until his death, when the entire management was taken over by the club.
 
As a building, Brooks’s is a handsome and suitable club-house, which from time to time has sustained a number of alterations, most of them of a judicious kind. The balcony on the first-floor, formerly such a feature of the fa?ade, has long been removed.
 
About twenty years ago considerable changes were made in the club-house, and No. 2 Park Place was incorporated as part of it. Up to that time the coffee-room had been what is now the strangers’ smoking-room on the first-floor, the only smoking-room being the round room at the back of the house, now divided into dressing-rooms. There was practically no library, the only apology for one being a small room beyond the coffee-room, containing little except Parliamentary reports, back volumes of the Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews, and novels from a circulating library. Opening out of this library was another small room into which hardly anyone ever went, and through that, again, a very small dressing-room which hardly anyone ever used. During the alterations these uncomfortable little rooms, together with the rest of No. 2 Park Place, were swept away, and the present coffee-rooms, with library above, erected in their place, the old drawing-rooms and coffee-rooms being given up to smokers and their guests. At the same time the hall and staircase were entirely reconstructed.
 
106Amongst the important reforms introduced after Banderet’s death was the institution of club bedrooms, and also the privilege of inviting guests to dinner, and—in May 1896—to luncheon.
 
There are some interesting relics of old days at Brooks’s, including a complete set of the gaming counters used when the club was the scene of much high play. These are well displayed in a case at the bottom of the staircase. In the room upstairs, once the scene of so many late sittings, the old gambling-table still remains. A semicircular cut in this is said to have been made in order to accommodate the portly form of Charles James Fox, a pastel portrait of whom, by Russell, is one of the treasures of the club.
 
Some old prints of Brooks’s in former days (and a water-colour drawing of the gaming-room by Rowlandson in particular) convey an excellent idea of the past life of the club, while a few portraits of celebrated members decorate its walls.
 
The fine room upstairs which was once devoted to high play would appear to retain much of its ancient appearance, and the decorative scheme employed on the walls seems to have been little changed.
 
A treasured possession of this club is the old betting-book, in which are many curious entries, one of which tells that Mr. Thynne, having, according to a note written opposite his name in the club books, “won only ￡12,000 during the last two months, retired in disgust, March 21, 1772; and that he may never return is the ardent wish of members.”
 
The entries in this volume deal with all sorts of subjects, and range from a bet of five hundred guineas 107to ten that none of the Cabinet were beheaded by that day three years, to one of fifty that Mlle. Heinel does not dance at the Opera House next winter.
 
Brooks’s possesses a good deal of silver plate, which taken in the aggregate is valued at some ￡4,000. The oldest piece is a marrow-spoon of 1793, whilst perhaps the most interesting part of the collection is a number of candlesticks, all Georgian.
 
There are in Brooks’s two snuff-boxes—an antique one of mother-of-pearl, and another of early Victorian date and design.
 
The tranquillity for which this club is noted has rarely been disturbed in recent times, but in 1886, when Mr. Gladstone introduced his Home Rule Bill, Brooks’s became much perturbed and troubled by discord quite out of keeping with the traditions of its sacred precincts. A member who had been in Mr. Gladstone’s Cabinet, and who, it was said, had many years before been himself “blackballed” when a candidate, was declared to have spoken contemptuously of the Liberal unionists as he descended the stairs of the club, where he had been dining as a guest. The irate Liberal unionists immediately discovered an easy way of revenge. As luck would have it, the son of the ex-Minister came up for election almost immediately after his father’s ill-timed outburst of eloquence, and was swiftly made to experience the same fate which had befallen his parent many years before. As a consequence of this the supporters of Mr. Gladstone, at the next opportunity, revenged themselves by treating the eldest son of a Whig unionist peer in the same way. 108Feeling began to run high, and at each successive election the circle of carnage widened and widened, until it began to be whispered that it would soon be impossible for anybody to be elected to Brooks’s at all. Matters began to look very serious—one member even declared that the shade of Fox had been observed flitting about the passages; and though another member surmised that it was only the solid figure of an ancient servitor of the club with a bottle of port in his hand, which had been mistaken for the shade of the statesman, both agreed in acknowledging that the situation was becoming extremely grave. Happily, at this juncture Lord Granville came to the rescue, and at the next election made a speech which caused a general reconciliation. In a few well-chosen words he alluded to the antiquity of the club, and the previous divisions in the party which it had survived, and expressed a hope—using almost the words which Burke had employed in a slightly different connection—which he believed all present in their hearts really shared, that there should at least be one place left in London where a truce might be allowed to the divisions and animosities of mankind, and friends might still be allowed to meet one another on the same terms as of old.
 
Lord Granville’s speech produced a great effect, as the taking of the ballot proved; for all the candidates, irrespective of their shades of political opinion, were elected. Lord Granville afterwards declared that he had never felt so nervous in his life.
 
In the earlier days of its existence, Brooks’s, like 109so many other West End resorts, was the scene of much high gambling, and large sums often changed hands.
 
Samuel Wilberforce, when he first joined the club, took part (he afterwards declared) from mere shyness in a game of faro, George Selwyn in the bank. A friend, astonished, called out, “What, Wilberforce, is that you?” Selwyn quite resented the interference, and, turning to him, said in his most expressive tone: “Oh, sir, don’t interrupt Mr. Wilberforce; he could not be better employed.”
 
As a matter of fact, this was not the sole occasion upon which Wilberforce played, for he once kept the bank at Goosetree’s, which Pitt also frequented. Another member, Mr. Bankes, in the absence of a banker, playfully offered the philanthropist a guinea to do so.
 
Wilberforce, as it happened, was very lucky, and rose the winner of ￡600. He afterwards declared that the pain he felt at winning so much money from young men who could not afford to lose without inconvenience cured him of all partiality for play.
 
Goosetree’s consisted almost exclusively of budding orators and statesmen, but there was a good deal of gambling there.
 
One of the largest winners at Brooks’s in the days of high play was Alderman Combe, the brewer. One evening, whilst he was Lord Mayor, he chanced to be engaged at a hazard-table there, Beau Brummell being one of the party. “Come, Mash-tub,” said Brummell, who was the caster, “what do you set?” “Twenty-five guineas,” answered the Alderman. 110“Well, then,” returned the Beau, “have at the ‘mare’s’ pony.” He continued to throw until he drove home the brewer’s twelve ponies running; and then, getting up and making him a low bow, whilst pocketing the cash, he said: “Thank you, Alderman; for the future I shall never drink any porter but yours.” “I wish, sir,” replied the brewer, “that every other blackguard in London would tell me the same.”
 
A very successful whist-player at Brooks’s was Sir Philip Francis, by some supposed to have written the “Letters of Junius.” He had held an appointment in Calcutta, where play flourished, and, devoting his attention to the game, became extraordinarily successful. It was said that his winnings amounted to ￡30,000, and eventually he was able to return to England a rich man. As a club-man he was noted for his vitriolic utterances.
 
Sir Philip had been the convivial companion of Fox, and during the short administration of that statesman was made a Knight of the Bath. One evening Roger Wilbraham came up to a whist-table at the club where Sir Philip, who for the first time wore the ribbon of the Order, was engaged in a rubber, and thus accosted him. Laying hold of the ribbon and examining it for some time, he said: “So this is the way they have rewarded you at last; they have given you a little bit of red ribbon for your services, Sir Philip, have they? A pretty bit of red ribbon to hang about your neck. And that satisfies you, does it? Now, I wonder what I shall have? What do you think they will give me, Sir Philip?”
 
111The newly-made Knight, who had twenty-five guineas depending on the rubber, and who was not very well pleased at the interruption, suddenly turned round, and, looking at him fiercely, exclaimed: “A halter, and be d——d to you!”
 
Other great whist-players were the two Smiths, father and son, the first a retired Major-General of the Indian Army, who brought home ￡150,000, and was known as Hyder Ali in the West End. The son was called Tippoo, and, like his father, was a fine whist-player. Indeed, at one time Tippoo Smith was considered the best of his day. Another whist-playing member, an old gentleman nicknamed Neptune, was not so successful; indeed, he once flung himself into the sea in a fit of despair, as it was said, “not being able to keep his head above water.” He was, however, fished out in time, and, finding he was still solvent, played on during the remainder of his life.
 
Even in the days when considerable laxity prevailed as to club elections, Brooks’s was very strict in such matters. As a matter of fact, George IV, when Prince of Wales, was the only member of Brooks’s who entered the club without being elected by ballot. He was anxious to belong to it in order to have more frequent intercourse with Fox, and on his first appearance every member got up and welcomed him by acclamation.
 
Fox, soon after he had got to know Sheridan, was so delighted with his company and brilliant conversation that he became exceedingly anxious to get him admitted as a member of this club, which 112he himself was in the habit of frequenting every night. Sheridan was accordingly proposed, and though on several occasions every gentleman was earnestly canvassed to vote for him, yet he was always found to have one black ball whenever he was balloted for, which was, of course, sufficient to prevent his election.
 
When Sheridan entered the House of Commons in September, 1780, the members of Fox’s party were particularly anxious to get him into the club, which was no easy task, as they well knew. George Selwyn and the Earl of Bessborough, who both hated Sheridan, agreed not to absent themselves during the time allotted by the regulations of the club for ballots; and as one black ball sufficed to exclude a candidate, they twice prevented his election (once in 1778, when proposed by Fox).
 
This exclusion of Sheridan from Brooks’s was the subject of much comment, and, according to one story, some of his friends resolved to find out who the person was that so inveterately opposed the admission of the orator. Accordingly the balls were marked, and old George Selwyn (whose aristocratic prejudices would have induced him to blackball His Majesty himself, if he could not produce proofs of noble descent for three generations at least) was discovered to be the hostile party. This was told the same evening to Sheridan, who desired that his name might be put up again as usual, and the matter be left entirely in his hands.
 
The next evening when there happened to be another election, Sheridan arrived at Brooks’s, arm in arm with the Prince of Wales, just ten minutes 113before the balloting began. Being shown into the candidates’ waiting-room, the waiter was ordered to tell Mr. Selwyn that the Prince desired to speak with him in the room below-stairs immediately. Selwyn obeyed the summons without delay, and Sheridan entertained him for half an hour with a political story, which interested him very much, but which, of course, was a pure invention.
 
During this time the ballot proceeded, Sheridan being duly elected. The satisfactory result was announced to the Prince and the successful candidate by the entrance of the waiter, who made the preconcerted signal by stroking his chin with his hand. Sheridan immediately got up, and, apologizing for an absence of a few minutes, told Selwyn “that the Prince would finish the narrative, the end of which he would find very remarkable.”
 
Sheridan then went upstairs, and was formally introduced to the members by Fox, being welcomed in the most flattering manner.
 
The Prince, however, was left in a very awkward position, for, not having paid much attention to the nonsensical story told by Sheridan to Selwyn, he found himself all at sea. After floundering about for some time, he at last burst out with: “To tell you the truth, I know as little about this infernal story which Sherry has left me to finish as an unborn child; but never mind, Selwyn, let’s go upstairs, and I dare say Fox, or some of them, will be able to tell you all about it.”
 
Accordingly the couple proceeded to the club-room, where the puzzled Selwyn soon had his eyes completely opened to the whole man?uvre, when, 114on his entrance, Sheridan, rising, made him a low bow, and thus addressed him:
 
“’Pon my honour, Mr. Selwyn, I beg pardon for being absent so long; but the fact is, I happened to drop into devilish good company. They have just been making me a member without even one black ball, and here I am.”
 
“The devil they have!” exclaimed Selwyn.
 
“Facts speak for themselves,” replied Sheridan; “and as I know you are very glad of my election, accept my grateful thanks” (pressing his hand on his breast and bowing very low) “for your friendly suffrage. And now, if you will sit down by me, I’ll finish my story, for I dare say His Royal Highness has found considerable difficulty in doing so.”
 
At first Selwyn was extremely wroth at the trick which had been played upon him, but before the evening was out he shook hands with Sheridan and welcomed him to the club.
 
Unfortunately for the reliability of this story, the records of Brooks’s show conclusively that, so far as the Prince and Lord Bessborough are concerned, it is without foundation. Sheridan was returned for Stafford, September 12, 1780. Mr. Fitzpatrick proposed him at Brooks’s on October 12 in the same year, and he was elected on November 2; but Lord Bessborough did not become a member till 1782, nor was the Prince of Wales one till 1783.
 
Many of Sheridan’s bons mots were recounted in the club years after his death. During a conversation one day about Lord Henry Petty’s projected tax upon iron, one member said that, as there was so much opposition to it, it would be better to raise 115the proposed sum upon coals. “Hold, my dear fellow!” said Sheridan; “that would be out of the frying-pan into the fire with a vengeance.”
 
On another occasion, Sheridan, having been told that Mr. Gifford, the Editor of the Quarterly Review, had boasted of the power of conferring and distributing literary reputation, said: “Yes, and in the present instance I think he has done it so profusely as to have left none for himself.”
 
Another wit at Brooks’s was Dunning, Lord Ashburton, a somewhat eccentric member. Though he only lived to the age of fifty-two, and although he was very liberal and extravagant, he had made no less than ￡150,000 during twenty-five years’ practice at the Bar.
 
In spite of the fact that his name does not appear in the club list, the notorious duellist, George Robert Fitzgerald, who was executed for a cold-blooded murder in 1786, must in a sort of way be regarded as having belonged to the club. He was, however, only in it once, though it was his boast that he had been unanimously chosen a member. The history of this is curious.
 
Owing to Fitzgerald’s well-known duelling propensities, no first-class London club would admit him. Nevertheless, he got Admiral Keith Stewart, who knew that he must fight or comply, to propose him for Brooks’s. Accordingly, the duellist went with the Admiral on the day of the election to the club-house, and waited downstairs whilst the ballot was in progress.
 
The result, a foregone conclusion, was unfavourable to the candidate, not even one white ball being 116among the black, the Admiral having been among the first to deposit his. Nevertheless, to him it was decided should fall the dangerous task of announcing the result to Fitzgerald. He did not, however, care for such a mission at all.
 
“I proposed the fellow,” said he, “because I knew you would not admit him; but, by Jove! I have no inclination to risk my life against that of a madman.”
 
“But, Admiral,” replied the Duke of Devonshire, “there being no white ball in the box, he must know that you have blackballed him as well as the rest, and he is sure to call you out in any case.”
 
Eventually it was decided that the waiter should tell Fitzgerald that there was one black ball, and that his name must be put up again if he wished it. In the mean time Fitzgerald had frequently rung the bell to inquire “the state of the poll,” and had sent several waiters to ascertain, but none daring to return, Mr. Brooks took the message from the waiter who was descending the staircase, and boldly entered the room with a coffee equipage in his hand.
 
“Did you call for coffee, sir?” said Mr. Brooks smartly.
 
“D——n your coffee, sir, and you too!” answered Mr. Fitzgerald, in a voice which made the host’s blood run cold. “I want to know, sir—and that without one moment’s delay, sir—if I am chose yet?”
 
“Oh, sir,” replied Mr. Brooks, attempting to smile away the appearance of fear, “I beg your pardon, sir, but I was just coming to announce to you, sir, with Admiral Stewart’s compliments, sir, that, unfortunately, there was one black ball in the box, sir, 117and consequently, by the rules of the club, sir, no candidate can be admitted without a new election, sir, which cannot take place, by the standing regulations of the club, sir, until one month from this time, sir.”
 
Thrusting aside Brooks, who protested that non-members might not enter the club rooms, Fitzgerald flew upstairs, and entered the room without any further ceremony than a bow, saying to the members, who indignantly rose at the intrusion: “Your servant, gentlemen; I beg ye will be sated.”
 
Walking up to the fireplace, he thus addressed Admiral Stewart: “So, my dear Admiral, Mr. Brooks informs me that I have been elected three times.”
 
“You have been balloted for, Mr. Fitzgerald, but I am sorry to say you have not been chosen,” said Stewart.
 
“Well, then,” replied the duellist, “did you blackball me?”
 
“My good sir,” answered the Admiral, “how could you suppose such a thing?”
 
“Oh, I supposed no such thing, my dear fellow; I only want to know who it was that dropped the black balls in by accident, as it were.”
 
Fitzgerald now went up to each individual member, and put the same question to all in turn, “Did you blackball me, sir?” until he made the round of the whole club, and in each case he received a reply similar to that of the Admiral. When he had finished his investigations, he thus addressed the whole body: “You see, gentlemen, that, as none of ye have blackballed me, I must be 118elected—it is Mr. Brooks that has made the mistake. I was convinced it would end in this way, and am only sorry that so much time has been lost as to prevent honourable gentlemen from enjoying each other’s company sooner.” He then desired the waiter to bring him a bottle of champagne, that he might drink long life to the club and wish them joy of their unanimous election of a “raal gentleman by father and mother, and who never missed his man.”
 
After this nothing more was said by the members, who determined to ignore the presence of their dangerous visitor, who drank three bottles of champagne in enforced silence, for no one would answer him when he spoke. With cool effrontery the latter sat drinking toasts and healths, to the terror of the waiter. At length everyone was much relieved to see him rise and prepare to depart. Before going, however, he took leave with a low bow, at the same time promising to “come earlier next night and have a little more of it.” It was then agreed that half a dozen stout constables should be in waiting the next evening to bear him off to the watch-house if he attempted again to intrude, but Mr. Fitzgerald, aware probably of the reception he might get, never did.
 
The eccentricities of Fighting Fitzgerald bordered closely upon madness, and there is, indeed, reason to think that he was insane. According to the custom of his day, he had in early life been obliged to fight a duel with a man called Swords, who at the first discharge of his pistol had shot off a part of Fitzgerald’s skull, materially injuring the fore part 119of his brain. The consequence was delirium for a considerable time; but those who knew him intimately were of opinion that he was affected by a certain aberration of intellect until the day of his death, for from the period of this wound he became hot-headed, insolent, quarrelsome, cunning, and ferocious.
 
In the more turbulent days of the past, incidents occurred in clubland which would now be impossible.
 
On one occasion, about three o’clock in the morning, the Duke of York, Colonel St. Leger, Tom Stepney, and others, came up St. James’s Street in very rollicking mood, and, reaching Brooks’s, knocked in vain for admission, everyone being asleep. They were determined, however, to get in, and, when the door was at length cautiously held open, rushed into the inner hall. They commenced the destruction of chairs, tables, and chandeliers, and kicked up such a horrible din as might have awakened the dead. Every male and female servant in the establishment now came running towards the hall from all quarters, in a state of semi-nudity, anxious to assist in protecting the house or to escape from the supposed housebreakers. During this riot there was no light, and the uproar made by the maid-servants, who in the confusion rushed into the arms of the intruders, and expected nothing short of immediate violence and murder, was most tremendous.
 
At length one of the waiters ran for a loaded blunderbuss, which, having been cocked, and poised on an angle of the banisters, he would have discharged amongst the intruders. From doing this, 120however, he was most providentially deterred by the housekeeper, who, with no other covering than her chemise and flannel petticoat, was fast approaching with a light, which no sooner flashed upon the faces of these midnight disturbers than she exclaimed: “For Heaven’s sake, Tom, don’t fire! It is only the Duke of York!” The terror of the servants having vanished by this timely address, the intruding party soon became more peaceable, and were sent home in sedan-chairs to their respective homes.
 
At that time many a challenge was given and accepted within the club walls. One evening Fox, in the course of conversation, spoke disparagingly of the gunpowder issued by the Government. Adams, who was in some measure responsible for the supply, considered it reflection, and sent Fox a challenge. Fox went out, and took his station, giving a full front. Adams said: “You must stand sideways.” Fox said: “Why, I am as thick one way as the other.” “Fire” was given. Adams fired, Fox did not; and when they said he must, he said: “I’ll be d——d if I do! I have no quarrel.” They then advanced to shake hands. Fox said: “Adams, you’d have killed me if it had not been Government powder.”
 
Dandy Raikes, though a member of Brooks’s, had never been known to enter the club, till one day in March 1827 he saw Lord Brougham go in, upon which he followed, and grossly insulted him during luncheon, with the result that a challenge became inevitable. Lord Brougham applied to General Ferguson, who had heard part at least of 121the insulting expressions, to convey a challenge for him to Raikes. This, however, the General peremptorily declined to do, upon the grounds of having been mixed up in so many similar affairs. Brougham eventually got General Sir Robert Wilson to deliver the challenge; but in the mean time he had been taken into custody, carried to Bow Street, and bound over to keep the peace. “This was owing to Jack the Painter, alias Spring Rice, who had been present at the row, and had immediately hastened to Bow Street to inform; his object, no doubt, being not to lose Brougham’s vote that night upon that most vital of all subjects, the Catholic question.”
 
The Hon. Frederick Byng, known as “the Poodle,” from his curly hair, was a very well-known member of Brooks’s. He was one of the hundred additional members selected in 1816 by the special committee, was a prominent figure in London society, and had had many interesting experiences. As a very small boy he had acted as a page of honour to Prince George of Wales at his ill-starred marriage with the Princess Caroline in 1795, and used to relate the curious incident of his being taken to Carlton House to be looked at by the Prince before appointment. He was in Paris in December 1815, and was present at the execution of Marshal Ney.
 
As an old man, the Poodle was very autocratic in his ways, and something of a bully. He once severely reprimanded a younger member for lighting his cigar beneath the balcony outside the club, which no longer exists. On one occasion Mr. Byng 122was much disturbed to find seated before the fire in the drawing-room a gentleman who, having pulled off his boots, had rung the bell and asked the waiter for slippers! It turned out that the perpetrator of this outrage was a new member, an M.P. for some manufacturing constituency, who, of strangely unconventional habits quite unknown to the committee, had been elected without anyone troubling or caring much about him, and who presumably would have been more at home in a commercial room than in the sacred precincts of the club.
 
Brooks’s is connected with an unsolved historical mystery, through one of its members—Mr. Benjamin Bathurst (elected in May 1808)—a diplomatist who disappeared in an unaccountable fashion, whilst on a mission from Vienna to England in 1809, and was never heard of again.
 
Mr. Bathurst had been sent to Vienna by his relative, Lord Bathurst, at that time Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. It is believed that the latter sent his kinsman to the Court of Vienna in order to induce Austria to go to war with Napoleon, a mission which was completely successful.
 
Mr. Bathurst on this account entertained a strong belief that the great Emperor bore him special enmity, and therefore, when the war was over, apprehending, it is said, danger on the road, he resolved to return to London by way of Berlin and North Germany. For this journey he assumed the name of Koch, whilst his private secretary acted as courier, under the name of Fisher.
 
About midday on November 25, 1809, the two 123travellers with a valet arrived at Perleberg, on the route from Berlin to Hamburg, halted at the post-house for refreshments, and ordered fresh horses for the journey to Lenzen, which was the next station. Near the post-house was an inn—the White Swan—to which Bathurst went and ordered an early dinner, the horses not to be put in until he had dined. The White Swan was not far from the gate of the town, through which the road to Hamburg lay, and outside of it was a poor suburb of cottages and artisans’ houses. After lunch Bathurst inquired who was in command of the soldiers quartered in the town; and having been directed to his address, he called upon Captain Klitzing, the officer named, and requested that he might be given a guard in the inn, saying that he was a traveller on his way to Hamburg, and that he had strong and well-grounded suspicions that his person was endangered. During this visit it is significant that he showed great signs of agitation and fear. Captain Klitzing, though he laughed at Mr. Bathurst’s apprehensions, nevertheless gave him a guard of a couple of soldiers.
 
When the latter reached the White Swan he countermanded the horses, saying he would not start till night, considering that it would be safer to travel along the dangerous portion of the route by night, when Napoleon’s spies would be less likely to be on the alert, and remained in the inn writing and burning papers. At seven o’clock he dismissed his guard, and ordered the horses to be ready at nine. He stood outside the inn, watching his portmanteau being replaced in the carriage, 124stepped round to the heads of the horses, and disappeared for ever.
 
After Bathurst’s disappearance had been realized—which was not for some time—every effort was made to discover what had become of him. The next morning the river was dragged, outhouses, woods, marshes, ditches were examined, but not a trace could be found; nor was any trace ever found, except that nearly three weeks later—December 16—two poor women, gathering sticks in a wood, found a pair of breeches which were unquestionably Bathurst’s. In the pocket was a paper with writing on it. Two bullet-holes were in the breeches, but no traces of blood about them, which could hardly have been the case had the bullets struck a man wearing them. The paper was a half-finished letter to Mrs. Bathurst, scratched in pencil, stating that he was afraid he would never reach England, and that his ruin would be the work of Count d’Entraigues. Large rewards were offered—￡1,000 by the English Government, another ￡1,000 by the family, and an additional 100 Friedrichs d’or by Prince Frederick of Prussia; but all was in vain, and from that day to this the fate of Mr. Bathurst remains a mystery.[4]
 
4.  In December 1910, some woodcutters in the forest of Quitznow, near the spot where the breeches were found, discovered a skeleton which may have been that of Bathurst.
 
No account of Brooks’s and its history would be complete without some mention of the Fox Club—a club within a club which holds its meetings in the club-house three or four times in the course of the Parliamentary session, and whose object is to keep alive the memory of probably the most distinguished, 125and certainly the most popular, member who has ever belonged to Brooks’s—Charles James Fox.
 
Owing to Fox’s love of play, some of his best friends, who would appear to have been inspired by extraordinary affection, were half-ruined in annuities, given by them as securities for him to the Jews. Annuities of Fox and his society to the value of ￡500,000 a year were at one time advertised to be sold. Walpole wondered what Fox would do when he had sold the estates of all his friends.
 
He once sat at hazard at Almack’s from Tuesday evening, the 4th, till five in the afternoon of Wednesday, the 5th. An hour before he had recovered ￡12,000 that he had lost, and by dinner, which was at five o’clock, he had ended by losing ￡11,000. On the Thursday (February 6, 1772) he made a speech on the Thirty-nine Articles, in which one is hardly surprised to hear that he did not shine. That evening he dined at half-past eleven at night, and went to White’s, where he drank till seven the next morning; thence to Almack’s, where he won ￡6,000; and between three and four in the afternoon he set out for Newmarket. Well for him that there was no Nonconformist conscience in those days!
 
Fox during a late club-sitting once sketched out an idea for a kind of new profession, “which was going from horse-race to horse-race, and so by knowing the value and speed of all the horses in England to acquire a certain fortune.”
 
As a youth Fox had received a very lax training from his father, who gave him a large allowance and condoned his extravagances. “Let nothing be done,” said his lordship, “to break his spirit; the 126world will do that for him.” At his death, in 1774, he left him ￡154,000 to pay his debts; it was all hypothecated, and Fox soon became as deeply involved as before.
 
The chronicle of Fox’s financial vicissitudes makes sorry reading—at one time with thousands in his pocket, at another without a shilling to pay his chairmen.
 
After a run of good luck, Fox would generally make some attempt to liquidate the more pressing of his many liabilities; and on one occasion, when Fortune had been propitious, remembering a long-standing gambling debt which he owed to Sir John Lade, he sent a complimentary card to the latter expressing his desire to discharge the claim. Sir John no sooner saw the money than he called for pen and ink, and began to make some calculations. “What now?” cried Fox. “Only calculating the interest,” replied the other. “Are you so?” coolly rejoined Charles James, and pocketed the cash, adding: “I thought it was a debt of honour. As you seem to consider it a trading debt, and as I make it an invariable rule to pay my Jew creditors last, you must wait a little longer for your money.”
 
Fox once played cards with Fitzpatrick at Brooks’s from ten o’clock at night till near six o’clock the next morning, a waiter standing by to tell them “whose deal it was,” they being too sleepy to know.
 
The precise circumstances which led to the foundation of the Fox Club are rather obscure, the first recorded dinner having taken place in February 1829, when twenty-three members were present, 127though “Fox Dinners” seem to have been held previous to that date.
 
Until 1843 the Fox Club met at the Clarendon, but in that year, on an application signed by sixteen members of the Fox Club, a rule was passed granting permission to that body to use the great room at Brooks’s for their meetings. Of these, the first always takes place on the Thursday following the meeting of Parliament, the second and third as may be fixed by the club in the course of the session, and the fourth at Greenwich in July.
 
No speeches are allowed, and only the four following toasts are given, without “note or comment”:
 
1. “In the memory of Charles James Fox.”
 
2. “Earl Grey and the Reform Bill.”
 
3. “The memory of Lord Holland.”
 
This third toast was added by unanimous resolution on April 24, 1841, and on June 5 following, on motion previously given by Sir Robert Adair and Mr. Clive, ￡200 were voted from the funds of the club towards the monument proposed to be erected to his memory, now just inside the railings of Holland House, on the Hammersmith Road.
 
On the pedestal of the monument in question are inscribed the following lines:
“Nephew of Fox, and friend of Grey,
Be this my highest fame:
That those who know me best will say,
‘He tarnished neither name.’”
 
4. “To the memory of Lord John Russell”—added on June 22, 1878, on the motion of Mr. Grenville Berkeley. As originally proposed, the toast 128was to the memory of “Earl Russell,” but at the next meeting it was unanimously carried that the style by which he had been best known should be adopted. This was done with the full approval of Lady Russell, whose wishes in the matter had been consulted.
 
Before leaving the clubs of St. James’s Street, two quaintly-named institutions—the Thatched House and the Cocoa-tree—claim some attention. The latter club-house is remarkable for the golden tree which, spreading through two floors, is visible from the street.
 
The Cocoa-tree Club originated from the Tory chocolate-house of the same name which flourished in the days of Queen Anne. This was converted into a club, probably before 1746, when the house was the headquarters of the Jacobite party in Parliament. It is thus referred to in the above year by Horace Walpole, in a letter to George Montagu: “The Duke has given Brigadier Mordaunt the Pretender’s coach, on condition he rode up to London in it. ‘That I will, sir,’ said he, ‘and drive till it stops of its own accord at the Cocoa-tree.’”
 
About 1780 very high play prevailed there. Writing to Mann in February of that year, Horace Walpole says: “Within this week there has been a cast at hazard at the Cocoa-tree (in St. James’s Street), the difference of which amounted to one hundred and fourscore thousand pounds. Mr. O’Birne, an Irish gamester, had won one hundred thousand pounds of a young Mr. Harvey of Chigwell, just started into an estate by his elder brother’s death. O’Birne said: ‘You can never pay me.’ 129‘I can,’ said the youth; ‘my estate will sell for the debt.’ ‘No,’ was the reply; ‘I will win ten thousand—you shall throw for the odd ninety.’ They did, and Harvey won.”
 
Though never as fashionable a resort as White’s or Brooks’s, the Cocoa-tree was frequented by many aristocratic sportsmen. Here it was that Sir Harry Vane came after the victory of his famous horse Hambletonian in the great match with Mr. Cookson’s Diamond in 1799.
 
“At the Cocoa-tree,” wrote Horace Walpole in 1770, “Lord Stavordale, not one-and-twenty, lost eleven thousand last Tuesday, but recovered it by one great hand at hazard. He swore a great oath: ‘Now, if I had been playing deep, I might have won millions.’”
 
Sir Robert Macraith had for several years been head-waiter at the Cocoa-tree, where he was known by the appellation of Bob, and at length rose from that humble situation to the rank of Baronet. He was a clever, good-natured, civil fellow, and greatly liked. When he himself succeeded to the business, he was rather puzzled as to what would be the most appropriate name for his house. George Selwyn calling in one morning, he stated the difficulty to him, saying that he was afraid “Bob’s Coffee-house” would sound rather queerly. “Oh no,” said George, “just the thing; for then it will be Bob without, and robbing [Robin] within.”
 
Councillor Dunning and Dr. Brocklesby one evening at the Cocoa-tree were conversing on the superfluities of life, and the needless wants which men in society created for their own discomfort. 130Selwyn, whose aristocratic notions were such as to look with contempt on occupations of all sorts—on that of a medical man as well as that of a tailor—exclaimed: “Very true, gentlemen; I am myself an example of the justice of your remarks, for I have lived nearly all my life without wanting either a lawyer or a physician.”
 
George Selwyn was an occasional visitor here, and on one occasion happened to be present when a general officer in the American War was describing to the company the phenomena of certain hot and cold springs, which he said he had frequently found quite close to each other, during his campaign in the south-western territory. Just as Selwyn entered the room, he was saying that fish of various sorts abounded in the latter, and that all that those of the army who were fond of fish had to do, after the fatigue of a day’s march, in order to provide a dinner, was to angle for a few moments with a string and hook in the cold spring, and, as soon as the bait took, to pull out the fish and pop it in the hot one, where it was boiled in the twinkling of an eye!
 
This marvellous account operated differently on the several gentlemen present; some were incredulous, others amazed, whilst all agreed that it was exceedingly curious.
 
“There is nothing at all surprising in the General’s narrative, gentlemen,” said Selwyn, “and, indeed, I myself can vouch for the truth of it; for when I was in France I was witness to similar phenomena. In Auvergne there are springs similar to those in America, but with this remarkable addition, that there is generally a third, containing hot parsley 131and butter. Accordingly, the peasants and others who go a-fishing usually carry with them large wooden bowls or ladles, so that, after the fish has been cooked according to the General’s receipt, they have a most delicious sauce provided for it at the same moment! You seem to doubt my veracity, gentlemen; therefore I only beg that those who are incredulous may set out for France as soon as they please, and see the thing with their own eyes.”
 
“But, Mr. Selwyn,” said the General, “consider the improbability of parsley and butter.”
 
“I beg your pardon, my good sir,” interrupted George; “I gave you full credit for your story, and you are surely too polite not to believe mine.”
 
A constant frequenter of the Cocoa-tree was the eleventh Duke of Norfolk, who, it may be added, was the first member of the House of Lords to abandon pigtail and hair-powder. Discarding the traditions of his family, he became a nominal Protestant, in order to avoid the political disabilities under which the Roman Catholics of his day suffered. He sat in Parliament, first as Earl of Surrey in the Commons, and afterwards in the Upper House as Duke. A coarse-looking man who looked rather like a butcher, his life was mainly passed in clubs and coffee-houses; he is, indeed, said to have never been so happy as when dining at the Beefsteak or the Thatched House, or breakfasting or supping at the Cocoa-tree. When under the influence of wine he would say that, “in spite of his having swallowed the Protestant oath, there were, at all events, three good 132Catholics in Parliament—Lord Nugent, Gascoyne, and himself,” so little store did he set on religion. A very heavy drinker, he could swallow unlimited quantities of wine.
 
The Duke, in spite of his convivial habits, was very proud of being the head of all the Howards. On one occasion at the Cocoa-tree he declared that it had been his intention to commemorate in 1783 the “tercentenary” anniversary of the creation of his dukedom by giving a dinner at his house in St. James’s Square to every person whom he could ascertain to be descended in the male line from the loins of the first Duke. “But having discovered already,” he added, “nearly six thousand persons who claimed to be of the family, a great number of whom are in very obscure or indigent circumstances, and believing, as I do, that as many more may be in existence, I have abandoned the design.”
 
The Duke was a constant speaker at public meetings at the Crown and Anchor Tavern, and was deprived of his command of a militia regiment for proposing as a toast, “The People, the Source of Power.”
 
The Thatched House Club probably derives its rural name from an inn which had existed in the days when St. James’s was a veritable hospital, and not a palace. When the Court settled at St. James’s, it was frequented by persons of fashion, and grew gradually in importance. In 1711 it appears still to have been a very modest hostelry, and even when the Thatched House had grown into a recognized rendezvous of wits, politicians, and men of fashion, Lord Thurlow alluded to it, 133during one of the debates on the Regency Bill, as the “ale-house.” In the days of Pitt and Fox, however, it had become one of the chief taverns at the West End, and had added to its premises a large room for public dinners.
 
The Thatched House was a favourite resort of Sheridan’s. One sharp frosty day, when he was sitting here writing a letter, the Prince of Wales came in and ordered a rump-steak. The day happened to be an excessively cold one, and the Prince ordered a bumper of brandy and water straight away. Having emptied the glass in a twinkling, he called for a second and a third, which also having swallowed, he said, puffing out his cheeks and shrugging his shoulders: “Now I am warm and comfortable; bring me my steak.” The order was instantly obeyed, but before His Royal Highness had eaten the first mouthful Sheridan presented him with the following lines, which greatly increased his good-humour:
“The Prince came in, and said ’twas cold,
Then put to his head the rummer;
Till swallow after swallow came,
When he pronounced it summer.”
 
The original Thatched House Tavern was demolished in 1814. The ground-floor front consisted of a range of low-built shops, including that of Rowland, the fashionable hairdresser of Macassar fame. The newer Thatched House Tavern stood on the site of the present Conservative Club, to build which it was pulled down in 1843, when it was moved to another house a few doors nearer to the gate of the palace.
 
134The Thatched House Club will probably be long remembered by lovers of Art as having been the abode of the great collector, the late Mr. George Salting, whose rooms above the club were filled with priceless pictures and objets d’art. The Thatched House was, I believe, the only club to which he belonged.