CHANGES IN CLUB-LIFE AND WAYS  
Amongst the changes which, during the last thirty years, have transformed the West End of London, one of the most salient has been the great increase in the number of clubs. Palatial buildings, each capable of accommodating hundreds of members, now occupy a very great portion of Pall Mall and Piccadilly. Although in other days the latter was by no means a very clubbable thoroughfare, it now, at one end at least, consists largely of clubs, most of them, however, differing widely from those of an older age.
 
The original conception of a London club was a retreat to which West End men might betake themselves, certain that the troubles and worries of the outside world would not follow into a building which they regarded as a temple of dignified seclusion and repose. Perhaps the best description of a club as it existed in former days was that given by a witty Bishop, who defined it as a place “where women ceased from troubling and the weary were at rest.” Another amusing definition was that once given by George Augustus Sala. “A club,” said he, “is a weapon used by savages to keep the white woman at a distance.”
 
136A club should certainly form a safe retreat from the cares of the world, but it need not necessarily be a shrine of crystallized selfishness.
 
The aim of club-life should be a sort of defensive alliance tacitly concluded between a number of individuals, all moving in the same sphere of life, against the troubles and perturbations by which humanity is assailed. The fundamental charter of the perfect club ought to be an unassuming, unobtrusive, and unenvious equality.
 
Within the last twenty-five years or so the spirit of London club-life has entirely changed; the old-fashioned club-man, whose whole life was bound up with one or other of these institutions, is now, indeed, practically extinct. In the days when the type in question was a feature of the West End, the great majority of men living in that quarter of London had no occupation, or, if they had one, it was of such an easy and accommodating kind as to allow them plenty of spare time for lounging. According to a modern estimate, however, few of the old club-men were rich. The majority usually possessed from four to eight hundred a year, which in the past was considered a comfortable enough income for a bachelor. Living in rooms—a sitting-room and bedroom of a very unluxurious kind, compared with the bachelor flats of to-day—the life of a confirmed frequenter of clubland was uneventful but easy. As a rule, he got up late and lounged about till lunch-time, when he would betake himself to his favourite resort, and remain there till dinner, perhaps indulging in a leisurely stroll in the afternoon. About 137seven he would return to his rooms, dress, and then go back to his club to dine, after which, except when he went to a party or theatre, he would sit with congenial spirits, often till the small-hours of the morning, a good deal of brandy and soda being incidentally consumed. It must be remembered that there were fewer amusements in those days—no motors, no golf, no restaurants, few theatres, and no palatial music-halls; also, the City had not yet begun to exercise its fascinating and too often costly spell over the inhabitants of the West End of the town.
 
Strange-looking customers were some of the club-men of that bygone day—old fogies with buff waistcoats, blue coats, and brass buttons; heavy swells with peg-top trousers and long, drooping whiskers; horsy-looking characters with spurs and bespattered riding-boots. No wonder that in a description of a certain club decorated with trophies of the chase there appeared the statement that “many old beasts of members might be seen in the hall.” This, of course, arose through the carelessness of a printer.
 
To realize what most of the old-fashioned West End club-men were like, one has only to turn to the pages of Captain Gronow’s “Reminiscences.” Writing in 1866, Captain Gronow says:
 
“How insufferably odious, with a few brilliant exceptions, were the dandies of forty years ago! They were generally middle-aged, some even elderly men, had large appetites, gambled freely, and had no luck; and why they arrogated to themselves the right of setting up their fancied superiority on a self-raised pedestal, and despising their betters, 138Heaven only knows. They hated everybody and abused everybody, and would sit together in White’s bow-window or the pit-boxes at the Opera. They swore a good deal, never laughed, had their own particular slang, looked hazy after dinner, and had most of them been patronized at one time or other by Brummell or the Prince Regent.”
 
The old-fashioned club-man had comparatively few interests, and even those were of a comparatively narrow kind. His life, indeed, was centred in his club, which often seemed to him the very centre and pivot of the universe.
 
As compared with those of to-day, the clubs of the past were very primitive in their arrangements, though not a few had that peculiar atmosphere of old-world comfort which is generally lacking in our more hurried and strenuous existence. The clubs of the past were almost without exception sombre and occasionally dingy resorts, entirely devoid of bright-coloured decorations, whilst very few prints or pictures adorned their walls.
 
When modern improvements were first suggested in clubs, most of the old-fashioned members fought strenuously against them. The introduction of the electric light, for instance, was bitterly opposed; whilst the telephone seemed to not a few of the older generation an attempt to introduce mercantile outposts into the very heart of clubland. The old club-men at first hated, and afterwards feared, the encroachments of business methods into their kingdom. In the heyday of their sway, indeed, few connected with commerce or the City had much chance of being elected to a West End club, and 139it was only in the seventies of the last century that a few determined scouts contrived to force an entry into the portals through which the vast army of stockbrokers and the like have since surged. At heart the old club-men probably believed that it was undignified for a gentleman to enter any but certain recognized professions, such as the army, navy, or diplomatic service; and the West End was still permeated by the ideas of another age which had only just passed away.
 
Gradually, as a new and entirely different generation came to the front, the aristocratic traditions which had dominated West End life were discarded, and another kind of club-man began to make his influence felt.
 
Members of energetic temperament found the atmosphere of idle lassitude which hung about some West End clubs so stifling that a number of them, filled with a desire for exercise, formed what they called a “walking society.” One of their favourite excursions was to St. Albans, which they called their halfway house, and to this town they walked backwards and forwards to dinner every Thursday.
 
Now that the old-fashioned club-man has disappeared, a glance at his ways may not be out of place. Generally a bachelor of the most confirmed kind, his whole life centred in his club, to which he made it a habit to go every day at the same hour, and when possible occupy the same chair, which in course of time was accorded to him as a sort of right.
 
Often an old-fashioned beau, he was as a rule rather a hard, selfish man, provided by his club 140with all that he required. Not a few men of this type declined to dine out, because they said they got a better dinner at the club for some ten or twelve shillings than at the best houses in town. “Why,” inquired one of them, “should I bore myself with dull society when I can have the comfortable ease of the smoking-room? If I want to be amused, I go to the theatre; if I want to read, I go to the library. What have I to do with society,” he would ask, with a sneer—“I who have no money, and not even a pretty wife?” Such an individual was perfectly content with existence. Quiet, comfort, good living, freedom from responsibility and anxiety, were the great objects of his life, “and, begad, you don’t get that by marriage,” he would remark.
 
The confirmed club-man of to-day is, perhaps, a shade less cynical, but a variation of the old type still exists, and in most West End clubs, especially those of an old-fashioned sort, there is to be found some member who is generally recognized as an institution of the place.
 
Such a man is not infrequently the terror of the club servants, upon whom he is ever ready to pounce when there arises the least cause for complaint. He backs his bill remorselessly if the dish which is down for eight o’clock appears a quarter of an hour late, or if the wine-butler makes a mistake about the vintage that is ordered, or the waiter at his table is not perfect in his duties. He knows to a day when everything is in season, and woe betide the steward if at the earliest moment there is no caviare, sufficient supply of plovers’ eggs, asparagus, green peas, or new 141potatoes. He can tell the exact price of most things, and instantly checks any attempt on the part of the club to overcharge. He is the great authority on club discipline and club etiquette. Matters outside the club, however, he views with more or less indifference. Talk to him of some awful disaster, of some terrible commercial failure, provided he be not affected by it, of some great national loss, of the death of some great man, and his interest will hardly be excited; but tell him that an excellent club cook has given notice, or that there has been a “row” between certain members on a difference of opinion in the committee, and you will at once find him an interested and attentive listener.
 
His daily life is regulated by habits which have gradually crystallized into an almost undeviating monotony.
 
He likes to read the same newspaper in the same chair in the same place, to write his letters at the same table, to lunch at the same time, and to have his dinner served by the same waiter at the same hour in the same corner of the coffee-room. In such matters he is the strictest and most staunch of Conservatives. Never was there a man whom it is more easy to find, for one knows the hour to a moment when he takes his daily stroll, when he smokes his first cigar, when he lunches, dines, writes his letters, reads, and goes through the programme of his thoroughly selfish but not uncomfortable life. He cares little for society, and, with the exception of running down for an occasional visit to some country-house (where he is certain of the cook), or going to the Riviera for a fortnight, seldom leaves 142town. The club is his home, and at heart he dislikes leaving its walls. Unlike the old-fashioned club-man, however, he is not unaffable to new members or strangers, and is fully alive to the increased comfort to be obtained from any modern improvement.
 
The confirmed frequenter of clubs knows everything that is going on, and imparts such information as he feels inclined to give with none of the mystery and importance of semi-ignorance, but simply and naturally. He knows what young women are going to the altar, and what young men are going to the dogs; what people have been prevented from going to Court, and what spendthrifts are about to be forced to go through another. He is well acquainted with the latest good stories about town, and explains mysterious floating gossip as to meditated divorces or hushed-up scandals. As a matter of fact, his conversation is generally amusing, and occasionally instructive.
 
The life of such a man, as has been said, is centred in his club, and he sees members come and go, hears of their prosperity or ruin, marriages or deaths, with imperturbable equanimity; indeed, it would require an invasion or an earthquake to make him effect any change in his habits.
 
So he lunches and dines, dines and lunches, till the sands of the hourglass have run out, and the moment comes for him to enter that great club of which all humanity must perforce become members.
 
A few questions will be asked in the club as to his end, his fortune or lack of fortune; his witticisms 143will linger for a while, and his good or bad points be discussed; but in a year or so he will become as completely forgotten as if he had never been.
 
As London clubs began to multiply, their gradual increase drew away most of the sporting men from the old hostelries which at one time it had been the fashion to frequent. Theodore Hook alluded to this in some humorous lines:
“If any man loves comfort, and has little cash to buy it, he
Should get into a crowded club—a most select society;
While solitude and mutton cutlets serve infelix uxor, he
May have his club (like Hercules), and revel there in luxury.
“Yes, clubs knock houses on the head; e’en Hatchett’s can’t demolish them;
Joy grieves to see their magnitude, and Long longs to abolish them.
The inns are out; hotels for single men scarce can keep alive on it;
While none but houses that are in the family way thrive on it.”
 
Since those days clubs have multiplied enormously; indeed, almost every profession, every pastime, and every point of view has its club. Whilst most of these institutions are frankly mundane in their aims, a few are very solemn in tone. At one club, for instance, morning and evening prayers are read every day. The club in question was founded for men of very Evangelical views, some of whom, it was wickedly said, were so devout as to demand that a club rule should be passed prohibiting members from entering the coffee-room unless in a “state of grace.” Of late years, however, a less severe tone has prevailed amongst its members, many of whom are distinguished men.
 
144Sixty years ago the fact of club membership implied some social position or distinction on the part of the individual. White’s, Brooks’s, Boodle’s, Arthur’s, and a few other establishments, constituted really exclusive clubland, and to be elected to them was a matter of no little difficulty. A man of obscure birth, or one unknown to the committee, would have been sure of being blackballed. Clubs were then filled by those who belonged either to the same political party or the same fashionable coterie, the members of which were all more or less known to each other. The Tory patrician belonged to White’s; the Whig politician of old family was a member of Brooks’s; the country gentleman put his name down at Boodle’s or Arthur’s; the distinguished lawyer, divine, or man of letters, became a member of the Athen?um; and the soldier, who was a field officer, of the United Service. The membership of such clubs constituted an exclusive circle.
 
A club was a place in which men wrote letters and met their friends. Beyond being a comfortable lounge, it was of little service to its members.
 
Many tacitly recognized conventions prevailed in connection with club-life. For instance, it was not then at all the thing to raise one’s hat to a lady whom one knew, should she pass the club window. A great many members lunched in the coffee-room with their hats on, whilst in certain clubs evening dress at dinner was obligatory. Some clubs, including Boodle’s, even to-day set aside a small apartment, separate from the regular dining-room, for members who prefer to dine in day clothes.
 
Formerly, it should be added, hats were far more 145generally worn in clubs than is now the case. In some it was the traditional custom to wear them at all times and in all parts of the house. At the old “Rag,” the practice was said to have survived from the time when the club-house was so cheerless and the funds so limited that the management economized coals, for which reason the members were at great pains to keep themselves warm.
 
In his own club a man used to be considered as having entirely cut himself off from communication with the outside world, and acknowledging people from the windows by a bow or nod was then quite contrary to club usage, which prescribed an Olympian stare.
 
At certain of the older clubs a few customs, dating back to the eighteenth century, were up to quite recently still in vogue.
 
At Arthur’s, Boodle’s, White’s,[5] and, I think, Brooks’s, for instance, change was given in washed silver. The money was first plunged in hot water and cleaned, after which it was placed in a wash-leather bag; this was whirled round in the air at the end of a short cord till all the coins contained in it were dry.
 
5.  The water from the old well in the courtyard here was supposed to be particularly excellent and healthy, and many members made a daily practice of drinking a glass of it.
 
The custom of giving washed silver lasted latest at Arthur’s, where it was only abandoned a few years ago. It seems a pity that such a cleanly and hygienic custom should have fallen into disuse.
 
Another old custom was the house dinner, where members dined together. At White’s and Boodle’s this function used to be a great feature—highly 146appreciated by some of the older, more stingy, or impecunious members. Immemorial custom prescribed that the first four members who put their names down as diners should have dinner “free of cost,” and a certain gang of old gentlemen used to make a regular practice of being in these club-houses in good time to inscribe their names.
 
Wine, of course, had to be paid for, but the most economical contented themselves with table-beer. There was great consternation amongst the “fraternity of free feeders” when, during the early seventies of the last century, these house dinners were abolished.
 
Some few clubs still retain the snuff-box which once figured on the mantelpiece of every club. In most, however, it has disappeared. Snuff-taking has become obsolete since the triumph of the cigarette—perhaps a more pernicious habit.
 
The question of smoking has frequently caused great agitation in London clubs. In 1866, for instance, White’s, where cigars had not been allowed at all till 1845, was much perturbed concerning tobacco, some of the younger members wishing to be allowed to smoke in the drawing-room, whilst the older ones bitterly opposed such a proposal. A general meeting was held to decide the question, when a number of old gentlemen who had not been seen in the club for years made their appearance, stoutly determined to resist the proposed desecration. “Where do all these old fossils come from?” inquired a member. “From Kensal Green,” was Mr. Alfred Montgomery’s reply. “Their hearses, I understand, are waiting to take them back there.”
 
147The non-smoking party triumphed, and as an indirect result was founded the Marlborough Club, where, for the first time in the history of West End Clubland, smoking, except in the dining-room, was everywhere allowed.
 
As a matter of fact, the restrictions as to smoking which still prevail in a number of old-fashioned clubs are for the most part out of date and absurd. At the present time people smoke in ladies’ boudoirs, and almost invariably in dining-rooms after dinner. The great restaurants, a large portion of whose clientèle consists of refined ladies, permit smoking everywhere.
 
Nevertheless, in a number of club morning-rooms, libraries, and sitting-rooms, the resort for the most part of a number of middle-aged men, often of a somewhat derelict-looking type, tobacco is entirely banned.
 
The whole thing is merely a perpetuation of an out-of-date prejudice. The regulations against smoking which prevail in different clubs clearly demonstrate the small foundation of reason which underlies such restrictions.
 
The Carlton allows smoking in its library; the Junior Carlton does not. The Conservative Club, on the other hand, has an excellent rule which permits members to smoke in the morning-room after a certain hour in the morning.
 
Regulations against smoking in libraries are particularly senseless, as tobacco smoke can have nothing but a beneficial effect upon books, which it has a tendency to preserve.
 
In old days clubs did not welcome strangers; indeed, it was said that if anyone not a member 148should fall down in a fit at the door of one or two of the more exclusive clubs, he would be denied even a glass of water. A few clubs allowed visitors, but took care to extend only a cold welcome to them. As a matter of fact, they were usually treated like the members’ dogs—they might be left in the hall under proper restraint, but access to any other part of the house, except, perhaps, some cheerless apartment kept as a strangers’ dining-room, was forbidden. Of late years, however, all this has been changed except in a very few clubs, such as the Guards’, which positively forbids any strangers to enter its doors. Only very recently has Arthur’s admitted strangers to dine. The Carlton allows guests only to pass its threshold, but not to go beyond the great hall, and the Athen?um allots them a small room near the entrance, where members may interview their friends. The latter club also allows a member to give a formal dinner-party in the morning-room, converted for the time being into a house dining-room, and here as many as ten guests may be hospitably welcomed. The Travellers’ permits strangers to dine, except during the Parliamentary season, whilst the Oxford and Cambridge Club allows six members to entertain two guests apiece. The Garrick is far more liberal, for here a member may introduce three friends to the strangers’ coffee-room for dinner, or two for luncheon or supper. Members of this club may also give luncheon-parties to ladies on one day of the week.
 
As regards the admission of ladies to clubs, it is very doubtful if, according to the strict letter of the law, ladies can be excluded from any institution of 149this sort which admits strangers, for there is no mention of sex in any book of club rules. Indeed, a member of a certain military club is said once to have brought his wife to dine, and defied the authorities by asking for the book of the rules, in which he triumphantly pointed out that there was no stipulation as to sex.
 
Not a few clubs in old days were anything but sociable places for young men, who, when elected, were often shy at frequenting them, on account of the stern looks which certain of the older members, who had their particular corners and chairs, were wont to cast at them. Gloomy abodes of misanthropic selfishness some of these clubs seem to have been, where sociability and conversation were at a considerable discount.
 
Dr. Johnson was probably the most staunch defender of clubs who ever lived; his reply to someone who was rather inclined to decry such institutions is historic. A gentleman venturing one day to say to the learned Doctor that he sometimes wondered at his condescending to attend a club, the latter replied: “Sir, the great chair of a full and pleasant town club is, perhaps, the throne of human felicity.”
 
His, of course, was the day of literary clubs, more suited to the spirit of the eighteenth century than to that of to-day. In modern times most of the literary clubs founded for conversation have been complete failures. So much talking, and nothing said! Everyone failing, because everyone is attempting; in a word, nothing of the club feeling, which demands the postponement of our petty selfloves 150to the general gratification, and strikes only in unison with the feelings and sentiments of all!
 
A good deal of wine was generally consumed during the symposiums which the great talkers of the past loved. At one meeting-place where a literary club was wont to meet, the landlord was said to keep a special kind of port expressly for such parties, which those who frequented the house christened “the philosopher’s port.” A cynic declared that in one respect it certainly merited its name, for a good deal of philosophy was necessary to swallow it.
 
Thackeray, unlike Dr. Johnson, was rather inclined to disparage clubs. Speaking of the town life of a past age, he said: “All that fuddling and boozing shortened the lives and enlarged the waistcoats of the men of that age. They spent many hours of the four-and-twenty, nearly a fourth part of each day, in clubs and coffee-houses, where they dined, drank, and smoked. Wit and news went by word of mouth; a journal of 1710 contained the very smallest portion of either the one or the other. The chiefs spoke; the faithful habitués sat around; strangers came to wonder and to listen.... The male society passed over their punch-bowls and tobacco-pipes almost as much time as ladies of that age spent over spadille and manille.”
 
Tom Hood expressed an equally unfavourable view in 1838:
“One selfish course the Wretches keep;
They come at morning chimes;
To snatch a few short hours of sleep—
Rise—breakfast—read the Times—
151Then take their hats, and post away,
Like Clerks or City scrubs,
And no one sees them all the day—
They live, eat, drink, at Clubs!”
 
Many women regarded such places as dens of iniquity. “I believe that mine will be the fate of Abel,” said a devoted wife to her husband one day. “How so?” inquired the husband. “Because Abel was killed by a club, and your club will kill me if you continue to go to it every night.”
 
Dr. Johnson defined a club as “an assembly of uncertain fellows meeting amidst comfortable surroundings,” and in the earliest days, when the club was developing out of the coffee-house as a social institution, its chief attraction lay in the wit of its members and the similarity of their tastes and opinions. Members then were contented with a comparatively simple standard of comfort, and esteemed congenial companionship the best furniture a club could possess; but with the lapse of years a different spirit began to prevail. In the luxurious palaces of to-day most of the members are very often unknown to one another; such places are, in reality, rather luxurious restaurants and hotels than clubs.
 
Many clubs now have bedrooms for the use of members; in a few instances these are let by the year. Such a convenience is highly appreciated, for to a bachelor the advantages of living in a club are very great. Here he may have all the comforts of a private house without its worries, in addition to which every species of modern convenience is at his command.
 
Latterly a good deal of attention has been devoted 152to the decoration of club-houses generally, most of which now contain prints and pictures.
 
The present being a more or less luxurious age, modern club-men require more pleasing surroundings than their forbears, who asked little beyond comfortable chairs and blazing fires.
 
Until comparatively recent years, the interior of the great majority of West End clubs was somewhat bare, such attempts at decoration as existed being for the most part confined to feeble designs in stencil, whilst pictures and prints were either few in number or did not exist at all. The furniture was generally of mid-Victorian date—comfortable, though rather heavy in design.
 
At a certain number of clubs, wax candles were placed upon the dining-tables, and these were very necessary in the days when oil-lamps and gas were the best illuminants procurable. The light of the lamps was not unpleasant, but in some of the rooms lit by gas the heat was often perfectly intolerable.
 
As an instance of the persistence of club tradition, it may be added that even at the present time, when electricity floods most of the coffee-rooms with light, some clubs still retain the candles which were so useful in the past.
 
The growth of the club system undoubtedly effected a great revolution in the domestic life of men generally, and especially in that of the younger ones. Married men, accustomed to the refinement and luxury of a club, gradually imported many amenities into their homes, and endeavoured, so far as their means permitted, to reproduce some of the perfections of management as it is found in clubs.
 
153It was, however, in the life of the bachelor that the introduction of this state of affairs caused the greatest change. The solitary lodgings and the tavern dinners were relegated to the limbo of the past. All he now needed was a bedroom, for the club provided him with the rest of his wants. It began to matter little in what dingy street or squalid quarter a man lodged, for the club was his address, and society inquired no further. He did not need to purchase an envelope or a sheet of notepaper throughout the year, for the club provided him with all the stationery he could possibly require. There was no longer any occasion for him to buy a book, a magazine, or newspaper, for in his club he would find a library such as few private houses could furnish, and in the morning-room every newspaper and weekly review that had a respectable circulation.
 
Here was to be found economy without privation for the man of modest means and small wants, whilst in some clubs even a confirmed sybarite could satisfy his tastes.
 
The excessively moderate scale of expenditure for which a man can live comfortably at many a club is highly attractive to the parsimonious.
 
A certain member, as well known for his economical way as for his vast wealth, made a study of living at the smallest possible cost in the several clubs to which he belonged. It was, for instance, his habit to take full advantage of the privileges to be obtained in return for table-money, and when he dined the table would be covered with pickle-bottles and other things included in such a charge. One 154evening a fellow-member, noticing this, inquired of the steward the reason why such an array had been collected. “It’s for a member, sir,” was the reply, “who likes profusion.”
 
The lover of profusion was especially noticeable on account of his unpolished boots, which stupid servants, as he said, were always wanting to wear out by blacking.
 
A member of several clubs, he once discovered, amongst the rules of a certain old-established one, an ancient and unrepealed rule which laid down that slices of cold ham were to be provided free for any members at their lunch. In high glee, he determined to profit by this, and before long the attention of the committee was called to the quick disappearance of ham after ham, which for a time had furnished a series of Gargantuan meals. The rule, of course, was at once abolished, and the parsimonious member betook himself elsewhere.
 
Very different in his habits was a witty old gourmet who was always urging the steward to procure luxuries in and out of season. He was especially fond of paté de foie gras, and made that official promise to get a fine one from Strasbourg. This, however, was a long time in making its appearance; and after waiting a week or so, the lover of good things became impatient at the delay. Taking the man to task, he reminded him that delays are dangerous, to which the steward replied that he heard patés were not good that year. “Nonsense,” was the rejoinder, “we will soon put that right. Depend upon it, it is only a false report that has been circulated by some geese.”
 
155The same member once had reason for much comical complaint in connection with a paté which, in this case, had been sent him as a present by a noted connoisseur. Several members of the committee were invited to partake of the delicacy, and they were all agreed as to its peculiar excellence; as one of them facetiously said, it made one realize that the problem, “Is life worth living?” was, after all, merely “a question de foi(e).” A few days later, however, what was the surprise of the giver of the feast to receive a reprimand from the committee, calling his attention to the rule which forbade members to bring food into the club!
 
“Ah,” said he, “if I had only told them I was expecting more patés, they would have left me alone; mine was too small, and probably they were annoyed at not having had a second go at it.”
 
Though good-natured and hospitable, this lover of good living was very touchy upon certain gastronomic matters. He did not speak to a friend of his for years owing to the latter’s contention that carrots should always be put in a navarin—a statement which, the old gourmet declared, placed anyone making it outside the ranks of civilized man.
156