Nineteenth Century West End Clubs
Bruce Rosen
ABSTRACT
The nineteenth century was the age of clubs. The West End of London was clubland. It was here that men found, amongst their peers, the peace that often was unavailable in that Victorian ideal, the family home. For a relatively small outlay a man might take his meals, read and enjoy a degree of conviviality that could not be found anywhere else in London. Indeed, there were clubs to meet the demands of all segments of society. There were clubs for Alpinists, actors, journalists, intellectuals and others. By the end of the century there were even clubs for women.
This essay considers the nature of the clubs between the 1830s and the end of the century, the changes that occurred and the part that these organisations played in the social scene.
"The Diogenes Club," if we are to believe Sherlock Holmes, was "the queerest club in London." Such a claim was remarkable indeed, for Victorian men of the middle and upper classes were the most "clubable" the world has ever known. Although the social club was not a Victorian invention; Samuel Johnson had remarked of his amanuensis in 1783, "Boswell is a very clubable man," it reached its apotheosis in the middle years of Victoria's reign and even at the end of the period it was unquestionably the most important social phenomenon of the day.(1)
At the beginning of the century, there were probably less than a dozen clubs of any significance, but in the years immediately following Waterloo, there was to be a period of rapid growth and expansion. The club, all during the Victorian period, was essentially an urban phenomenon. Clubs did develop in the counties, but they were, with rare exceptions, never to attain the status of the London clubs. Even so, such clubs did much to set the social tone and were "the cradle of sound public opinion in matters appertaining to manners, if not to morals."(2) In part, at least, the urban nature of the clubs can be attributed to the growth of the professions and the lack of clubs other than those serving the aristocracy, the military or those in politics.(3)
By the time of Victoria's ascension to the throne, there were just over two dozen clubs in London and these still excluded all but noblemen, gentlemen, the services and the professional classes. To be a member of "society" entailed being a member of at least one, and probably more, of the clubs. No person engaged in trade, from the lowest storekeeper to the greatest merchant could hope for admission to the bastions of privilege and exclusiveness.
At the old Queen's death, there were approximately one hundred and fifty clubs of which only seven had celebrated their centenary. The wide range of clubs by 1900 included, in addition to the traditional male-only clubs, those for both sexes or for women alone and represented a range of common interests from automobiles through mountaineering to travel.(4) During the more than sixty years of the Victorian Era, the exclusiveness of the clubs broke down in some and this, along with the increase in the number of clubs made them available for those who, before the '50s would never have even considered membership a possibility. Yet while the doors opened wider, there was "together with the increase of men eligible for clubs, an ever-increasing desire for separation and exclusion."(5) The listing in Clubs of the World suggests that the period of greatest growth was in the 1860s and '70s. It was in these decades that most of the clubs in the counties were established, although the Union in Manchester dates from 1825 and the exclusive Liverpool club, the Palatine, was founded in 1836.(6)
Theodore Hook once wrote of clubs,
If a man loves comfort and has little cash to
buy it, he
Should get into a crowded Club--a most select
society.(7)
The clubs often served different groups or were identified with particular social sets. For many, the name tells the story; Travellers, United Service, University, Turf and Yacht. The Garrick was the club for those with theatrical interests and the Athenaeum had associations with the Church and literature.
For country squires the only Club in London now
is Boodle's sirs,
The Crockford Club for playful men, the Alfred
Club for noodles, sirs.(8)
Boodle's, as indicated, drew its membership from country gentlemen while Crockford's was a gambling club. Known for its excellent cuisine, it did not survive the mid-century. It was "a place of most unenviable celebrity ... whose walls--if walls could speak--would be able to disclose not a few transactions of very nefarious character."(9) Stakes were high and it was not uncommon for fortunes to be made--or lost--on the turn of a card. Both the Duke of Wellington and Talleyrand were members of this most prestigious "hell" of the early Victorian years, despite its illegality. Hazard, a dice-game for high stakes, was the most popular game and Crockford was reported to spend 2000 pounds a year on dice to see that the game was honest.(10) The Alfred Club, on the other hand, was noted for its dullness having been described as "the asylum of doting tories and drivelling quidnuncs."(11)
Among the political clubs of the Victorian Age were the Reform, the Conservative and the Carlton. The Athenaeum, on which Mycroft Holmes's Diogenes was modelled, was considered the "mental" club. It was founded because
the fashionable and military Clubs not only absorb a great portion of society, but have spoiled all the Coffee Houses and Taverns so that the artist, or mere literary man neither of whom are members of the established Clubs, are in a much worse situation, both comparatively and positively than they were.(12)
Indeed, the facetious description of it quoted by F. R. Cowell was not far off the mark.
There's first the Athenaeum Club; so wise, there's
not a man of it
That has not sense enough for six (in fact that
is the plan of it);
The very waiters answer you with eloquence Socratical,
And always place the knives and forks in order
mathematical.(13)
The original "clubland" was in St. James Street and included such well known establishments as White's, Arthur's, Brooks's, Boodle's and the Cocoa-Tree. As the century progressed, Pall Mall became a thoroughfare of prestigious club-houses.(14) The club in the Victorian decades, if not "exclusively an English association," was to become a particularly national institution and the English the only "'Clubable' people on the face of the earth."(15) While some saw the club as a sign of the gregarious nature of the average Englishman,(16) there was another side to the picture and many clubs
were solemn places with a number of old members sitting in chairs which by a sort of unwritten law were always at their disposal, or creeping about casting critical and sometimes outraged glances at newcomers who seemed out of keeping with the peculiar atmosphere of rooms which these veterans had come to consider their own special domain.(17)
In the Savage Club, rudeness was the rule on the assumption that toleration of such behaviour was the test of real friendship,(18) and in the mythical Diogenes Club "no member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save in the Stranger's Room, no talking is, under any circumstances, allowed."(19) The Stranger's Room in a West End Club was often coldly inhospitable and those waiting in them were frequently treated quite rudely. The attitude of clubs to outsiders may be seen from the decision of the Oriental, in 1843, which "ordered that the small room adjoining the entrance hall, at present used for urinary purposes, be converted into a waiting room for strangers."(20)
It was just such clubs and their often ridiculous rituals, both formal and informal, that Thackeray was poking fun at when he described the Starling Club, "composed of clergymen, atheists, authors, and artists."
Their chief conversation is blasphemy: they have statues of Socrates and Mahomet on the centre-piece of the dinner table, take every opportunity of being disrespectful to Moses, and a dignified clergyman always proposes the Glorious, Pious, and Immortal Memory of Confucius. Grace is said backwards, and the Catechism treated with the most irreverent ribaldry.(21)
A number of factors contributed to the growth of clubs during the Victorian Era. Many clubmen made their homes outside London and, in the early years of the Queen's reign, an absence of adequately speedy private or public transport often kept them in London. In addition, the pattern of communal, all-male living established in the great Public boarding schools of Eton, Rugby, Harrow and their like was continued for some in the services while for others even domesticity in a male dominated world could not break early habits.(22)
After mid-century, as city dwellers began to move out of the city to "as dull a life as mankind ever tolerated," young men escaped to the city and used the clubs for all the amenities they provided.(23) One reason for this was that it was not until well into Victoria's reign that first-class hotels and restaurants were a feature of the city. By 1854, "sleeping accommodation excepted," the clubs provided "abundantly all the agremens of an aristocratic home and admirably-regulated menage, without any of the trouble inseparable from a private household." The comfort of the West End Clubs, by mid-century was "such as to be unattainable in a private family except by the opulent, though here brought within the reach of those whose means were comparatively moderate."(24) In actual fact, the member was a part-owner of the club and for an entrance fee of around twenty guineas and an annual subscription of ten, the clubman might "live on the fatness of the land, and like a lord of creation."(25) For many, Victorian club life fulfilled their complete need for recreation. This was the case for the journalist George Augustus Sala, a founding member of the Savage Club.
Although fees varied, not all clubs were equally concerned about their collection. Perhaps it was the nature of the membership, composed largely of London's Bohemian fringe that made Sala's club notorious for its disregard of that most Victorian virtue, financial respectability. "I hear," Edmund Yates, the editor and publisher, is reported to have observed, "that there is a new club just started--The Savages. What is the subscription?" To which the reply was, "just whatever the members choose to owe."(26)
Even in the best clubs, members while well-off were generally not rich, few having an income greater than 1,000 pounds per year.(27) The later years of the nineteenth century saw "the multiplication of joint stock palaces called clubs, which are really co-operative homes for poor gentlemen," according to one Victorian observer.(28) Such judgments must inevitably be relative in an age where many survived, albeit barely, on one pound or less a week.
The clubs themselves were large and spacious and, in a period of Gothic architecture most clubs in the West End contrasted dramatically, being built along classical lines. They were seen by Victorians as bestowing "a certain nobleness of physiognomy ... upon Pall Mall and its immediate vicinity ... of which no other part of the town affords an example."(29) Generally the ground floor of a club contained the office of a hall-porter who received and kept account of all messages, cards and letters; a morning room, a coffee-room, and a dining-room. On the upper or principal floor there was usually a drawing-room, card-room, library and writing room. Often, too, this floor contained the committee-room and the secretary's room. The top floor, in addition to servant's accommodations might contain the billiard and smoking-rooms.(30)
By the 1860s, club living in London had reached "a scale of splendour and completeness hitherto unattainable." For a very small expenditure, "advantages are to be enjoyed which no fortune except the most ample can procure."(31) The Athenaeum was representative of the better clubs of that decade.
The number of ordinary members is fixed at 1200; they are mostly eminent persons, civil, military, and ecclesiastical; peers spiritual and temporal; men of the learned professions, science, the arts, and commerce; and the distinguished who do not belong to any particular class. Many of these are to be met with every day, living with the same freedom as in their own houses.(32)
Among the amenities available to members of the Athenaeum was probably the best club library in London which, in addition to books and maps, provided a wide range of English and foreign newspapers and periodicals. Writing materials were always available and servants in attendance. When the newspapers were brought in, there was usually a rush for them although some members had a tendency to monopolise them like Old Brown, "that selfish old reprobate" created by Thackeray, who
stretched on the best sofa, sitting on the second edition of the Times, having the Morning Chronicle between his knees, the Herald pushed in between his coat and waistcoat, the Standard under his left arm, the Globe under the other pinion, and the Daily News in perusal. "I'll trouble you for Punch, Mr. Wiggins," says the unconscionable old gormandiser, interrupting our friend, who is laughing over the periodical in question.(33)
Where there were separate newspaper rooms and libraries, the latter was often a haven of peace and calm. Not uncommonly they were hardly used or used only for a gentlemanly snooze in the later afternoon.
What a calm and pleasant seclusion the library presents after the bawl and bustle of the newspaper-room! There is never anybody here. English gentlemen get up such a prodigious quantity of knowledge in their early life, that they leave off reading soon after they begin to shave, or never look at anything but a newspaper. How pleasant this room is,--isn't it? With its sober draperies, and long calm lines of peaceful volumes--nothing to interrupt the quiet--only the melody of Horner's nose as he lies asleep upon one of the sofas.(34)
The Athenaeum building was designed by Decimus Burton and when it was completed, "presented the then somewhat extravagant novelty of a sculptured frieze."(35) As in other clubs, a member might expect to find it kept "with the same exactness and comfort as a private dwelling." In his club, "every member is master, without any of the trouble of a master." It was up to the member when he chose to come to the club yet when he was there he had "command of regular servants, without having to pay or manage them; he can have whatever meal or refreshment he wants, at all hours, and served up as in his own house."(36)
Clubs were all male establishments in an age in which women from the same class as clubmen were virtually deified; placed on pedestals and forced to play out a role, half child, half imbecile. In his club the Victorian male did not have to deal with women and it allowed him an opportunity to be entirely at his ease. No necessity existed to protect one's spouse from the crude vulgarities of life. Thus, in their club, "members are entirely at ease and can let themselves go in a manner impossible in general society and rarely in the bosom of their families."(37)
Many men, young and not so young, made their clubs their homes during the middle years of the Victorian period. That remarkable clubman, George Augustus Sala suggested that "it is only necessary to have a tooth-brush and an attic in an adjacent bye-street; all the rest can be provided at the club."(38) Needless to say, if a man chose to lead a comparatively monastic life, cutting himself off from society, it could be done at less than he would expend on his club fees and expenses. But to do so would have meant foregoing the luxury and comfort the club provided and, perhaps most importantly, the status attached to membership in a club.(39)
By the 1860s, even "the attic in an adjacent bye-street" was not always necessary since some clubs were beginning to provide bedrooms for their members, particularly those from outside the city itself who chose to stay, when in town, at the club rather than at a hotel. If any criticism was to be levelled at the clubs, perhaps the most damning in an age in which the family was held sacred was "that they tend towards the germination of selfishness, exclusiveness, and isolation; that they are productive of neglect of home duties in married men, and of irrevocable celibacy in bachelors."(40) On the other hand, they were a boon to unmarried men. Surveying London life in the 60s, Goldwin Smith asked, "without Clubs what would bachelor life in London be?"(41)
Some, of course, saw a positive side to the masculine society of club life. One mid-century Victorian pontificated that the clubs "will save many a young man from the evils of a rash marriage, as well as habits of dissipation."(42) Another advantage for the bachelor was that he could spend as much or as little time at his club as he desired. A bachelor clubman might rise at mid-morning and take a stroll through one of the more fashionable districts until lunch time when, repairing to the Club he would, after the mid-day meal with several friends, spend the afternoon with the papers, writing letters or, if the weather was temperate enough, perhaps take a walk. The early evening would be taken up with dressing for dinner and after dinner at the Club, the remainder of the evening, often until two or three in the morning, might be taken up with talking or playing cards--usually for quite small stakes--over glasses of brandy and water.(43) For some, particularly those who remained unmarried, such became the routine. Life was limited to a couple of rooms nearby and the club. Often the Wiggle or Waggle of Thackeray became the Jawkins of the club, progressing from the amusing pretensions of youth to the over-bearing boredom of age.
One particular aspect of club furnishings is of interest. In a period when the home parlour was often characterised by a plethora of bits and pieces, the club maintained a comparatively spartan appearance. A handbook of the 1890 season, for example, notes the prevalence of the idea "among the uninitiated that a London club is an epitome of sumptuous comfort," and goes on to characterise this as a delusion. It was true that the rooms were "of handsome proportions, and the upholstery of superior though weighty grandeur; but these things alone do not convey any sense of comfort or snugness."(44) What was missing in this masculine realm was warmth of colours, "the pretty little occasional tables, cabinets, and screens--in a word, those graceful superfluities which give to rooms an air of home."(45)
It was probably just that lack of clutter and the freedom to talk, smoke, drink and snore that gave the Victorian Club its appeal. It was an escape from the pervasive influence of the good woman. Old clubmen fought against some of the more aesthetic innovations. Some denounced the hanging of pictures as being effeminate. The Club was, after all, a man's domain. "'Flower-boxes, indeed! who wants flower-boxes?' growled an old Crimean veteran. 'They'll be making the smoking-room into a lady's boudoir next!'"(46)
The clubs represented not only the interests of their day, but the values as well. The chronicler of the Royal Society Club recorded of a dinner on 11 August 1859,
On this day, were present, so to speak, the representatives of the three great applications by which the present age is distinguished, namely of Railways, Mr. Stephenson; of the Electric Telegraph, Mr. Wheatstone; and of the Penny Post, Mr. Rowland Hill.(47)
At a more prosaic level, although gaming clubs declined during Victoria's reign, betting between club members was common; a practice for which the clubs' betting books provide ample evidence. Some of the wagers were obviously a result of personal pique, other clearly more than just good fun while some can only be described as intriguing, related as they were to club matters such as how long servants would remain. From the betting book at White's we learn that "Lord Adolphus FitzClarence bets Mr. George Bentinck ten pounds that there is not a shot fired in anger in London during the year 1851," and we find that Henry M. Brownrigg collected 2/1 on a bet with Frederick Cavendish that he would "not kill the bluebottle fly before he goes to bed."(48)
The quality of food in clubs varied dramatically, but not the price. It was generally cheaper to eat at a club than any place other than a private home and the service was usually excellent. There is considerable truth in the description of the club kitchen, "fitted with every means and appliance, every refinement of culinary splendour and from whence are supplied ... at cost prices dishes that would make Lucullus wild with envy, and that are cooked ... by the great chef from Paris."(49) Clubs' reputations, in some circles at least, might be made or broken on the strength of their kitchens, or their chefs. It was considered quite a coup to have the club kitchen presided over by one
whose fame is widely spread among the adepts in gastronomy, as an accomplished artiste--a professor whose performances do not fall short of his professions, but how shows himself skilled in the most recondite mysteries of culinary philosophy and science.(50)
Crockfords was famous for its celebrated French chef, Ude, although there were those such as Renton Nicholson who thought "there was a vast deal of humbug" about him and some of his more eminent contemporaries considered the Frenchman an imposter.(51)
Probably the most famous Club Chef of the mid-Victorian years was Alexis Soyer who presided over the cuisine of the Reform Club. It was here that the visiting Frenchman, Monsieur Way was forced to admit that the English Club was "a perfect substitute for the cafe, the reading-room and the restaurant."(52) Soyer, who looked the part of the stage Frenchman, with his dapper manners, stylish clothing and little beard, was to redesign the kitchens at the Scutari General Hospital in the Crimea for Florence Nightingale and, before his death in 1858, open the model kitchen at Wellington Barracks.(53)
It was, undoubtedly, their keen interest in food that made Lady Blessington remark of clubmen that they "prefer a well-dressed dinner to the best dressed woman in the world."(54) The American novelist Henry James found in the London Clubs that he could extend his friendships, gain the use of excellent libraries and have a "good and cheap" meal.(55) Not everyone was enamoured of club food, however. Percy Colson remarks of the Athenaeum, that "even in mid-Victorian days the club was known for its indifferent food;"(56) although considering its appearance in a book about White's, it must be taken with a grain of salt. Nonetheless, it would not be unfair to suggest that club food, while offering a reasonable variety, was very "English," leaning in most instances during the Queen's reign more toward the stodgy than towards haute cuisine. "In Mid-Victorian days," Ralph Nevill informs one, "most London clubs provided very unambitious cooking," but to their credit, many had superb wine-cellars.(57)
Club wine-cellars were, in many instances, exceptional both in their variety and in the cheapness of the cost of wine to members. In 1898, Baedeker notes that "the wine and viands, which are sold at little more than cost prices, often attain a pitch of excellence unequalled by the most elaborate and expensive restaurants."(58) Forty years earlier, Sala had made much the same point.
Do you know that a man may drink wines at his club, such as, were he to order them at an hotel, the head waiter would hold up his hands at the extravagance of the order, or else imagine that he had Rothschild or Mr. Roupell dining in No. 4 box; nay, might perchance run round to the chambermaid to ask how much luggage the gentleman had. Rare ports, "worn-out ports," grown colourless from age and strength, that cannot be looked at without winking--wondrous bitter Sherries--strange yellow Rhine wines, that gurgle in the glass when poured out--Claret that has made bankrupt the proprietors of the vignobles who grew them, or else sent them mad to think their stock was out--indescribable Cognacs--Maraschinos and Curacoas that filtrate like rich oil: all these are stored by special wine-merchants in the cellars of the club.(59)
Considerable impetus was given to the drinking of wine and the establishment of substantial cellars when, in the budget of 1860, Gladstone reduced the duties on foreign wines, most notably champagne. As a result, the last four decades of Victoria's reign might, particularly for the middle and upper classes, be characterised as "the champagne years." In the clubs, of course, it provided an opportunity to stock the best vintages at substantially reduced prices.
Matters of food and wine were often major issues, along with members' conduct, debated by the Club Committees. A rise in prices in the dining room, a contraction of the hours for meals, or a change in the menu, no matter what economic exigencies might call forth such changes, was likely to be viewed as only one short step removed from heresy by at least some of the members. On the first of March, 1853, the Committee of Management of the Carlton Club most seriously considered all aspects of a complaint by the Duke of Birmingham about "the unfair way in which Members helped themselves to the rice pudding." After much discussion and debate, the Steward was ordered in future "to point out ... to any Members who may help themselves unfairly, the impropriety of so doing."(60)
Thackeray's Captain Shindy epitomises those who constantly complained about their Club's food.
"Look at it, Sir! Is it cooked, Sir? Smell it, Sir! Is it meat fit for a gentleman?" he roars out to the steward, who stands trembling before him, and who in vain tells him that the Bishop of Bullocksmithy has just had three from the same loin. All the waiters in the Club are huddled round the Captain's mutton-chop. He roars out the most horrible curses at John for not bringing the pickles; he utters the most dreadful oaths because Thomas has not arrived with the Harvey sauce; Peter comes tumbling with the water-jug over Jeames, who is bringing "the glittering cannisters with bread."(61)
At the Oriental, one member objected to a price of one shilling for an apple dumpling but exhaustive investigation by the committee established that the unusual size of the fruit in question justified the price.(62)
The main meal served at the Clubs during the Victorian Era was dinner and it was expected--even required--that members dress for the meal. In the early and mid-Victorian years, dinner was generally at 6.00 or 6.30 in the evening, but as the century progressed, the habit of dining later came into fashion. Nonetheless, it was never a very late meal since supper was commonly available in the clubs and, as a result, members availed themselves of the facilities sometimes until three or four in the morning.(63) Some clubs, in an attempt to close a bit earlier instituted fines for late sitting members, but those who wished to stay late seemed willing to pay the small amount required for the privilege. By the end of the century, luncheon had become a popular meal but this may have been because a late luncheon and early supper meant dinner could be passed over. In 1856, two members of the Carlton Club objected strongly to the setting of the hour until which luncheon could be served at 4.00 o'clock and argued that it should be available until at least 5.00. By 1900, most of those clubmen desiring their mid-day meal at the club took it between 1.30 and 3.00 in the afternoon.(64)
Although tobacco was taken in clubs during the entire period of the Queen's reign, fashions changed over the years. In the early years of the Victorian period, the most common form was snuff which was taken by both men and women. Certainly most clubmen, until the middle decades of the century, would have carried a snuff-box and would have made a great ritual of taking a pinch of tobacco. It was not until after the Crimean war that gentlemen smoked in the streets. Ladies, of course, would not smoke nor allow men to smoke in their presence. At fashionable dinner parties it became, after the 50s, a common practice for men to withdraw for cigars and port while the ladies reassembled their toilette.
Even in the bastions of masculine privilege, the clubs, it was not until well into Victoria's reign that smoking was countenanced. In 1841, a Dressing Room at the Oriental was converted into a Smoking Room, But "it was not till the year of '45 that a smoking room was first established in the Holy of Holies of Dandydom, White's Club; and it was 1881 before smoking was allowed below the attics in Brooks's."(65) In 1866, a number of smokers, including the Prince of Wales, became so annoyed with the uncompromising position taken by older members they seceded and founded the Marlborough.(66) Facilities for smokers were limited in most clubs and when the Alfred Club closed in 1855, it was attributed to the resistance of non-smokers to the upgrading of its smoking room and the attendant loss of membership. Another factor, however, may have been its capacity to live up to its reputation as one of the dullest, if not the dullest, of the many clubs in London.(67) Not that smoking rooms added to the excitement of a club. The typical club smoking room of the 1890s was "on a par with smoking-rooms elsewhere, neither better nor worse. Men talk, smoke, drink, and snore; and the loudest talkers and snorers are voted nuisances by those about them."(68)
The Victorian Club was an all-male bastion in a world in which men felt increasingly threatened by the rapidity and complexity of change. The club was a world in which order and peace ruled for the members; in which, at the Athenaeum, the greatest scandal of the Queen's first decade, was the theft of books from the club library and the ensuing expulsion of the guilty member; a scandal characterised almost a century later as "a solitary and most painful incident in our annals."(69) It was a world of debates over smoking rooms and the size of servings of rice pudding.
It was these "venerable and exclusive temples of the Establishment"(70) that gradually--oh so very gradually--opened their doors to the new barons of business and industry. Some went to enormous lengths to maintain their 'elite' status and as recently as 1951, Percy Colson could write of White's that it "is an oasis of civilization in a desert of democracy; perhaps the last stronghold of aristocracy."(71) Clearly for some the Victorian Era has never ended while others still wear the black mourning band around their top hats. But for the working man, and those in the labouring and lower classes, there were other establishments to meet their social needs; the working men's clubs, the mechanics institutes and always, the poor man's club, the public-house.
Please note, I used (2000) to link to the above essay at http://www.box.net.au/~brosen/clubs.htm. When I discovered that that link had become broken, I retrieved the page contents from Google's cache. It is not now available anywhere else, nor am I able to contact Mr Rosen to ask for permission to reproduce this material. I should however very much like to hear from him.