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 was 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.’ ‘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. Selwyn, 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 and 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 Catholics 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, during 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 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.
The 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.