The transformation of the West End of London has entailed the destruction of numbers of the old box-like Georgian houses, and when the demand for new clubs arose, the quaint little shops in Pall Mall and St. James’s Street—almost the last survival of which is Lock’s hat-shop—were gradually demolished, in order to make way for huge edifices of palatial appearance. New political clubs, new professional clubs, new social clubs, sprang into existence, till what was a luxury for the few became a comparative necessity for the many.

In these days rich men often belong to a great number of clubs, and the present writer was told by a well-known cosmopolitan that his subscriptions of this kind amounted at one time to no less than £200 a year. This, however, included various racing and yachting clubs, as well as two or three on the Continent.

There are now clubs accessory to almost every kind of pursuit and sport, and the number increases every year. At the present time London alone possesses more than two hundred, whereas sixty or seventy years ago only about thirty existed. About one hundred have been founded during the past thirty years, dividing between them no fewer than some 120,000 members. At the beginning of the nineteenth century there were probably not more than 1,200 men who belonged to clubs; at the present day there are probably considerably more than 200,000!

The revolution as regards clubs in London only commenced about a quarter of a century ago, and has raged with unabated energy ever since till to-day. People in every rank of life have their club, and the social distinction which was formerly attached to membership of a number of these institutions has in consequence sustained a considerable decline, even fashionable West End clubs having lost much of their old prestige.

In consequence of this there would seem to be a somewhat gloomy future in store for some of these formerly exclusive institutions, not a few of which, like old families of ancient lineage, do their best to conceal the straitened condition of their finances, generally produced by paucity of members.

Clubs into which admission could only be gained, twenty or thirty years ago, by those whose names had been on the candidates’ book for nine, ten, or even twelve years, are now obliged to elect members put down only a year or two before. In some cases, indeed, it is to be feared that amalgamation with another club is the only policy which will prevent complete extinction and restore healthy vitality. In certain instances, it must be confessed, an apathetic committee, not alive to the changed and changing conditions of club-life, is responsible for the decadence of the institution over which it presides.

An absolute essential to the prosperity of a club is a good committee; the best of all is that which consists of three elements. In the first place, it should contain two or three well-known men to act as figureheads, their names being a guarantee for the social standing of the club. In the second, one or two members ought to be thoroughly conversant with business matters, and well fitted to deal with the details of club finance. And, lastly, a certain proportion of its members ought to be men well in touch with the life of the club, and therefore thoroughly acquainted with its needs. They should have a wide knowledge of men and social matters, in order to exercise due discrimination in dealing with candidates for election; and this is especially important in a club where the ordinary members do not take part in the ballot. In these days there are many with axes to grind, and strange things have been done in some West End clubs of late years in order to secure the election of candidates. At times, indeed, certain individuals have become noted for their lack of discretion in proposing individuals whom, for some reason or other, they desired to conciliate. As a matter of fact, the hold which the City has obtained over West End life is largely responsible for the election of many a member to clubs where, thirty or forty years ago, his admission would have been quite out of the question.

In old days everyone in the West End, more or less, knew everyone else; for society was then a very limited circle compared with what it is to-day, when people come and go with such startling rapidity that it grows increasingly difficult to discover who and what a candidate may be.

Considerable ingenuity has occasionally been exercised in the direction of concealing the antecedents of an undesirable but wealthy candidate.

The election of rich men to a club merely because they are rich has, on occasion, been defended by the vague plea that it is not a bad thing for a club; as a matter of fact, it is a very bad thing indeed. Whilst a candidate of this sort is usually exceedingly anxious to be elected, it is not unusual, when his aim is achieved, for him to trouble himself no more, his desire having merely been to figure in the list of members. A man of this sort, who had taken infinite trouble to secure election to a certain club, and been successful in his efforts, had no sooner been notified of his membership than he calmly remarked: “Ah, well, I don’t suppose I shall use the place, except to wash my hands on my way to the Park!”

It is, indeed, men of moderate means rather than the very rich who use a club most, and who are therefore its principal support. Millionaires and financiers seldom spend much in their clubs, for, possessed of highly trained chefs and luxurious houses, they have naturally little temptation to spend their spare time elsewhere. The pleasures of social intercourse which can be enjoyed at the club are equally easy to obtain at home.

In old days it was exceedingly difficult for men engaged in business to obtain admission to a fashionable West End club.

The son of a famous financier was once up for election to a fashionable club, and all his friends in the club attended to support him. In those days the ballot took place at night, and as eleven o’clock approached the club became abnormally full; indeed, members came into the drawing-room, where the election was held, who had not been seen in the club for years. It was, however, soon evident to the proposer and seconder that the crowd of members present had not come to support their candidate. Realizing the situation, they took their stand by the ballot-box, and as each of the strangers stepped up to record his vote, one said to the other: “Here comes another assassin.”

At White’s, blackballing was carried to such an extreme about the year 1833 that the rules had to be altered, and one blackball was no longer allowed to exclude.

At that time the system of rejection had been carried to a ludicrous pitch. “We must pill that man,” a member would say; “it will do him good.” “We really cannot have that fellow,” said another; “I saw him wearing a black tie in the evening.” Sometimes there were personal grudges or family quarrels which kept out candidates for years.

In the early part of the last century, Charles Greville and Lord George Bentinck had some difference about a turf transaction. Greville was anxious for the election of Viscount Brackley, afterwards Earl of Ellesmere; Lord George was equally determined that Viscount Brackley, as Greville’s nominee, should remain outside the club. He never failed to attend the ballot and drop in his black ball.

Lord George was accustomed to take his dinner very late. He usually dined at the club at eleven o’clock, at which hour the ballots also took place. On one occasion, when Lord Brackley was up for election, Greville was delighted to find, as he thought, that Lord George was for once absent. “It’s all right this time,” said he, as the ballot-box was brought to him; “Bentinck’s downstairs at dinner, and I shall get Brackley in at last.” “Will you?” said a voice near him. He had not noticed Lord George sitting beside him on the sofa.

People who ought to know better sometimes exhibit the most lax conduct in lending their aid to the candidature of disagreeable individuals, whom for some reason or other it may suit them to please. On one occasion the members of a certain somewhat exclusive club were much disgusted at the conduct of a newly-elected member. It was eventually discovered that the objectionable individual had been proposed by a prominent political personage, whose candidate could not very well have been rejected. The matter created great irritation, and it was eventually hinted to the proposer that the new member was anything but popular.

“He’s a disagreeable man, I know; but then, you see, it doesn’t matter, for I so seldom use the club,” was the grossly egotistical reply. No wonder the political party of which this individual is considered one of the shining lights has of late years had a hard struggle to hold its own!

One of the most original reasons for putting down a candidate was that given by a somewhat unpopular member of a certain club. An acquaintance, looking through the candidates’ book, observed that a name recently inscribed was that of an individual whom his proposer had always denounced as a regular club bore.

“Why ever did you put him down?” asked the astonished member. “I thought you particularly disliked him.”

“Certainly I do,” was the reply; “and as, above all things, I wish to prevent his getting in here, I thought the best way of insuring his being pilled would be to propose him myself, being well aware that anyone whom I may support will have but a very slight chance of escaping a good many black balls.”

Committee-men are not infrequently placed in a very uncomfortable position when asked by friends to give their support to doubtful candidates. A man of the world, well known for his ingenuity, used to get out of the difficulty by invariably replying: “My dear fellow, you may rely on me to do the proper thing.”

With the vast increase of London clubs, an altogether different state of affairs has arisen as regards the numbers of candidates waiting to come up for election, and which in the majority of instances is far less difficult than was formerly the case; few even of the old-established clubs have been able to maintain their ancient exclusiveness.

The AthenÆum, Turf, and Travellers’ are still, however, not at all easy about electing members. The latter, founded about 1819, in its early days attracted a good deal of notice from the fact that a candidate for admission was required to have been 500 miles distant from London; and a considerable sensation was once caused by the discovery that several members, who had originally entered their names, had not travelled the prescribed distance. An investigation was made, and the newspapers of the day published lists of places a visit to which was a sufficient qualification for membership of the Travellers’.

In former days, candidates sometimes had to wait for many years before coming up for election. Owing, however, to various causes—of which the chief was, perhaps, the great increase in the number of West End clubs—this period now rarely exceeds two, or at most three, years. The Bath Club is, I believe, an exception, because the facilities for swimming and other exercises which this institution affords to its members (drawn from both sexes) has caused a very large number of names to be inscribed upon its books. In consequence of this, a candidate must now expect a delay of several years before his name comes up for ballot.

At not a few old-established clubs a paucity of candidates has been produced by past injudicious and indiscriminating pilling. Men thinking of joining the club became aware of the fate which might befall them, and so in time the reputation of more than one club for extreme exclusiveness has led from dire necessity to the other extreme of letting in almost anyone willing to join.

Club committees occasionally contain a member who has an innate tendency to blackball everybody; in such cases a “pill” is always found in the box, even when the candidate is perfectly eligible. An individual of this sort was once considerably rebuffed. During an election it was found that the minimum quorum of committee-men was not present, for they were one short. To rectify matters, a notorious blackballer was hunted up at his rooms, and told that an election was in progress. He rushed back to the club, and at once voted, in most cases putting in a black ball, according to his wont; but as his was the only adverse vote, the rules having been observed, all candidates were elected. At the AthenÆum as many as ninety-three black balls were once allotted to an unpopular candidate. But the greatest instance of blackballing probably ever known took place some years ago at a ladies’ club, where one candidate received three more black balls than the number of members present—a case of excessive zeal indeed!

At one West End club, where the election of members was conducted in a somewhat peculiar manner, a curious incident once happened.

Here the election was by the members in general, and not by a committee, and the ballot was held in a room on the left of the entrance hall. At one time it used to be a regular custom for the friends of a candidate to hang about the door of this room canvassing in his favour, whilst, if possible, detaining anyone likely to insert a black ball, by all possible means. During a certain election, a visitor, coming to call upon a friend at his club, found himself, on passing its portals, almost forcibly bustled into this room, and eventually, thoroughly confused, made to vote for an individual who would otherwise not have gained admission to the club.

While, as a rule, the resignation of a member or several members on account of their candidates being rejected, or for some other reason, does not affect the prosperity of a club, there have been instances of serious injury being inflicted upon a club’s prestige by the defection of some very influential member. Many years ago the prosperity of White’s was seriously affected by the displeasure shown by the late King at the continuance of some old-fashioned and absurd regulations as to smoking; and Boodle’s, now in such a flourishing condition, was terribly damaged at one time when the late Duke of Beaufort withdrew his name. The blackballing of candidates submitted for election by prominent members occasionally leads to much acrimonious comment, and sometimes causes a number of resignations.

Election or non-election to a club depends in some cases upon many different causes, and a young man about whom nothing is known at all often stands a better chance than a distinguished individual who during his life has made enemies. Occasionally rejection is a compliment.

The resignation of members disappointed at the failure of their candidate is unreasonable, for a club is in reality a republic, where everyone is equal, and no one has any right to level a pistol at the heads of his fellow-members, or of his committee, whilst saying: “Vote for my candidate, or I will leave the club.” Such an act is but a revolutionary protest against the equality of club-life. If an influential or popular member supports some candidate, the latter has the advantage of the influence of his support, but there the preference should end. The question really is not whether a particular candidate deserves or does not deserve to be admitted, but whether the club chooses to elect him, and anything beyond this is a breach of those principles which conduce to the prosperity of clubland.

The best method of filling up vacancies in the membership of a club would really be selection rather than election, and there is no valid reason why such a method of recruiting the membership of clubs should not generally prevail. Were such a reasonable system in vogue, no one would be submitted to the barbarous mortification of being rejected. As things are now, anyone who has obtained a reputation is bound to make enemies, and the more widely he is known, the more enemies he is certain to have. Indeed, a prominent individual has often a very bad chance of being elected under the system generally observed, an absurdity emphasized by the fact that the late Mr. Gladstone was once rejected for the club at Biarritz.

Anyone whose life has been passed amidst publicity must have offended many. Some hate him merely because they happen never to have met him, and others because they have done so. Others hate him because their friends do, and others, again, disapprove of him merely on political grounds. It is, indeed, impossible to enumerate the variety of motives which cause people to hate each other with reason, and even without reason. This being so, one may well doubt the expediency of compelling men to undergo the disgrace of being rejected for a club, according to the system which at present prevails. As matters stand now, a candidate’s rejection implies that he is unfit to be a member; but in reality, in a large number of cases, it simply means that he is of sufficient importance to have attracted the ill-will, envy, or dislike of a number of people, many of whom know him only by repute.

Another desirable reform, though one which is unlikely ever to be carried out, would consist in investing committees or members with the power of ejection as well as election. There would be little hardship in a rule conferring the right of exclusion in cases of general unpopularity, and this probably would seldom have to be exercised, as the very fact of its existence would act as a check.

Within recent years a good many club committees have shown a tendency in the direction of the multiplication of rules.

The old aristocratic clubs of the past troubled themselves little with regulations and restrictions. In fact, they were excessively lenient. With the gradual incursion of the commercial class into West End life, however, a very different state of affairs has been brought about.

All over Europe, and especially in England, the bourgeoisie adore regulating somebody or something, and the tendency remains long after members of this class have entered what are known as fashionable circles, and managed to obtain a hold upon the committees of exclusive clubs. In such a position, not a few of them have added largely to the number of rules, some of which in certain clubs are multiplied to the point of absolute absurdity.

Occasionally edicts of this kind possess a certain unconscious humour, as is well exemplified in a by-law, still amongst the rules of a certain club, which sets forth that “Members smoking pipes may not sit or stand in the windows.”

Whether legally such an edict can be enforced would seem to be very doubtful. It is certainly within the right of a committee to prohibit pipe-smoking altogether, and such a regulation prevails in several clubs; in many more it is an unwritten law. In rooms, however, in which pipe-smoking is allowed, it is certainly not within the powers of a committee to define exactly where members shall station themselves whilst “blowing their cloud.” As a matter of fact, committee-men not infrequently fall into the error of thinking that a club committee can issue any decrees it likes. Such, however, is very far from being the case, and the reports of various lawsuits between individual members and certain committees will show that in the majority of instances the latter have not proved victorious.

If, for instance, the subscription of a club be raised, members who joined before the alteration cannot be compelled to pay more than their original subscription. The great increase in club rules and regulations has sometimes produced confusion as to what members may or may not do—a state of affairs which was non-existent when the older West End clubs were founded.

The nature of the regulations then in vogue may be realized from an inspection of a number of interesting volumes, dating back to 1737, still preserved at White’s, in which are inscribed the names of members of the old and new clubs, together with the few rules in force in the eighteenth century.

The books of rules issued in the middle of the last century contain very much the same provisions. The earlier books are entirely in manuscript, some of them elaborately bound; whilst those issued about 1840, though smaller, are beautifully printed, and they still retain a certain air of old-world luxury. The register of members kept by the proprietor of White’s about seventy years ago much resembles one of those huge gilt-edged tomes which were in use for registering various matters connected with the Court of Versailles before the French Revolution. The calligraphy in this volume and in some of the earlier club lists is remarkable for its graceful and ornate character. Looking at them, one realizes what an exclusive coterie frequented the old club-house in the days when the aristocracy of England ruled supreme.

West End club committees of old days were extremely conciliatory regarding any minor breach of club law, in many cases straining a point to overlook delinquencies which were not directly injurious to the best interests of the members generally. Considerable laxity existed as to debts incurred in a club, coffee-room accounts extending into three figures being common; some of these were liquidated only at long intervals. Expelling, or even threatening to expel, a member was considered a step of extreme gravity, and one to be avoided by all possible means.

During the last twenty-five years, however, club-life, like everything else, has become “more strenuous,” and anyone who habitually breaks the rules is soon made to realize that he must either alter his ways or go.

Committee-men, it should be added, whether good, bad, or indifferent, generally have a rather difficult task, for they are certain to arouse the opposition of some professional grumbler or other who is ever ready to blame. As a matter of fact, very often the best-meant schemes are the most unpopular, and there is a peculiar type of committee-man who often incurs the hostility of members on account of his merits. This is the individual who, possessed of an especial gift for management, takes the direction of a club into his own hands, and, becoming practically an autocrat, resents interference with his policy, which, it may be added, is not infrequently a sound one, for this type of man has generally made club management his hobby. Nevertheless, let him do as well as possible, sooner or later his rule will become unpopular, members disliking the idea of a one-man domination.

It cannot be said that the majority of house committees are in any way zealous about carrying out their functions. Where club cooking and its material are above all criticism, the credit generally lies with the efficient secretary, who in reality runs most clubs.

Some clubs have numberless sub-committees to deal with different details of management—wine committee, cigar committee, and goodness knows what else. It is, however, doubtful whether the united efforts of all the committee-men and sub-committee-men in the world are as successful as those of one dominating individual, who knows exactly what the needs of a club really are, and gets them satisfied. On the whole, the cooking and food in West End clubs is very fair, and in many cases, if some further degree of attention were devoted to minor details, would be above criticism.

A deplorable tendency, however, is the neglect of that old-fashioned English cookery which in perfection is the delight of true gastronomists.

What is wanted in clubs is the very best material properly served and cooked. Alas! it is to be feared that, with the exception of a very few clubs, the best of everything now goes to the palatial restaurants, who absolutely will not purchase the indifferent meat, game, and vegetables which are foisted upon more easy-going customers.

The craze for elaborate cooking in clubs would appear to have been originated by George IV when Prince Regent. During dinner one evening at Carlton House, the conversation chancing to turn upon club dinners, Sir Thomas Stepney described them as being intensely dull, owing to their eternal joints, beefsteaks, or boiled fowl with oyster sauce, followed by an apple tart. Upon this the Prince, who was much interested, sent for Watier, his own chef, and invited him then and there to take a house and organize a dinner club. Accordingly a club was started at 81 Piccadilly, by Watier; Madison, the Prince’s page, being manager; and Labourier, one of the cooks from the royal kitchen, chef. It was soon joined by the principal dandies, including Beau Brummell, and became the scene of much high play, chiefly at macao.

Brummell one day, when he had lost a large sum, called to the waiter: “Bring me a flat candlestick and a pistol”; upon which another member, Mr. Hythe, reputed as mad as a hatter, produced a couple of loaded pistols from his pocket, which he placed on the table, coolly saying: “Mr. Brummell, if you wish to put an end to your existence, I am extremely happy to offer you the means without troubling the waiter.” During another evening’s play, Raikes began to rally Jack Bouverie, brother of Lord Heytesbury, on his bad luck, and the latter took it in such bad part that he threw his play-bowl full of counters at Raikes’s head. A great row ensued. Watier’s closed about 1819, many of its leading members being then utterly ruined. After this the club-house was run by a set of blacklegs as a common gaming-house, which eventually was taken over by Crockford, who, in partnership with a man named Taylor, set up a very successful hazard bank.

Though Watier’s had but a short existence, it lasted long enough to give men about town a taste for elaborate cooking, and no doubt contributed to send many good old English dishes out of fashion.

Owing to the large staff of servants maintained in most clubs, life is rendered very easy for the members, though a certain number are ever complaining of inattention on the part of the servants. These, as a matter of fact, are kept more or less in perpetual motion. On the whole, they are a most civil class of men, and for this reason thoroughly deserve the Christmas subscription which serves as a sort of gigantic, but quite justifiable, tip. This is a comparatively new institution. It must be realized that club servants are not overpaid, and when upon duty their work is particularly severe. The electric bells never cease ringing until the club closes; every member expects his wants to command immediate attention, and not a few are capricious and exacting. In some of the big clubs the total of the contributions is considerable—considerably over £500. This seems large, but, as there are over 1,000 members in several clubs, such a sum is only what might be expected.

Club servants are an especial class apart, and some waiters change constantly from club to club. This, of course, is not the case at certain of these institutions, such as the Junior Carlton, which, having a servants’ pension fund, attracts the very best class. In all clubs, however, there are generally two or three old and popular servants who are looked upon as regular features of the place.

In the past, certain old retainers often became privileged characters, and presumed upon their position. A waiter named Samuel Spring, having on one occasion to write to George IV, when the latter was Prince of Wales, commenced his letter as follows: “Sam, the waiter at the Cocoa-tree, presents his compliments to the Prince of Wales,” etc. His Royal Highness next day saw Sam, and, after noticing the receiving of his note and the freedom of the style, said: “Sam, this may be very well between you and me, but it will not do with the Norfolks and Arundels.”

The most important servant in a club is, of course, the hall-porter. To fill this post to perfection, very exceptional qualities are required.

A hall-porter, in his capacity as a trusted and confidential club servant, is acquainted with many delicate matters, and for this reason should be a man of tact; he must, besides, discriminate between those visitors a member may wish to see and those to whom the answer “Out of town” must be given, in tones which admit of no further inquiry. He must ever be on guard, carefully scanning every stranger who passes the club portals, and, like royalty, should possess an unerring and inexhaustible memory for faces. He must, of course, know every member by sight, and never be obliged to ask his name, even when long absence abroad may have altered his appearance, and rendered him almost unrecognizable to acquaintances of other days. A good hall-porter, in short, should know everything and everybody.

A Scotch hall-porter—Shand, of the Turf Club—was a great character in his way. Somewhat blunt and bluff by nature, he was very outspoken about anything which did not meet with his approval, and at times would hazard caustic remarks as to various phases of the club-life. Shand was possessed of considerable shrewdness and common-sense, and it was sometimes said that in certain matters his advice was better than that of any two first-class lawyers together. Shand had his likes and dislikes amongst members. This he made little attempt to conceal, his manner varying in a marked degree. He was no respecter of persons, but on account of his shrewdness and many sterling qualities was allowed much latitude.

On one occasion a member, before leaving for the country, instructed Shand to forward a packet of photographs when it should arrive. The gentleman was away two months, but no photographs were sent to him. On his return to town he went to the Turf, where, much to his astonishment, he was handed a proof photograph which had, he found, arrived six weeks before. Shand was interrogated as to his reasons for not obeying instructions. “You said photographs,” replied he. “Seeing there was only one, and knowing you were away with your wife, I was not going to be such a fool as to send it.”

Many of the old school of club porters rather despised confirmed bachelors who yielded to the allurements of matrimony. “No, sir,” said one of these to an inquirer, “Mr. —— don’t come here now as he used; since his marriage his habits ain’t reg’lar.”

Club porters are very cognizant of the peculiar ways of members, and quick to notice anything out of harmony with the general tenor of club-life. The porter at a club where most of the members were so old and infirm that quantities of crutches were left in the hall was genuinely shocked to see a new member going quickly upstairs.

Failure to recognize faces—which, in justice to club porters it should be said, is in their case comparatively rare—has on occasion led to serious consequences.

The hall-porter of a certain great club, quartered upon another during the autumnal period of renovation, was one day asked by a member who strode hurriedly into the club, “Are there any letters for Mr. X.?” giving a name in the club list. The porter looked hard at the gentleman, for he could not positively convince himself for the moment that he knew his face as one of the 1,500 members of the club. His gaze, however, was met unflinchingly, and the new arrival’s air and appearance generally giving no cause for suspicion, the porter, having eventually concluded that this must be a member who had been out of England for some time, handed over the letters, with which the gentleman retired into the inner recesses of the club.

Half an hour or so later a jeweller arrived and asked for Mr. X., to whom he handed over a valuable piece of jewellery worth several hundreds of pounds, which, he told the hall-porter on leaving, this gentleman (as to whose social position and solvency there could be no question) had ordered two days ago by letter.

In due course Mr. X., after giving instructions that no letters were to be forwarded, departed, taking the piece of jewellery with him.

What was the hall-porter’s horror the next morning to find himself confronted by another, and this time a real, Mr. X., who, on being told the story of his double, at once dashed off to Scotland Yard. The first Mr. X., it appeared, was an adroit swindler, who having by some means discovered that the real Mr. X., an exceedingly wealthy man, had ordered a jeweller to meet him at the club with a recent purchase, sent a telegram from the latter saying that the setting would not be completed till the next day, and had then gone to the club and personated this member, who he knew only used it upon rare occasions.

Another more impudent fraud was the case of a discharged club waiter, who, disguising himself in a pair of blue spectacles, actually walked into the club-house from which he had been dismissed two days before, and, giving a well-known member’s name, cashed a cheque. He victimized two other clubs in the same manner, and was eventually detected at a fourth.

One of the smaller West End clubs was formerly renowned for its mechanical hall-porter, an individual who had but an arm and a leg, and moved, it was said, entirely by machinery, the creaking of which, people declared, could be heard when he handed out letters.

A word here as to the porters’ boxes which now exist in every club. In former days very few, if any, of these institutions contained such a convenience. The porter used to sit in a chair in the hall, with a rack containing the members’ letters behind him. He played much the same part as the head-footman who opens the door at a private house. As late as the eighties of the last century there was no porter’s box at White’s, and the same state of affairs prevailed at Boodle’s up to quite recent years. In former days, when life was more simple, there was little necessity for the complicated arrangements of bells, telephones, and speaking-tubes, which are essential to the life of a modern club. Members then did not dash in and out, and clubland was distinguished by its air of grave solemnity and calm.