From the Sketch, 1st May 1895

Patronymics are not always appropriate. The White Friars have outgrown their early patronymic. They were christened “Whitefriars” for the simple and prosaic reason that they first saw the light as a corporate body in Whitefriars Street; but long before they reached the age of maturity they had left the home of their birth, and their name had ceased to apply; they had developed from “Whitefriars” to “Fleets”, but they had wedded name to fame, and the title they had adopted for its “local colour” they retained for “auld lang syne”.

The traditions of the early Friars who christened the street that christened the club still survive in the designs of the menu cards and dinner tickets of their modern representatives, and the present White Friars look back with sympathy upon the day when their patronymic ancestors sang ‘Tomorrow will be Friday’ as they angled for the lusty trout from the Thames Embankment of their time; and yet these fancies owe their origin rather to the name than to the nature of the club.

The peculiar feature of the Whitefriars Club is that it had no peculiar feature, unless, indeed, the fact that it is not a log-rolling fraternity be held to constitute a peculiarity. It was not conceived in idio­syncrasy, nor born of whimsicality, neither has it been developed on eccentricity. Nor is it a club with a mission devoted to the perpetuation of amiable weaknesses or the destruction of dead superstitions. It was born, as other worlds are said to come into existence, “by the fortuitous concourse of atoms” – which atoms, if less brilliant than the nebulae of the heavens, were drawn together by an affinity no less real; and it exists today by reason of the natural warmth incident to the aggregation of sympathetic elements, which a common interest in the common pursuit of letters has magnetised, and the spirit of brotherhood has welded, into a world of light and leading which time, as yet, has not had time to cool.

A glance at the list of those present at the opening dinner, held in 1868, will give some idea of the calibre and standing of its earlier members and of the auspices of its inauguration. Henry N. Barnett, editor of the Sunday Times, presided, and Tom Hood, the editor of Fun, occupied the vice-chair; George Cruikshank, whose name bears the prefix Lieutenant Colonel, responded for “The Army, the Navy and the Volunteers”; W.M. Torrens proposed “The Legislature”, of which he became a member, and George Augustus Sala responded for “The Visitors”; Hepworth Dixon represented “Literature”, and Benjamin Ward Richardson (he was not be[k]nighted then, and could even look “upon the wine when it was red”) held the brief for “Science”; F. Sandys was sponsor for “Art”, Westland Marston for “The Drama” and Barry Sullivan for “The Stage”, to do no more than mention such men as Joseph Knight, one of the best-known of London journalists; Thomas Archer, author of The Highway of Letters; Dillon Croker, the walking dictionary of the stage, and the universal impersonator of actors past and present; William Sawyer, author of ‘Ten Miles from Town’ and many other poems; Ashby Sterry, the lyrist of Hambleton Lock and Bolney Ferry; Crawford Wilson, poet and dramatist, author of Jonathan Oldacre and Pastorals and Poems, as well as author of the club itself; and many others distinguished in science, art and letters.

The first home of the Whitefriars Club was Radley’s Hotel, in Bridge Street, Blackfriars, a hostelry since demolished to make way for newer buildings. On leaving Radley’s, the Friars found a home at the Mitre Tavern, in Fleet Street, among associations of Johnson, Goldsmith, Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, until, outgrowing this accommodation, they migrated to a new building at the corner of Ludgate Circus, and, later, to share the premises of the Temple Club in Arundel Street, Strand. Their next move was to what appears to have become their permanent home, Anderton’s Hotel in Fleet Street, and here, for a number of years, in a spacious room facing the “Highway of Letters”, upon the first floor, its walls covered with portraits of past and present members, the White Friars have done penance in broadcloth and tobacco ashes.

A glance at the portraits upon the walls of the club-room revives a host of fascinating recollections. There, in the full vigour of his prime, is William Creswick, whose Shakespearian recitals formed a noteworthy feature in the after-dinner programmes of the past. There, also, to the life as many people knew him, is E.L. Blanchard, who knew, perhaps, more of the ins and outs, the ups and downs, of journalism and the drama from the Forties to the Eighties than any other man of his time; and Jonas Levy, whose autobiography, could he have been induced to write it, would have included, besides that of his own life, more than half a century of the romance of three worlds – the Stage, the Press and the bar. 

But the glory of the White Friars is not, by any means, a thing of the past. The club was never more healthy in condition or representative in character than it is at the present time. Limited in its numbers, and jealous of its honour, it has been counted exclusive in its policy; but, while requiring, as a matter of course, certain technical qualifications in those admitted to membership, it is by a social and moral standard that election is ultimately determined. The club has thus become an association of working men of letters, who, while cherishing the true bohemian spirit, practise also the sound philosophy which places work first and play afterwards. 

The club fixtures are few and simple. The Friars dine together once a week during the winter months, in a room contiguous to the club-room; and the feast-day is Friday, which was the fast-day of the Friars of old time; and they make a summer pilgrimage to the shrine of some literary saint, the scene of some historic or antiquarian interest, or the precincts of some celebrated seat of learning.

At the weekly dinners representatives of all departments of journalism meet to chew the cud and mingle the cup of consolation. The Standard lion sits down quietly beside the Daily News lamb, and the Sun beams benignly across the table at the Globe; the war correspondent and the historian of the playing-fields hobnob together, the Army takes wine with the Church, and the Navy interchanges like courtesies with the Bar. William Black, Hall Caine, B.L. Farjeon, George A. Henty, Manville Fenn, Bloundelle Burton and Henry Frith are but a few of the Friars who tell stories to large listening crowds and enjoy the largess of wide popularity; Harrison Weir, John Proctor and Irving Montague but representatives of those who draw pictures for the people and earn the name of fame. Of travellers the revealer of “Darkest Africa” may well be made the sponsor, though, behind the name of H.M. Stanley there are others who have stemmed the storms of either zone and explored the fastnesses of East and West. 

Of the summer outings, that made to Gad’s Hill and the Dickens’ country is full of pleasant memories: the journey to Rochester, the lunch at The Bull Inn, the visit to the cathedral, where, under the guidance of poor old Tope himself, we tried to unravel the mystery of Edwin Drood; the stroll through Cobham Park to The Leathern Bottle, where we “passed the rosy” in memory of the immortal Swiveller; the drive to Gad’s Hill, where we saw little Nell and her grandfather resting in a cornfield and Quilp asleep in his ugliness beneath a wayside hedge; and, stranger still, heard echoing from the long, long distance the clash of arms in “war’s magnificently stern array” as countless knaves in buckram bore down upon the lusty father of all “rowdy dowdy boys”. The excursion of 1893, to Canterbury, will not soon be forgotten, nor will that of 1894 to Oxford. On these occasions, the Friars visit scenes of interest under the direction of local authority, and entertain their guides, philosophers and friends to dinner in the evening at the best-found hostelry available.

It is, however, the weekly gatherings of the winter months that constitute the chief attraction of the club. At these, politics and religion are barred as matters of discussion, and “speeches” are forbidden by the rules. The lost art of conversation is to some extent revived, the members gathering, not in coteries of twos and threes, but, as far as possible, in one group of the whole company, round a genial fire, when the chairman of the day takes the part of “Mr Johnson”, and the “corner-men” push the buttons in the wall – when spirits flag; nay, that were all too seldom – when glasses are looking thirsty.

Much, indeed, the members owe for their comfort and enjoyment at all club gatherings to the honorary officers of the club, T. Heath-Joyce, for many years the club secretary; J.F. Wilson, for a long time its long-suffering treasurer; Richard Gowing, his official successor; and Henry Frith, the present secretary.

As I have said, the peculiar feature of the Whitefriars Club is that it has no peculiar feature; and I will only add that its title to enumeration among the “Literary Cranks of London” is that it has no literary crank.

Alfred Henry Miles (1848–1929) was a prolific English author – writing in the capacity of anthologist, children’s writer, editor, journalist and poet at various points in his life – as well as a composer and lecturer. Miles was a White Friar, joining the Whitefriars Club in 1883. He published The Diners-Out Vade-Mecum: A Pocket Handbook (1900), in which he details “the manners and customs of society functions […] with hints on etiquette, deportment, dress (etc. etc.)” so as to “help the young and inexperienced to the reasonable enjoyment of the social pleasures of society”. This work, coupled with his glowing review of the Whitefriars Club, offers an insight into Miles’s reverence and passion for club life.