Having made arrangements with a confederate, his lordship entered the room in time enough to take his seat in the president’s chair unquestioned, according to the law of the place. Afterwards the confederate, pretending to be a stranger, seated himself unnoticed, in the same manner, in the deputy chairman’s place at the bottom. As the Frenchmen dropped in, one by one, they were surprised to perceive the posts of honour thus unusually occupied. They whispered and muttered to each other as their numbers increased, but at last took their seats anywhere they could. In tones of discontent, deep but not loud, one whispered to his neighbour: “Connaissez-vous celui-là?” pointing to the new president. “Non.” “Ni l’autre?” “Non.” “Ni moi, non plus; ma foi, c’est singulier! Ah! les drôles! Eh bien, tout-à-l’heure le président viendra, et alors nous verrons comme tout cela va finir!” At last the French president arrived, and, finding the post of honour unexpectedly filled by the two dashing officers of rank, quietly took his seat, like his countrymen, where he could find it. The others, who were interested in the scene, seated themselves at the lower end of the table, whilst the few French who had come early seated themselves as near to the new president as they could.
The two intruders enjoyed the scene in secret, but behaved with politeness and affability to all, in their respective circles, till at last dinner was served. Lord Tyrawley formally did the honours—tasted the soup, put on a critical look, and asked those who were near him to taste, and favour him with their opinions. They were surprised at his assurance, but several tasted, and said simultaneously, “Assez bien—comme à l’ordinaire—qu’en pensez-vous?” and so on. Lord Tyrawley then exclaimed: “It is most execrable stuff, and only fit to be placed before pigs! Waiter” (the man crept forward trembling), “what do you bring this stuff here for?” The astonished servant looked silently towards the Frenchmen, in the hopes of catching a hint, when Tyrawley, in a rage, vociferated: “Don’t answer me, sir! take it away, and bring me the next dish—take it away instantly, I say!” So saying, he seized his own plate in both hands, raised it above his head, and then dashed it with all his force, with its flat bottom, into the midst of the soup, which spread, in a circular sheet, upon the table and the clothes of all who sat at that end of it. The Frenchmen started with horror and surprise, springing from their seats to save their clothes, while his confederate jumped up, exclaiming: “What do you mean by that, sir?” “I mean to say,” said Lord Tyrawley, with provoking coolness, “the soup is very bad.” “Nonsense, sir,” said the apparently enraged deputy chairman; “you have insulted every man here, and I will see that you give me immediate satisfaction.” “Oh, sir,” said the Peer, very coolly, “if you are for that sport, I will indulge you at once.” So saying, each took down his hat and sword with great dignity, and, the challenger strutting after the challenged, both descended into the courtyard. The bespattered foreigners, finding a duel was in progress, crowded the window for good places to see the sight, till it was quite full. The combatants took their ground, drew, and began a very furious-looking assault; one fought retreating, the other pushing him back till they were at the end of the court in St. Martin’s Lane, when they took off their hats, bowed gracefully to the astonished Frenchmen, and walked away arm in arm, laughing and kissing their hands to the company they had left, leaving them to enjoy their spoiled dinner and well-greased clothes as they were best able.
The great dread of the peaceful citizens who frequented taverns and coffee-houses was an incursion by members of the clubs known as Bold Bucks and Hell-Fires—for the most part composed of deliberately abandoned villains. The Bold Bucks were given up to licentiousness of an unbridled kind; blind and bold love was their motto, and their main object seems to have been the assimilation of man to brute.
The Hell-Fires, as may be gathered from their appellation, aimed at an even more transcendent malignity, and derided the forms of religion as a trifle.
A regular code of etiquette was observed at coffee-houses. At most of these, though not at the fashionable West End ones, a penny was usually laid on the bar on entering, which entitled the guest to the use of the room and of the news-sheet. Every rank of life, except perhaps the very lowest, was represented at one or other of these houses. Men met there to transact business, talk politics, discuss the latest play or poem, to play dice or cards. To one man the coffee-house was an office for business, where he received, and from which he dated, his letters; to another, a place in which to push his fortunes among patrons; to most, a lounging-place in which to discuss the news and pass away the time. The advertisements of the day are full of allusions to them. One gentleman loses his watch or his sword, and will give a reward if they are returned to Tom’s or Button’s, “and no questions asked.” Another, one Brown, “late City Marshall,” will settle all affairs that he had in his hands while holding that office, if the persons interested will repair to “Mr. Gibbon’s Coffee-House at Charing Cross.”
The first coffee-house—that is, the first house where coffee was sold to the public in England—is said to have been the George and Vulture, in George Yard, Lombard Street, a house still in existence.
About 1652 a Turkey merchant, Mr. Edwards by name, is supposed to have brought to London from Smyrna a Ragusan youth, Pasqua Rosee by name, specially to prepare coffee for him every morning. This servant he eventually allowed to sell the new-fashioned infusion publicly, and eventually the Ragusan established the first coffee-house in London, at St. Michael’s Abbey, Cornhill, under the title of Pasqua Rosee’s Inn, afterwards known to fame as the George and Vulture.
The old Rainbow in Fleet Street, now known as Groom’s, was the second coffee-house; but the owner of the Rainbow apparently did not purvey a very attractive form of the new beverage, for he was indicted by the Vestry for selling “a strong drink called Coffee which annoyed the neighbourhood by its evil smell.”
Curiously enough, both houses, Groom’s and the George and Vulture, now belong to the same proprietor, Mr. John Gardner, who, when he recently purchased the lease of the former, also acquired the original coffee-making recipe.
As a coffee-house the George and Vulture was a well-known resort of poets, wits, and satirists. The servants appear to have been very enterprising in attracting customers, for they would rush out and seize passers-by, crying: “Coffee, sir; tea, sir! Walk in and try a fresh pot!”