A portrait of George IV was formerly over the fireplace. Sir Thomas Lawrence, its painter, was engaged in finishing the sword-knot and orders only a few hours before his death. He intended to present it to the club, but, as his executors declined to part with it, the painting was eventually purchased for £128 10s. This portrait is now in the museum of the Royal Pavilion at Brighton, having been handed over to the Corporation of that town in 1858. Busts of Dr. Johnson (presented by Mr. Percy Fitzgerald) and of Pope (a bequest) are here, together with the carved armchair used by Dickens at Gad’s Hill, in which, on the day of his death, the great novelist had been sitting at work on “Edwin Drood.” Many will remember “The Empty Chair” which appeared in the then newly-founded Graphic in June 1870. Macaulay’s corner, near the books on English history, is a well-known feature of this library, which the late Mark Pattison said he thought the most delightful place in the world, especially on a Sunday morning. At the table in the south-west corner Thackeray used constantly to work. A great habitué of the library in the early days of the club was Isaac Disraeli, who, as befitted the author of the “Curiosities of Literature,” was one of the earliest members—indeed, one of the founders of the club. His invariable costume consisted of a blue coat with brass buttons, a yellow waistcoat, and knee-breeches. A similar fashion was followed by another member—Dr. Booth—as late as 1863.
One evening, in or about the year 1830, a non-member, young Benjamin Disraeli, in defiance of the club rules, coolly walked upstairs to the library, and there proceeded to confer with his father. He was duly requested to withdraw, and it is perhaps not extraordinary that the future Prime Minister should have been blackballed in 1832. The reason given at the time for this rejection was that his proposer or seconder had rendered himself particularly unpopular.
It was not until thirty-four years later that the great statesman became a member of the Athenæum, to which he was admitted under the rule allowing the committee to elect annually a limited number of persons “who have attained to distinguished eminence.” As Lord Beaconsfield he seems to have used the club but little, although, according to tradition, he abstracted from the library his own “Revolutionary Epick,” written in 1834.
In a corner of the Athenæum library the late Cardinal Manning, who had been elected at a time when he was attending the Vatican Council, used to sit quietly reading. At one time he used the club a good deal, as did another venerable ecclesiastic, Dr. Tatham, noted for eccentricity and long sermons. Yet another divine well known at the Athenæum was the nonagenarian Bishop Durnford, of Chichester. Bishops have always been more or less abundant at this club, for which reason, when an unusually large number were collected together for Convocation, Abraham Hayward is said to have grumbled out: “I see the Bishops are beginning to swarm: the atmosphere is alive with them; every moment I expect to find one dropping into my soup.”
There was a great storm amongst the Bishops when Bishop Colenso visited England, and, as can be imagined, his admission to the Athenæum as an honorary member was violently opposed.
Samuel Wilberforce, Lord Lytton the novelist, Abraham Hayward (the Vernon Tuft of Samuel Warren’s “Ten Thousand a Year,” still remembered by some), and many other celebrated characters, were frequenters of this peaceful room. Here, too, Theodore Hook dashed off much brilliant work. This spontaneous and volatile wit at one time used the club a great deal. He it was who wrote the lines:
“There’s first the Athenæum 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.”