It happened that Brother the Duke of Sussex was put in the white sheet under the following circumstances: His Royal Highness had come to the “Steaks” with Brother Hallett, and on the road the watch-chain belonging to the latter had been cut and his bunch of seals stolen. The cloth removed, Hallett addressed the President, recounted the loss he had sustained, and charged the Duke as the perpetrator of the robbery. The case was tried on the spot; and the evidence having clearly established the criminality of the accused (to a Beefsteak jury), it was moved and resolved that His Royal Highness should forthwith be put into the white sheet and reprimanded for an act which might have been considered a fault had the victim been a stranger, but which became a crime when that victim was a Brother. There was no appeal. His Royal Highness reluctantly rose, was taken out in custody, brought before the Recorder (Brother Richards), and received a witty but unsparing admonition for the offence of which he had been unanimously found guilty. For a wonder, His Royal Highness took it ill. He resumed his seat, but remained silent and reserved. No wit could make him smile, no bantering could rouse him, and at an unusually early hour he ordered his carriage and went away.
The next day Mr. Arnold, who had been the mover of the resolution, went to the palace to smooth the ruffled plumes of his royal confrère, and took his son with him. In those days the Duke rode on horseback, and as they turned out of the gate leading from the gardens to the portico his horse was at the door and His Royal Highness in the act of coming out. By the time they neared the entrance his foot was in the stirrup, and he saw them approaching. Without a moment’s hesitation he withdrew his foot, released the bridle, and, with both his enormous hands extended, advanced three or four steps to meet Mr. Arnold.
“I know what you’ve come about,” he called loudly out in his accustomed note (probably B flat), and wringing both Mr. Arnold’s hands until he winced with pain—“I know what you’ve come about! I made a fool of myself last night. You were quite right, and I quite wrong, so I shall come next Saturday and do penance again for my bad temper.”
Sometimes a member turned sulky when made to do penance. On one occasion an individual of a touchy disposition was put into the white sheet and brought before the President, who admonished him as a parent would a child—a Beefsteak sermon without its usual bathos. The recipient listened to the harangue without moving a muscle of his face. The lecture done, he resumed his seat, but at the next meeting sent in his resignation.
Saturday was the day on which the dinners were held. Each member was allowed to bring one visitor. If he brought a second, he had to borrow a name; in default of obtaining it, the visitor was doomed to retire.
Visitors, unlike members, were not subjected to any humorous penalties, but were most ceremoniously treated. They were never unduly urged to drink more than might be agreeable to them; one bumper in the evening was alone imperative, but it might be drunk in water. They were never pressed, though always asked, to sing. A “suggestion” to sing was the adopted word.
The only call to which it was imperative for the visitor to respond was “a toast.” If he hesitated too long, he was, perhaps abruptly, told he might give anything the world produced—man, woman, or child, or any sentiment, social or otherwise. Sometimes it happened that such prompting was in vain, and the confused guest would nine times out of ten propose the only toast he was prohibited from giving—“The prosperity of the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks.”
Members were responsible for their guests, who were made to understand that whatever passed within the walls of the S.S.B.S. was sacred. William Jerdan, Editor of the Literary Gazette, was a visitor, and at a late hour he was observed to take a note of a brilliant repartee that had been made.
The President, by whose side he sat, pointed to the motto over the chimney-piece:
“Ne fidos inter amicos