London Clubs: Their History & Treasures

by Ralph Nevill

As has been said, the chocolate-house in St. James’s Street, started by Francis White in 1697, seems to have stood on the site of part of what is now Arthur’s Club. John Arthur at this time was White’s assistant. Here White carried on business till he died in 1711. His widow continued to prosper as proprietress of the house, which became the centre of the fashionable life of the day, and the place from which its amusements were directed. Advertisements in the papers show that “Mrs. White’s Chocolate-House, in St. James’s Street,” was the place of distribution of tickets for all the fashionable amusements of the early years of the eighteenth century. Opera was being produced at the Haymarket, and the announcement of the performance of each new piece is accompanied by the notice that tickets are to be obtained at Mrs. White’s. A little later, Heidegger was taking the town by storm with his masquerades, ridottos, and balls. He was quick to see that Mrs. White’s was an advantageous ground from which to reach his patrons of the aristocracy. He accordingly issued his admissions for these entertainments from White’s, and requested those who were not using them to return them there, in order to prevent their falling into bad hands, and so spoiling the select character of his assemblies.

John James Heidegger was a clever Swiss who, after leading a Bohemian life all over Europe, had come to London, where he had for a time co-operated with Handel in producing opera. His celebrity was chiefly due to a remarkable ability for organizing masquerades.

He was a very ugly man, and knew it. Consequently he would not have his portrait painted. The Duke of Montagu, however, determined to obtain a likeness, in order to play a trick at a masquerade.

The Duke induced the Swiss Count, as he was called, to make one of a select party, which (very appropriately) met to dine at the Devil Tavern. The rest of the company, all chosen for their powers of hard drinking, were in the plot, and a few hours after dinner Heidegger was carried out of the room dead drunk. A daughter of Mrs. Salmon, the waxwork-maker, was sent for, and took a mould from the unconscious man’s face, from which she was ordered to make a cast in wax, and colour it to nature. The King, who was a party to the joke, was to be present, with the Countess of Yarmouth, at the next of Heidegger’s masquerades. The Duke in the mean time bribed his valet to get all the information as to the clothes the Swiss was to wear on the occasion, procured a man of Heidegger’s figure, and, with the help of the mask, made him up into a duplicate master of the revels.

When the King arrived with the Countess and was seated, Heidegger, as was usual, gave the signal to the musicians in the gallery to play the National Anthem. As soon, however, as his back was turned, the sham Heidegger appeared, and ordered them to play “Over the Water to Charlie,” the Jacobite song, and the most insulting and treasonable piece that could have been chosen to perform in the presence of royalty.

The whole room was at once thrown into confusion. Heidegger rushed into the gallery, raved, stamped, and swore, and accused the band of conspiring to ruin him. The bewildered musicians at once altered the tune to “God Save the King.” Heidegger then left the gallery to make some arrangements in one of the smaller rooms.

As soon as he disappeared, the sham Heidegger again came forward, this time in the middle of the main room, in front of the gallery, and, imitating Heidegger’s voice, damned the leader of the band for a blockhead, and asked if he had not told him to play “Over the Water” a minute before. The bandmaster, thinking Heidegger mad or drunk, lost his head, and ordered his men to strike up the Jacobite air a second time.

This was the signal for a confusion worse than before. There was great excitement and fainting of women, and the officers of the Guards who were present were only prevented from kicking Heidegger out of the house by the Duke of Cumberland, who was in the secret. Heidegger rushed back to the theatre, and was met by the Duke of Montagu, who told him that he had deeply offended the King, and that the best thing he could do was to go at once to His Majesty and ask pardon for the behaviour of his men.

Heidegger accordingly approached the King, who, with the Countess, could barely keep his countenance, and made an abject apology. He was in the act of bowing to retire, when he heard his own voice behind him say: “Indeed, Sire, it was not my fault, but that devil’s in my likeness!” He turned round, and for the first time saw his double, staggered, and was speechless. The Duke now saw that the joke had gone far enough, and whispered an explanation of the whole affair. Heidegger recovered himself and the masquerade went on, but he swore he would never attend another until “that witch the wax-woman was made to break the mould and melt down the mask” before his face.

Hogarth’s plate, “Heidegger in a Rage,” was suggested by this story.