the original design of clubs, in the time of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson. Men's minds had been forcibly turned to politics by late events, and if this disposition to "trade and traffic with affairs of state" had seemed to sleep awhile in the commencement of Charles's reign, when everything else was forgotten in the momentary access of joy, it was soon to be aroused again with more activity than ever. Goaded by the arts of the profligate Earl of Shaftesbury, the people were well-nigh mad with terror; the spectre of a Popish Church was incessantly present to their imaginations; and three fourths of London went to bed, fully expecting, with the Irishman, to wake next morning and find their throats cut. But it was necessary to the ends of the party that the ferment should be kept up in all its vigor. If once the nation was allowed time to cool and recover from its alarm, their power, and perhaps even their safety, would be brought into serious compromise; and hence arose the institution of The King's Head Club, the first club in which politics were substituted for wit, learning, and companionship. There is a curious and not uninteresting account of this society in Roger North's "Examen,” and as it would, perhaps, rather lose than gain by being translated into any other language, we shall give the passage in his own old-fashioned style:

"We had a more visible administration, mediate, as it were, between his lordship and the greater or lesser vulgar, who were to be the immediate tools. And this was the club called originally The King's Head Club. The gentlemen of that worthy society held their evening sessions continually at the King's Head Tavern, over against the Inner Temple Gate. But upon occasion of the signal of a green ribbon, agreed to be worn in their hats in the days of street engagements, like the coats of arms of valiant knights of old, whereby all the warriors of the society might be distinguished, and not mistake friends. for enemies, they were called also The Green Ribbon Club. Their seat was a sort of carfour [carrefour] at Chancery-Lane end, a centre of business and company most proper for such anglers of fools. The house was double balconied in the front, as may yet be seen, for the clubsters to issue forth in fresco, with hats and no peruques, pipes in their mouths, merry faces, and dilated throats, for vocal encouragement of the canaglia below, at bonfires, on usual and unusual occasions. They admitted all strangers that were confidingly introduced, for it

was a main end of their institution to make proselytes, especially of the raw, estated youth, newly come to town. This copious society were to the faction in and about London a sort of executive power, and by correspondence all over England. The resolves of the more retired councils and ministry of the faction were brought in here, and orally insinuated to the company, whether it were lies, defamations, commendations, projects, &c., and so, like water diffused, spread all over the town, whereby that which was digested at the club over night was like nourishment at every assembly, male and female, the next day. And thus the younglings tasted of political administration, and took themselves for notable counsellors.

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"The conversation and ordinary discourse of the club was chiefly upon the subject of bravour, in defending the cause of liberty and property; and what every true Protestant and Englishman ought to venture and do, rather than be overrun with Popery and slavery. There was much recommendation of silk armor, and the prudence of being provided with it against the time that Protestants were massacred. And accordingly there was abundance of those silken back, breast, and head pots made and sold, that were pretended to be pistol-proof, in which any man dressed up was as safe as in a house, for it was impossible any one would go to strike him for laughing, so ridiculous was the figure, as they say, of hogs in armor, derision insensible, but to the view as I have had it. armor of defence; but our sparks were not altogether so tame to carry their provision no farther, for truly they intended to be assailants upon fair occasion! and had for that end recommended also to them a certain pocket-weapon, which for its design and efficacy had the honor to be called a Protestant flail. It was for street and crowd work, and the engine, lying perdu in a coat pocket, might readily sally out to execution, and so by clearing a great hall, or piazza, or so, carry an election by a choice way of polling, called knocking down. The handle represented a farrier's blood stick, and the fall was joined to the end by a strong nervous ligature, that in its swing fell just short of the hand, and was made of lignum vitæ, or rather, as the poet termed it, mortis.”

This satirical description is in all likelihood somewhat overcharged, but it presents a striking picture of the club in question, and of the times in which it existed. Cruikshanks, unrivalled as he is in his own art, never placed the follies of his day in a more ludicrous light, even with the advantage of presenting to the eye what is here only suggested to the imagination.

"Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem,

Quam quæ sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus."

Yet dull indeed must be the fancy that, on reading this lively narrative, does not picture to itself the meeting of the club in all its reality. The grotesque fear of the weak and timid, showing itself in Protestant flails and silk head-pieces; the bravado of the natural boaster; the busy gossip, and eager hunting after alarm, of others; and the sardonic faces of Shaftesbury and his intimates, who had set the whole machine in motion, and were laughing in their sleeves at their more simple associates, all is present to the mind's eye in this description. The extract, too, is curious in another respect; it shows the ground whereon Sir Walter Scott had been poaching in his " Peveril of the Peak," and the matchless dexterity with which he assimilated to his own text the collectanea of his multifarious reading.

The club of ancient times, such as we have been describing it, exists no longer, or only amongst the middle or lower classes. The aristocratic combination of our days, which is so called, is a club in name only, if the word is to be interpreted by what it was used to signify in its origin, and through a long course of years, up to a very recent period. Formerly, as we have just seen, it meant a social meeting of a select few, held at stated intervals, and at some public tavern, whereas now it has lost every one of these attributes. Some of these modern assemblages are exclusively confined to members of the army and navy, others to university men, others, again, to travellers, this to conservatives, and that to reformers; but in all, a certain degree of wealth, and a certain status in society, seem to be the indispensable conditions of admission. Now, too, each club has its own proper mansion built at its own cost, with every accommodation that luxury can demand, and invention, bribed to the utmost, can supply. Without, they present some of the best specimens of modern architecture; within, they are palaces for velvet-shod Sybarites.

Before mentioning them, however, we must first briefly describe a club once of great notoriety, and in many respects of an order somewhat analogous to the old tavern clubs, —

the celebrated Beefsteak Club, established about the middle of the last century, and arising out of the circumstance of some now forgotten peer having called upon a noted actor or theatrical artist of the day, and being so hugely tickled by the flavor of a beefsteak, which the Thespian was cooking on a gridiron, seasoned by all the wit belonging, from time immemorial, to the erratic sons of Thalia, that he invited himself to return with a friend on the following Saturday, and, the entertainment proving equally agreeable to others, it was afterwards repeated once a week. In the early part of the present century especially, this club was particularly celebrated. It was removed to more commodious premises; but the old fare of beefsteaks exclusively was still maintained, and the old custom of cooking them in the room was rigidly observed. Brougham, Sheridan, and, at an earlier period, Fox, with the celebrated Duke of Norfolk, and a host of others, were members, spicing the somewhat humble fare by their glowing convivial powers. The last-named nobleman, however, was by no means satisfied with such simple entertainment; for, after imbibing his six bottles, he would proceed to some of the taverns of Covent Garden in the neighborhood, and there order green peas and an ortolan, at a time when the former were three guineas a pint. Being by no means either refined in appearance, or nice in his habits, he was on one of these occasions mistaken by a novice of a waiter for a debauched gardener from the adjoining market, and the Garden Ganymede was on the point of kicking him to the door for his presumed impertinence, when he luckily took the precaution of informing the landlord that "that drunken cabbage-grower had ordered an ortolan." "If he orders a dozen, give him them immediately," was mine host's prompt reply; and after gloriously falling, as was the custom in those days, under the influence of sundry tumblers of brandy or bowls of punch, his Grace was, on the shoulders of six porters, borne triumphantly to bed.

Upon entering the hall of a modern club-house, you find it tenanted by the hall porter, who is seated at a desk, and an assistant servant, their business being to receive messages, answer inquiries, and take care that no unauthorized persons

gain admission. It is their duty also to take in letters, and keep an account of the postage; and, for the further despatch of this part of the business, there is a letter-box, into which the various missives are dropped, and which is only opened upon the arrival of the carrier from the regular receivinghouses. In many of the clubs two or three liveried lads are kept in waiting, chiefly for the purpose of conveying messages from visitors to any of the members. Should a stranger wish to see his friend, there is a reception-room close to the hall, where he may wait, provided his appearance should seem in the eyes of the attendants to justify so much respect; but the old Roman proverb holds good here as well as elsewhere," Non cuivis homini contingit adire Corinthum"; for according to the fashion of your garments are the chances of your admission into the reception-room of a club-house.

We must, however, quote briefly from our author:

"Various doors opening from the vestibule lead to the several apartments upon the ground-floor, each of which has its peculiar object and designation. The first to be noticed is the morning-room, where the members meet to write letters and read the journals, which, in most of the clubs, are taken in with very little choice or restriction, except where a strong party feeling may operate to the exclusion of any journal. A republican journal, for instance, would hardly find its way into the morning-room of the Conservative; but such exceptions are very rare, and, in general, this matter is conducted with the utmost liberality. Even stationery is supplied to the members without stint or limit; and we remember to have heard of a certain popular author, now deceased, that he was in the habit of writing his novels at his club.

"The coffee-room differs in nothing but its superior elegance from the same apartment in any fashionable tavern. Rows of small tables project from each side, leaving a wide open space up the middle, for the convenience of passing to and fro. These are laid for breakfasts and luncheons, from a rather late hour in the morning till four o'clock, when, in stage phrase, the scene is struck, and the usual arrangements are made for dinner. Here the member who may wish to dine is duly supplied with a carte de jour, or, in plain English, with the daily bill of fare, from which he has the same privilege of selection that he would have at any tavern, and with the certainty that whatever he orders will be the best of its kind, and cooked in the first style of cookery. The attendants upon him are numerous and well chosen. First, there is the