of a Behrens descending on their peace, strengthened her resolution.

"Yon weedow woman doesn't want my company," he growled, "and I'm far from wanting hers!"

"She does want you; she has pined for you these many months, and has only given up asking you because your refusals were so persistent, that no woman with any self-respect could go on insisting. Besides, I wrote a note this morning to say we were coming."

He was further inwardly troubled on the subject of his dress, and inclined to be sceptical over Tilly's superior knowledge; and he developed so many dangerous and revolutionary theories in the course of their argument, that she finally became a little peremptory. At her threat of summoning Colonel Drew or Mr. Sherrington-who were certain to decide against the possibility of appearing in a lady's drawing-room with walking boots and a coloured tie-he professed at first to be mighty scornful; but he finally wavered and gave in.

She spent so much time over the question of his toilet, that she left herself but five minutes to make her own. But her happiness that night gave a radiance to her beauty that nothing could spoil; and even in her haste she remembered to gratify his love of splendour. In driving home that afternoon they had called at the bank where the diamonds were deposited, and she borrowed them for the night. The suggestion was hers, and it was born of her gratitude.

She knew that she was offending against one of the unwritten laws which were such frequent stumbling-blocks in her social path, in proposing to wear them; and that no well brought-up girl would dream of appearing in such a blaze of splendour until matrimony gave her its sanction; but what cared she, so long as she gave him pleasure?

And she pleased him hugely. When she came in in her bright, shimmering gown, that fitted her like the sheath of a flower, with the flash of jewels about her throat, and in her sunny hair, and, above all, with that new-born happiness in her smile, he forgot himself the insult of his forced concession to fashion, the tight encasement of his feet, the embarrassing newness of his coat; and stood amazed and wondering before her.

"You're as fine as ye can hing, my lass," he said, reverting to a native idiom in his strenuous satisfaction. "There won't be one there that can hold a candle to ye."

CURIOUS CLUBS.

were

THE earliest club of which we have any record was "The Mermaid,” in Friday Street, afterwards removed "to the Apollo Room" at "The Devil," in Fleet Street. And, in this instance, the first was the greatest, for not even "The Literary Club," of which Samuel Johnson, Edmund Burke, Garrick, and Goldsmith, members, could compare with that which, founded by Raleigh, included Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Selden, and most of the other wits of Elizabeth's time. Imagination may help us to picture that incomparable assemblage. There at the head of the table, in his chair of state, is the herculean form of the Presi dent, "rare Ben Jonson," with his rugged, ill-carved features lighted up with intellectual fire, and his deep-set eyes gleaming beneath their bushy pent-house brows with witty malice, as in stentorian accents he levels some thunderbolts of satire against friend or foe-for he spared neither; near at hand is the noble, pensive face of the "Sweet Swan of Avon," illumined by the merry humour of the moment; and Raleigh's handsome countenance, bronzed on the Spanish main, bringing with it a flavour of sea and camp; and there is stately Burbadge, who, after playing Hamlet, has come from "Blackfriars" in company with his "First Gravedigger," roguish Will Kemp. And so we may dream on, until we have marshalled before the mind's eye all the wit, and learning, and gallantry of that incomparable time.

Clubs did not flourish during the troublous times of Charles the First and the Commonwealth, though in the latter time there was the celebrated "Rata," established by James Harrington, the author of "Oceana," for the discussion of religious and political opinions. During the reign of Charles the Second, the more bitter Anabaptists, Presbyterians, and Republicans formed the notorious Calves' Head Club in derision of the Royalists. Doubts have been thrown upon the authenticity of the accounts given of the proceedings at these assemblies; but they were pretty nearly after the following style. The staple dishes at table was a calf's head, symbolical of the dead King, though occasionally a cod's head served the same purpose; a pike with a small fish in its mouth, symbolical of tyranny; and a boar's head, with an apple in its mouth, was the sign of bestiality. A

copy of Charles's book, "Ikon Basilike," was burned; an anthem of praise was sung for his execution; and the healths of those who had compassed it, were drunk from a calf's skull filled with wine.

Notorious among the clubs of the closing years of the seventeenth and early decades of the eighteenth century, were "the Mug House Clubs." A book by an unknown author, entitled "A Journey through England," gives the following description of his visit to one of these symposia.

"But the most diverting of all is the Mug House Club, in Long Acre. They have a grave old gentleman, in his own gray hairs, now within a few months of ninety years old, who is their President, and sits in an arm-chair, some steps higher than the rest of the company, to keep the whole room in order. A harp plays all the time at the lower end of the room; and every now and then, one or other of the company rises and entertains the rest with a song. Here is nothing drunk but ale, and every gentleman hath his separate mug, which he chalks on the table where he sits, as it is brought in, and everyone retires when he pleases, as in a coffee-room. The room is always so diverted with songs and drinking from one table to another to one another's health, there is no room for politics or anything than sour conversation. One must be there by seven to get room, and after ten the company are, for the most part, gone."

"The Mug" was supposed to represent the Earl of Shaftesbury, or "Ugly Mug," the Achitophel of Dryden's great satire, and the best hated man in England. So far, however, from these assemblies not being political, they became rabidly so in the time of William the Third.

In the reign of Anne there was a mania for clubs. Addison, in one of the early numbers of the "Spectator," gives an amusing sketch of the curious clubs of his time. He tells us that in a considerable market town was established a club of fat men; the room in which the meetings were held had two entrances, one by a door of moderate size, the other by a pair of folding doors; if a candidate could make his entrance through the first he was unqualified; but if he stuck in the passage, the folding doors were immediately thrown open for his reception, and he was hailed as a brother. Though the club consisted of only fifteen persons, it weighed three tons! In opposition to this society was the "Scarecrows or Skele

tons," and such deadly strife arose between the two that it was found necessary each year to select one of the two magistrates from each of these clubs, so that they were coupled like rabbits-one fat, one lean. There were the "Humdrum" and the "Mum" Clubs, where the members sat together, smoked their pipes, and never spoke. These at least were harmless; not so the Duellists' Club, to which no one was admitted who had not fought his man. The President was said to have killed half-a-dozen in single combat, and other members took their seats according to the number of their slain. Of an even worse type was the "Mohock Club," long the terror of the London streets. The literature of the period abounds in references to these miscreants; but Steele gives the best account of them. After drinking themselves to a state of madness, they would sally forth into the streets and attack everyone they met. "Some," to quote our author's words, "are knocked down, others stabbed, others cut and carbonadoed. To put the watch to a total rout, and mortify some of those inoffensive militia is reckoned a 'coup d'état.' The particular talents by which these misanthropes are distinguished from one another, consist in the various kinds of barbarities which they execute upon their prisoners. Some are celebrated for a happy dexterity in tipping the lion upon them-which is performed by squeezing the nose flat to the face and boring out the eyes with their fingers; others are called the dancing-masters, and teach their scholars to cut capers by running swords through their legs; and a third sort, are the Tumblers, whose office it is to set women on their heads, and so on.” Famous among the Queen Anne clubs was the Kit-Cat, held at a noted mutton-pie house in Shire Lane, Temple Bar-now covered by the New Law Courts. It was kept by one Christopher Cat, and originated in a weekly dinner given by the celebrated bookseller, Jacob Tonson, to literary men, as we are told in the following verses, written by one of the members, in which Jacob, spelt backwards, becomes Bocaj: One night in seven, at this convenient seat, Indulgent Bocaj did the Muses treat; Their drink was gen'rous wine, and Kit-Cat's pyes Hence did the assembly's title first arise, And Kit-Cat wits spring first from Kit-Cat pyes.

their meat,

The great Duke of Marlborough, the first Earl of Dorset, the famous Lord Halifax, Sir Robert Walpole, Congreve, Gay, Steele, Addison, were all members. The club was afterwards removed to Barn

Elms. It was as much political as literary, only Whigs being admissible. In opposition to this was the October Club, entirely composed of Tory squires, so called from their drinking old October. It was held at the Bell Tavern, King Street, Westminster.

Most famous of all the curious clubs of the last century, was the "Beef Steak." There was more than one society that took its name from the favourite English dish. The first was held at a tavern in the Old Jewry. But the "Beef Steak" best known to posterity, was that founded by John Rich, the most celebrated of harlequins, and manager of Covent Garden Theatre, from its erection in 1733, to the time of his death.

The "Beef Steak" held its meetings in the Theatre until the house was burned down in 1808. After a short stay at the Bedford Coffee House, it was removed to the Lyceum, where it continued until its break-up in 1867. The members were strictly confined to twenty-four; even, when the Prince Regent was put up for admission, he had to wait his turn. The members met once a week to eat steaks, no other dish being allowed, and to drink old port. At the end of the dining-room was a large grating in the form of a gridiron, through which the fire was seen, and the steaks handed from the kitchen. Over this was inscribed a quotation from Macbeth:

If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly.

A notable "steaker was the Duke of Norfolk, of whose appetite the most extraordinary stories are told. He was known to eat six steaks at a sitting, his ordinary allowance being four; and he usually preceded these feeds by a little fish dinner, "just to get his stomach into play." It must have been a sight to see him with his silver gridiron, a badge worn by all, rubbing a clean plate with a shalot in front of the grating, waiting for his next.

During the hundred and odd years of this club's existence, there were few famous men who did not belong to it. Perfect equality reigned among the members; and the last made, even were he of Royal blood, was the fag of the

Sir Francis Dashwood, at his residence, Medmenham Abbey, formerly an ancient Cistercian Convent, situated on the banks of the Thames, not far from Taplow. The Monks were twelve in number, and included among others John Wilkes, the demagogue, and "the mysteries" they assembled to celebrate were blasphemous mockeries of the rites of the Roman Catholic Church.

The best description of this vile association is that given by Charles Johnstone, in his novel, "The Adventures of a Guinea." He tells how the most sacred rites of religion were burlesqued on the initiation of a novice, and how at supper time, dressed in their monkish garbs, "the members sat down to a banquet in the chapel in honour of the occasion, at which nothing the most refined luxury, the most lascivious imagination, could suggest to provoke and gratify appetite, was wanting, both the superiors and inferiors (who were permitted to take their places at the lower end of the table as soon as they had served the banquet), vying with each other in loose songs and dissertations of such gross lewdness and daring impiety as despair may be supposed to dictate to the damned."

The end of the last and the early years of the present century were fertile in curious clubs. There was one instituted by that notorious "roué," Lord Barrymore, known as "Hell-gate Barrymore," his two brothers being called-the one Cripplegate, on account of his lameness; and the other "Newgate," because it was said he had seen the inside of every prison in Europe; while his sister, on account, as Mrs. Malaprop says, of her "nice derangement of epitaphs," was well named "Billingsgate.

The club referred to was named "The Blue Bottle," or "The Humbugs;" its meetings were held in a tavern under Covent Garden Piazza, and it was called "The Humbugs," on account of the manner in which members were initiated. Two candidates were always introduced at the same time, and the point was to set them quarrelling as soon as they were seated. It did not matter how trivial might be the cause of difference, the members would take opposite sides, and exasperate the disputants to abuse, and sometimes blows. When matters grew serious, Barrymore would interfere and inform the victims that they had both been humbugged, and were consequently elected. He had long pressed Incledon, the celebrated singer, to become

meetings at a tavern in Chandos Street, Covent Garden.

In these sober, monotonous days, curious clubs, and, indeed, specialist clubs, have almost ceased to exist; the old cosy gatherings of congenial spirits have swollen into a sort of subscription hotel, where one half the members are unknown to the other half. "The Garrick" is flooded by City men; and even "The Savage" admits people who have only the most hazy connection with literature, art, or the drama; the very idea of whose admission would have been scouted by the original founders.

BREWERS AND OTHERS.

THE falling leaves, and the last days of October, bring the brewers quite naturally upon the carpet. The brewers, and licensed victuallers, and kindred trades have their show at this time of the year; and, curiously enough, although the thing seems doubtful at the first breath, yet here is matter also attractive for the professional teetotaller, or, as he prefers to be called, the "abstainer." For the kindred trades include the mineral-water business. That there should be an alliance between beer and pop, other than shandygaff, for which it is not quite the season of the year, is certainly one of the signs of the times. The mineral-water van is becoming as universally evident in our streets as the brewer's dray-in the season of the year, that is-for, like the unfortunate abstainer who appeared before his time in the mellow old catch, "it falls when the leaves fall," and dies in October "-that is to say, the van is laid up, and the horses go to the hammer, four-and-twenty or more in a string, "sound, useful mineral vanners," as they are styled in the auctioneers' catalogues when they appear at the mart in St. Martin's Lane or the Barbican.

All this betokens a change in public requirements. Strong and heavy drinks are going out of date with the strong heads which were able to withstand their potency. Like Cassio, the present generation has to confess that it has poor and unhappy brains for drinking. Hence the demand for a light and wholesome beverage, which is making itself felt in every branch of the trade. It is a demand, indeed, which is very imperfectly responded to. The light and wholesome ale which is really the beau ideal of a temperance beverage, and which quenches the thirst of a worker as nothing

else can quench it, is more often sought than found, thanks, in a great measure, to the trammels which fetter the tradetrammels of duties and licenses which effectually hinder the economical distribution of the national drink.

Brewing, however, is a matter that "passeth show." Its processes do not lend themselves readily to picturesque illustration. A field of golden barley is indeed a pleasant sight; but a row of malt-kilns, such as we may see at Newark or at Ware, have but a prosaic aspect. And delightful as we may find a hop garden in Kent, with its poles festooned and garlanded with luxuriant vines, and clustered with golden hops, with its baskets and bins, and groups of hop-pickers, yet, when the hops are pressed, and packed, and sent to the warehouse, there is no more question about them except as to prices current. Nor is there much of interest in brewers' vats, unless of a technical kind; and the myɛteries of the trade promise no enthralling revelations to the outside public. Whether the method be that of London, of Dublin, or of Burton, the outward appearance of the process is pretty much the same. vats, the steam, the drays, the casks, the rich odours, and all prevailing beeriness are there.

The

But a glance at the Brewers' Exhibitions shows us that if the brewer has not much to show, he has a good deal to see; while an outsider may well be astonished at the number of trades and professions which minister to the wants of the brewer; if he be also a maltster, so much the better. There are brewers' architects to erect his buildings; skilled geologists to advise him as to his wells and springs, for it is evident that good water is at the root of good beer, and a degree more or less of hardness or softness may make all the difference, between the making of a colossal fortune, or the filing of a petition in bankruptcy; then there are well-sinkers to carry out the practical part of the water problem, and engineers with pumps and cisterns; others are ready with barley washers and barley graders, with steeping cisterns, and with valves of all kinds and fittings for the same. Then there are malt roasters and malt screens, and, indeed, everything the maltster can want-his barrows, his casks, his huge shovels, his hoveltops, down to brooms, and mops, and list slippers, with the various apparatus of delicate tests of quality and temperature, which go to furnish forth the complete maltster.