LITERARY CLUBS.

WHY

HY have we so few literary clubs in our western cities? Is it because there are not men enough in them who have sufficient culture to enjoy a weekly or monthly interchange of thought on literary and social themes, or because we are so engrossed with worldly caresso interested in grain and beeves, pine boards, and corner-lots,- that we grudge every hour that is spent in a way that does not swell our pile of greenbacks? Perhaps there are some scholars and thinkers among us who doubt the expediency of clubs altogether; and if, by the term, is meant a society such as are the majority of those in our eastern cities and in England, we do not wonder that the most thoughtful and intelligent of our citizens look upon them with distrust. Clubs of this kind are composed of persons of similar standing, who own or hire a building for their common resort, where they go to lounge, chat, hear or read the news, play cards or chess, drink, get a good meal at a reduced price, or to have a "grand supper," in which all join. They pay the regular charges, have the run of the house at all times by night and by day, and the place is, to many, a home.

For unmarried men such a place has many charms; it affords unrivalled opportunities for reading, conversation and refreshment, and many an hour is spent there pleasantly, if not profitably, which might otherwise drag

heavily, or be wasted in debasing occupations. But upon a married man the influence of such a club may justly be regarded with a suspicious eye. Not only does it consume a vast amount of time, of which his wife and children can ill afford to be cheated, but it offers amusements and pleasures that gradually destroy his relish for the quiet enjoyments of home and the family circle, and fosters a habit of going abroad for that happiness which should be sought by his own fireside, among those to whom he is bound by the dearest ties that can bind a human being. The grand suppers of such clubs are too often mere scenes of debauchery, where intellectual conversation is unknown, and where a man's merit is estimated by the length of time during which he can, Gargantua-like, stuff himself with "links and chitterlings," and by the number of bottles of champagne or sherry which he can carry under his belt without rolling under the table. There is a roaring hour of shortlived festivity, the very violence of which precludes the possibility of true enjoyment; the revellers reel to their lodging-places to be tortured with dyspepsia and nightmare, and in the morning they awake to the disagreeable experiences of headaches and soda water.

Even in England, the birthplace of the club, it is beginning to be felt that such societies have another side besides the one commonly presented to the casual observer. The admirers of the club are compelled to admit that while it has elegance, ease, comfort, luxury, absence of care, it has also emptiness and ennui. A time comes at last to every habitué when the appetite palls, when the senses become sated, when the keen edge of the sensibilities is blunted, when the happiness ceases to satisfy and the pleasures lose the power of pleasing. The man loses more than the animal gains.

A writer in a London journal complains that there is that in club life, at best, which deoxygenizes the air of its fair humanities and ethereal spiritualities, and, the more one breathes of it, the less he lives. The truth is, says the writer, man is by nature a home being, and needs that contact with feminine natures, that harmonizing of his will and his ways with those of another creature of a finer make and mould,- that discipline of mind and heart which a home, and nothing but a home, affords, to keep him in his best estate, and develop what is finest and sweetest and noblest in his manysided nature. The petty cares, the minute anxieties, the infinite littles which go to make up the sum of human experience, like the invisible granules of powder, give the last and highest polish to a character. The sexes were made for each other; it is from the other that each gets the most and the best of the material for its culture; and no scheme that ignores this truth can ever succeed, because the sentiments, the instincts, the irrepressible yearnings of human nature, are all against it.

Such are not the societies which we wish to establish. The clubs we would have formed are purely literary, like the Literary Club of London, formed by the wits of Johnson's time, and of which he was the monarch—or, rather, the despot. That club had no house of its own, and, consequently, no heavy expenses, but met either at taverns, or at the houses of its members. There are no pleasanter, no more profitable, reunions than the clubs of our own day that are thus organized. Made up of cultivated and thoughtful men, who keenly feel and appreciate the benefits of social intercourse, and who meet, not to babble, but for the interchange of their ripest thought, and because they know that the brightest sparks of wit and wisdom are oftener elicited by the

friction of mind with mind than by months of solitary cogitation or isolated study, they call into exercise the highest social qualities, and eminently favor all generous culture. There you may meet painters, poets, philosophers, statesmen, clergymen, lawyers, doctors, engineers, -representative men of the professions,- who love to steal an evening hour or two from the busy pursuits. of life, and engage in literary colloquy, wrestling with some amicable antagonist, or pouring out the "hived. honey of the mind" for the delight and edification of congenial companions. Such a meeting is not a robbery of home. It sets up no antagonism with domestic enjoyments and duties; it involves no costly expenditure, no waste of time; it is no wild hotel scramble for excitement; it is a calm and healthful recreation, which refreshes the overtasked brain, soothes the jaded nerves, pours the oil of joy and gladness into the heart, and prepares one to fight with redoubled vigor and courage the battle of life.

Such a club, properly managed, has other merits besides those that are intellectual. It is a school of the heart, a university for the training of kindly feelings. There is a wide difference between general acquaintance and companionship. You may salute a man, and exchange compliments with him daily, yet know nothing of his character, his inmost tastes and feelings,— see but a single phase of his intellect; while the converse of a few hours, in the unrestricted freedom of a club, may disclose the treasures of his heart and brain, and enable you to detect the nobleness of his aims and the redness of his blood. It has been justly said that the greatest discovery of our lives is that the world is not so bad as, in the first disappointment of youth's extravagant expectations, we are disposed to regard it. The pas

sage from boyhood to manhood is "over the bridge of sighs;" and our first experiences of life as it is, resemble the flavor of the forbidden apple — we are enlightened and' miserable. Gladly would we command. the secret of feeling as we cnce did; but, alas! every day takes from us some happy error,- some charming illusion,- never to return. We are reasoned or ridiIculed out of all our jocund mistakes, till we are just wise enough to be miserable, and we exclaim with Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, "To my extreme mortification, I find myself growing wiser and wiser every day." But a time comes, at length, when our views are more just. We leave our imaginary Eden with "solemn step and slow," and begin to appreciate the good qualities of those whose friendship we thought hollow, and the necessity of that labor which we deemed a curse. We exchange ecstacy for content, and, "forgetting the four rivers of our ideal heaven, open our eyes to the manifold beauties of earth,- its skies islanded by stars, and its oceans starred by islands; its sunshines and calms, and the goodness of its great heart, which sends forth trees, and flowers, and fruits, for our benefit and exultation.” To that education of mind and heart which insures satisfaction with our lot, which leads us to enjoy the sweet of life as it comes up, while we laugh at the bitter,- which stiffens our muscles and sinews for the tiger-like struggles of life, we believe that well-conducted clubs conduce.

Intercourse is, after all, man's best teacher. "Know thyself" is an excellent maxim; but even self-knowledge cannot be perfected in closets and cloisters,nor amid lake scenery, and on the sunny side of the mountains. Men who seldom mix with their fellows are almost sure to become one-sided, the victims of