called, has enrolled many actors in its lists, and
in the club-books occurs the entry—" J. Kemble
expelled for his mode of conduct." He had
probably been giving himself pompous airs. His
predecessor, Garrick, bring a more genial man,
was very much liked; and one night, when he
had to play Ranger at Drury Lane, of which he
was then manager, he stayed so late with his
brother Steaks that he kept the stage waiting.
He was sent for, and came in hot and breathless.
"I think, David," said Ford, one of the patentees,
"considering the stake you and I have in
this house, you might pay more attention to the
business." "True, my good friend," replied
Garrick; "but I was thinking of my steak in
the other house." Another good thing was said
by Garrick at one of the club dinners. He had
remarked that, in order to prevent irregularities
at the theatre, he always made a point of ticketing
and labelling every play that was to be
returned, so that it might be found in a moment.
"A fig for your hypocrisy!" exclaimed Murphy
across the table. " You know, David, you
mislaid my tragedy two months ago, and I make no
doubt you have lost it." " Yes," replied
Garrick; " but you forget, you ungrateful dog, that
I offered you more than its value, for you might
have had two manuscript farces in its stead.''
We ought not to dismiss the Steaks without
mentioning old Captain Charles Morris, the bard
of the club, who wrote indifferent poetry (called
by courtesy Anacreontic), brewed the finest of
punch, made himself universally beloved for his
good nature and joyous spirits, and died in 1838,
at the patriarchal age of ninety-two.

Perhaps the most conspicuous figure of last
century in connexion with clubs was that of Dr.
Johnson. He founded the Ivy Lane Club, the
Essex Head Club, and the Literary Club—the
last-named in conjunction with Sir Joshua
Reynolds. The Literary Club is on many accounts
the most famous association of the kind in
modern London. It still goes on, though under
the changed name of the Johnson Club; but it
has become so exclusive in its composition that
it no longer answers the purposes for which it
was originally designed. It commenced in
September, 1764; and in the same month, the year
before last, the centenary of the club was
celebrated by a dinner at the Clarendon Hotel,
where the members now meet a—dinner at
which the venerable Lord Brougham was
present. The meetings were originally held at the
Turk's Head in Gerard-street, but several
migrations took place in successive years, and for a
long while the sittings were at the Thatched
House, St. James's-street. When we recollect
that in its early days this club consisted of Johnson
himself, Reynolds, Burke, Gibbon,
Goldsmith, Garrick, Boswell, George Colman the
Elder, Sir William Jones, and others of the
literary circles of that brilliant time, we must
acknowledge that the Literary Club occupied high
ground indeed. Johnson was so resolved to
maintain a lofty standard, that he black-balled, or
threatened to black-ball, Garrick, who for some
years was excluded, to his great mortification;
but he was admitted at last. " Sir," said Johnson
to Thrale, " I love my little David dearly—
better than all or any of his flatterers do; but
surely one ought to sit in a society like ours,

Unelbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or player."

It was an illiberal, a foolish, and an unkind
remark; akin to the testy exclamation, applied to
the same individual, " Pooh! Punch has no feelings!"
But it may have been provoked by an
inconsiderate speech of Garrick's to Sir Joshua
Reynolds with respect to the Literary Club.
"I like it much," he is reported to have said; " I
think I shall be of you." " He'll be of us!"
exclaimed Johnson, very indignantly, when this
was reported to him. " How does he know we
will permit him? The first duke in England has
no right to hold such language." The last time
Johnson dined at the Literary Club, which was
only a short time before his death in 1784, one
of the company was Lord Palmerston, father of
the man who only a year ago was Prime Minister
of this country. It was in the October of
that very year that the late Premier was born.

There have been various clubs which, arising
out of some whimsical feeling, have kept their
place in club history for their oddity alone.
Thus we read in the Spectator of a club of
Uglies, a club of Dwarfs, a club of Tall Men, a
club of Fat Men, a club of One-eyed Men, and
an Everlasting Club, the rule of which was that
the members who were at any time sitting were
on no account to rise until they were relieved by
another set, so that, by a judicious apportionment
of the four-and-twenty hours, the club was
perpetually in session. It is difficult to say,
however, to what extent the account given of these
clubs is fictitious and jocose, and how far it may
be relied on as truthful. But there was really a
club called " The Eccentrics" in the earlier years
of the present century, and it boasted some of
the most brilliant names in literature and
statesmanship. The great modern clubs are, as we
have said, scarcely " clubbable" in their character.
But the associations of which Douglas
Jerrold was the leading spirit—the Mulberry
Club, the Museum Club, and some others—were
quite after the fashion of the Johnsonian period;
and since 1831 the Garrick has drawn together a
large number of authors, actors, painters, and
persons interested in the arts and amenities of
civilised life.

Now ready, in One Volume, post 8vo,
AUNT MARGARET'S TROUBLE.
London: CHAPMAN and HALL, 193, Piccadilly