good half-hour's drenching, to the infinite merriment
of all the inhabitants. At night, Sir John
Fairfield was burnt in effigy amidst a large bonfire
made in a meadow just outside the town.

LONDON MUSICAL CLUBS.

MR. LAVROCK was an old bachelor, dry
and reserved, until you mounted him on
his hobby. He lived in Gerrard Street,
Soho, played the tenor fiddle, attended two
notorious quartette clubs in the neighbourhood,
and was personally known to most
London musical men. He was a member of
the Philharmonic, of the Sacred Harmonic
Society, of the Madrigal Society, of the Catch
Club, of the Melodists' Club, of the Glee
Club, of the Round Catch and Canon Club, to
a dinner of which last he had invited me.
We were in a spacious well-furnished apartment
in his house, half-library, half-dining-
room, leading into a smaller dressing-room, to
which Mr. Lavrock retreated to arrange his
cravat and hat, dust his boots, and assume his
walking-cane and gloves. A bust of Handel
dominated the book-case; a portrait of Samuel
Webbe, the celebrated glee-writer, surmounted
the fire-place; and two violins in their cases
lay upon the oak shelves of a "what-not,"
ensconced on three sides by music racks and
large tomes of printed and manuscript
compositions. Mr. Lavrock came out properly
disposed, and, taking my arm, proceeded in
his talk as we walked to our destination at
the Freemasons Tavern, Great Queen Street,
Lincoln's Inn, London.

"The club, my dear Sir, to which we are
bound," said the old gentleman, " pursues the
old English custom of crowning its avocations
with the social festivities of the dinner-table.
The charities, the guilds or companies, the
professions, the authorities of our Great
Metropolis, do nothing creditably without
public dinners. The Ministers enjoy the
clatter of plates at their Whitebait anniversaries.
The people welcome their favourite
orators at their favourite dining taverns. The
Mansion House convivialities are, to the
citizens, the landmarks of the year's progress.
Under the sacred mahogany tree assemble
the Sewers, Navigation, Bridge Approaches,
Irish Estates, Paving and Lighting, and
Drainage Committees. Lawyers congratulate
the new Judge at the Albion; Doctors hold
their mystic banquets at the Thatched House.
The Literary Fund refreshes itself at the
Freemasons Tavern; while the Royal Academy
feasts its patrons in state in "the premises"
at Trafalgar Square. So, in its humble fashion,
does our Musical Club invigorate its energies
and purpose by a series of dinners. Our
members are professional and non-professional,
and we all pay for admission, to preserve that
proper equality which can alone sustain such
meetings. The season subscription for
professionals is three guineas; for non-professionals
five guineas. Our season commences
with well-brewed beer in October, and ends
with oysters in March or April.

"There are two-and-thirty members: our
officers are a Chancellor of the Exchequer
(actually our Treasurer), a Librarian (who
keeps our music), and a Clerk of the Records,
who notes the attendance, &c., of members,
and the performances of the Society. The
dinners are plain: soup, fish, and joints, one
pint of sherry or port; for each member—
such being included in our subscription. He
who drinks more, pays more. But you will
best appreciate our arrangements, when you
have tasted our hospitality.

"We do not arrogate to ourselves,"
musingly, resumed Mr. Lavrock, who had been
interrupted by an appeal from a crossing-
sweeper, "we do not arrogate to ourselves a
very respectable age; we are but some ten or
twelve years old; but we flatter ourselves
with our precocity; and some of our members
cry up our superiority above all the other
musical clubs in town. There's the Madrigal
Society, born 1771, begotten by a reduced
attorney, a Mr. John Immyns, who
maintained himself as amanuensis to Dr. Pepusch,
and copyist to the Society. 'He sought,' says
an intelligent writer in Mr. Charles Knight's
'London,'  'for disciples at the loom and in
the workshop. They met at the Twelve
Bells in Bride Lane; and their expenses for
music, books, paper, and refreshments, were
all defrayed by a quarterly subscription of
five shillings. Their performance of the
glorious madrigals written a century or so
previously, attracted all the first musical men
of the day; and on their books appear the
names of Dr. Arne, Sir J. Hawkins, Drs.
Cooke and Calcott.'

"There's the Catch Club, founded on the
pleasant evenings of Purcell, Eccles, and Wise,
and other viveurs in King Charles the Second's
time, where, if any member between the
sittings of the Club come to a fortune or
wife, he makes the members share in his good
luck, by paying a fine into the common
treasury. There's the Glee Club, too, which
came into existence in 1787, under the
auspices of Samuel Webbe, whose portrait
adorns my rooms. This Samuel Webbe, let
me tell you, was a truly great man, in
reversing his own destiny; he was originally
apprenticed to a cabinet-maker, but he abjured
the trade and clave to Polyhymnia; self-educated,
a German, Hebrew, Greek, and Latin
scholar, he danced, fenced, and wrote prize
glees with the same elegance and character."

We arrived at the Freemasons Tavern.
The gentleman who sits in the hall chair
pulled open the door and shouted out, "Show
the Clarence!" and we were ushered up-stairs
to the dining-room bearing that distinguished
appellation. The room was well lighted with
wax candles ("much pleasanter to the eye
and head than gas," whispered Mr. Lavrock).
Most of the members were arrived; there
was the usual recognition, congratulation,