neighborhood the principal men of all London come to hear or impart the news; and the affairs of the state or of private individuals, the quarrels of empires or of authors, the movements of the court, or the splendid vagaries of fashion, the intrigues of statesmen or of persons of another sex yet more wily, the last news of battles in the great occidental continents, nay, the latest betting for the horse-races, or the advent of a dancer at the theatre—­all that men do is discussed in these Pall Mall agorae, where we of London daily assemble.

Now among so many talkers, consider how many false reports must fly about:  in such multitudes imagine how many disappointed men there must be; how many chatterboxes; how many feeble and credulous (whereof I mark some specimens in my congregation); how many mean, rancorous, prone to believe ill of their betters, eager to find fault; and then, my brethren, fancy how the words of my text must have been read and received in Pall Mall! (I perceive several of the congregation looking most uncomfortable.  One old boy with a dyed moustache turns purple in the face, and struts back to the Martium:  another, with a shrug of the shoulder and a murmur of “Rubbish,” slinks away in the direction of the Togatorium, and the preacher continues.) The will of Field-Marshal Lord Clyde—­signed at Chatham, mind, where his lordship died—­is written, strange to say, on a sheet of paper bearing the “Athenaeum Club” mark!

The inference is obvious.  A man cannot get Athenaeum paper except at the “Athenaeum.”  Such paper is not sold at Chatham, where the last codicil to his lordship’s will is dated.  And so the painful belief is forced upon us, that a Peer, a Field-Marshal, wealthy, respected, illustrious, could pocket paper at his Club, and carry it away with him to the country.  One fancies the hall-porter conscious of the old lord’s iniquity, and holding down his head as the Marshal passes the door.  What is that roll which his lordship carries?  Is it his Marshal’s baton gloriously won?  No; it is a roll of foolscap conveyed from the Club.  What has he on his breast, under his greatcoat?  Is it his Star of India?  No; it is a bundle of envelopes, bearing the head of Minerva, some sealing-wax, and a half-score of pens.

Let us imagine how in the hall of one or other of these Clubs this strange anecdote will be discussed.

“Notorious screw,” says Sneer.  “The poor old fellow’s avarice has long been known.”

“Suppose he wishes to imitate the Duke of Marlborough,” says Simper.

“Habit of looting contracted in India, you know; ain’t so easy to get over, you know,” says Snigger.

“When officers dined with him in India,” remarks Solemn, “it was notorious that the spoons were all of a different pattern.”

“Perhaps it isn’t true.  Suppose he wrote his paper at the Club?” interposes Jones.