“It is dated at Chatham, my good man,” says Brown.  “A man if he is in London says he is in London.  A man if he is in Rochester says he is in Rochester.  This man happens to forget that he is using the Club paper; and he happens to be found out:  many men don’t happen to be found out.  I’ve seen literary fellows at Clubs writing their rubbishing articles; I have no doubt they take away reams of paper.  They crib thoughts:  why shouldn’t they crib stationery?  One of your literary vagabonds who is capable of stabbing a reputation, who is capable of telling any monstrous falsehood to support his party, is surely capable of stealing a ream of paper.”

“Well, well, we have all our weaknesses,” sighs Robinson.  “Seen that article, Thompson, in the Observer about Lord Clyde and the Club paper?  You’ll find it up stairs.  In the third column of the fifth page towards the bottom of the page.  I suppose he was so poor he couldn’t afford to buy a quire of paper.  Hadn’t fourpence in the world.  Oh, no!”

“And they want to get up a testimonial to this man’s memory—­a statue or something!” cries Jawkins.  “A man who wallows in wealth and takes paper away from his Club!  I don’t say he is not brave.  Brutal courage most men have.  I don’t say he was not a good officer:  a man with such experience must have been a good officer unless he was a born fool.  But to think of this man loaded with honors—­though of a low origin—­so lost to self-respect as actually to take away the ‘Athenaeum’ paper!  These parvenus, sir, betray their origin—­betray their origin.  I said to my wife this very morning, ‘Mrs. Jawkins,’ I said, ’there is talk of a testimonial to this man.  I will not give one shilling.  I have no idea of raising statues to fellows who take away Club paper.  No, by George, I have not.  Why, they will be raising statues to men who take Club spoons next!  Not one penny of my money shall they have!’”

And now, if you please, we will tell the real story which has furnished this scandal to a newspaper, this tattle to Club gossips and loungers.  The Field-Marshal, wishing to make a further provision for a friend, informed his lawyer what he desired to do.  The lawyer, a member of the “Athenaeum Club,” there wrote the draft of such a codicil as he would advise, and sent the paper by the post to Lord Clyde at Chatham.  Lord Clyde finding the paper perfectly satisfactory, signed it and sent it back:  and hence we have the story of “the codicil bearing the signature of Clyde, F. M., and written, strange to say, upon paper bearing the ‘Athenaeum Club’ mark.”

Here I have been imagining a dialogue between a half-dozen gossips such as congregate round a Club fireplace of an afternoon.  I wonder how many people besides—­whether any chance reader of this very page has read and believed this story about the good old lord?  Have the country papers copied the anecdote, and our “own correspondents” made their remarks on it?  If, my good sir, or madam, you have read it and credited it, don’t you own to a little feeling of shame and sorrow, now that the trumpery little mystery is cleared?  To “the new inhabitant of light,” passed away and out of reach of our censure, misrepresentation, scandal, dulness, malice, a silly falsehood matters nothing.  Censure and praise are alike to him—­