he 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.

"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 c