rg's last sonata in treble X., totally unheeded, at the
piano.

Where should the middle-aged Jones be? At his time of life, he ought
to be the father of a family. At such an hour--say, at nine o'clock at
night--the nursery-bell should have just rung the children to bed. He
and Mrs. J. ought to be, by rights, seated on each side of the fire by
the dining-room table, a bottle of port-wine between them, not so full
as it was an hour since. Mrs. J. has had two glasses; Mrs. Grumble
(Jones's mother-in-law) has had three; Jones himself has finished the
rest, and dozes comfortably until bed-time.

And Brown, that old newspaper-devouring miscreant, what right has HE at
a club at a decent hour of night? He ought to be playing his rubber with
Miss MacWhirter, his wife, and the family apothecary. His candle ought
to be brought to him at ten o'clock, and he should retire to rest just
as the young people were thinking of a dance. How much finer, simpler,
nobler are the several employments I have sketched out for these
gentlemen than their present nightly orgies at the horrid Club.

And, ladies, think of men who do not merely frequent the dining-room and
library, but who use other apartments of those horrible dens which it
is my purpose to batter down; think of Cannon, the wretch, with his coat
off, at his age and size, clattering the balls over the billiard-table
all night, and making bets with that odious Captain Spot!--think of
Pam in a dark room with Bob Trumper, Jack Deuceace, and Charley Vole,
playing, the poor dear misguided wretch, guinea points and five pounds
on the rubber!--above all, think--oh, think of that den of abomination,
which, I am told, has been established in SOME clubs, called THE
SMOKING-ROOM,--think of the debauchees who congregate there, the
quantities of reeking whisky-punch or more dangerous sherry-cobbler
which they consume;--think of them coming home at cock-crow and letting
themselves into the quiet house with the Chubb key;--think of them, the
hypocrites, taking off their insidious boots before they slink upstairs,
the children sleeping overhead, the wife of their bosom alone with
the waning rushlight in the two-pair front--that chamber so soon to
be rendered hateful by the smell of their stale cigars: I am not an
advocate of violence; I am not, by nature, of an incendiary turn of
mind: but if, my dear ladies, you are for assassinating Mr. Chubb and
burning down Club-houses in St. James's, there is O