Flask" tavern, on
Hampstead Heath. The club died out before 1727 (George II.); for
Vanbrugh, writing to Tonson, says,--"Both Lord Carlisle and Cobham
expressed a great desire of having one meeting next winter, not as a
club, but as old friends that have been of a club--and the best club
that ever met." In 1709 we find the Kit-Kat subscribing 400 guineas for
the encouragement of good comedies. Altogether such a body of men must
have had great influence on the literature of the age, for, in spite of
the bitterness of party, there was some generous _esprit de corps_ then,
and the Whig wits and poets were a power, and were backed by rank and
wealth.

[Illustration: LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU AND THE KIT-KATS (_see page
71_).]

Whether the "Trumpet" (formerly half-way up on the left-hand side
ascending from Temple Bar) was the citadel of the Kit-Kats or not,
Steele introduces it as the scene of two of the best of his _Tatler_
papers. It was there, in October, 1709, that he received his deputation
of Staffordshire county gentlemen, delightful old fogies, standing
much on form and precedence. There he prepares tea for Sir Harry
Quickset, Bart.; Sir Giles Wheelbarrow; Thomas Rentfree, Esq., J.P.;
Andrew Windmill, Esq., the steward, with boots and whip; and Mr.
Nicholas Doubt, of the Inner Temple, Sir Harry's mischievous young
nephew. After much dispute about precedence, the sturdy old fellows are
taken by Steele to "Dick's" Coffee-house for a morning draught; and
safely, after some danger, effect the passage of Fleet Street, Steele
rallying them at the Temple Gate. In Sir Harry we fancy we see a faint
sketch of the more dignified Sir Roger de Coverley, which Addison
afterwards so exquisitely elaborated.

[Illustration: BISHOP BUTLER (_see page 77_).]

At the "Trumpet" Steele also introduces us to a delightful club of old
citizens that met every evening precisely at six. The humours of the
fifteen Trumpeters are painted with the breadth and vigour of Hogarth's
best manner. With a delightful humour Steele sketches Sir Geoffrey
Notch, the president, who had spent all his money on horses, dogs, and
gamecocks, and who looked on all thriving persons as pitiful upstarts.
Then comes Major Matchlock, who thought nothing of any battle since
Marston Moor, and who usually began his story of Naseby at
three-quarters past six. Dick Reptile was a silent man, with a nephew
whom he often reproved. The wit of the club, an old Temple bencher,