CHAPTER XXXIX--CLUB SNOBS.
Why does not some great author write 'The Mysteries of the Club-houses; or St.James's Street unveiled ?' It would be a fine subject for an imaginative writer.

We must all, as boys, remember when we went to the fair, and had spent all our money--the sort of awe and anxiety with which we loitered round the outside of the show, speculating upon the nature of the entertainment going on within.
Man is a Drama--of Wonder and Passion, and Mystery and Meanness, and Beauty and Truthfulness, and Etcetera.

Each Bosom is a Booth in Vanity Fair.

But let us stop this capital style, I should die if I kept it up for a column (a pretty thing a column all capitals would be, by the way).

In a Club, though there mayn't be a soul of your acquaintance in the room, you have always the chance of watching strangers, and speculating on what is going on within those tents and curtains of their souls, their coats and waistcoats.