(_From "A Journey through England," 1722_.)
In the City of London, almost every parish hath its separate club, where
the citizens, after the fatigue of the day is over in their shops, and
on the Exchange, unbend their thoughts before they go to bed.
But the most diverting, or amusing of all, is the Mug-House-Club in
Long-Acre, where, every Wednesday and Saturday, a mixture of gentlemen,
lawyers, and tradesmen, meet in a great room, and are seldom under a
hundred.
They have a grave old gentleman in his own gray hairs, now within a few
months of ninety years old, who is their president; and sits in an
armed-chair, some steps higher than the rest of the company, to keep the
whole room in order. A harp plays all the time at the lower end of the
room; and every now and then one or other of the company rises and
entertains the rest with a song, and (by the by) some are good masters.
Here is nothing drank but ale, and every gentleman hath his separate
mug, which he chalks on the table where he sits as it is brought in; and
every one retires when he pleases, as from a coffee-house.
The room is always so diverted with songs, and drinking from one table
to another to one another's healths, that there is no room for politics,
or any thing that can sour conversation.
One must be there by seven to get room, and after ten the company are
for the most part gone.
This is a winter's amusement, that is agreeable enough to a stranger for
once or twice, and he is well diverted with the different humours, when
the Mugs overflow.
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