Along with the notices of the clubs subsequent to the one mentioned, Dr Strang gives his reader a tolerable notion of how it went with Glasgow in those years. We have a peep of the Trongate during the lucrative tobacco trade, when Glasgow had her head not a little turned by her commercial prosperity. There are rich citizens now in the streets. Behold Mr Glassford, picking his steps daintily along the Crown o' the Causeway, with scarlet cloak, flowing wig, cocked-hat, and gold-headed cane! He has money in his purse, and he knows it too. All men warm themselves in the light of his countenance. If he kicks you, you are honoured, for is it not with a golden foot? How the loud voice droops, how the obsequious knee bends before him! He told Tobias Smollett yesterday that he had five-and-twenty ships sailing for him on the sea, and that half-a-million passed through his hands every year. Pass on a little farther, and yonder is Captain Paton sunning himself on the ample pavement in front of the Tontine. Let us step up to him. He will ask us to dinner, and mix us a bowl of punch flavoured with his own limes-- "In Trinidad that grow." For hospitality was then, as now, a characteristic of the city. The suppers--the favourite meal--were of the most substantial description. A couple of turkeys, a huge round of beef, and a bowl--a very Caspian Sea--of punch, seething to its silver brim, and dashed with delicate slices of lime or lemon--formed the principal ingredients. Good fellowship was the order of the day. In the morning and forenoon the merchants congregated in the Tontine reading-room for news and gossip, and at night the punch-bowl was produced, emptied, replenished, and emptied again, while the toasts--"Down with the Convention," "The Pilot that weathered the storm"--were drunk with enthusiasm in some cosy tavern in the then aristocratic Princes Street. At a later period, during the disturbed years that preceded the Reform Bill, we see the moneyed classes--"soor-milk jockeys" they were profanely nicknamed by the mob--eagerly enrolling themselves in yeomanry corps: on field days resplendent in laced jacket and shako, or clanking through the streets with spur and sabre. As we approach our own times the clubs pale their ineffectual fires--they shrink from planets to will-o'-the-wisp; at last "They die away And fade into the light of common day." Glasgow is now, so far as history is concerned, a clubless city. [Sidenote: The Glasgow operative.]