The Thatched House Club will probably be long remembered by lovers of Art as having been the abode of the great collector, the late Mr. George Salting, whose rooms above the club were filled with priceless pictures and _objets d’art_. The Thatched House was, I believe, the only club to which he belonged. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER V CHANGES IN CLUB-LIFE AND WAYS Amongst the changes which, during the last thirty years, have transformed the West End of London, one of the most salient has been the great increase in the number of clubs. Palatial buildings, each capable of accommodating hundreds of members, now occupy a very great portion of Pall Mall and Piccadilly. Although in other days the latter was by no means a very clubbable thoroughfare, it now, at one end at least, consists largely of clubs, most of them, however, differing widely from those of an older age. The original conception of a London club was a retreat to which West End men might betake themselves, certain that the troubles and worries of the outside world would not follow into a building which they regarded as a temple of dignified seclusion and repose. Perhaps the best description of a club as it existed in former days was that given by a witty Bishop, who defined it as a place “where women ceased from troubling and the weary were at rest.” Another amusing definition was that once given by George Augustus Sala. “A club,” said he, “is a weapon used by savages to keep the white woman at a distance.” A club should certainly form a safe retreat from the cares of the world, but it need not necessarily be a shrine of crystallized selfishness. The aim of club-life should be a sort of defensive alliance tacitly concluded between a number of individuals, all moving in the same sphere of life, against the troubles and perturbations by which humanity is assailed. The fundamental charter of the perfect club ought to be an unassuming, unobtrusive, and unenvious equality.