The club was originally a sort of convivial resort for actors and literary men, and met originally in a cosy house in King Street, Covent Garden. It expanded into its present handsome club house--not, it is said or lamented, without losing its original _cachet_. The pictures were mostly collected by Charles Matthews “the elder,” of facetious memory, and he seems to have embarrassed himself by the sacrifices he made to secure them. In his difficulties he was induced to exhibit them with the hope of making a little money, and he comments with bitter sarcasm on the result of the experiment. It was astonishing, he said, how passionately eager every one was to see them when they were at his home--and strangers used every art to obtain admission. But when they were offered for exhibition, no one was inclined to pay a shilling to see them. Mr. Durrant Cooper bought the collection, and _lent_ them to the club, in the hope that it would buy them; but, as its resources did not enable it to do so, he most generously gave it as a free gift. Though many of the portraits are copies--and some very inferior ones--the general charm of the collection is the striking merit of the workmanship. There are some scenes by Zoffany, in his most brilliant manner, miracles of gay colour and vivid touch--the well-known scene from “The Clandestine Marriage,” with the portraits of King and Mrs. Baddeley, is, in my opinion, the gem of the whole, and, if put up for sale, would fetch a very large sum. It is astonishing that this fine and spirited painter, who inherited his style from Hogarth, should not be more valued. The fine _bravura_ portraits of Woodward and Cibber in the dining-room are very striking, as well as the many works of that brilliant painter, Clint. The stage antiquarian will be amused at the contemporary scenes of the Garrick era. The great actor as Macbeth, with the daggers, etc., appearing in a wig and coat and long _scarlet_ waistcoat--“like the Lord Mayor’s coachman,” it was said. The club possesses many theatrical “curios” and relics. Shoe-buckles, snuff-boxes, etc., of this and that celebrated performer. It acquired lately what I look on as the most characteristic and valuable theatrical collection that exists, viz., three stout volumes of bills, sketches and criticisms, gathered by one Nixon, an artist who flourished towards the end of last century, and not only knew Garrick, Kemble, Kean and the rest, but had a knack of sketching them. There is a portrait of Irving by Millais, presented by the actor, but it is scarcely worthy of the artist. Strange to say its library is its weakest part; though there is a fair gathering of plays and memoirs, this department is not so strong as it should be.