A man laying a finger aside of his nose, and another with a thumbs-up AN ALLIGATOR CHAIRMAN. An action was recently brought in the Court of Queen’s Bench against Mr. Walter, to recover a sum of money expended by a person named Clark, in wine, spirits, malt liquors, and other refreshments, during a contest for the representation of the borough of Southwark. One of the witnesses, who it appears was chairman of Mr. Walter’s committee, swore that every thing the committee had to eat or drink went through him. By a remarkable coincidence, the counsel for the plaintiff in this tippling case was Mr. Lush. [pg 11] AN ODE. PICKED UP IN KILLPACK’S DIVAN. Cum notis variorum. “Excise Court.—An information was laid against Mr. Killpack, for selling spirituous liquor. Mr. James (the counsel for the defendant) stated that there was a club held there, of which Mr. Keeley, the actor, was treasurer, and many others of the theatrical profession were members, and that they had a store of brandy, whiskey, and other spirits. Fined £5 in each case.”—Observer INVOCATION. Assist, ye jocal nine1,1. “Ye jocal nine,” a happy modification of “Ye vocal nine.” The nine here so classically invocated are manifestly nine of the members of the late club, consisting of, 1. Mr. D—s J—d. 2. The subject of the engraving, treasurer and store-keeper. 3. Mr. G—e S—h, sub-ed. J—— B——. 4. Mr. B—d, Mem. Dram. Author’s Society. 5. C—s S—y, ditto. 6. Mr. C—e. 7. Mr. C—s, T—s, late of the firm of T—s and P—t. 8. Mr. J—e A—n, Mem. Soc. British Artists. 9, and lastly, “though not least,” the author of “You loved me not in happier days.” inspire my soul! (Waiter! a go of Brett’s best alcohol, A light, and one of Killpack’s mild Havannahs). Fire me! again I say, while loud hosannas I sing of what we were—of what we now are. Wildly let me rave, To imprecate the knave Whose curious information turned our porter sour, Bottled our stout, doing it (ruthless cub!) Brown, Down Knocking our snug, unlicensed club; Changing, despite our belle esprit, at one fell swop, Into a legal coffee-crib, our contraband cook-shop! ODE. Then little Bob arose, And doff’d his clothes, Exclaiming, “Momus! Stuff! I’ve played him long enough,” And, as the public seems inclined to sack us, Behold me ready dressed to play young Bacchus. Bacchus straddling a barrel marked 'Best British Brandy Not Permitted' He said22. “He said.”—Deeply imbued with the style of the most polished of the classics, our author will be found to exhibit in some passages an imitation of it which might be considered pedantic, for ourselves, we admire the severe style. The literal rendering of the ‘dixit’ of the ancient epicists, strikes us as being eitremely forcible here.—PUNCH. his legs the barrel span, And thus the Covent Garden god began;— “GENTLEMEN,—I am—ahem—!—I beg your pardon, But, ahem! as first low com. of Common Garden— No, I don’t mean that, I mean to say, That if we were—ahem!—to pay