So much per quarter for our quarterns, [Cries of ‘Hear!’] Import our own champagne and ginger-beer; In short, small duty pay on all we sup— Ahem!—you understand—I give it up.” The speech was ended, And Bob descended. The club was formed. A spicy club it was— Especially on Saturdays; because They dined extr’ordinary cheap at five o’clock: When there were met members of the Dram. A. Soc. Those of the sock and buskin, artists, court gazetteers— Odd fellows all—odder than all their club compeers. Some were sub-editors, others reporters, And more illuminati, joke-importers. The club was heterogen’ous By strangers seen as A refuge for destitute bons mots— Dépôt for leaden jokes and pewter pots; Repertory for gin and jeux d’esprit, Literary pound for vagrant rapartee; Second-hand shop for left-off witticisms; Gall’ry for Tomkins and Pitt-icisms;33. A play-bill reminiscence, viz. “The scenery by Messrs. Tomkins and Pitt.”—THE AUTHORS OF “BUT, HOWEVER.” Foundling hospital for every bastard pun; In short, a manufactory for all sorts of fun! Arouse my muse! such pleasing themes to quit, Hear me while I say “Donnez-moi du frenzy, s’il vous plait!”44. “Donnez-moi,” &c.—The classics of all countries are aptly drawn upon by the universal erudition of our bard. A fine parody this upon the exclamation of Belmontel’s starving author: “La Gloire—donnez-moi do pain!”—FENWICK DE PORQUET. Give me a most tremendous fit Of indignation, a wild volcanic ebullition, Or deep anathema, Fatal as J—d’s bah! To hurl excisemen downward to perdition. May genial gin no more delight their throttles— Their casks grow leaky, bottomless their bottles; May smugglers run, and they ne’er make a seizure; May they—I’ll curse them further at my leisure. But for our club, “Ay, there’s the rub.” “We mourn it dead in its father’s halls:”55. “They mourn it dead,” &c.—A pretty, but perhaps too literal allusion to a popular song—J. RODWELL.— The sporting prints are cut down from the walls; No stuffing there, Not even in a chair; The spirits are all ex(or)cised, The coffee-cups capsized, The coffee fine-d, the snuff all taken, The mild Havannahs are by lights forsaken: The utter ruin of the club’s achieven— Our very chess-boards are ex-chequered even. “Where is our club?” X—sighs,66. “X—sighs.”—Who “X” may happen to be we have not the remotest idea. But who would not forgive a little mystification for so brilliant a pun?—THE GHOST OF PUNCH’S THEATRE. and with a stare Like to another echo, answers “Where?” MR. HUME. We are requested by Mr. Hume to state, that being relieved from his parliamentary duties, he intends opening a day-school in the neighbourhood of the House of Commons, for the instruction of members only, in the principles of the illustrious Cocker; and to remedy in some measure his own absence from the Finance Committees, he is now engaged in preparing a Parliamentary Ready-reckoner. We heartily wish him success.