"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_ [ILLUSTRATION: Best British Brandy not Permitted] INVOCATION. Assist, ye jocal nine[1], 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. He said[2] 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 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;[3] 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!_"[4] 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;