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;
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:"[5]--
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,[6] and with a stare
Like to another echo, answers "Where?"
[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."
[2] "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.
[3] A play-bill reminiscence, viz. "The scenery by Messrs. Tomkins
and Pitt."--THE AUTHORS OF "BUT, HOWEVER."
[4] "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.
[5] "They mourn it dead," &c.--A pretty, but perhaps too literal
allusion to a popular song--J. RODWELL.
[6] "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.
* * * * *