* * * * *

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 L5 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—­
  Depot 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;