the hope of raising a laugh or of bringing tears into her eyes, to make speeches at one another across the table, whatever Moliere might be able to do, when alone with his aged servant.  Nor did it much help the matter, when, with a view to the treasury, which began to threaten a collapse, we made a law, like that of the Medes and Persians which altereth not, whereby it was provided, among other things, that no member should ever talk over five minutes, nor stop short of three, under any circumstances,—­the President being timekeeper, and the sufferer not being allowed to look at a watch.  Fines of course were inevitable, and we were once more able to luxuriate on bread and cheese, with an occasional pot of beer,—­nothing better or stronger being tolerated among us under any pretence, except on our anniversaries, when the President, or sometimes a member, stood treat, and gave us a comfortable, though not often a costly or showy supper.

Among that strange, whimsical brotherhood—­consisting of Dr. Tobias Watkins, editor of the “Portico”; General Winder (William H.), who had been “captivated” by the British, along with General Chandler, at the first invasion of Canada; William Gwin, editor of the “Federal Gazette”; Paul Allen, editor of the “Federal Republican,” and of Lewis and Clarke’s “Tour,” and author of “Noah”; Dr. Readel, “a fellow of infinite jest”; Brackenridge, author of “Views in Louisiana,” and “History of the War”; Dennison, an Englishman, who wrote clever doggerel; and, at different times, two or three more, not worth mentioning, even if I remembered their names—­we passed every Saturday evening, after the club was established, until it was broken up by President Watkins’s going to Washington, Vice-President Pierpont to the Divinity School at Cambridge, and Jehu O’Cataract abroad.  All the members bore “clubicular” names, by which they were always to be addressed or spoken to, under another penalty; and most of them held “clubicular” offices and professorships,—­Dr. Readel being Professor of Crambography, and somebody else—­Gwin perhaps—­Professor of Impromptology.  The name given to Mr. Pierpont was Hiero Heptaglott, under an idea that he was a prodigious linguist,—­another Sir William Jones, at least, if not another Learned Blacksmith; and the President himself went so far as to say so in the “Portico,” where he pretended to give an account of the Delphians.  Nothing could well be further from the truth, however; for, instead of being a great Hebrew scholar, and learned in the Chaldee, Coptic, and other Eastern languages, he knew very little of Hebrew, and absolutely nothing of the rest.  With “a little Latin and less Greek,” he was a pretty fair Latin and Greek scholar in the judgment of those who are satisfied with what we are doing in our colleges; and he was sufficiently acquainted with French to enjoy Chateaubriand, St. Pierre, Rousseau, and Lamartine, and to write the language with correctness, though not idiomatically; but he was never able to make himself understood in conversation, beyond a few phrases, uttered with a deplorable accent,—­not being able to carry the flavor in his mouth,—­and, though free and sprightly enough in talking English, having no idea of what passes for freedom and sprightliness with the French.  He knew nothing of Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, German, or Dutch, nor indeed of any other modern language.