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.