“Are you going to take the Oath?” said COBB.  COBB always asking questions.

“Oath!” cried DON’T KEIR-HARDIE, “I’ll take ’em in a moog.”

Put on his cap, and swaggered towards the table.  “Order! order!” cried SPEAKER, in tones of thunder.  “DON’T KEIR-HARDIE is my name,” said Hon. Member for West Ham; “and blow me if—­“.  Turned, and saw flashing eye of SPEAKER bent upon him.  Slowly his hand went up to his head; the cap came off, was crumpled up, and put in his pocket.

“Will you take the oath, or make affirmation?” asked MILMAN, stuck between two tables, but always ready to oblige.

“Don’t keer which,” said DON’T KEIR-HARDIE; but, possibly from force of habit, took the oath.

“If OLD MORALITY was still with us, my friend,” said BURT, gravely, “he would be able to cite for your edification a copy-head showing how Don’t Care came to a bad end.”

Business done.—­Swearing going on in both Houses.  Our Army in Flanders quite respectable by comparison.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  BLASE.

Enthusiastic Lady Amateur. “OH, WHAT A PITY!  WE’VE JUST MISSED THE FIRST ACT!”

Languid Friend. “HAVE WE?  AH—­RATHER GLAD.  I ALWAYS THINK THE CHIEF PLEASURE OF GOING TO A THEATRE IS TRYING TO MAKE OUT WHAT THE FIRST ACT WAS ABOUT!”]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  A SKETCH FROM NATURE.

LITTLE MISS FACING-BOTH-WAYS AND HER DOG DOUBLE-OR-QUITS!]

* * * * *

ASPIRATION.

BY A WEARY SECULAR SCRIBE.

  Oh, to be a Pulpiteer! 
  Purists may fie-fie, or sneer. 
  But, when wit and fancy fail,
  To produce your twice-cooked kail
  (As “a traveller”) must be nice. 
  Nor are you confined to twice;
  Hashed, rehashed, and hashed again,
  Garnished—­from another brain,
  Seasoned—­from another cruet,
  You may roast, or boil, or stew it
  O’er and o’er, year in year out,
  As you perorate about,
  Seek, when weary,—­o’ertasked elves! 
  “Inspiration” from your shelves. 
  Salt it here, and sauce it there,
  Saying nothing, since none care
  To make question, taking pay,
  Yes, and praise upon your way,
  For—­well, ere the thing is through,
  What is what and who is who,
  It might puzzle you to tell;
  Still you “think it right”!  Ah, well! 
  This philosophy peripatetic
  Strikes a chord that’s sympathetic
  In the breast of secular scribe;
  Nothing, it is true, would bribe
  Him to play the pious prig,
  But—­he heaves a sigh that’s big
  Murmuring, enviously I fear,—­
  Oh, to be a Pulpiteer!

* * * * *

A CAUDAL LECTURE;

OR, DARWINISM IN THE CRICKET FIELD.