_Friday._--Amphibious old Warrior, who has been Admiral afloat, Generalissimo ashore, and is now Member for County Carlow, reappeared to-night, and took oath. It was a moving scene. Old veteran got up in rather young-looking costume, light tweed, with white waistcoat, in cut what young beau of twenty might wear. "Why, Colonel," said CYRIL FLOWER, a judge of these things, "you look younger than ever in your new suit!" "New, bedad," says The MAHON, "why I had 'em made to go to the wedding of WILLIAM and MARY. All Mimbers of Parliament invoited; special seats in Abbey; and, what's more, a good luncheon at BELLAMY'S. Haven't worn suit lately; thought it would do for this festive occasion." The MAHON'S advance to table to take oath a triumphal progress. Members on both sides cheered like mad. The Colonel stopped half way, and, facing friends and countrymen, blew them a kiss from tips of fingers. Turning to Ministerialists, who joined in applause he bowed gracefully. Clerks had greatest difficulty in convoying him to SPEAKER'S Chair. Broke away from escort, and shook hands with Old Morality. No joke when The MAHON shakes hands. Pumps away violently for several moments, as if ship were leaking, and all depended on him. Next got hold of BALFOUR, and avenged long woes of Ireland. At last got at SPEAKER. Thought he'd never let go. Pumped away till the SPEAKER had hardly breath to call "Order! order!" Finally flopped himself down next to GLADSTONE, on Front Bench, and gave him fearful shaking up. This, liveliest episode in debate. Some pretty good speaking, but everyone sick to death of topic. [Illustration: Lord H-rt-ngt-n's attitude towards Mr. Gl-dst-ne.] A little movement of interest when HARTINGTON rose; but happiest moment when bell rang, and Division actually at hand. Business done.--Proclamation of Land League approved. * * * * * A SUMMER SOLILOQUY. _By Jaques Junior._ A bee, or not a bee? That is the question. Whether 'twere better not to mind, and suffer The stings that every summer are our portion, Or take the trouble but to move an arm, And, by opposing, end them. It flies--it creeps, It creeps, perchance it stings! Then comes the rub, When we have shuffled off our clothing. Soft, 'Twas but a bluebottle! How sweet it is To lie like this i' the sun, and think of nought Save how sweet 'tis to lie, and think of nought; And that meseems to many wordy sages Were small refreshment in this windy time. How many are there who do cheat themselves, And with themselves the many, that they are The very vaward leaders of the fray, The lictors of the pomp of intellect. Whereas they are the merest driven spray, The running rabble heralding the march Impelled by what they herald;-- Who ever glance behind to see which way---- Oh, my prophetick soul! my Aunt ELIZA! [_He is stung_! * * * * * IRISH NET PROFIT.