THE SPEAKERSHIP.
The Parliamentary lucus a non lucendo—the Speaker who never speaks—the gentleman who always holds his own tongue, except when he wants others to hold theirs—the man who fills the chair, which is about three times too big for him—is not, after all, to be changed. But the incoming tenants of office have resolved to take him as a fixture, though not at a fair valuation; for they do nothing but find fault all the time they are agreeing to let him remain on the premises. For our own part, we see no objection to the arrangement; for Mr. Lefevre, we believe, shakes his head as slowly and majestically as his predecessors, and rattles his teeth over the r in oR-der, with as much dignity as Sutton, who was the very perfection of Manners, was accustomed to throw into it. The fatigues of the office are enough to kill a horse, but asses are not easily exterminated. It is thought that Lefevre has not been sufficiently worked, and before giving him a pension, “the receiver must,” as the chemist say, “be quite exhausted.” Tiring him out will not be enough; but he must be tired again, to entitled him to a re-tiring allowance.