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ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

House of Commons, Monday, June 15.—­RICHARD CHAMBERLAIN back to-night, after long absence.  Been up the Nile, calling on PTOLEMY and PHARAOH, and visiting scenes connected with the early life of Brother JOSEPH.  Much enjoyed the trip; entered House to-night full of life and energy; suddenly pulled up; hair rose; flesh crept; blood chilled.  Was it true?  Could it be possible?  Yes; no doubt about it.  There was Prince ARTHUR still lounging on Treasury Bench with MADDEN in reserve.  About a score of Members present, including WINDBAG SEXTON, looking on with his irritating smile of supreme superiority, whilst SAGE of QUEEN ANNE’S GATE moved rejection of Irish Land Purchase Bill.

[Illustration:  Brother Dick]

“Why!” exclaimed Brother DICK, his hair still visibly rising, “when I was here last, weeks and months ago, they were discussing Irish Land Bill; Prince ARTHUR sprawled on Treasury Bench; LABBY was denouncing the Bill as pernicious; and SEXTON, having just sat down and just going to follow, looked on with sort of pitying toleration of other people who assumed to know anything of the Bill.  Do I dream, or are there visions about?  Think I’ll go and pinch JESSE COLLINGS, and see if I’m awake.”

Yes; wide awake; no mistake about the situation; still harping on the Irish Land Bill; but, thank a merciful Providence, this is the last night.  JOHN MORLEY, who never shrinks from call of duty, rises, and makes one of those formal, official, somewhat tiresome protests, recapitulating objections which everyone only too familiar with through this gruesome spring and saddened summer.  Then SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE’S GATE cracks a few jokes; MORTON appears on scene; attempt made to Count Out; talk kept going through dinner hour.  At eleven o’clock Prince ARTHUR rises; benches fill up; then, when everyone ready for Division, strangers in Gallery startled by mighty roar of execration; looking round with startled gaze in search of explanation, discover at corner-seat below Gangway a dapper figure uplifted on supernaturally high-heeled boots, with trousers tightly drawn to display proportions of limbs that would have made Sim Tappertit green with envy; a black frock coat, buff waistcoat, coloured tie, a high collar, a wizened countenance, just now wrinkled with spasmodic contortion, kindly meant for an ingratiating smile.

This is SEYMOUR KEAY.  House may roar at him as the dog that crosses the Epsom Course when the bell rings for the Derby is howled at.  He has, in return for the contumely, only a smile, a deprecatory wave of the hand and a speech.  House keeps up the roar; KEAY waves his ringed hand, nods pleasantly at the SPEAKER, and at anything approaching a lull, shouts half a sentence at top of his voice.  For full ten minutes contest continued.  Then SPEAKER rises; KEAY sits down, glad of interval of rest, and hopeful that SPEAKER is about to rebuke his interrupters.