EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

[Illustration:  Lord Elcho.]

House of Commons, Monday, February 29.—­Mr. G. looked in to-night from the Riviera; greeted with rousing cheer from Opposition; didn’t expect to see him to-day; just arrived from Mediterranean via Paris; most men in such circumstances would have gone straight home, read their letters, had quiet dinner, “and so to bed,” as the late Mr. PEPYS occasionally remarked.

“That’s all very well for you elderly fellows, TOBY,” said Mr. G., beaming with health and smiles.  “ARMITSTEAD, for example, went straight off home.  I was careful to see about that; he’s a fine fellow, and I humoured him by letting him suppose he was looking after me as far as Biarritz, and on to Pau.  In no other way could I have got him to make a holiday.  Think I rather wore him out at St. Raphael.  When a man gets over sixty he doesn’t care about his ten or fifteen mile walk before luncheon.  However, I brought ARMITSTEAD back all right, and, packing him off home at Charing Cross, just popped in here to see how you are getting on.”

In respect of business, not getting on at all.  Things going awry.  Ministerialists won’t come up to scratch in Division Lobby; Majority that used to flash forth a hundred-candlelight strong, now flickered down to a score.  Opposition growing jubilant and aggressive; Irish Members, long quiescent, waking up as of yore.  To-night Prince ARTHUR, stung to quick by remarks from JOHN DILLON, made rattling speech defending his Irish policy; poured contumely and scorn on heads of Irish Members.

“You,” he said, with gesture of passionate scorn, “see no source of regeneration for Ireland but in refusal of tenants to pay their rent.”

Lord ELCHO and other young bloods on Ministerial Bench cheered; old stagers looked grave.

“Ah, ah!” said CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN, looking on from the Front Opposition Bench, “I spy the beard of the Irish Secretary under the muffler of the Leader of the House.”

“Dear me,” said ESSLEMONT, who overheard the remark; “I don’t remember BALFOUR with a beard when he was at the Irish Office.  You’re not mixing him up with GRANDOLPH?”

“Get thee to a nunnery, worthy draper,” said CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN, “and in that leisurely retirement read your SHAKSPEARE.”

“A nunnery!” cried ESSLEMONT, more than ever bewildered; “why they wouldn’t let me in.  I suppose you mean a monastery; but man and boy for fifty years I’ve gone to Kirk, and nothing would—­” By this time CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN was out of hearing.

Business done.—­One Vote in Committee of Supply.

Tuesday.—­The MARKISS not in his place in Lords to-night.  Looked in at Arlington Street to inquire if absence was due to illness.