[Exit.

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

House of Lords, Monday, August 15th.—­Lords met to-day in charmingly casual way.  Since they were last here, Government been defeated; the MARKISS out, Mr. G. in, and all that means or portends.  Not many present, but the MARKISS in his place smiling in unaffected joyousness, just as Prince ARTHUR did in Commons when the end came.

[Illustration:  “Very odd!”]

“Very odd,” said PICKERSGILL, pressing his hat to his bosom; “it seems nothing amuses the CECILS and their family belongings so much as a reverse at the Poll.”

The MARKISS in such exuberant good humour at seeing KIMBERLEY opposite to him, could not resist temptation to try on little joke.  It was not, he said, either desirable or usual that he, as outgoing Minister, should say anything on present occasion.  But perhaps KIMBERLEY would oblige, and would give House full exposition of intentions of new Ministry with respect to foreign and domestic affairs.  KIMBERLEY gravely answered, that not yet being Minister of the Crown, nor having had opportunity of consulting with his colleagues, he was unprepared to make statement on subject.

In this dilemma DENMAN came to front.  “My Lords—­” he said.  What more he would have uttered is lost to posterity.  MARKISS had moved adjournment of House, and HALSBURY, who has had long practice on this particular wicket, promptly bowled DENMAN out, by putting question and declaring it carried.  DENMAN stood moment looking, more in sorrow than anger, at noble Lords hurrying out with unwonted agility.

[Illustration:  THE NEW CABINET.]

“They made a mistake,” he murmured; “especially HALSBURY.  All I wanted was to propose vote of thanks to him for the grace and dignity with which he has presided over Debates in this House, and the manner in which he has, by his dispensation of patronage, preserved the highest traditions of his office, and even raised its lofty tone.  Too late now, too late;” and the old gentleman putting his crumpled papers in his pocket, and wrapping his soiled pocket-handkerchief round the knob of his walking-stick, strode sadly forth.

[Illustration:  “Bless me!”]

Perhaps it was sight of this pathetic figure that sobered the MARKISS.  Anyhow, as we walked out together, found him in subdued mood, more fitting the occasion than that assumed when addressing House.  “All over at last, TOBY,” he said; “and I may go down to Hatfield, take off my coat, and have a day’s, or even a week’s serene pleasure in my workshop.  I’m nobody of any account now, ni Premier, ni Foreign Minister.  Do you remember the lines written by an unknown hand on the ruins of Berytus, which TRYPHON, King of Syria, sacked a hundred and forty years before the Star rose at Bethlehem?  I was thinking of them just now, even when I was chaffing KIMBERLEY:—­