OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Leaves of a Life. So Montagu Williams, Q.C., and Worthy Beak, styles his Reminiscences. The Leaves are fresh, and will be Evergreen. Nothing in his Life has become him so well as his leave-ing it. I fancy that the most popular part of it will be the early days—his salad days—when his leaves were at their greenest. Certainly, to all old Etonians, the opening of Volume One must prove the most interesting part of the two books; and after this, in point of interest to the general reader, will rank all the stories about persons whose names, for evident reasons, the learned Reminiscenser cannot give in full. When you read about what enormities "C——" committed, and what an unmitigated scoundrel "D——'s" brother was, there is in the narrative a delightful element of mystery, and an inducement to guess, which will excite in many a strong desire for a private key, which, of course, could not be placed in any publisher's hands, except under such conditions as hamper the trustee of the Talleyrand Memoirs.
Mr. Williams has better stories of Sergeant Ballantine than the latter had of himself in his own book. But I should like more of the Montagu out of Court—more of the behind-the-scenes of the cases in which he was engaged or interested. All his book is written in a dashing style, and there would be an enormous demand for a third volume, which might be all dash—C—— D—— E——; every letter of the alphabet dash—a dash'd good book, in fact, giving us the toothsome fond d'artichaut after the "leaves" have been disposed of. But that this should be the strong feeling expressed not alone by the Baron De B.-w., but by very many readers, is proof sufficient of the art with which these Reminiscences have been compiled, so as, according to Sam Weller's prescription for a love-letter, to make us "wish there was more of it." By the way, I doubt whether Whateley's Evidences of Christianity was the work that Montagu Williams was dozing over during "Sunday Private" in pupil-room; doesn't he mean Paley's Evidences? Also, wasn't the old College Fellow's name spelt Plumtre, or Plumptre, not Plumptree? However, the Baron is less likely to be right than the Magistrate, who is evidently blessed with a wonderfully retentive memory.
My faithful Co. reports that he has read On the Children, a not very interesting novel, by Annie Thomas, otherwise Mrs. Pender Cudlip. The story deals with a young girl, who, after serving in a village newspaper shop, marries the local nobleman, and no doubt lives happily ever afterwards. Persons who are interested in the doings of the class Jeames calls the "hupper suckles," will perhaps be a little disappointed, as, truth to tell, the narrative is rather homely. Many of the characters seem to have that exaggerated awe of rank which used to be characteristic of the tales in the London Journal. The book should, however, be welcome in the homes of some of the lower middle class.
Baron de Book-Worms & Co.
Mr. Parker Smith, the recently elected M.P., appeared in the House looking Partickularly happy.
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT,
EXTRACTED FROM The DIARY Of TOBY M.P.
House of Commons, Tuesday, February 11.—"Rather slow this," said Commandant (of the Yeomanry Cavalry) Lord Brooke to Admiral (in black velvet suit, with silver buckles) Royden.
They were locked up in a room adjoining Old Morality's private apartment, at back of Speaker's chair. Both dressed in warlike costumes, both uniforms new, unaccustomed, and uncomfortable. Both warriors had waked in the morning full of joy and proud anticipation. "If you're waking call me early," Quartermaster-General Lord Brooke had said to his man; "this is the happiest day of all the bright new year; for I'm to Second the Address. Yes, I'm to Second the Address."
Captain Royden had made a remark of a similar purport to his body servant, though he had kept more closely to prose. Now here they were locked in, with a glass of sherry wine and a sponge cake, waiting for the signal that might never come. Ordinary course on opening night of Session is, for Speaker to take Chair; Notices of Motion to be worked off; Queen's Speech read; then Mover and Seconder of Address march into seats immediately behind Ministers, especially kept for them; dexterously dodge tendency of sword to get between their knees; sit down with the consciousness that they are the cynosure of every eye, including those of Joseph Gillis, regarding them across House through horn-bound spectacles. To-day everything upside down. Instead of moving the Address, Harcourt on with question of Privilege—Harcourt, a plain man, in civilian costume! Worst of it was, they could not go away and change their clothes. No one knows what may happen from hour to hour in House of Commons; debate on Privilege might break down; Address brought on, and what would happen to British Constitution if Mover and Seconder were dragged in in their dressing-gowns?
"Dem'd dull," said Captain of Yeomanry Cavalry Lord Brooke, toying with his sword-tassel.
"Trenormous!" yawned Bosun's Mate Royden, loosening his belt, for he had been beguiled into taking another sponge-cake. "If they'd only let us walk about the corridors, or lounge in the House, it would be better. But to sit cooped up here is terrible. Worst of it is I've conned my speech over so often, got it mixed up; end turning up in middle; exordium marching in with rear-guard; was just right to go off at half-past six; now it's eight, and we won't be off duty till twelve."
Vice-Admiral Royden feebly hitched up his trousers; sadly sipped his sherry wine, and deep silence fell on the forlorn company.
No one in crowded House thought of these miserable men. Harcourt made his speech; Gorst demonstrated that Motion was indefensible, being both too late and too soon; the Mouse came and went amid a spasm of thrilled interest; Gladstone delivered oration in dinner-hour; Parnell fired up at midnight; House divided, and Speaker left the Chair. Then was heard the rattling of keys in the door by Old Morality's room; two limp warriors were led forth; conducted to four-wheel cab; delivered at their own doorways, to spend night in pleased reflection on the distinction of Moving and Seconding the Address.
"Ridiculus Mus," the New Member.
Business done.—Charge of Breach of Privilege against Times, negatived by 260 Votes against 212.
Wednesday.—House met at Noon as usual on Wednesdays; the two men of war in their places in full uniform, which looked a little creased as if they had slept in it. The eye that has sternly reviewed the Warwickshire Yeomanry Cavalry, lacks something of its wonted brightness; whilst Royden's black velvet suit sets off the added pallor of a countenance that tells of sleepless vigil.
House nearly empty; Members won't turn up at Noon even to hear the thrilling eloquence clothing the original thoughts of the Mover and Seconder of the Address. Amid the dreary space the stalwart figure of George Hawkesworth Bond, Member for the East Division of Dorset, stands forth like a monument. Curious to see how Bond avoids vicinity of Cross Benches. Was standing there in contemplative attitude last night, whilst Gorst was demonstrating that Harcourt's Motion on Breach of Privilege was, (1) too late, and (2) that it was too soon. It was at this moment that the Mouse appeared on the scene, leisurely strolling down floor apparently going to join the majority. A view-halloa started him; doubled and made for Cross Benches; BOND, awakened out of reverie by the shout, looked down and saw the strange apparition. Never believed a man of his weight could get so high up into the air by sudden swift gyration. Mouse, more frightened even than the man, dodged round the Benches and disappeared. "All very well once in a way," said Bond this afternoon, sinking into a seat far removed from the Cross Benches; "but it is foolish unnecessarily to court danger; won't catch me standing at the bar any more when Gorst is orating."
Before the Mouse came.
And his word is as good as his Bond.
After Mover and Seconder had completed their story, Grand Old Man appeared at the table, and talked for nearly an hour. Few to listen, but that no matter. A rapt auditor in Old Morality, sitting forward with hands on knees, eyes reverently fixed on orator, drinking in his honeyed words. Something paternal in his attitude towards Ministers. Here and there they had done not quite the right thing. The Markiss, in particular, had been particularly harsh to Portugal; but, on the whole, things might have been worse.
"Bless you, my children; bless you!" were the last words of the Grand Old Man as he stretched forth his hands across the table. Not a dry eye on the Treasury Bench. Old Morality deeply touched, but through his sobs managed to make acknowledgment of the unexpected clemency. Business done.—Address Moved.
Thursday.—The languor in which House steeped since Debate on Address opened, not varied to-night till, at ten o'clock, copies of Report of Parnell Commission brought to Vote Office. Then such a scrimmage as never before seen.
At re-opening of Debate, Howorth started off with reference to Portugal. Immediately Members, with one consent, went forth, discovering that they had special business in the Lobby, the Library, the Tea-room, anywhere out of the House. The Sage of Queen Anne's Gate had not even waited for resumption of Debate to quit the scene; was comfortably ensconsed in Smoking-room, distilling words of wisdom to listening circle. Someone dropping in, accidentally mentioned that Howorth had brought on Portugal business. Sage jumped up nearly as high as Bond when he saw the Mouse. Had an Amendment on the paper referring to Portugal; had prepared a few paragraphs elucidating it. If opportunity missed, speech would be lost. So bolted off; arrived just in time to follow Howorth. Whilst discoursing, Our Latest Duke came in, fresh from the pageant of his installation in House of Lords. Seated in Peers' Gallery, toying with his walking-stick, thinking no evil, started to hear his name mentioned. Sage's quick eye had caught sight of him.
Fight for the Report of the Royal Commission.
"Halloa!" said the Sage to himself, "here's a Duke; let's throw arf a brick at him!"
So, with innocent manner and pretty assumption of ignorance of the presence in Peers' Gallery of the highly favoured young gentleman with the walking-stick, the Sage traced all the evils of Central Africa, leading directly up to the quarrel with Portugal, to the action of the British South Africa Company, of which the Duke of Fife, he said, was a Promoter and Director.
"Very odd thing that, Toby," said the Duke, under his breath, as he left the Gallery on tip-toe; "most remarkable coincidence; odds seemed to be a thousand to one against it; and yet it came off. Don't look into Peers' Gallery twice a year; yet on very night I happened to be there for five minutes, Labby on his legs and talking about Me!"
Business done.—Debate on Address.
Friday.—A dull night, uplifted, at outset, by powerful speech from Parnell, and, towards finish, by Colonel Saunderson riding in, and slashing off heads all round. After him came Sheehy. Splendid fellow, Sheehy; must see more of him.
"What you want is blood!" Sheehy shouted across the House at Balfour, lounging, dull and depressed, on Treasury Bench; "I repeat the phrase—Blood!"
"Blood," said Saunderson, carelessly passing his hand through the black locks that crown his lofty brow, "is not exactly a phrase. Besides, after eight hours of this, a cup of black coffee would be more in Balfour's way. But a good deal must be conceded to Sheehy. What a nation we are for genders! We had an O'Shea, we have an O'Hea; and here's a Shee-he. I have occasional differences with some of my countrymen; but I am proud of my country."
Business done.—Debate on Address.
