W. Leave-em Bright.
Young Twenty-Nine knew all about it from the beginning. Wasn't born in 1860 for nothing. When his own party were rushing headlong down to destruction, arranging for appointment of Commission, he had warned them of their error. But no use going back on the irrevocable. Thing is, what is to be done now? Young Twenty-Nine casting patronising look on Old Eighty, listening on the Front Opposition Bench, would really like to have voted for his Amendment. But, on his conscience, couldn't; too strongly drawn, doncha; why hadn't he taken counsel of some young friend, and drafted his Amendment with more moderation? At same time, Young Twenty-Nine couldn't do otherwise than condemn the Times for its recklessness in publishing the forged letters. Generally approved the conduct of Attorney-General; regarded the proceedings of Irish Members with mixed feelings, and, on the whole, would vote for Resolution. Whereat Old Morality, long on tenterhooks, gave sigh of honest relief, and Grand Old Man went off to dinner with a twinkle in his eye and an amused smile lighting up his countenance. Writ moved to-night for new election for Stoke, Willie Bright having had enough of it. "Good-bye, Toby," he said, as he cleared out his locker; "they call me W. Leatham Bright, now I suppose it will be W. Leave-'em."
Business done.—Debate on Report of Commission.
The Hon. G. N. Curzon sees more Shadows. (Vide "Times" Letter, March 6.)
Wednesday.—Curious little difficulty arose at meeting of House to-day. No House to meet. On Wednesdays Speaker takes chair at twelve o'clock. Crosses Lobby, accompanied by Sergeant-at-Arms carrying Mace, and tall gentleman in shorts carrying train. Walks up floor between rows of Members, standing and bending heads like sheaves of corn over which wind passes. To-day benches bare. Chamber empty. Speaker feels like one who treads alone some banquet-hall deserted, whose guests are fled, whose garlands dead, and all but he departed. Only in this case they haven't arrived. Chaplain in his place, ready to say his prayers. Everything here but congregation. House, it is well known, thrilled with excitement over Parnell Commission Report. Throbbing with anxiety to debate it. Manages somehow to dissemble its feelings, smother its aspirations. Presently two Members drop in; take their seats.
"Rather a small gathering," whispered the Speaker, pleasantly.
"Yes," says Chaplain, forlornly looking round empty chamber. "A very small gathering indeed; might almost call it a pimple."
Word scarcely Parliamentary in this connection.
"Order! order!" said the Speaker, sotto voce; and, to avoid the beginning of the sundering of friendship, Chaplain read prayers.
Business done.—Debate on Parnell Commission Report.
Thursday.—For ordinary mild-mannered man, Justin McCarthy to-night dealt Charles Lewis, Bart., what The Marchioness used to call "a wonner." Yesterday, Lewis delivered carefully prepared diatribe on Report. Not particularly friendly to Ministers, especially Jokim; but death on Irish Members. McCarthy to-day complained that, without giving notice, Bart. had made personal attack on him; and, what was worse, holding Report in hand, and purporting to quote from it, had misled House on matter of fact.
