A PATRON OF OLD CHINA.
(Vide "China Bowles Collection.")
Tommy Bowles is in his place;
It's all right with the Empire."
Business done.—Mr. G. excelled himself.
Tuesday.—Seven-leagued Boots not needed by Talented Tommy. He moves about universe with ease and grace, unmindful of mountains, regardless of ravines, reckless of rivers, oblivious of oceans. Last night, Forty Centuries looked down upon him whilst he showed how, in Egypt, Mr. G. is wrong, and Dilke, who criticised Ministerial policy, is not right. To-night he stands on the Roof of the World, a solitary, colossal figure upright on the lone Pamirs. His attitude is of manifold mien. Defiant of Russia, suspicious of Rosebery, patronising towards Afghanistan, he takes young China familiarly by the elbow, and bids it be of good cheer, for Tommy Bowles is its friend. Since Napoleon crossed the Alps, and was caught in the act by the brush of the painter, the world has not seen so moving a picture as Tommy throned on the grandly desolate Pamirs.
House almost empty whilst the Talented One discoursed on the subject. Mr. G., who misses nothing, happily in his place, listening with eager hand at ear whilst Tommy spoke familiarly of Asiatic rivers and mountains, not one with name of less than five syllables. Dicky Temple, who really knows something about this mysterious region, looked on in blank amazement at Tommy's erudition. Edward Grey, who would presently have to answer this damaging attack, tried to seem indifferent. But his young cheek paled when Tommy put his ruthless finger on that Foreign Office dispatch, out of which a line of print had been dropped. This a Machiavellian device that had hitherto escaped detection. Tommy's falcon eye had noted it, his relentless foot had followed up the tracks, and he had discovered, on reference to the original, that the criminally-deleted line of print embodied a reference to the Oxus. That was all. "Only the Oxus!" he said, with withering sarcasm. Then changing his tone and manner, he shook a minatory forefinger at the shrinking form of the Premier, and cried aloud, in voice strengthened with long warring with the winds on the Pamirs: "Sir, the stream of the Oxus has been entirely omitted from this paragraph."
"Poor Mr. G.!" said W. J. Lowther, present in his capacity as Ex-Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs. "What with Labby one night and Tommy Bowles the next, he has a sad time of it."
"Yes," said Plunket, sole companion on the Front Bench. "It's a hard fate for a Prime Minister to stand between L. and Tommy."
Business done.—Miscellaneous talk on going into Committee of Supply.
Thursday.—Little difficulty arisen in connection with Budget. Squire faced by deficit of million and half. This he met by expedient that will be historical, as affording Jokim opportunity for a popular jape. The Squire has dropped his penny in the slot, in accordance with directions, pulls out the drawer, and finds there is something more than the sum necessary to balance the year's account. That is all very well; but there are some amateur Chancellors of the Exchequer who would do great things with the odd £20,000 or £30,000 which remains as surplus. Clark wants Graduated Income-tax; Bartley proposes Abatement on Incomes below £200; whilst Grant Lawson would let farmers off with half the proposed increase. Best of all is, Alpheus Cleophas, who would straightway abolish the tax on tea. The keen insight of Alpheus notes the little difficulty about the deficit.
"The Chancellor of the Exchequer," he observed, in his most judicial manner, "may ask me to suggest another source of revenue." The Squire pricked up his ears; the Committee sat attentive. If Alpheus Cleophas had given his great mind to consideration of the subject, it might be regarded as settled. All waited for his next utterances. "That," he continued, in steely tones, "is the Chancellor of the Exchequer's business. Mine is to carry out the Newcastle Programme." Alpheus Cleophas thereupon resumed his seat, leaving the Squire gloomily facing the dead wall of his deficit.
Business done.—Budget Bill passed report stage.
Friday Night.—Some young bloods below Gangway, on Ministerial side, in distinctly low spirits. On Tuesday night, stage of Budget Bill being taken, with ten minutes to spare, Asquith nimbly moved reference of Employers' Liability Bill to Grand Committee. Opposition, who want it referred to Select Committee, were under impression Mr. G. had promised discussion should not be taken till Thursday or Friday. Last night Chamberlain protested that they had been betrayed, and deceived. Young bloods below Gangway disposed to chuckle over this spectacle. Mr. G., on contrary, takes it seriously to heart. Having got Bill referred to Grand Committee, positively agrees to rescind Order, and begin all over again.
"It's very seldom," says the Sage of Queen Anne's Gate, in most melancholy mood, "that our side show themselves capable of doing a smart thing. When, by chance, it is accomplished, Mr. G. comes along, and coolly undoes it."
To-day, nearly two hours spent in discussing question; Bill, eventually, remitted to Grand Committee, as it had been left at midnight on Tuesday.
"Shan't play!" cries Chamberlain. "All very well for you, with your majority, to bowl us over, but you won't gain any time by it. You may take a horse to the Grand Committee, but you can't make him discuss your Bill."
Business done.—Budget Bill through.
Q. E. D.
(By a Grumpy Old Bachelor.)
"'Tis a mad world, my masters!" Grim Lombroso
Corroborates mild Shakspeare in this matter.
And, though his demonstration seems but so-and-so,
No doubt the world's as mad as any hatter,
The sweeter sex especially! 'Tis sad,
But that rule's absolute, depend upon it!
'Tis obvious all women must be mad,
Because—there is a "b" in every bonnet!
WILDER IDEAS;
Or, Conversation as she is spoken at the Haymarket.
The Disciple. Ah, that supper after the Theatre! It was the unspeakable following the unplayable. I feel so seedy!
The Master. Nay, but have I not told you that the two letters to follow "X. S." are "S. and B.?" And you have yourself said that "Soda and Brandy is the last refuge of the—digestion."
The Disciple. Hang it! I can survive everything—except the cast-off clothes of my own epigrams,—or, by the bye, death.
[Exit from this life, to prove it.