THE PREMIER'S CRUISE.
Portsmouth, Monday.—Thank heaven! Got rid of politics for a season. Off to Cowes, as guest of Spencer, on board Enchantress. Admirable institution, an Admiralty yacht; reconciles one to Naval Estimates, almost. But there!—must not think of Estimates now. Must try and remember this is a holiday, to get ozone and sleep—especially sleep.
Cowes.—Spencer really very nautical. Talks of fast cruisers and water-tube boilers all the time. Great on torpedo-destroyers. Says the Havoc "goes twenty-five knots an hour." Well then, why can't Harcourt get up the same pace with our Bills? Wish he'd turn into a Parliamentary Havoc. Mention this to Spencer, who laughs, and says, "It's the Opposition who indulge in twenty-five Nots an hour." Believe Spencer means it as a joke. Turn in, and think of Harcourt and Spencer's joke and Twin-Screw Cabinets and Water-veto-boiler Bills. Wretched night!
Portland, Tuesday Morning.—Rather unfair of Spencer. Now he's got me safely on board, he's always trying to persuade me that Navy wants more money spent on it. More money! Refer him to Harcourt, the "inexorable Jorkins." Try to hide from Spencer. No good. He finds me behind a coil of rope on half-quarter-deck—is it half-quarter-deck? Not sure, and don't like to ask—and begins again. Seems he would like a few more millions for guns. Thought we had heaps of guns. Talks about a ship he calls The Hecckler. What a name! Reminds me of every political meeting I've ever attended. Why will Lords of Admiralty give such names? Spencer explains—seems it's Hecla, not Hecckler. Oh! All right. Fear Spencer begins to think me rather a land-lubber. Got me at an advantage here. Wait till I take him to Newmarket Heath!
Off Plymouth.—Down in engine-room. Tell head stoker that House of Lords is an effete institution. Stoker winks. Can he be a Tory? Tell him it's a "gilded prison." Stoker seems surprised, and asks, "Why I don't chuck it up, then?" Curious—no repartee handy. And I am so good at them, generally. Must consult "Fridoline," traduit de l'Anglais de "Happy Thoughts," to see what would be a "repartee to a stoker." Bed. Spencer won't hear of it as bed; talks of "turning-in to his bunk." What an enthusiastic "First Lord" Spencer does make! Thinking of First Lord, wonder who'll be Last Lord? Go on wondering till dawn. What a noise swabbing the deck makes! Wish I were back at the Durdans!
Scilly Islands, Wednesday.—Blue sea, lovely weather. Delightful to have left all worries, all politics, far behind, and to—— Boat seen approaching from land. Man says he has a telegram for me! Oh, hang telegrams! Wish I were well out at sea. What can it be about? Japan? Siam? Chitral? No. Only to tell me result of Walworth and West Dorset elections! Hem! Seems I am at sea—politically. Thoughtless of Asquith to have wired me on the subject. Homer handsomely beaten. Why didn't he stick to his Iliad? And Reade—deserves the Old Bailey for being licked by the new one! Question now is—where's our majority? Ask Spencer. Spencer replies it's "as plain as a marlinspike." Says Walworth lost because not enough money spent on Navy. Assures me Navy "much more important than Army; in fact, it's the Predominant Partner." This is too much! Ask Spencer, as a favour, to maroon me on some desolate isle—say Lundy. Won't do it. Bribe a sailor. Landed at Lizard. Off to town! Next time I want sea air, shall run down to Clacton on the "Belle."
Oxford Degrees.—Certainly Messrs. Dan Leno and Albert Chevalier should have Masterships of Arts conferred on them. The "Voces Stellarum" at the Oxford Observatory (otherwise Music Hall) are well worth hearing. Mr. Burnett (J. P.) has just issued a brochure on this Music-Astronomical subject, chiefly remarkable for a brief essay on "The Pantomimic Art," by Paul Martinetti, whose right to speak on such a theme, as an authority, may be arrived at by any one who sees this most artistic pantomimist in a short melodramatic piece—a piece which thoroughly tells its own tale without words—now being performed nightly at the Oxford. It is admirable. If action can do so much, then why not a Shakspearian play in action, and "the student" could read the words to himself at home? We recommend the idea to Mr. Paul Martinetti, and should advise him to re-arrange Don Quixote, as "a piece without words," for Mr. Henry Irving, who now looks and acts the part to perfection; the piece itself might then be of the actor, that is,—if action were substituted for its very poor dialogue.
Politics à la Perkyn Middlewick.—The Radical wire-pullers now regard the middle-class Walworth voters (for Mr. Bailey) as "Shop 'uns," and the county division which returned Colonel Williams as "inferior Dosset"!
