ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.
When in doubt, consult the Cap'en.
House of Commons, Monday, September 2.—A sight for Lords and Commons to see Lord High Admiral Jokim seated between Cap'en Tommy Bowles and Arnold-Forster, imbibing naval information at the pores, as Joey Ladle, in far-off-days, deep in the recesses of his employer's cellar, took his spirituous refreshment.
"How happy could I be with either were t'other instructor away," said Jokim, rubbing his pleased sides with rapturous content. "Or, happier still," he added, sotto voce, "if both would take themselves off."
In his secret heart the Cap'en looks upon Arnold-Forster as a landlubber.
"He wouldn't," he says, with fine scorn, "know how to belay a sheet when a ship was stepping fore and aft under a booming north-wester. I'd lay a rope's end to a bumboat-man's back that he couldn't pass a spare spar through the man-hole without first pulling up the trysail."
Arnold-Forster, on his part, suspects the Cap'en hasn't seen nearly so much of the wild ocean as casual observations dropped by him may indicate. He makes much of certain variations in the old salt's story of how he came to lose his hand in the service of his country. There is, certainly, some doubt as to whether it was the Prince Consort or Albert Prince of Wales who sent him that famous letter accompanying the hook which at this day enables the Cap'en to overhaul the estimates. But this is due rather to wealth of experience than to poverty of veracity. When a man has seen everything, gone so far, and knows so much as Tommy, he may be forgiven if occasionally he mixes up a name or two, a date, or an episode.
Some uneasiness in ministerial circles last week upon observation of Macartney going about his country's business in white ducks. These are, so to speak, Cap'en Tommy's colours. Always ducks them when he goes on the warpath against the Admiralty. For the Secretary of all men, he the only man, to follow Tommy's example in this respect didn't look well. Was said to be a hint to whom it might concern that if the department didn't treat him with more respect, Macartney would carry over to the enemy his stored wealth of naval knowledge. Since Private Hanbury got his stripes, and is now referred to in debate as "The Honourable Corporal," Cap'en has no party. With Macartney forming the nucleus of one, who knows what might not happen?
House relieved to-night to find Secretary to Admiralty has hauled down sign of revolt, and put on ordinary trousers. If there was anything in the incident, all is well now. That there may have been appears from the Cap'en's unusually embittered tone when the subject is alluded to.
"Call them ducks!" he cried in scorn. "They were only white drawers. No member of this House should attempt to walk up the floor in ducks unless he is prepared to keep on his domestic staff a man who has made the garment a life-long study; who knows how to wash it, starch it, iron it, and, above all, to fold it up."
Business done.—Appropriation Bill brought in.
"Swaziland, my Swaziland."
Tuesday.—One decided advantage of change of position of sections of parties on formation of new Ministry is to bring Silomio within reach of Hemprer Joe's knobstick. In last Parliament, united against common enemy, Silomio was most deferential to "my right hon. friend," while Joseph's respect for patriotic instinct of Swazi Chief, whose fathers, having come over with the Conqueror, went out in the Mayflower, was sometimes past expression. Now Hemprer Joe has come into his kingdom; his knobstick is exchanged for a sceptre, whilst Silomio begins to realise something of the feelings of the Red Man when harried by his haughty ancestors. Like him, Silomio's possessions are taken from him. His Civil Lordship of the Admiralty is given to another, and that other the son of his former trusted right hon. friend. When, therefore, to-night Silomio, from his arid exile below the gangway, sings again his old song with its low lament—
Swaziland, my Swaziland!
and when Hemprer Joe, to the delight of scoffers opposite, rolls him over and over, pinks his fluffy eloquence with scornful stiletto, no wonder he turns at bay, and reminds L'Hemprer of things he said about Hercules Robinson at a time he sat untrammelled on Opposition benches.
Shaft goes home. L'Hemprer very angry. "A statement that ought not to be made," he says, withering Silomio with direful look. Ministerialists loyally cheer; Opposition lightly laugh; Silomio, buffeted on all sides, comforts himself with thoughts of faithful friends in far-off Swaziland. There is at least one spot on earth where he is appreciated. Soon he may shake off from his mocassins the dust of civilisation, and hie him thither.
Business done.—Appropriation Bill read second time.
Wednesday.—Lo! the poor Indian Budget at last. 'Tis the poor relation of Parliamentary Bills. At commencement of every Session Members interested in India protest against Budget being postponed till very last hours, when most people are gone away, and those who remain are hopelessly weary. Secretary of State promises amendment. Here we are something later than usual. Yesterday's sitting was solemnly set apart for Indian Budget. Other things—Chitral, Cotton Duties—crowded it out. Meekly looks in to-day, hoping it doesn't intrude.
Strange peace fallen over House. Georgie Hamilton's voice echoes over spaces desolate as the outlook of the rupee. Not a single Irish Member left to object to anything. For them the scene of conflict is transferred to Ireland. There the inoffensive Tim stands at bay, Justin McCarthy having at length dealt him that "good hard knock" the imminence of which E. R. lately forecast in these prophetic pages. There William O'Brien, with wet handkerchief mopping wetter eyes, tells stories out of school of Tim's unnatural naughtiness when good Mr. G. was bringing in his Home-Rule Bill, and upon other enticing occasions. There patriots bang their brothers in pursuit of peace, and hate each other for the love of Ireland.
"Did you ever," I in weak moment asked the unsympathetic Sark, "read The Dead of Clonmacnois, a Gaelic lyric of a time immemorial? There are two verses of the musical English rendering that haunt me when I listen to an Irish debate.
Exit Toby.
In a quiet watered land, a land of roses,
Stands Saint Kieran's city fair;
And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations
Slumber there.
Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred Fighter
In the red earth lies at rest;
Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,
Many a swan-white breast."
"Pretty," said Sark, with quite unexpected approval. "First line perfection. But, you will observe, the poet studiously refrains from affirming the final extinction of the family of the estimable Conn. 'Many and many a son,' he says, in the red earth lies at rest. One at least is left. They in their time had Conn the Hundred Fighter. We have Tim the Hundred-and-Fifty Fighter."
Business done.—All.
Thursday.—Parliament prorogued. World must go round as best it may till February next.