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.
