Business done.—Address moved.
Wednesday.—Exceptional interest in this afternoon's proceedings in view of circumstance that Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett (Knight)—what was it Grandolph said about mediocrity with double-barrelled names?—would appear in his new character as Silomio. Title conferred during recess by delegates from Swaziland. Curiosity quickened by report that début would be made in character. Yesterday we had mover and seconder of Address in velvet suits with silver buttons and brands Excalibur at their side. Why no Silomio in the native dress of the nation that has adopted him? Some disappointment when he turned up in ordinary frock-coat. Understood that weather responsible for this. Swazi morning dress picturesque, but with nine degrees of frost in Palace Yard a little inadequate, especially for a beginner.
Even in commonplace English dress Silomio made a striking figure as he stood at the table, and belaboured it for "Swaziland, my Swaziland." Looked at times as if he were going to leap over, and seize by the throat Sydney Buxton provokingly smiling on the other side. Last week's handkerchief hanging out from his coat tail pocket, in liberal measure though crumpled state, lent a weird effect to back view, not interrupted by inconvenient crowding on front Opposition Bench. Odd how Silomio's colleagues in late Ministry find business elsewhere when he rises to orate.
Business done.—Talking round Address.
Thursday.—Rather painful scene in House to-night. Chaplin resuming debate on Address led its course gently by the still waters of bimetallism. Somehow that a subject that has never quite entranced attention of frivolous Commons. It works certain subtle spell upon them. At clink of sovereign and shilling between argumentative finger and thumb they slink away. So it was to-night whilst Chaplin spoke. Faithful among the faithless found was Jemmy Lowther. He sat attentive beside the orator with an expression of profound wisdom, unmitigated by boyish habit of keeping his hands in his trouser pocket, not without suspicion of furtively counting his marbles or attempting to open his knife with the fingers of one hand.
A Trifle for the Unemployed!
Jemmy and Chaplin rank amongst oldest boys in the school. One took his seat for mid-Lincolnshire in December, 1868; saw the rise to supreme power of Mr. G. and, with some intervals, suffered it up to the end. The other rode in triumphantly from York one July day in 1865. Thus their united Parliamentary ages if fifty-seven, a record hard to beat. Shoulder to shoulder they have, through all this time, resisted attacks on British Constitution. Now, suddenly, publicly, in eye of the scorner, came sharp parting of the ways.
Chaplin viewing state of things depressing industrial communities admitted it was very bad. Mills closed, mines empty, ship-building yards silent, workmen starving. Only one thing would save the State—Bimetallism. "Is there anyone," said the orator with magnificent wave of arm round desolate benches; "who has any other suggestion to make for the salvation of these industries?" Then up spoke Jemmy Lowther. "I have," he said with final tug at the blade of the knife hidden in his pocket.
Chaplin stood aghast. Could it be possible—his own familiar friend? He turned, looked down on him, gasping for breath. Then in a hollow voice he added, "What has my right hon. friend been doing all this time? Why doesn't he make his proposal?"