Chapter 3

New Peer drops on one knee, presents bundle of paper to LORD CHANCELLOR. L.C., coyly turning his head on one side, gingerly takes roll, hands it to Attendant. New Peer gets up; procession bundles back to table; here Gentleman in wig and gown gabbles something from long document. New Peer writes his name in a book (probably promising subscription towards expenses of performance.) Garter King-at-Arms getting to the front trots off with comically short strides for so great a dignity; New Peer and escort follow, Black Rod solemnly bringing up rear. Garter King makes for Cross Benches by the door; passes along one, the rest following, as if playing game of Follow-my-leader. Garter King suddenly making off to the right, walks up Gangway to row of empty Benches. Stops at the topmost row but one, and passes along. New Peer wants to follow him. Garter King prods him in chest with small stick, and tells him to go on to the Bench above. This he does, with escort. Meanwhile, Black Rod left out in the cold. Garter King motions to three Peers to be seated; tells them to put on their cocked-hats; counts ten; nods to them; they rise to feet, uplift cocked-hats in direction of LORD CHANCELLOR on Woolsack. He raises his in return of salute. Three Peers sit down again. Garter King counts ten; nods; up they get again, salute LORD CHANCELLOR; sit down once more. "One--two--three--four--ten," Garter King mumbles to himself. Once more they rise; salute LORD CHANCELLOR; then Garter King leading the way, they march back to Woolsack.

Garter King now introduces new Member to LORD CHANCELLOR. L.C. starts as if he had never seen him before; then extends right hand; New Peer shakes it, procession reformed, walks out behind Bar. A few minutes later, another comes in, all the business done over again. Impressive, but a little monotonous, and as soon as possible after its conclusion Noble Lords go home.

_Business done_.--In Commons, Private Bill Legislation Bill read a Second Time.

_Friday_.--WM. O'BRIEN, standing with tear-stained face on pier at Boulogne waving wet handkerchief across the main, has drawn away JUSTIN McCARTHY, who can't be back till Monday. PARNELL was to have come down to-day, and, making believe to be still Leader of United Irishmen, asked OLD MORALITY to set aside day for discussion of his Motion on operation of Crimes Act. BRER FOX accordingly looked in shortly after SPEAKER took the Chair.

"Seen BRER RABBIT anywhere about, TOBY?" he asked.

So I up and told him about McCARTHY's new journey to Boulogne.

"Oh, indeed," said BRER FOX; "if that's the case, I think I won't trouble House to-night. Got an engagement elsewhere; think I'll go and keep it. Not used to hanging about here, as you know; awful bore to me; but as long as BRER RABBIT comes here, I must be on spot to vindicate my position. So I'll say ta-ta. No--never mind ringing for fire-escape; can walk down the steps to-day."

Thus there being no Irish Leader on the premises, and hardly any Irish Members, had a rare chance for attending to British business. CHANNING brought on question of working Overtime on the Railways; moved Resolution invoking interference of Board of Trade. Question a little awkward for Government. Couldn't afford to offend Railway Directors, yet wouldn't do to flout numerous body of working-men, chiefly voters. Proposed to shelve business by appointment of Select Committee. Opposition not going to let them off so easily. Debate kept up all night, winding up with critical Division; Government majority only 17.

"And this," said OLD MORALITY, with injured look, "after PLUNKET's brilliant oration on the time-tables of the London and North-Western Railway Company! If he'd only illustrated it with magic-lantern, things would have gone differently." But he was obstinate; said there would be difficulty in arranging the slides, and so rejected proposal.

_Business done_.--CHANNING's Resolution about Overtime on Railways negatived by 141 Votes against 124.

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HOMAGE TO SIR JAMES HANNEN.

Sir,--As the recognised organ of the legal profession, will you permit me to address you? It is common knowledge that within the last few days the Right Honourable Sir JAMES HANNEN has been raised to a dignity greater than that he has been able to claim for the last eighteen years, when he has sat as President of the Probate, Divorce, and Admiralty Division of the High Court of Justice. On leaving the Court in which so many of us were known to him, he was kind enough to say, "Those eighteen years had been eighteen years of happiness to him, chiefly arising from the advantage he had had in having before him habitually practising in that Court Barristers who had felt that their part was just as important as his in the administration of Justice, and who had assisted him enormously. Without their assistance, his task would have been an arduous one, whereas it had been, as he had said, an agreeable one." As I personally have had the honour of appearing before his Lordship for many years, I think that it is only right that I should make some acknowledgment of this kind recognition of my services.

It is quite true that I have felt, as Sir JAMES HANNEN suggests, that my part (humble as it may have been) has been just as important as his in the administration of Justice. But it is gratifying to me beyond measure to learn that my invariable custom of bowing to his Lordship on the commencement and conclusion of each day's forensic duties--which has been the limit of my "habitual practice" in the Probate Division--should "have assisted him enormously." I can only say that, thanks to his unvarying kindness and courtesy, my daily recognition of his greetings from the Bench, instead of being an arduous task, has ever been an agreeable one. I have the honour to remain, Sir, your very obedient servant,

(_Signed_)

A. BRIEFLESS, JUNIOR.

_Pump-Handle Court, January 24, 1891._

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"PRO-DIGIOUS!"--In last Sunday's _Observer_ we read that at St. Petersburg Madame MELBA, as _Juliette, "was recalled thirty-one times before the proscenium._" The italics are ours, rather! If this sort of thing is to be repeated during the Opera season here, and each gifted singer is recalled in proportion to his or her merits, the audience will not get away till the following morning. _Juliette_ must have said, on the above-mentioned occasion, "Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I could say 'good-night' until to-morrow." And the usual chorus of operatic _habitués_ will be, "We won't go home till morning. Till daylight doth appear!" with _refrain_, "For--she (or he)'s a jolly good singer," &c., _ad infinitum_, or "_ad infi-next-nightum_."

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THE FRIEZE OF THE PARTHENON.

ENGLAND TO ATHENS:--

O Queen of Cities, with a crown of woe, Scarred by the ruin of two thousand years, By fraud and by barbarian force laid low, Buried in dust, and watered with the tears Of unregarded bondmen, toiling on, Crushed in the shadow of their Parthenon;

Mother of heroes, Athens, nought availed The Macedonian's triumph, or the chain Of Rome; the conquering Osmanli failed, His myriad hosts have trampled thee in vain. They for thy deathless body raised the pyre, And held the torch, but Heaven forbade the fire.

Then didst thou rise, and, shattering thy bands, Burst in war's thunder on the Muslim horde, Who shrank appalled before thee, while thy hands Wielded again the imperishable sword, The sword that smote the Persian when he came, Countless as sand, thy virgin might to tame.

Mother of freemen, Athens, thou art free, Free as the spirits of thy mighty dead; And Freedom's northern daughter calls to thee, "How shall I help thee, sister? Raise thy head, O Athens, say what can I give thee now, I who am free, to deck thy marble brow?"

ATHENS REPLIES:--

Shot-dinted, but defiant of decay, Stand my gaunt columns in a tragic line, The shattered relics of a glorious day, Mute guardians of the lost Athena's shrine. The flame of hope, that faded to despair Ere Hellas burst her chains, is imaged there.

Yet one there was who came to her for gain, Ere yet the years of her despair were run; And with harsh zeal defaced the ruined fane Full in the blazing light of Hellas' sun. Spoiling my home with sacrilegious hand, He bore his captives to a foreign land.

Ilissus mourns his tutelary god, Theseus in some far city doth recline: Lost is the Horse of Night that erstwhile trod My hall; the god-like shapes that once were mine Call to me, "Mother save us ere we die, Far from thy arms beneath a sunless sky."

How shall I answer? for my arms are fain To clasp them fast upon the rock-bound steep, Their ancient home. Shall Athens yearn in vain, And all in vain must woful Hellas weep? Must the indignant shade of PHIDIAS mourn For his dear city, free but how forlorn?

How shall I answer? Nay, I turn to thee, England, and pray thee, from thy northern throne Step down and hearken, give them back to me, O generous sister, give me back mine own. Thy jewelled forehead needs no alien gem Torn from a hapless sister's diadem.

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