Chapter 2

After long fight and strenuous defence, Tenacity tremendous, toil immense, The garrison surrenders! 'Tis the doom Of desperate war; and though a sombre gloom Sits on each brow, each brow is lifted high, No petulant pusillanimity Makes poor this last parade of stout defenders, Or shames this most unwilling of surrenders. Six lingering years, and more, of hot attack, By confident cool valour beaten back! Six baffling years of sortie, and of sally, Sudden alarum, stubborn stand, stout rally! How the besiegers in their bannered host Banded at first around this bastion'd post, In sanguine, fierce assault, and shook their spears, Strong hopes derided, mocked at fancied fears. The Citadel's defence was all in vain, They vowed; a year should end the brief campaign; Yet year to year succeeded slow, and still The garrison held out. Strategic skill And not impetuous onset nought availed; The battering-ram and scaling-ladder failed. Brief breaches scarcely made were swift repaired, United still all deadly arms they dared, Those linked defenders who, aforetime foes, Their lately-banded ranks could firmly close Against old friends, now common enemies. Black CECIL was Commander, BALFOUR brave The Union Standard in his wake would wave, The _Reiter_ JOACHIM, of German breed, And the Scot swordster RITCHIE, good at need, With him, the fox-eyed Freelance, JOE DE BRUM, Brave with the trumpet, valiant with the drum, Proud to be capped and curled with Cavaliers, The Gentlemen of England, now his peers,-- These, and a many more good men and true, The ramparts manned, the warning clarion blew; Stood in the breach, and to the bastion swarmed, Whene'er loud blares that citadel alarmed.

But now slow sap and steady siege have wrought The conquest long delayed. The Chiefs that fought So long together, feel the touch of fate, Bow to its bidding. Calm though not elate, Swart CECIL yields him at discretion. So The garrison marches forth! But e'en the foe Gives chivalrous salute to beaten men Unshamed by forced surrender. Hail them, then, With sympathetic cheers! The white-haired Chief, Lifts hat in greeting. He, all brawn and beef, WILLIAM of Malwood, bears the banner high, But scarce looks fired, with conquest's ecstasy. JOHN of Newcastle, reins a restive horse; _He's_ none too eager for another course. The one-armed Irish Chief looks pale and grim; E'en cheery LARRY, of the cynic whim, Hath a less careless chuckle than his wont. "Beshrew me! but they bear a gallant front!" Mutter the pikemen ranged in order round. Sore-battered RITCHIE,--may he soon be sound!-- Bates not a jot of courage; that stark fighter And shifty swordsman, JOACHIM: the _Reiter_, Snuffs the air proudly; with his nose a-cock Steps JOE DE BRUM, and, steady as a rock, Strides forth Chief CECIL! Hail the beaten band, You Grand, and grey-haired, Old Campaigning Hand; For you have seen good fighting, and you know Game foemen when you see them. Conquest's glow Mantles that pallid cheek. After long strain, Victory at last is yours, nor all in vain, Perchance, although its fruits precarious be. What you will do with it, we wait to see. Meanwhile _you_'ll own the foes you've put to rout. With all war's honours unashamed march out.

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MAKE IT HOT.--Dean KITCHIN says that one of his reasons for voting for the Gladstonians is that he is "a warm Liberal." Quite so. A cold KITCHIN would be a contradiction in terms.

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ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Thursday, August 4._--New Parliament met to-day in great force. Ambition stirs noble minds in different ways. Some embark on Parliamentary life with determination to outshine BRIGHT or GLADSTONE in field of oratory. Others will not be pacified till they emulate PITT. Others again aim at the lofty pedestal on which stands through the ages the man who is first in his place, on first day, of first Session, of new Parliament. Exciting race to-day. At night, both BIGWOOD and SPENCER (not BOBBY, who has affairs of graver State to look to just now) sailed in together. At a quarter to ten SAVORY turned up, sermon in hand, and found he was forestalled.

"What, MOORE of them!" cried SAVORY. "The bane of my life."

"Yes," said LOGAN, arriving a few minutes later; "wherever there's one SAVORY you're sure to find MOORE, and in this case they precede you."

Six minutes later DIXON-HARTLAND arrived, mopping his forehead. When he found others on spot, pretended he'd only looked in accidentally. "Passing by, you know; thought I'd see how old place looked." But it wouldn't do. Other men, especially BIGWOOD, saw through it all. Then DIXON HARTLAND grew anecdotal. Told fabulous story about imaginary Scotch Member, who, at opening of Parliament of 1880, brought down his plaid, a stoup of whiskey, and a thimbleful of oatmeal. Camped out all night in Palace Yard, and staggered into House as soon as doors were opened.

"That beats you, BIGWOOD," the Evesham Banker said, with a tartness of voice that betrayed his chagrin.

Rest of the 665 Members content to look in later. By one o'clock House full, Lobby overflowing. Difficult to move through the close ranks, and yet there were many gaps. Ranks of old House more than decimated. "There they go," said my young but fiery friend FURNISS, whom I came upon in corner of Lobby, rapidly sketching with blurred eyesight.

"Who go?" I asked, remembering with a start I had left my gold-nobbed stick in the corner by the Post Office.

"The Members we shall miss," he sobbed, lingering fondly over the truculent curl of HERMON-HODGE's moustache.

But if gone are some familiar faces, others come back. Glad to see MACFARLANE in his old place below Gangway, and to find him later in old seat in smoking-room. MACFARLANE didn't often speak in debate, but usually had something to say. Was a Home-Ruler long before the majority found salvation. Remember across the years how he put whole case in crisp sentence when he adjured the deaf Government of the day "not to attempt to enforce Greenwich-time at Dublin." If BRIGHT had said that, or DIZZY, or Mr. G., the happy phrase would have echoed down the corridors of time. But it was only an Irish Member; MACFARLANE, then Member for Carlow. So it passed unnoticed--unremembered rather than forgotten.

_Business done._--Speaker elected. ARTHUR WELLESLEY PEEL for the fourth time. House evidently under impression it can't have too much of good thing.

_Friday._--Pretty to watch growth of full-blown SPEAKER in New Parliament. First stage--enters in ordinary morning dress, and seats himself with other Members, diligently trying to look as if he expected nothing to happen. Sore temptation for Members sitting near him. Would like to slap him on the back, and ask how he got on through his Election. Short of that, feel they must ask if he wants a pair? Is he dining here? Is he going to have a smoke, or a stroll on the Terrace? Next day, having meanwhile been proposed, seconded, and inducted to Chair, SPEAKER-ELECT turns up in Court-dress, with Bob-wig. This is Development-stage. Having reached it, proceeds to the House of Lords, where he is patronisingly received by LORD CHANCELLOR. ("HALSBURY," SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE'S GATE says, "peculiarly well up in patronage.") This done, returns to Commons; disappears behind Chair; SERGEANT-AT-ARMS counts twenty-three; presto! door re-opens; SPEAKER re-appears in butterfly-trim, with full-bottomed wig, silk gown, and shoon on which shimmer the sheen of silver buckles.

No trifling with SPEAKER when this final stage reached. KEIR-HARDIE took early opportunity of trying a fall with him--and got it. HARDIE fresh from the coal-pit, represents West Ham; evidently determined to pose as Stage Workman. "DON'T KEIR-HARDIE is my name," he said, swaggering into House just now. "Don't keer a ---- for SPEAKER, or any black-coated bloke. I'm the true British Workman, and will soon make all you blooming gentry sit up."

"Are you going to take the Oath?" said COBB. COBB always asking questions.

"Oath!" cried DON'T KEIR-HARDIE, "I'll take 'em in a moog."

Put on his cap, and swaggered towards the table. "Order! order!" cried SPEAKER, in tones of thunder. "DON'T KEIR-HARDIE is my name," said Hon. Member for West Ham; "and blow me if--". Turned, and saw flashing eye of SPEAKER bent upon him. Slowly his hand went up to his head; the cap came off, was crumpled up, and put in his pocket.

"Will you take the oath, or make affirmation?" asked MILMAN, stuck between two tables, but always ready to oblige.

"Don't keer which," said DON'T KEIR-HARDIE; but, possibly from force of habit, took the oath.

"If OLD MORALITY was still with us, my friend," said BURT, gravely, "he would be able to cite for your edification a copy-head showing how Don't Care came to a bad end."

_Business done._--Swearing going on in both Houses. Our Army in Flanders quite respectable by comparison.

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ASPIRATION.

_BY A WEARY SECULAR SCRIBE._

Oh, to be a Pulpiteer! Purists may fie-fie, or sneer. But, when wit and fancy fail, To produce your twice-cooked kail (As "a traveller") must be nice. Nor are you confined to _twice_; Hashed, rehashed, and hashed again, Garnished--from another brain, Seasoned--from another cruet, You may roast, or boil, or stew it O'er and o'er, year in year out, As you perorate about, Seek, when weary,--o'ertasked elves! "Inspiration" from your shelves. Salt it here, and sauce it there, Saying nothing, since none care To make question, taking pay, Yes, and praise upon your way, For--well, ere the thing is through, What is what and who is who, It might puzzle you to tell; Still you "think it right"! Ah, well! This philosophy peripatetic Strikes a chord that's sympathetic In the breast of secular scribe; Nothing, it is true, would bribe Him to play the pious prig, But--he heaves a sigh that's big Murmuring, enviously I fear,-- Oh, to be a Pulpiteer!

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A CAUDAL LECTURE;

_OR, DARWINISM IN THE CRICKET FIELD._

When Man first arose from the primitive Ape, He first dropped his tail, and took on a new shape. But Cricketing Man, born to trundle and swipe, Reversion displays to the earlier type; For a cricketing team, when beginning to fail, Always loses its "form," and "developes a tail"!

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ROBERT ON THINGS IN GINERAL.

I was only jest a thinkin the other day, what werry distinguisht honner Her Most Grashus Madgesty the QUEEN would bestow on the Rite Honerabel the LORD MARE, when the rite time cum. But I was ardly prepaird for the acshal fack!

I reelly coudn't have bleeved it if I hadn't a had it red out to me from a most respecfool Mornin Paper; so in course it must be trew. Yes, the Rite Honorabel the LORD MARE is not only to be a Nite, like other Lord Mares, but the QUEEN has acshally made him a Nite Commander of the most xtinguisht Order of Saint Mikel, and, not sattisfide with ewen that, Her MADGESTY has also made him a Nite Commander of the other most xtinguisht Order of Saint George!

It is fortnit that Sir DAVID's year of offis will soon end, or he mite have fownd it diffikult to carry out his ushal LORD MARE's numerus dootys, while Commanding two sitch xtinguisht Orders as them as is named above.

My Amerricane Friend has turnd up agane at our bewtifool Grand Otel. He says as they has had orful whether wear he has cum from, but all the hole week he has had in grand old Lundon has bin most luvly Sun-Shine, as it amost allers is in Spring, he says he's told. As he luckly didn't appen for to arsk for no arnser, of course I didn't give him not none; but I coudn't help a thinkin as how as if he had bin here in our late hurly Spring, he might ha bin inclined jest a leetel to halter his good opinyon.

We had qwite a plezzent chat while I atended upon him at Lunch. He wants to kno more about our LORD MARE. Fust of all, how much munney he gits; and, when I told him jest ten thowsand pounds for his year of offics, he xclaimd, "Why, that's the werry same sum as we gives our President, who, you know, is reelly our King!" So I said, "Does he find it enuff for him, Sir?" "Oh yes," he says, "quite." "Well," says I, "it don't seem a werry big salery for the King of such a big plaice as Amerrikey, when I appens to know that the LORD MARE of our little Lundon, which is ony about one mile big, has to spend more than another ten thousand pounds out of his own pocket afore he's finished his year!" "Well," he says, "you do estonish me; but everythink's estonishing in your grand old Citty! How do they send him his money?" I told him as the Chamberlane, who was allers cram full of munney, took it him every quarter-day. "Ah," says he, "we send our President, on the 26th of evry month, exakly eight hundred and thirty-three pounds, six-and-eight pence." "Ah," I said, "I am rayther serprized as he shoud condersend to take the odd six-and-eight. I'm quite shure our LORD MARE woudn't do so. I bleeve as he never has not nothink less than Bank-notes and suvreigns, but allers plenty of 'em." "How many dinners does he give during the year?" says he. "Ah, Sir," says I, "that's rayther a staggering qweshun to arnser. Me and BROWN has often tried our hands at it, but ginerally breaks down about Witsuntide; but I shoud say sumwares about three thowsand, and about twice as many lunchons." "Good grayshus!" says the Amerricane, "what a number!" "Yes," says I, "and so much is they thort on, that p'raps the werry greatest trubbel that has worrited the manly bussoms of Lord SORLSBUBY and all his brother Ministers is the mellancolly fack, that they has bin compelld to decline the LORD MARE's customery Ministerial Bankwet this year, coz they coudn't tell for serten whether they would be the Ministers to go to it! And the LORD MARE to drown his sorrer has gone and berried hisself in the 'art of Scotland!" "What a sad story to be shure!" said my Amerricane, with a sigh! "Yes, Sir," I replied, "these are sum of the many trubbels as our werry greatest men has to endewr, and happy is he who does not quiver when he has his arrow full of 'em!" And so we parted.

ROBERT.

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TO MISS AIDA JENOURE.

(_ON THE WITHDRAWAL OF "THE MOUNTEBANKS."_)

Dear AIDA, good-bye; since it must be, it must; Yet your slaves view your absence from Town with disgust. For myself, I'd as soon live at Shipston-on-Stour As endure life in London without our JENOURE. Sprightly Mountebank AIDA, sweet Mistress of Arts, You smiled as you danced yourself into our hearts. And now from the Strand to the Vale of far Maida There's only one chorus--"Come back to us, AIDA!" _Les absents_, you know the old maxim, _ont tort_, Wherefore dance yourself back, and be present once more.

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