46

VANITY FAIR

JULY 18, 1901

to be: Shall the Empire, in its broadened yet consolidated form, find expression through an attempt to set up an "Imperial" Parliament at Westminster, or shall it work out its appointed mission by means of the Golden Link of the Crown? Mr. Chamberlain, at the Dominion Day Banquet, lately quoted certain words of Sir Wilfrid Laurier's on the subject of "a closer union," and said that "if they"—(the Colonies)—"are willing to assist us, not merely with their "arms, but also with their counsel and their advice, I believe "that there is nothing the people of this country would more "readily welcome." The friendly challenge was at once taken up by Sir Louis Davies, the principal Canadian Minister present, who declared that "the tie which binds us may be "only a silken cord; but, based as it is on the best traditions "of the Colonies, it is stronger than a legal cord or a chain "would be."

This is the only possible and practical note that could have been struck. "Silken Cord," or "Golden Link," the idea is the same. Mr. Chamberlain, we note, was careful not to suggest either Parliament or the Cabinet as alternative agencies by which this "closer union" might be accomplished. Nevertheless, it is well that any ambiguity lying behind his words should be cleared up. If the devising of Home Rule for Ireland surpassed "the wit of man," what may not be said concerning workable Imperial Federation via a Parliament in London? Even the drawing up on paper of a preliminary scheme would occupy a generation. The task of adjusting the voting strength due to various parts of the Empire would be superhuman. The scheme, at best, would be artificial; and the ultimate result would be a chaos of inconsistencies, crude compromises, and cast-iron impossibilities. We assert, then, that the natural and, indeed, the only possible embodiment of the Imperial idea is already a thing in existence—fully-equipped, tried, trusted, and capable of immediate action without long-drawn and complex negotiations, without Acts by the home and Colonial Parliaments, without risk of provoking jealousies and heartburnings. That Imperial idea rests in the person of the King: not by virtue of any artificial enactments of Legislatures, nor in the play of franchises of greatly varying values, geographically, as well as fundamentally, wide as the poles apart. "The King in Council"—an Imperial Committee of the judiciously selected from all parts of the Empire—would be a tower of strength. "A Federated Parliament" would be a Tower of Babel. Who can doubt how the choice should lie? In accepting Sir Louis Davies's assurance that "Canada"—(and he might have added Australasia and South Africa)—"has enough problems on hand to "engross all her energies for many years to come," we accept also his other phrase. Be it a Silken Cord or a Golden Link, we maintain that the keystone of the Empire, to which King Edward's style and title are to be suitably wedded, consists in the moot fact that he is the Empire's Permanent Premier. It may, indeed, be added that "Parliamentary Federation"—(which was never taught but a dream of the political theorists)—will have but a short shrift from the Silken Cord.

## THE WESTMINSTER WEEK.

**TUESDAY.**—Education again! West 'Am Gray, the hero of the hour, has the call of the House. Then distinguished Professors of the Pedagogic Art never get up under an hour, forgetting that, unlike the boiler of a locomotive, the power of a speech varies inversely as to its length. Following them, a succession of small orations from hon. gentlemen who have apparently passed their time in addressing the Parish Vestry on the subject of the local pump, new hands mostly; and at last an allocation from Historicus, who has hitherto taken as much interest in the instruction of the rising generation as, say, a respectable tom-cat; followed by the First Lord, who has his philosophic doubts as to the absolute necessity of higher education as applied to agricultural labourers, and a majority of 115 to finish with.

**Wednesday.**—Ireland and Finance—not usually associated in the minds of men. After private business of the parish-pump order, we proceed with Budget—Glucose and Small Coal. Seemingly not an attractive programme, except to the financial purists, coal-owning millionaires, who think the bottom has

fallen out of the universe when their own tin-pot leaks to the extent of a halfpenny in the ton or so, and disinterested manufacturers of tea and sweets, who see death and destruction in the duty on sugar, fearing it not for themselves but for the 'ornamental' one, in whom they live and move and have their being.

**Thursday.**—As sudden death has fallen on the Common House of Parliament. Mr. Speaker occupies his throne and the Sergeant his chair, but nothing breaks the stillness till, at last, we observe Belfast Haslett whispering hoarsely to himself in a corner. "Spake up!" say the Bhogs. "Possibly the hon. Baronet will raise his voice," suggests Mr. Speaker. Then again we plunge into finance. Historicus, amateur Chancellors of the Exchequer, hon. gentlemen who have their own ideas of liquidating the National Debt and paying off the 160 millions in South Africa without putting on the twopence or taxing the crathor unduly. So, assisted by Tully and Redmond minor, going strong on tobacco and whiskey, we finish up for the night.

**Friday.**—A little difference of opinion between Mr. Speaker and a patriot nearly deprives us of the services of a leader for the sitting, a calamity too awful to contemplate, Irish Estimates being down for debate. However, all is for the best in the worst of all possible Parliaments, and matters having accommodated themselves, we proceed with Archbishop Walsh, the Bhogs going strong, Lundon, M.P., raising his voice, which is capable of cracking the glass roof (last heard when the hon. Member gave us an obbligato on "God Save Ireland!") on a recent and unhappy occasion? Hemphill, last of the Serjeants, verging on the years of the G.O.M.; T. W., whose views on Irish land and education are, perhaps, somewhat more accentuated since he retired from the Front Bench; Healy, whose political party is highly select, but not inconveniently large; Finsbury Richards (what did he in that galley?) all contributed to pass the evening pleasantly, while Aggy brought up the rear.

**Monday.**—Maconchie Brothers appeal to one's recollection of bloater and tinned animals generally, not excepting the emergency ration, but to-day we have the Chief of the Clan addressing us as "gentlemen"! Mr. Speaker quite out of it—apparently on account of the enormities of the transcript fathers of Lowestoft, who are flying in the face of Providence by building a tramway. Anyhow, as Lucas remarks, we should put the matter on a broad basis—his own not being a narrow one. When the cat is away, etc. The House does not make essential progress with Education; in other words, right hon. Lowther, having contracted the gout, is unable to take the Chair; and, worse still, in such circumstances, the closure will not work. Consequently, on a hint from Historicus, who is painfully anxious that the Bill should not be unseemly rushed, we spend seven hours over one amendment, and do just nothing at all.

JAWKINS, M.P.

## THE CURS OF ENGLAND.

**D**o you know the curs of England, with their swagger and their airs,

The gents who pay the Income-tax with "Dash it all, who cares?"—

The gents who smirk and simper with the good old Cromwell smile

To a Fairfax dog they think could help a lame cause o'er a style?

The snarling curs of England,
The fuzzy curs of England,
The curs who, now and ever,
Will be cursed in their endeavour

To make England what she never was—

No matter how she errs—
A kennel for the curs.

Do you know the curs of England, who have yet no English thought,

And by English we mean, thank our breed, the dogs who can't be bought?

You may call the wretched rebel crew of British blood, but we Know the British blood that makes the Main our Causeway of the Sea.

Not the coward curs of England,
The snapping curs of England,
The curs who will endeavour
To make England be what never
Can be held by honest Englishmen so long as
Freedom stirs to do her best
She will tell the time-told story,
Given failure, given glory

But always one Great Legend that belongs to Whig or Tory—
"We breed Island dogs, not curs!"

And the dogs will ever fight to do their best!"

H. B.