VI.
The sixth and last sitting of the Inquiry upon the Fiscal (skip the rest) was remarkable in many ways, but especially for the fact that Mr. Chamberlain alone appeared.
The audience in the street outside, and the many experts and officials who were privileged to enter the court, were waiting in vain for the advent of at least the Duke of Marlborough or Mr. Austen Chamberlain, when the Colonial Secretary rose, and after remarking that he would detain them for but a very few moments, begged that they would not take alarm at the constitution of the court.
The absence of his colleagues was just the kind of thing that his more virulent opponents might put down to some difference within the Cabinet. Against malicious ignorance of that kind there was no weapon but direct contradiction. He would contradict it here and now, as he had successfully contradicted in the past his connection with the Jameson raid, the stupid story about the garden party at Lord Rothschild’s, and the legend of his having been a Free Trader and a Home Ruler, in some remote past which his enemies found it very difficult to discover. (Laughter.)
He did not think it seemly that a man should talk too much about himself. He would therefore make no allusion to the services he had rendered his country. Such as they were, they could never be more than the services of one man. A great man perhaps, a loveable man certainly, but after all, only one man.
Lord Beaconsfield had said that men imputed themselves. He was not quite clear what this meant, but,—....
(Here Mr. Chamberlain took up another little bit of paper, frowned, let drop his eye-glass, fiddled a little with his fingers, frowned again, replaced his eye-glass, and explained that he had mislaid some of his notes.)
Continuing in a more natural tone, and with far less fluency, he proceeded to give in detail the reasons for the absence of each of his colleagues.
The Prime Minister was occupied at Deptford, arguing with some Nonconformists.
“Arguing with Nonconformists.”
“Arguing with Nonconformists.”
“Arguing with Nonconformists.”
Lord Halsbury had retired into a monastery, to make his peace with God.
Lord Lansdowne had been suddenly called to the ForeignOffice to translate some Frenchified stuff or other in the Sugar Convention.
The Duke of Marlborough was suffering from brain fever, and, in spite of the terribly contagious nature of the disease, Mr. Gerald Balfour was nursing him with all the tenderness of a woman.
His own son, Austen, had that very morning received a letter from a Mrs. Augusta Legge, of Tooting. It was addressed to the Postmaster-General, and complained that a box of fish, despatched by her ten days ago, had been lost in the post. The Postmaster-General always attended to these things himself. It was in the tradition of hard, silent self-denial in which he had himself been brought up, and in which he had brought up his family.
Under the circumstances he thought he would not call any witnesses ... something much more convincing than any number of witnesses was being prepared in the Horse Guards’ parade.
Mr. Chamberlain cordially invited those present to attend, and sat down after speaking two hours and thirty-four minutes, during the whole of which prodigious space of time he kept his audience entranced and speechless.
At the close of these proceedings, Lord Burnham came forward in his robes, his escutcheon borne by pages, and displaying as supporters, Hummim and Thummim, with the legend “Nec NominaMutant.” The Venerable Peer presented the Colonial Secretary with a pair of white gloves, according to an ancient and touching custom, which prescribes such a gift when a Court is happily spared the painful duty of delivering a verdict.
Mr. Chamberlain then disappeared through a little door to robe himself as a Roman Emperor, in which character he proposed to address the pageant.
On reaching the Horse Guards’ Parade an enormous crowd was discovered stretching as far as the eye could reach, but leaving between themselves and the grand stand a space, through which could defile the procession which had been arranged. At precisely fifteen minutes to six Mr. Chamberlain rose to address the crowd, and by a fine conception the brass band, the flags, and the various contingents of the procession began marching past at the same time.
It was perhaps on this account that his speech was not very clearly heard. The opening sentence, however, rang high and clear: “I shall detain you,” he said, “for buta very few moments.” What followed was drowned in a blast of trumpets preceding the arrival of⸺
A dozen miserable Unionist Free Traders. The unhappy men were gagged and driven forward, with their hands tied behind their backs, by a convoy of voters from Birmingham, arranged in blocks of five, and bearing banners ornamented with mottoes in their own dialect.
In the short interval following their passage, several of Mr. Chamberlain’s sentences could be plainly heard:
“I will tell the truth ... that has ever been ... Imperial race ... one united....”
At this moment the contingent of National Scouts, cheering wildly and galloping past the saluting point, drowned the master’s voice.
When the dust they had raised had somewhat fallen, his stern, impassive features were once more discernible, and a few more sentences could be caught above the din, though with increasing difficulty, as the mob were beginning to indulge in that loud horse-play which is inseparable from great popular movements.
“He was not often mistaken.... They could not point to any opinion which he had ... and which had not been....”
Though it was evident from the considerable distension of his mouth that the Great Statesman was still making history, nothing more could be heard: every word was swallowed up, as it were, in the increasing enthusiasm of the crowd.
An effigy of Mr. Winston Churchill, stuffed with straw, was dragged past the grand stand amid hoots and jeers, and finally burnt at the stake in the open space near the Duke of York’s steps.
Fifty-seven enormous vans, drawn by twelve strong horses each, and loaded to the height of at least forty feet with pamphlets and small handbooks, received perhaps a greater ovation than any other section of the procession, until, at its close, and, as though to emphasize that unity among all our fellow subjects, which has been the object of Mr. Chamberlain’s life, a number of Kaffirs, dressed as nearly as possible in the manner of the British working man, appeared on the extreme right, and marched past with colours flying.
When the approaching tramp and order of these brave men fell upon their ears, the crowd could no longer restrain themselves. Loud shouts of “Tweebosch!” and the names of other well-fought fields whereon they had fought and bled for us, rose from thethree educated men who were to be discovered in that vast assembly. As the legion passed the stand itself, and turned eyes right to the majestic figure that had enrolled them in the common service of the Island Race, a great song, of which the words were at first indistinct, rose spontaneously from various parts of the parade: within a few seconds half a million undaunted voices were giving forth the great Song of Empire:
“Whoi carn’t every man’Ave three woives!”
Spurred by such emotions, the crowd broke through the cordon which had hitherto been stoutly maintained by a body of Mr. Brodrick’s recruits, and made a rush for the grand stand; it unfortunately collapsed under the multitude of those attempting to honour their leader by a personal embrace. Perhaps no fitter termination could have been imagined for a scene which marked a turning point in the history of the Horse Guards’ Parade.
The Colonial Secretary, it need scarcely be added, did not remain to receive this last testimony to his popularity, but the beginning of the enthusiastic movement in the crowd was enough to convince him that he had thousands at his back, and, as Napoleon is reported to have said to his coachman after Waterloo, “With such numbers behind him a man should be capable of all things.”