Shaft goes home. L'HEMPRER very angry. "A statement that ought not to be made," he says, withering SILOMIO with direful look. Ministerialists loyally cheer; Opposition lightly laugh; SILOMIO, buffeted on all sides, comforts himself with thoughts of faithful friends in far-off Swaziland. There is at least one spot on earth where he is appreciated. Soon he may shake off from his mocassins the dust of civilisation, and hie him thither. _Business done._--Appropriation Bill read second time. _Wednesday._--Lo! the poor Indian Budget at last. 'Tis the poor relation of Parliamentary Bills. At commencement of every Session Members interested in India protest against Budget being postponed till very last hours, when most people are gone away, and those who remain are hopelessly weary. SECRETARY OF STATE promises amendment. Here we are something later than usual. Yesterday's sitting was solemnly set apart for Indian Budget. Other things--Chitral, Cotton Duties--crowded it out. Meekly looks in to-day, hoping it doesn't intrude. Strange peace fallen over House. GEORGIE HAMILTON'S voice echoes over spaces desolate as the outlook of the rupee. Not a single Irish Member left to object to anything. For them the scene of conflict is transferred to Ireland. There the inoffensive TIM stands at bay, JUSTIN MCCARTHY having at length dealt him that "good hard knock" the imminence of which E. R. lately forecast in these prophetic pages. There WILLIAM O'BRIEN, with wet handkerchief mopping wetter eyes, tells stories out of school of TIM'S unnatural naughtiness when good Mr. G. was bringing in his Home-Rule Bill, and upon other enticing occasions. There patriots bang their brothers in pursuit of peace, and hate each other for the love of Ireland. "Did you ever," I in weak moment asked the unsympathetic SARK, "read _The Dead of Clonmacnois_, a Gaelic lyric of a time immemorial? There are two verses of the musical English rendering that haunt me when I listen to an Irish debate. In a quiet watered land, a land of roses, Stands Saint Kieran's city fair; And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations Slumber there. Many and many a son of CONN the Hundred Fighter In the red earth lies at rest; Many a blue eye of Clan COLMAN the turf covers, Many a swan-white breast." "Pretty," said SARK, with quite unexpected approval. "First line perfection. But, you will observe, the poet studiously refrains from affirming the final extinction of the family of the estimable CONN. 'Many and many a son,' he says, in the red earth lies at rest. One at least is left. They in their time had CONN the Hundred Fighter. We have TIM the Hundred-and-Fifty Fighter." [Illustration: Exit Toby.] _Business done._--All. _Thursday._--Parliament prorogued. World must go round as best it may till February next. * * * * * ROUNDABOUT READINGS.