G.
came down last night; said he'd no particular objection to Treaty, but
didn't like the process of confirming it; so publicly washed his hands
of the business. Since the announcement appeared in papers, HERBERT
tells me his illustrious father's life has been a burden to him. Every
post brings him letters from rival advertising soap manufacturers,
making overtures of business transactions.
"Sir," runs one of these epistles, "alluding to your statement in the
House of Commons last night that you publicly washed your hands of
participation in the Anglo-German Treaty, would you have any objection
to our stating that the substance used was our celebrated Salubrious
Savon? Anticipating your favourable reply, we assume that you would
have no objection to our publishing a portrait of you using our soap,
with its familiar label, 'Does not wash collars.' We have only to add
that in the event of your favourably accepting this suggestion, we
shall esteem it a favour to be allowed to gratuitously supply you and
your family with specimens of our art for the term of your natural
lives."
[Illustration: The British Constitution.]
This is merely an incident in the struggle, illustrating one of the
embarrassments it has evolved. Only man thoroughly happy is HARCOURT.
He invented the line of attack on ground of breach of constitutional
usages; put up Mr. G. to make his speech; supplied him with
authorities, and in supplementary speech amazed House with his
erudition.
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