[Illustration: Illuminated 'A']
A very odd thing. Just as we had got into Our Garden, were, so to
speak, turning up our sleeves to hoe and dig, I have been called
away. It is Mr. G. who has done it. The other day the Member for Sark
and I were out weeding the walk--at least he was weeding, and I was
remarking to him on the healthfulness of out-door occupation, more
especially when pursued on the knees. Up comes the gardener with
something on a pitchfork. Thought at first it was a new development of
the polyanthus. (We are always growing strange things. The Member for
Sark says, "In Our Garden it is the unexpected that happens.") Turned
out to be a post-card. Our gardener is very careful to keep up our
new character. If the missive had been brought to us in the house, of
course it would have been served up on a plate. In the garden it is
appropriately handed about on a pitch-fork.
"My dear TOBY" (this is the post-card), "I'm just going up to
Edinburgh; another Midlothian Campaign; You have been with me every
time; don't desert me now; have something quite new and original to
say on the Irish Question; would like you to hear it. Perhaps you
never heard of Mitchelstown? Been looking up particulars. Mean to
tell the whole story. Will be nice and fresh; come quite a shock on
BALFOUR. Don't fail; Yours ever, W.E.G."
Didn't fail, and here I am, not in Our Garden, but in Edinburgh. Left
the Member for Sark in charge. A little uneasy; never know from day
to day what his well-meant but ill-directed energy may not achieve.
At least the celery will be safe. One day, after I had worn myself out
with watching gardener dig trench, Sark came along, and in our absence
filled it up. Said it looked untidy to have long hole like that
in respectable garden. Supposed we had been laying a drain; quite
surprised we weren't pleased, when he gleefully announced he had
filled it up.
Just come back from great meeting in Corn Exchange. Difficult to
realise that it's eleven years since Mr. G. here in first campaign.
A great deal happened in meantime, but enthusiasm just the same.
Mr. G. I suppose a trifle older, but ROSEBERY still boyish-looking.
Proceedings opened with procession of Delegates presenting addresses
to Mr. G. Excellently arranged; reflects great credit on PAT CAMPBELL.
(Capital name that for manager of variety _troupe_.) Leading idea was
to present imposing representation of Liberal Scotia doing homage
to its great chief. PAT caught on at once. Engaged thirty stalwart
men: none of your seedy sandwich-board fellows; responsible-looking
burghers of all ages and sizes. Got them together in room at left door
of stage--I mean of platform; free breakfast; oatmeal cake; unstinted
heather-honey and haddocks. Mr. G. seated in chair in very middle of
stage, the place, you know, where great tragedians insist upon dying.
Prompter's bell rings; Delegates file in, every man with what looks
like a red truncheon in right hand; advance slowly along front of
stage till reach chair where Mr. G. sits, apparently buried in deep
thought.
"What ho!" he cries, looking up with a start.
"My liege," says the sandwich-board man--I mean the Delegate, "I
bring hither the address of the Possilpark, Lambhill, Dykehead,
Camburnathen, Wishaw, Dalbeattie, Catrine, and Sorn Liberal and
Radical Association. Will I read it?"
"I think not," said ROSEBERY, quietly, but firmly, and the Delegate,
handing the red thing to Mr. G., passed on.
Mr. G. smiling and bowing; audience applauded; next man comes.
_He's_ from the Duntocher, Faifley, Slamannan, Cockpen, Pennicuik,
Clackmannan, Carnoustie, Kirkintilloch, and Lenzie Junior Liberal
Association. He also wants to read the Address, but is mercifully
hustled off, and the line, ever emerging from L. of stage, crosses,
and passes on. At other side, PAT CAMPBELL waiting; a little anxious
lest anything should go wrong to spoil his carefully-devised plan. But
everything went well.
"Get ye away now," PAT whispered in ear of the man from Possilpark,
&c.
Possilpark, &c., at the clue, darted round rear of stage; got round in
good time to L.; fell into line, and was ready to come on again. Same
with the rest. Immense success! At the end of first three-quarters
of an hour, PAT CAMPBELL arranged a block; pressure of innumerable
Delegates so great, doncha, couldn't move off the stage in time. This
gave opportunity for two of the stoutest burghers to go through quick
change; reappeared, dressed in kilts. This fairly fetched down house.
"The interminable procession," as ROSEBERY slyly called it, might have
gone on till now, so perfect were the arrangements. But there was some
talk of Mr. G. making a speech, and, at end of hour and fifty minutes
the last Delegate slowly crossed in front of delighted audience,
handed his red _bâton_ to Mr. G., who, though he had entered
thoroughly into the fun of the thing, was beginning to look a little
fagged, and the speaking began.
This was excellent, especially ROSEBERY's introduction of the
travelling Star; a model of terse, felicitous language. Only one hitch
here. Speaking of Mr. G.'s honoured age, he likened him to famous
Doge of Venice, "old DANDOLO." ROSEBERY very popular in Edinburgh. But
audience didn't like this; something like groan of horror ran along
crowded benches.
"Nae, nae," said one old gentleman, momentarily taking his knees out
of the small of my back, "that winna do. 'Auld WULLIE' is weel enoo,
but to ca' a man Auld DANDOLO to his face gars me greet." (Often met
with this phrase in songs and Scotch novels: curious to see how it was
done; fancy, from what followed, it's Scotch for taking snuff.)
Barring this slip, everything went well. GLADSTONE delightful. So
fresh, so informing, and so instructive! Began with lucid account
of Battle of Waterloo; lightly sketched the state of parties at the
period of the Reform agitation in 1832; glanced in passing at the
regrettable conflict between the Northern and Southern States of
America ("sons of one mother" as he pathetically put it); and so
glided easily and naturally into a detailed account of the _mêlée_
at Mitchelstown, which, as he incidentally mentioned, took place four
years and a half ago.
Audience sat entranced. You might have heard a pin drop, if indeed
you wanted to. I wish the Member for Sark had been here to hear it.
He would have been much more usefully employed than in that hopeless
pursuit to which he has given himself up, the growing of the peelless
potato. He'll never do it.
* * * * *
CORNWALL IN BAKER STREET.--The worst of Cornwall is, it is so far
off--indeed, it has hitherto been quite out of sight. Everything comes
to him who knows how to wait. We waited, and Mr. JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD
brought Niagara to Westminster. We waited again, and Mr. ARTHUR VOKINS
brings Cornwall to Baker Street, and introduces us to a very clever
young sea-scapist, Mr. A. WARNE-BROWNE--altogether a misnomer, for he
isn't a worn brown at all, he is as fresh and bright and sharp as a
newly-minted sovereign. Go and look at his "_Lizard and Stags_"--he
isn't an animal-painter, though the title looks like it--his
"_Breaking Weather_," his "_Rain Veils_," his "_Innis Head_," or
any one of his thirty pictures, and say if you don't agree with _Mr.
Punch_. The whole of them are so true to Nature, are so faithful
in their wave-drawing, there is such a breeziness, such a saltness
pervades them throughout, and they so accurately convey the character
of the Cornish coast, that _Mr. P._ felt quite the Cornishman, and
is unable to decide whether he is the Tre Punch or the Pol Punch.
On mature deliberation, he concludes he is the Pen Punch. There's no
doubt about _that_!
* * * * *
THE WELL "PROTECTED" FEMALE.--Mrs. COLUMBIA.
* * * * *
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