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.