“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 baton 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 melee 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.

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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!