Business done.—­Scotch Members avenged Culloden.

[Illustration:  “The Nose have it.”]

Tuesday.—­“Rather a mean thing for MARJORIBANKS to bolt in this way, don’t you think?” said CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN, walking out of House when SINCLAIR showed signs of following CALDWELL.  “Says he has some County Council meeting in Scotland.  Went off by train last night; promised to be back on Thursday.  We’ll see.  When he made that arrangement he thought Scotch Bill would be through to-night; but it won’t.  Will certainly go over to Thursday.  So Master MARJORIBANKS will find himself caught when he comes back.  Meanwhile he’s escaped to-day and some hours of last night, which is something.  As for me, I’ve stuck to my post, and will very probably die at it.  Go in and listen to SINCLAIR, dear boy, following CALDWELL, succeeded by ESSLEMONT. with CLARK in reserve.  I think you’ll enjoy yourself.”

So I did; thoroughly pleasant afternoon from two o’clock to seven.  LORD-ADVOCATE visibly growing leaner in body, greyer in face.  CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN’s usually genial temperament souring, as will be observed from remarks quoted above.  J.B.  BALFOUR looking in from Edinburgh professes thoroughly to enjoy the business.  But then he’s fresh to it.  Pretty large attendance of Members, but reserve themselves solely for Division.  When bell rings three hundred odd come trooping in to follow the Whips into either lobby; then troop forth again.  Long JOHN O’CONNOR beams genially down on scene.

“Glad you’re having this for a change,” he says.  “You grumble when we Irish take the floor.  Now the Scotch will oblige.  Hope you’ll like Caledonian and CALDWELL better than Home Rule and Erin G. O’BRIEN.”

“Yes, I do,” I boldly answered.  Only distraught between conflicting charms of CALDWELL and SINCLAIR.  There is a cold massivity about SINCLAIR, a pointedness of profile, when he declares “the Nose have it.”  But there is a loftiness about CALDWELL’s tone, a subdued fire in his manner when he is discussing the difference between a rate of ten shillings and one of twelve, a withering indignation for all that is false or truculent (in short, anything connected with the office of Lord-Advocate) that strangely moves the listener.  The very mystery of his ordinary bearing weaves a spell of enchantment around him.  For days and weeks he will sit silent, watchful, with his eye on the paralysed Scotch Law Officers.  Then, suddenly, as in this debate on the Equivalent Grant, he comes to the front, and pours forth an apparently inexhaustible flood of argumentative oratory, delivered with exhilarating animation.  “Give me Peebles for pleasure,” said the loyal Lowlander home from a fortnight’s jaunt in Paris.  “Give me CALDWELL for persuasive argument,” says PLUNKET, himself a born orator who has missed scarcely five minutes of this two days’ debate.

[Illustration:  CANDIDATE CATCHING.]