IN OUR GARDEN.
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?"