"You, WESTON," said Colonel HILL who, having obtained his military
rank in the peaceful pursuits of commercial shipping, is a master of
strategy, "speak so low that they can't hear a word you say, whilst I,
concealing a miniature speaking-trumpet in my mouth, will roar at them
as if a stout North-Easter were blowing through the lanyards of our
first battalion, deployed in open order."

Tactics succeeded admirably. Sir JOSEPH WESTON, a mild, aldermanic
person, presented himself from quarter behind Front Opposition Bench,
and, to all appearances, delivered an admirable address. His lips
moved, his right hand marked the rhythm of his ordered speech; now
his eyes flashed in reprobation, and anon smiled approval. But not
a sound, save a soft murmur, as of distant dripping waterfall, was
heard. _L'Enfant Prodigue_ wasn't in it for successful pantomime.

When the movement stopped, and the Alderman was discovered to be
sitting down, the martial-nautical HILL sprang up from Bench on other
side, and the stillness was broken by a rasping voice, that woke DICKY
TEMPLE out of his early slumber. The strategy, cleverly conceived, was
admirably carried out, and Bristol, thanks to diversified talent of
its Members, got its Bill. Only it seemed a pity that an hour and
a half of precious public time should incidentally have been
appropriated.

_Business done_.--Irish Land Bill in report stage.

_Tuesday_.--House of Lords the scene of a thrilling performance
to-night. Usually meets for business at half-past four. On Tuesdays,
in order to give Noble Lords opportunity for preparing for exhaustive