The hope of the revolutionists bore these strokes and others as mighty with complacency, as though they had been so many playful taps; and while the battle surged hotly around him he sat calmly listening or making occasional notes with a gold pencil.  Born leader that he was, he was biding his time.  Mr. Bascom’s attack was met valiantly, but unskillfully, from the back seats.  The Honourable Jacob Botcher arose, and filled the hall with extracts from the “Book of Arguments”—­in which he had been coached overnight by the Honourable Hilary Vane.  Mr. Botcher’s tone towards his erstwhile friend was regretful,—­a good man gone wrong through impulse and inexperience.  “I am, sir,” said Mr. Bascom to the Speaker, “sincerely sorry—­sincerely sorry that an individual of such ability as the member from Leith should be led, by the representations of political adventurers and brigands and malcontents, into his present deplorable position of criticising a State which is his only by adoption, the political conditions of which were as sound and as free from corporate domination, sir, as those of any State in the broad Union.”  (Loud cheers.) This appeal to State pride by Mr. Botches is a master stroke, and the friends of the champion of the liberties of the people are beginning (some of them) to be a little nervous and doubtful.

Following Mr. Botches were wild and scattering speeches from the back benches—­unskillful and pitiable counter-strokes.  Where was the champion?  Had he been tampered with overnight, and persuaded of the futility of rebellion?  Persuaded that his head would be more useful on his own neck in the councils of the nation than on exhibition to the populace from the point of a pike?  It looks, to a calm spectator from the gallery, as though the rebel forces are growing weaker and more demoralized every moment.  Mr. Redbrook’s speech, vehement and honest, helps a little; people listen to an honest and forceful man, however he may lack technical knowledge, but the majority of the replies are mere incoherent denunciations of the Northeastern Railroads.

On the other hand, the astounding discipline amongst the legions of the Empire excites the admiration and despair even of their enemies; there is no random fighting here and breaking of ranks to do useless hacking.  A grave farmer with a beard delivers a short and temperate speech (which he has by heart), mildly inquiring what the State would do without the Northeastern Railroads; and the very moderation of this query coming from a plain and hard-headed agriculturist (the boss of Grenville, if one but knew it!) has a telling effect.  And then to cap the climax, to make the attitude of the rebels even more ridiculous in the minds of thinking people, Mr. Ridout is given the floor.  Skilled in debate when he chooses to enter it, his knowledge of the law only exceeded by his knowledge of how it is to be evaded—­to Lartius is assigned the task of following up the rout.  And Mr. Crewe has ceased taking notes.