Home politics are at a standstill. It is the dead
season for demonstrations. Lord Derby, we are happy to say, has again recovered, and it is solemnly announced he will be in his place to lead his party when Parliament meets ; he loses the aid, not of Mr. Disraeli, but of the whip, Sir William Joliffe. Beyond this fast, we have nothing except a discursive speech from Mr. NewdegfAte at Rugby, a dry one from Mr. Frederick Peel at Bury, and a host of harangues from the candidates who make merry in the borough of Southwark. Mr. Fawcett has been more than able to hold his own with Mr. Layard ; he has ad- ministered a sound rebuke to that gentleman, who was distin- guished in his Parliamentary career chiefly for his mistakes.
In spite of wet and wind, the Volunteers valiantly "stick to drill," and engage in shooting matches. It would be a great public benefit if some capitalist would construct, in some central place, an immense covered drill-ground, and let it out by the hour at moderate rates. Surely it could be done with iron and
glass.
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