Frankly, I confess that the first day I was present at a debate in the Legislative Assembly I was reminded of nothing in the world so much as the trial scene in “Alice in Wonderland”: “‘No, no,’ said the Queen; ‘sentence first—verdict afterwards.’ “‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Alice loudly. ‘The idea of having the sentence first!’ “‘Hold your tongue!’ said the Queen, turning purple. “‘I won’t!’ said Alice. “‘Off with her head!’ said the Queen; but nobody moved. “‘Who cares for you?’ said Alice. ‘You are nothing but a pack of cards.’ “At this all the cards rose up into the air and came flying down upon her.” The question in the House at that time was, if I remember rightly, something to do with the duty on cloth caps made in Tasmania, and it really seemed astounding that so much excitement could be got out of such a little thing. Everything anyone said was frankly contradicted even in plainer words than “stuff and nonsense!” Everybody seemed to speak at once—or, rather, shout in a vain hope that they might be heard above the babel—and personalities of all sorts were freely indulged in, either to be completely disregarded or replied to by more abuse; often, I must confess, rather wittily put; while, should any orator succeed in shouting down his fellow, even then his troubles were far from ended, his every peculiarity being ruthlessly registered by the Press. The other day I came across an amusing and most characteristic notice of the New South Wales Premier in the _Bulletin_, from which I cannot resist quoting, affording as it does a very good example of this freedom of speech: “McGowan will no longer be able to complain of getting too little newspaper space. He will get enough; but the Lord help those who have to ‘take’ him, and preserve them from charges of misreporting. For McGowan is the most slovenly speaker in the world. If he’s not, I’d like to shoot the other. Half his sentences are never finished, and his remarks trail round and round his subject like a snake in a hen-coop looking for the exit. His constantly repeated gag is—‘The point I want to make, Mr. Speaker, is this.’ Then he suddenly discovers that he has mislaid the point, or left it at home, or in the tram, or somewhere, and while he is trying to recollect what he did with it, he fills in time by rounding off a flock of sentences which he left unfinished earlier in the evening.” And again: