Present Lord Mayor of Dublin, not being a Member had to sue for admission at door of House. Word passed to Sergeant-at-Arms; gallant officer, having heard something of Irish habits, observed precaution of shouldering mace before he went out to confront the strangers. If they had shillelaghs, the mace, twirled about by lusty arms, might be reckoned on to keep the gate. The messengers not behind in military precaution; hauled out the bar--the veritable Bar of House of Commons of which we hear so much and see so little. "Now," said the oldest Messenger, folding his arms and clenching his teeth, "let them do their worst." Sergeant-at-Arms marched in, mace on shoulder, escorting Lord Mayor and two sheriffs. If they had meant mischief they thought better of it on looking round. Lord Mayor might, it is true, if he were in good condition have vaulted over bar or ducked beneath it, and run amuck up floor. But then the sheriffs, before they could have imitated him, would have been awfully mauled with the mace. Any piratical mention that may have lurked in minds of the insurgents was finally crushed by really awful tone in which the SPEAKER, fixing glittering eye on group at bar, said, "My Lord Mayor of Dublin, what have you there?" Members expected trembling culprit would produce from under his cloak the horse-pistol, dagger, cup of poison, or whatever he may have brought with him with felonious intent. But he meekly answered, "A petition." This he unfolded, and as he showed a disposition to read it through, Members went off. _Business done._--Another day passed talking round Address. NAOROJI moved Amendment raising question of financial relations between England and India. Read a paper of prodigious length; beat the tom-tom for nearly an hour. "In churches," said the (almost) Reverend JEMMY LOWTHER, "an incumbent sometimes reads himself in. NAOROJI reads his congregation out. Mayn't be quite so black as the MARKISS painted him, but he's quite as long-winded as could have been expected." _Thursday._--New Session not quite a fortnight old, and lo! a strange thing has happened. Electric bells struck--I mean they won't strike. When, just now, House cleared for division on Amnesty motion electric knobs touched as usual. Thereupon should have followed tintinnabulation of the bells in all the rooms and corridors outside the Chamber. Only little tinkle heard; sort of weird mocking laugh, "Ha! ha!" and then silence. Consequences might have been serious. Last thing well-trained Member regards as absolute preliminary to voting is to sit throughout the debate. Scattered far and wide, in library, tea-room, dining-room, or smoking-room, when they hear the bell they rush in to vote. If they don't hear it they stop where they are. Difficulty temporarily overcome by sending policemen and messengers bawling along all the passages, "Division! division!" This all very well for the moment; but what is to be done about the bells?