They were the candidates for the Poet Laureateship, or rather some of them. Walking out after questions were over, Sark found a double row of poets sitting on the stone benches right and left of the corridor, waiting for a possible turn at the ballot—waiting with same dogged patience, same unquenchable hope, with which they tarry for public recognition.
All due to Johnston of Ballykilbeg. Turning aside for moment from the vexed Bermothes of theology, and the suspicious conduct of Irish Members of the Catholic faith, Ballykilbeg permitted his gaze to fall on the vacant chair of the Poet Laureate. Gave notice of intention to ask Prince Arthur at to-day's sitting what he meant to do about it. Hence this commotion in the drear woods and the hungry thickets that clothe the foot of Parnassus.
"Sorry for 'em," said Ballykilbeg, looking up towards crowded galleries. "They're a poor-looking lot. Don't believe there's a Master of an Orange Lodge among 'em. Anyhow they're all out of it. My man is Wilfrid Lawson. Don't mean to say he put me up to ask the question with any ulterior personal views. But he knew what I was at, and he knows my opinion of him. We don't agree in politics, and he's not sound on the Pope of Rome. But for verse that fetches you, the poetry you can understand without first tying wet cloth round your head, give me Wilfrid Lawson. Prince Arthur refers me to The Markiss. I'll call and see him, taking with me a choice selection of Wilfrid's verse, which I'll read to him."
FISHING MADE DIFFICULT.
A. J. B. "What on earth is the use of getting a brand new rod, when you're caught up on these bothering things every five minutes?"
Business done.—Votes in Supply.
Tuesday.—Scotch votes on; the Weirisome Weir stands where he did, at corner seat of front bench below Gangway. This convenient situation for fixing Corporal Hanbury with gleaming eye. Also the metal grating which serves as flooring of House is useful as adding reverberating sound to Weirisome's voice when occasion makes it desirable it should issue from his boots. If it were not for the matting laid over the grating, effect would be much more tremendous. Weirisome makes the best of it. Blood curdling to hear him just now denouncing some Procurator Fiscal whose office is in Edinburgh, and his house in Ross-shire. Or is it the other way about? The worst of Weirisome making our flesh creep by his ventriloquial talents is, that we get a little mixed about his points. However it was, the Procurator Fiscal had committed a heinous crime. Only by exercise of supernatural forbearance that Weirisome refrained from moving to reduce salary of Secretary for Scotland by £2000.
Effect of supernatural rumblings of his voice increased by ghastly pauses in flow of conversation. Hanbury, as yet new to post of Financial Secretary, will by-and-by get accustomed to its trials. Meanwhile it is painful for Cap'en Tommy Bowles, moored immediately behind his old colleague, to observe his hair gradually standing up whilst House is hushed in awesome silence what time Weirisome is solemnly reaffixing his pince-nez with intent to continue his remarks.
Chairman more than once attempted to fill up pauses by reminding Weirisome what was the precise bearing of vote before Committee. Once sternly threatened to inforce rule which permits Chairman to order a rambling speaker to shut up, and sit down. Weirisome apparently paid no attention. A few minutes later, fancying he saw sign of movement in the Chair, he stopped; with wide sweep of arm put on his pince-nez; held manuscript up with apparent intention of consulting it; covertly regarded James W. over the top. Concluding he meant business, Weirisome, without another word, solemnly, slowly—to the agonised looker on the process seemed to occupy sixty seconds—dropped into his seat.