"Oh, dam Weir," said the Squire.
John Morley inexpressibly shocked. For a moment thought a usually equable temper had been ruffled by the almost continuous work of twenty months, culminating in an all-night sitting. On reflection he saw that the Squire was merely adapting an engineering phrase, describing a proceeding common enough on river courses. The only point on which remark open to criticism is that it is tautological.
Business done.—Appropriation Bill brought in.
Thursday.—George Newnes looked in just now; much the same as ever; the same preoccupied, almost pensive look; a mind weighed down by ever-multiplying circulation. Troubled with consideration of proposal made to him to publish special edition of Strand Magazine in tongue understanded of the majority of the peoples of India. Has conquered the English-speaking race from Chatham to Chattanooga, from Southampton to Sydney. Now lo! The poor Indian brings his annas, and begs a boon.
Meanwhile one of the candidates for vacant Poet Laureateship has broken out into elegiac verse. "Newnes," he exclaims,
"Newnes, noble hearted, shine, for ever shine; Though not of royal, yet of hallowed line."
That sort of thing would make some men vain. There is no couplet to parallel it since the famous one written by Pope on a place frequented by a Sovereign whose death is notorious, a place where
Great Anna, whom three realms obey, Did sometimes counsel take and sometimes tea.
The poet, whose volume bears the proudly humble pseudonym "A Village Peasant," should look in at the House of Commons and continue his studies. There are a good many of us here worth a poet's attention. Sark says the thing is easy enough. "Toss 'em off in no time," says he. "There's the Squire now, who has not lately referred to his Plantagenet parentage. Apostrophising him in Committee on Evicted Tenants Bill one might have said:—
Squire, noble hearted, shine, for ever shine; Though not of hallowed yet of royal line."