Chapter 3

It was nearly eight o'clock before the Ministry of Mines came on. Lord SALISBURY thought it would be improper to consider so important a measure after dinner; Lord CRAWFORD thought it would be still more improper to suggest that the Peers would not be in a condition to transact business after that meal. He carried his point, but at the expense of the Bill, for Lord SALISBURY, returning like a giant refreshed, induced their Lordships to transform the Minister of Mines into a mere Under-Secretary of the Board of Trade, thus defeating, according to Lord PEEL, the principal purpose of the measure.

It was another day of rather small beer in the Commons. There were, however, one or two _dicta_ of note. Thus Sir BERTRAM FALK, who was concerned because Naval officers received no special marriage allowance, was specifically assured by Sir JAMES CRAIG that the Admiralty will not prevent men from marrying. I understood, however, that it will not recognise a wife in every port.

_Thursday, August 5th._--With lofty disregard of a hundred-and-twenty years of history the Duke of NORTHUMBERLAND informed the Peers that the present state of Ireland was due to Bolshevism. Having diagnosed the disease so clearly he ought to have been ready with a remedy, but could suggest nothing more practical than the holding of mass meetings to organise British public opinion.

Meanwhile the Commons were engaged in rushing through with the aid of the "guillotine" a Bill for the restoration of order in the distressful country. Mr. BONAR LAW, usually so accurate, fell into an ancient trap, and declared that the Sinn Fein leaders had "raised a _Frankenstein_ that they cannot control."

Sir HAMAR GREENWOOD made as good a defence of the Bill as was possible in the circumstances. But neither he nor anybody else could say how courts-martial, which are "to act on the ordinary rules of evidence," will be successful in bringing criminals to justice if witnesses refuse to come forward.

Mr. T. P. O'CONNOR re-delivered the anti-coercion speech which he has been making off and on for the last forty years. Mr. DEVLIN was a little more up-to-date, for he introduced a reference to the Belfast riots and drew from the CHIEF SECRETARY an assurance that the Bill would be as applicable to Ulster as to the rest of Ireland.

Mr. ASQUITH denounced the Bill with unusual animation, and was sure that it would do more harm than good. Cromwellian treatment needed a CROMWELL, but he did not see one on the Treasury Bench. "CROMWELL yourself!" retorted the PRIME MINISTER. The only unofficial supporter of the Bill, and even he "no great admirer," was Lord HUGH CECIL; but nevertheless the Second Reading was carried by 289 to 71.

The House afterwards gave a Second Reading to the Census (Ireland) Bill, on the principle, as Captain ELLIOTT caustically observed, that if you can't do anything with the people of Ireland you might at least find out how many of them there are.

_Friday, August 6th._--The remaining stages of the Coercion Bill were passed under the "guillotine." Mr. DEVLIN declared that this was not "cricket," and refused to play any longer; but it is only fair to say that he had not then seen our artist's picture.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"At this stage the Chairman withdrew complaining of a head-ache without nominating a successor, darkness set in and there were no lights. Along with the Chairman some forty people also left in a body. What happened afterwards is not clear."

_Indian Paper._

We don't wonder the reporter was baffled.

* * * * *

DEAR MR. PUNCH.--_Re_ the authorship of SHAKSPEARE'S plays, may I quote from _Twelfth Night_, Act I., Scene V.? Thank you.

"'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on."

This is unquestionably bacon.

* * * * *

* * * * *

=ROAD CONDITIONS FOR CHARABANCS.=

The following road information is compiled from reports received by the Charabanc Defence Association:--

The Lushborough road is good and free from obstruction as far as Great Boundingley, but from Chatback to Wrothley the conditions are unfavourable. The bridge one mile south of the former place has been occupied by a strong force of unfriendly natives, and several cases of tarring have been reported. There is, however, an alternative route _viâ_ Boozeley, but great caution is advised in passing through Wrothley, passengers being recommended to provide themselves with a good supply of loose metal before entering the village, where most of the houses are protected with iron shutters. Helmets should not be removed before reaching Cadbridge, where there is no danger of retaliation.

Bottles may be discharged freely all along the Muckley road as far as Ruddiham, but caution is needed at Bashfield Corner, from which a small band of snipers has not yet been dislodged, though their ammunition is running short. Passengers should be prepared to use all the resources of their vocabulary at Bargingham, where the inhabitants enjoy a well-deserved repute for their command of picturesque invective. It would be humiliating to the whole charabanc confraternity if they were to yield their pre-eminence in this branch of education to a small rural community.

Thanks to the vigilance of the well-armed patrols of the Charabanc Defence Association the main roads in East Anglia are almost clear of the enemy. Caution must still be observed in passing through Garningham at night. One of the hardiest "charabankers" was recently prostrated in that village by a well-aimed epithet from the oldest inhabitant. A writer in a Norwich paper recently described the area within ten miles of Whelksham as "a paradise for baboon-faced Yahooligans." But these futile ebullitions of malice are powerless to check the triumphal progress of the charabanc in the Eastern Counties.

But no route at present offers more favourable or exhilarating opportunities to the high-minded excursionist than the main Gath road from Scrapston to Kinlarry. Excellent sport is afforded just outside Stillminster, where Sir John Goodfellow's greenhouses are within easy bottle-throw of the road and furnish a splendid target. On the whole, however, it is thought advisable to abstain from saluting the neighbouring hospital for shell-shock patients with a salvo of megaphones, local opinion being adverse to such manifestations.

* * * * *

=RHYMES OF THE UNDERGROUND.=

The Ealing trains run frequently, The Ealing trains run fast; I stand at Gloucester Road and see A many hurtling past; They go to Acton, Turnham Green, And stations I have never seen, Simply because my lot has been In other places cast.

The folk on Ealing trains who ride They, pitying, bestow On me a look instinct with pride; But I would have them know That, while on Wimbledonian plains My humble domicile remains, I HAVE NO USE FOR EALING TRAINS, Though still they come and go.

* * * * *

Conversation of the moment in a City restaurant:--

REGULAR CUSTOMER (_looking down menu_). "Waiter, why is cottage pie never on now?"

WAITER. "Well, Sir, since this 'ere shortage of 'ouses we ain't allowed to make 'em any more."

* * * * *

THE REVIVAL OF THE FITTEST.

(_Written after reading Mr. Francis W. GALPIN'S "Old English Instruments of Music_.")

I am no skilful vocalist; I can't control my _mezza gola_; I have but an indifferent fist (Or foot) upon the Pianola.

But there are instruments, I own, That fire me with a fond ambition To master for their names alone Apart from their august tradition.

They are the Fipple-Flute, a word Suggestive of seraphic screeches; The Poliphant comes next, and third The Humstrum--aren't they perfect peaches?

About their tone I cannot say Much that would carry clear conviction, For, till I read of them to-day, I knew them not in fact or fiction.

As yet I am, alas! without Instruction in the art of fippling, Though something may be found about It in the works of LEAR or KIPLING.

And possibly I may unearth In LECKY or in LAURENCE OLIPHANT Some facts to remedy my dearth Of knowledge bearing on the Poliphant.

But, now their pictures I have seen In GALPIN'S learned dissertation, So far as in me lies I mean To bring about their restoration.

Yet since I cannot learn all three And time is ever onward humming, My few remaining years shall be Devoted wholly to humstrumming.

That, when my bones to rest are laid, Upon my tomb it may be written: "He was the very last who played Upon the Humstrum in Great Britain."

* * * * *

THE SPIDER.

Lately we had occasion to consider the place of the grasshopper in modern politics. Now let us consider the place of the spider in our social life.

It seems to me that the spider is the most accomplished and in some ways the most sensible insect we have in these parts. In my opinion a great deal too much fuss has been made about the bee. She is a knowing little thing, but the spider is her superior in many ways. Yet no one seems to write books or educational rhymes about the spider. It is really a striking example of the well-known hypocrisy and materialism of the British race. The bee is held up to the young as a model of industry and domestic virtue--and why? Simply because she manufactures food which we happen to like. The spider is held up to the young as the type of rapacity, malice and cruelty, on the sole ground that he catches flies, though we do not pretend that we are fond of flies, and conveniently ignore the fact that, if the spider did not swat that fly, we should probably swat it ourselves.

The real charge against the spider is that he doesn't make any food for us. As for the virtue and nobility of the bee, I don't see it. The only way in which she is able to accumulate all that honey at all is by massacring the unfortunate males by the thousand as soon as she conveniently can, a piece of Prussianism which may be justified on purely material grounds, but is scarcely consistent with her high reputation for morality and lovingkindness. If it could be shown that the bee consciously collected all that honey with the idea that we should annex it there might be something to be said for her on moral grounds; but nobody pretends that. Now look at the spider. We are told that as a commercial product spider-silk has been found to be equal if not superior to the best silk spun by the Lepidopterous larvæ, with whom, of course, you are familiar. "But the cannibalistic propensities of spiders, making it impossible to keep more than one in a single receptacle ... have hitherto prevented the silk being used ... for textile fabrics." So that it comes to this: if spiders are useless because they eat each other, the bees do much the same thing (only wholesale), but it makes them commercially useful. The bee therefore we place upon a pinnacle of respectability, but the spider we despise. Faugh! the hypocrisy of it makes me sick. My children will be taught to venerate the spider and despise the bee.

For, putting aside the question of moral values, look what the spider can do. What is there in the clammy, not to say messy, honey-comb to be compared with the delicate fabric of the spider's web? Indeed, should we ever have given a single thought to the honey-comb if it had had no honey in it? Do we become lyrical about the wasp's comb? We do not. It is a case where greed and materialism have warped our artistic perceptions. The spider can lower itself from the drawing-room ceiling to the floor by a silken thread produced out of itself. Still more marvellous, he can climb up the same thread to the ceiling when he is bored, winding up the thread inside him as he goes, and so making pursuit impossible. What can the bee do to equal that? And how is it done? We don't even know. _The Encyclopædia Britannica_ doesn't know; or if it does it doesn't let on. But the whole tedious routine of the bee's domestic pottering day is an open book to us. Ask yourself, which would you rather do, be able to collect honey and put it in a suitable receptacle, or be able to let yourself down from the top floor to the basement by a silken rope produced out of your tummy, and then climb up it again when you want to go upstairs, just winding up the rope inside you? I think you will agree that the spider has it. It is hard enough, goodness knows, to wind up an ordinary ball of string so that it will go into the string-box properly. What one would do if one had to put it in one's bread-box I can't think. When my children grow up, instead of learning

"How doth the little busy bee ..."

they will learn--

How doth the jolly little spider Wind up such miles of silk inside her, When it is clear that spiders' tummies Are not so big as mine or Mummy's? The explanation seems to be, They do not eat so much as me.

That will point the moral of moderation in eating, you see. There will be a lot more verses, I expect; I can see _cram_ and _diaphragm_ and possibly _jam_ coming very soon. But we must get on.

The spider is like the bee in this respect, that the male seems to have a most rotten time. For one thing he is nearly always about two sizes smaller than the female. Owing to that and to what _The Encyclopædia Britannica_ humorously describes as "the greater voracity" of the female (there is a lot of quiet fun in _The Encyclopædia Britannica_), he is a very brave spider who makes a proposal of marriage. "He makes his advances to his mate at the risk of his life and is not infrequently killed and eaten by her before or after" they are engaged ("before or after" is good). "Fully aware of the danger he pays his addresses with extreme caution, frequently waiting for hours in her vicinity before venturing to come to close quarters. Males of the _Argyopidæ_ hang on the outskirts of the webs of the females and signal their presence to her by jerking the radial threads in a peculiar manner." This is, of course, the origin of the quaint modern custom by which the young man rings the bell before attempting to enter the web of his beloved in Grosvenor Square. Contemporary novelists have even placed on record cases in which the male has "waited for hours in her vicinity before venturing to come to close quarters;" but too much attention must not be paid to these imaginative accounts. If I have said enough to secure that in future a little more kindliness and respect will be shown to the spider in the nurseries of this great Empire, and a little less of it wasted on the bee, I have not misspent my time.

But I shall not be content. Can we not go further? Can we not get a little more of the simplicity of spider life into this hectic world of ours? In these latitudes the spider lives only for a single season. "The young emerge from the cocoon in the early spring, grow through the summer and reach maturity in the early autumn. _The sexes then pair and perish_ soon after the female has constructed her cocoon." How delicious! No winter; no bother about coal; no worry about the children's education; just one glorious summer of sport, one wild summer of fly-catching and midge-eating, a romantic, not to say dangerous wooing, a quiet wedding in the autumn, dump the family in some nice unfurnished cocoon--and perish. Is there nothing to be said for that? How different from the miserable bee, which just goes on and on, worrying about posterity, working and working, fussing about....

Yet all our lives are modelled on the bee's.

A. P. H.

* * * * *

* * * * *

DOWN-OUR-COURT CIRCULAR.

Why should not some of the other people, who also enjoy life, have their movements recorded too? Like this:--

During Mr. William Sikes' visit to the Devonshire moors Mrs. Sikes will remain in town.

* * *

Mr. and Mrs. James Harris have arrived in London from Southend.

* * *

Miss Levi, Miss Hirsch and Master Isaacson are among the guests at Victoria Park, where some highly successful children's parties have been given.

* * *

Epping is much in favour just now, and a large number of (public) house-parties have been arranged. Among those entertaining this week are Mr. Henry Higgins, Mr. Robert Atkins and Mr. John Smith.

* * *

Mr. Henry Hawkins, Mrs. Hawkins, Mr. Henry Hawkins, junior, and Miss Hawkins left town on August 2nd for Hampstead Heath, for a day's riding and shooting. A large bag of nuts was obtained. Mr. Hawkins has not yet returned.

* * * * *

"LITTLE PROGRESS MADE. KING STILL DEFIANT." _Daily Paper._

Oh, dear! Another complication! Who is the monarch? Which the nation? We breathe again. The Leicester pro. Kept up his end four hours or so.

* * * * * "Another of the big round landlords of London is selling his estate.

Sir Joseph Doughty Tichborne is selling his Doughty Estate of 14 acres."--_Evening Paper._

It recalls the famous case. "The Claimant" would certainly have made "a big round landlord."

* * * * *

"Here then is a new development of serious local journalism. Just an unpretentious but exceedingly well-printed village sheet, breathing local atmosphere, emitting nothing that can possibly interest the natives."

_Local Paper._

But we seem to have seen journals like this before.

* * * * *

From a Dutch bulb-grower's catalogue:--

"Nothing but Inferior quality being sent out from my Nurseries. My terms are Cash with order only."

In matters of commerce this Dutchman appears to be maintaining his country's reputation.

* * * * *

=THE ANNIVERSARY.=

It began as quite an ordinary day. I read my paper at breakfast and Kathleen poured out the coffee. She wore that little frown between her eyebrows that means that she is thinking out the menu for lunch and dinner and hoping that Nurse hasn't burnt Baby's porridge again. This is married life.

Then I started in a hurry for the office, hurling a "Good-bye, dear" through the open window as I passed. The 9.15 leaves little time for affection. That too is married life.

It was the sweetbriar hedge that made me decide to miss the 9.15. It clutched hold of me suddenly and told me that the sky was very blue and the woods very green, and that the office was an absurd thing on such a day.

I went slowly back home round the outside of the garden wall. Someone was singing in the garden. I stopped and whistled a tune. A face appeared over the wall--rather an attractive face.

"Hello!" it said; "someone I knew a long time ago used to whistle that tune outside my garden."

"Hello!" I said; "come out for a walk?"

"I can't come out at the bidding of young men on the highway. It isn't done."

"Never mind. Come out."

"Have I ever been introduced to you?"

"Introductions went out years ago. Come by the side gate."

She came. She held a shady hat in her hand and walked on tip-toe.

"Sh!" she cautioned; "no one must see me. I have a reputation, you know. I don't want the Vicar to denounce me from the pulpit on Sunday in front of Baby."

"I will be quite frank with you," she went on, holding out her left hand with a dramatic flourish; "I am married--I have a husband."

I gave a hollow groan; then, with a manly effort, I mastered my emotion.

"I hope he's nice to you," I said.

"No, he isn't. He grouches off to the office in the morning and grouches back in the evening and reads newspapers. He's just grouched off now."

"The callous brute!" I hissed through my teeth.

"There's worse than that," she said darkly.

"No!"

"Yes. To-day, to-day is an anniversary, and he forgot it." The manner was that of MADAME BERNHARDT.

"Anniversaries," I said reassuringly, "are difficult to remember. They accumulate so."

"Are you defending him?" she protested.

"Er--no," I said hastily. "The man's an unmitigated scoundrel. He ought to be divorced or something. What anniversary was it?"

"Our wedding-day," she said with a sob in the voice.

"Heavens!" I said. "Oh, the dastardly ruffian!"

"_You_ wouldn't forget your wedding-day, would you?"

"_Never!_" I said hoarsely.

"You're quite rather nice," she sighed.

"You're adorable," I said readily.

"How lovely! My husband never says things like that." And she leant against my shoulder.

We got on rather well after that. We had lunch in an inn garden, where you could smell lavender and sweet peas and roses and where there were box hedges turned under magical spells into giant birds. We discovered a stream in a wood with hart's-tongue fern growing along its banks. I picked her armfuls of wild roses.

"It's to make up," I said, "because your brute of a husband forgot your wedding-day."

"I'd love to be married to you," she said brazenly.

I turned aside to brush away a bitter tear.

It was almost dusk when we got back to the side gate.

"Good-bye," she whispered. "Go away quickly; I believe that's the Vicar coming down the road."

Then she shut the gate with gentle swiftness in my face. I walked round to the front door. She was in the hall.

"Hello!" she said; "I hope you had a good day at the office?"

"Thanks," I said; "pretty rotten."

"I've had a lovely day," she said; "I picked up such a nice young man in the high road. He's taking me out to-night. He's just going to ring up for seats."

Without a word I went to the telephone.

* * * * *

=The Right Order of Things at Last.=

"A Gentleman would be pleased to Recommend his Butler in whose service he has been three years."--_Daily Paper._

* * * * *

"TO AMERICANS IN LONDON.--The ----, Cornwall, offers you comfortable home while on this side; far away from the madding crown."--_Daily Paper._

Republican prejudices respected.

* * * * *

There was a hard-swearing old sailor Whose speech might have startled a jailer; But he frankly avowed That the charabanc crowd Would not be allowed on a whaler.

* * * * *

=THE PATIENTS' LIBRARY.=

Though a West-End physician of repute, he must, I think, have had a course of American training, if rapidity of action be any indication thereof.

Scarcely had the maid ushered me into his study and I had taken a seat than he came forward brusquely, looked at me with the glowering eye of the _Second Murderer_, grasped a large piece of me in the region of the fourth rib and barked, "You're too fat."

Having been carefully bred I refrained from retaliation. I did not tell him that his legs were out of drawing and that he had a frightfully vicious nose. But before I had time to explain my business he had started on a series of explosive directions: "Eat proper food. Plenty of open air. Exercise morning, noon and night and in between. Use the Muldow system. You need a tonic."

He turned to his table and was, I suppose, about to draw a cheque for me on the local chemist's when I decided to say my little piece.

"Excuse me, Sir," said I mildly, "I am not a patient."

The combination fountain-pen and thermometer almost fell from his hand.