inted at him and they laughed.
Others began to point, lunging, as it were, in time with the tune. At
this moment two persons came in practically abreast from behind the
Speaker's chair, and halted appalled. One happened to be the Prime
Minister and the other a messenger. The House, with tears running down
their cheeks, transferred their attention to the paralysed couple. They
pointed six hundred forefingers at them. They rocked, they waved, and
they rolled while they pointed, but still they sang. When they weakened
for an instant, Ireland would yell: 'Are ye _with_ me, bhoys?' and they
all renewed their strength like Antaeus. No man could say afterwards
what happened in the Press or the Strangers' Gallery. It was the House,
the hysterical and abandoned House of Commons that held all eyes, as it
deafened all ears. I saw both Front Benches bend forward, some with
their foreheads on their despatch-boxes, the rest with their faces in
their hands; and their moving shoulders jolted the House out of its last
rag of decency. Only the Speaker remained unmoved. The entire press of
Great Britain bore witness next day that he had not even bowed his head.
The Angel of the Constitution, for vain was the help of man, foretold
him the exact moment at which the House would have broken into 'The
Gubby.' He is reported to have said: 'I heard the Irish beginning to
shuffle it. So I adjourned.' Pallant's version is that he added: 'And I
was never so grateful to a private member in all my life as I was to
Mr. Pallant.'

He made no explanation. He did not refer to orders or disorders. He
simply adjourned the House till six that evening. And the House
adjourned--some of it nearly on all fours.

I was not correct when I said that the Speaker was the only man who did
not laugh. Woodhouse was beside me all the time. His face was set and
quite white--as white, they told me, as Sir Thomas Ingell's when he
went, by request, to a private interview with his Chief Whip.

THE PRESS

The Soldier may forget his sword
The Sailorman the sea,
The Mason may forget the Word
And the Priest his litany:
The maid may forget both jewel and gem,
And the bride her wedding-dress--
But the Jew shall forget Jerusalem
Ere we forget the Press!

Who once hath stood through the loaded hour
Ere, roaring like the gale,
The Harrild and the Hoe devour
Their league-long paper bale,
And