About Wasps.
To the Editor of "The Times."
Sir,—There is no sweet without a bitter. Every bee-master feels the plague of wasps this autumn of 1864; for fifteen years, the range of my experience as a bee-master, I have not seen so fierce and multitudinous bands of wasps descending on my bees on predatory incursions. I do not mean to insinuate that the wasp has no mission, I believe he has his use. He is the scavenger of our gardens, and clears off decay, putrescence, and filth of every sort. For this I give him credit, but I cannot extend to him either the affection or respect I feel for my bees. Wasps often remind me of a class of critics not found in Printing-house-square, but by no means rare in other quarters. Like wasps, they ignore or pass by ripe, fragrant, and beautiful fruit, and select and gloat over incidental decay. The wasp-critic does not touch a beautiful thought in Tennyson or Longfellow; he can neither appreciate nor digest it. But if he can only discover a word misspelt or a word misprinted, or the word "octagon" accidentally used for "hexagon," he buzzes about it for hours, and feeds on it with waspish delight. Should the editor of a respectable paper or periodical refuse his contribution, he flies to a congenial refuge, and there pours out what wasps have nearly a monopoly of—the venom identified with and peculiar to that insect.
There is also the wasp ecclesiastical. He contributes no sweet honey to the Church, and takes little interest in its good. But in Synods, Presbyteries, Convocations, he flies about, driving his sting sometimes into a bishop and sometimes into a presbyter. A sin in another he scents from afar. A virtue in a brother he cannot appreciate. He lives on decay. He sings while he feeds on it. It is his nutriment and his joy.
There is also the political wasp. He has no fixed principles, but, instead, he has a furious temper. He makes great noise, and attacks everybody right and left that comes within scent, eyesight, or earshot. His delight is proportionate to the degree in which he can sting. He cares nothing about party, or side, or leader. He spurns all organisation. He revels in wrath and fierce words and keen invective, unsweetened by a grain of genial feeling, or an expression softened by the humanities and amenities of debate, and unillumined by wit or humour.
There is the wasp social. He is impersonated in the burglar. Were you to see the wasps this autumn rushing into my hives, sometimes by a sudden dash, at other times by stealth, you would instantly acknowledge in them the type of the thief and the burglar. But my bees are better prepared for the wasp's reception than London house-holders for thieves. He runs the gauntlet every time he enters. Through my glass observatory windows I watch the conflict. One bee, half his size, seizes him by the throat, another gives him a taste of his sting, and two or three watchers seize him by the legs and drag him out. I have hit on an admirable plan of keeping him off, well worth disclosing to every bee-master. I place at the entrance of the hive a stick of barley-sugar a couple of inches long. This brings to the entrance a dozen of bees, who thankfully feed on it. There is thus secured an additional guard at the gates. The moment the wasp alights, the whole posse fly at him and drive him away. Another plan is to fill half-full a wine-bottle with beer and sugar. Incidentally a bee may look in, but the wasps, whose scent is perfect, rush in and are drowned. It is a sacred duty devolving on every bee-master to exterminate these Arabs, Bedouins, and corsairs. They lay up no stores for themselves—they do nothing for the support or enjoyment of man. They use their stings, not like bees, in self-defence, but in sheer wickedness. They are professional thieves. Like the bees of a correspondent of yours, they have no respect for tuum, and having no meum, they care nothing. Living at the expense of others, without consulting the convenience or goodwill of anybody, they richly deserve what their extermination will pay for—sulphur, gunpowder, and boiling water. Let every bee-master give sixpence to every boy who destroys a wasps'-nest.
The wasp builds its nest generally underground. Their cells are hexagonal. The house is built of paper, fabricated by this insect long before its manufacture was discovered by man. With their powerful jaws they tear off decayed wood, which they moisten with a sort of gum or glue secreted from themselves. They form this into a kind of pulp and spread it out into thin sheets, with which they roof in and surround their cells. So far they are good paper manufacturers; but I have not heard of their paper being used in the service of man. They seem also to understand the laws of heat. Everybody knows that double windows are warmer than single ones, the atmospheric air being a good non-conductor. The wasps surround themselves with several walls of paper, leaving spaces between, and thus not only keep out the cold, but render the entrance of damp all but impossible. The combs of the wasp are built in horizontal tiers, supported by pillars. In this respect they are builders as well as papermakers. They are also admirable sappers and miners. They tunnel a covered way from their nest to the open air, and very often, instead of using a deserted mole or mouse hole, they excavate a round chamber of really fine proportions. It is truly matter of regret that so much capable talent should be prostituted to so much dishonesty. Unhappily, thieves and pick-pockets are generally very clever. Yet reformatories do operate real transformations of thieves; but no plan that philanthropy has yet devised has turned a wasp into a kind, honest, and respectable member of society. He is incapable of transmutation. He is worthy of the special study of Darwin. The death penalty, I unhesitatingly affirm, is due to every wasp that enters a bee-garden. The razing of his house, the desolation of its furniture, and the dislodgment and destruction of the whole clan, have become a sacred duty. Even the Quaker, who objects to the sentence of death on murderers, would consent to the doom of the wasp. I cannot believe there were wasps in Paradise of old. Though no prophet, nor prophet's son, I confidently predict there will be no wasps in Paradise that is to be, nor will there be waspish tempers, or passions, or propensities. Of all ugly things on earth, next to the serpent, a hornet is the ugliest, the most thievish, and the most dishonest You can neither tame nor turn the wicked imp. He is a thief from his birth—a bee-cide by habit; feeding on corruption, and full of wickedness. If, instead of killing sparrows and blackbirds and thrushes, because they take a few currants, while they destroy slugs and vermin, and many of them regale springtide with song, the farmers would set about destroying wasps, they would find as much amusement, and do vastly more good. I have a lurking suspicion that some of those apiarians who speak against bees, and call them thieves and regicides, must have wasps, not bees, in their hives. Let me beg of these irritable gentlemen, who never cease buzzing, to examine their hives. Let me remind them that wasps are bigger and longer than bees; are surrounded with concentric yellow circles, emit a subterranean sort of hum, neither treble, tenor, nor bass, and, after a little study on their part, may be easily distinguished from bees. Above all, let me intreat them to give up feeding on wasps' food, and, if they have no honey of their own, let me offer them half a bar, in order to elevate their taste or improve their temper.
Let me also beg all that value their lives to examine well every apple, pear, and peach they eat; for these venomous insects may be seen this year ensconced under the skin, and if admitted within the mouth they will sting the throat, and, as in several recent cases, the sufferers will die. Do not conclude I am uncharitable; I am not so. It is no charity to connive at theft and murder. I am satisfied that killing wasps is no murder. Had Peter the Hermit or Walter the Penniless lived in my garden, and witnessed these wicked vagabonds trying every hive, worrying my bees and stealing my honey, they would have preached a crusade against wasps. In one respect they are unfortunate; they have no queen, no subordination or reverence for law and order. They are genuine Red Republicans—Marats and Robespierres, and richly deserve the worst they get.
I am, Sir, your obedient servant,
A Bee-Master.
Tunbridge Wells.