The Mother of Parliaments

Until the last session of 1908 members could obtain two daily orders of admission for strangers from the Speaker's secretary or the Sergeant-at-Arms, the Speaker's and Strangers' Galleries (which were amalgamated in 1888) providing accommodation for about one hundred and sixty visitors. In the autumn of 1908, however, a man who wished to advertise the cause of Female Suffrage – and incidentally himself – threw a number of pamphlets down from the gallery on to the floor of the House, and was summarily ejected. This resulted in an order issued by the Speaker that for the remainder of the session no strangers should be admitted. The Strangers' Galleries were reopened in May of the following year, and new regulations were framed to prevent the recurrence of such a scene. Visitors are now permitted to apply at a special bureau in St. Stephen's Hall, at any time after 4.15 p.m. and, if there is room, are at once admitted to the gallery without the formality of searching for a member. Each stranger signs a declaration undertaking to abstain from making any interruption or disturbance, and to obey the rules for the maintenance of order in the galleries.

Applause, or the expression of any feeling, is strictly prohibited in the Strangers' Gallery, and the attendants on duty there have instructions to expel offenders without waiting for any explanation of their conduct. In the commencement of the last century a stranger once shouted, "You're a liar!" while O'Connell was speaking, and was arrested by the Sergeant-at-Arms and compelled to apologise the next day.420 Since that time, until recently, visitors have behaved with commendable decorum.

The instances of strangers causing a commotion in Parliament by extraordinary or improper behaviour are few in number. The assassination of Spencer Perceval, the Prime Minister, by a visitor in 1812 is undoubtedly the most tragic event that has ever taken place within the precincts of the House of Commons, the murderer being a mad Liverpool merchant, named Bellingham, who had a grievance against the Government. The recollection of this outrage almost gave rise to a panic some years later when a wild-eyed, haggard man rushed into the House while Sir Robert Peel was speaking, and walked boldly up to the Minister. Stopping within a few feet of the speaker, this alarming stranger made a low bow. "I beg your pardon," he remarked suavely, "but I am an unfortunate man who has just been poisoned by Earl Grey!" He was at once removed to the nearest lunatic asylum.421

Other strangers have from time to time created a mild consternation or amusement by some eccentricity of dress or deportment. In 1833 a young Scotsman crossed the bar of the Commons and sat deliberately down on a bench among the members, where he remained undiscovered for some time. In the same year a compatriot, garbed in full Highland costume, unwittingly entered the side gallery reserved for members, and prepared to listen to the debate from this comfortable quarter. On being informed of his mistake, this hardy Northman was so overcome with terror at the contemplation of his crime and the consequences that would probably ensue – nothing short of death could, he imagined, be the punishment appropriate to such an offence – that he took to his heels and ran like a hare, never pausing for breath until he reached Somerset House, a mile and a half away.422 Sir Wilfrid Lawson in 1894 was shown a man in the Lobby who had been turned out of the gallery for being drunk. On asking what crime the stranger had committed, he was told that he had said "Bosh!" to some of the speeches. This, as Sir Wilfrid remarked, was not conclusive evidence of drunkenness.423

A strange Irishman provided the peers with some amusement in 1908 by appearing in the House of Lords attired in a saffron-coloured kilt and toga which he claimed to be his national costume, and which had doubtless been so ever since the days of Darwin's missing link. He turned out to be harmless enough, and, though momentarily disturbing to Black Rod's peace of mind, did nothing more alarming than to provide another example of the well-known fact that it is possible to be a Celt and at the same time to lack a sense of humour.

Strangers of the male sex who visit the Upper House may be accommodated in the large Strangers' Gallery facing the throne, or, if members of Parliament, in the special House of Commons' gallery, or at the bar. Privy councillors and the eldest sons of peers are allowed to sit or stand upon the steps of the Throne, and there are special galleries set apart for the use of the corps diplomatique and the Press.

The question of allowing women to attend the debates has long presented difficulties to the parliamentary mind, though at one time it was not unusual to see lady visitors actually sitting in the Chamber itself side by side with their husbands and friends. "Ought females to be admitted?" asked Jeremy Bentham, many years ago, unhesitatingly answering his own question in the negative a moment later. To remove them from an assembly where tranquil reason ought alone to reign was, as he explained, to avow their influence, and should not therefore be wounding to their pride. "The seductions of eloquence and ridicule are most dangerous instruments in a political assembly," he says. "Admit females – you add new force to these seductions." In the presence of the gentler sex, Bentham suggests, everything must necessarily take an exalted tone, brilliant and tragical – "excitement and tropes would be scattered everywhere." All would be sacrificed to vanity and the display of wit, to please the ladies in the audience.424 If the serious business of debate were to be sacrificed to "tropes," no doubt the British Constitution would be considerably endangered; but experience has taught us that the presence of ladies has not affected the debates detrimentally, and the excitement caused in the breasts of our legislators by the sight of a contingent of the fair sex is not of a kind to prove alarming.

Women have taken a strong interest in political matters in England from very early days.425 We even find them giving occasional expression to their views upon some Government measure with a violence which did not at all commend itself to the authorities. In the Journals of the House for March 5, 1606, is the following entry: "A Clamour of Women against Sir Robert Johnson, for speaking against a Bill touching Wherry-men; upon complaint of which the Commons ordered, that Notice should be given to the Justices of the Peace, to prevent and suppress such disorders."426 What steps the Justices of the Peace took to quell this feminine clamour history does not relate. In 1675 some confusion was caused by the Speaker observing ladies in the gallery, and though a member suggested that they were not ladies at all, but merely men in fine clothes, the Speaker insisted that he had caught sight of petticoats.

In the time of Queen Anne ladies were strongly infected with the spirit of party. Addison declares that even the patches they wore on their faces were so situated that the political views of the wearer could be recognised at a glance. Friends might be distinguished from foes in this delightful fashion, Tory ladies wearing their patches on the left, Whigs on the right side of the face. An old number of the "Spectator"427 contains the sad story of one Rosalinda, a famous Whig partisan who suffered much annoyance on this account. The fact that Rosalinda had a beautiful mole on the Tory part of her forehead gave her enemies the chance of misrepresenting her face as having revolted against the Whig interest – an accusation which naturally depressed the poor lady considerably.

The House of Lords has always been more hospitable than the Commons in its treatment of women. The two side galleries are reserved for peeresses – though a certain portion is kept for members of the corps diplomatique, and for the Commons – and there is a large box on the floor of the House where the wives of peers' eldest sons sit, and a number of seats below the bar to which Black Rod may introduce ladies.

The peers have not, however, been exempt from the occasional inconveniences attaching to the presence of women. Lord Shaftesbury, during the term of his Lord Chancellorship, complained bitterly of the "droves of ladies that attended all causes," and said that things had reached such a pass that men "borrowed or hired of their friends, handsome sisters or daughters to deliver their petitions."428 And in 1739, the fair Kitty, Duchess of Queensberry, headed a storming party and successfully besieged a gallery in the House of Lords from which ladies had been excluded in order to make room for members of the Commons.429 Grenville declares that the steps of the Throne were inconveniently thronged with women in 1829. "Every fool in London thinks it necessary to be there," he says. "They fill the whole space, and put themselves in front, with their large bonnets, without either fear or shame."430

In 1775, women were allowed to be present in Parliament to listen to election petitions, and continued to be admitted to the body of the House of Commons until 1778.431 In this year a member named Captain Johnstone insisted that strangers should withdraw, and the female section of the audience absolutely declined to do so. Threats, entreaties, all were useless. With the charming obstinacy of their sex, the fair visitors clung to their seats, and refused to budge an inch. Among the ladies who led this revolt was the Duchess of Devonshire, and a celebrated beauty of the name of Musters. They were assisted by a certain number of male admirers, and, so successful were their efforts, that two long hours elapsed before the galleries could be cleared. This incident caused the Speaker to forbid the future admittance of women, and until after the fire of 1834, ladies could only listen to debates clandestinely, and in a manner which entailed the maximum of personal discomfort. Their absence does not seem to have had any effect upon the length of the debates. "I was in hopes that long speeches would have been knocked on the head when the ladies were excluded from the galleries," said the doorkeeper; "they often used to keep the members up."432

When the Commons sat in the old St Stephen's Chapel, that chamber was divided into two parts by a false roof. The upper half consisted of a big empty room like a barn, with unglazed windows. In the centre of the floor of this apartment was the ventilating shaft of the House, a rough casement with eight small openings, situated exactly above the chandelier in the ceiling of the chamber below. To this room were conducted the lady friends of members desirous of catching a glimpse of the Commons at work. The door was locked upon them, and they were permitted to sit on a circular bench which surrounded the ventilator, and peer down through the openings, while every now and then their imprisonment would be lightened by a visit from some kindly attendant, who would tell them the name of the member addressing the House. The only light was provided by a farthing dip stuck in a tin candlestick, and the room was gloomy and depressing. It is an ill wind, however, that blows nobody any good, and once when O'Connell went up there expecting to find his wife, he kissed the Dowager Duchess of Richmond by mistake.433

Maria Edgeworth has left a description of a visit she paid to this melancholy spot in 1822. "In the middle of the garret," she says, "is what seemed like a sentry box of deal boards, and old chairs placed round it; on these we got, and stood and peeped over the top of the boards."434 From this vantage-point she could see the chandelier blazing just beneath her, and below it again the Table, with the mace resting upon it, and the Speaker's polished boots – nothing more.

The twenty-five tickets issued nightly by the Sergeant-at-Arms for admission to this dungeon were much sought after, a fact which testifies eloquently to the political enthusiasm of our great-grandmothers.

In spite of the Speaker's order, ladies still continued occasionally to find their way into more comfortable parts of the House. Wraxall declares that he saw the famous Duchess of Gordon sitting in the Strangers' Gallery dressed as a man.435 And in 1834, a sister of some member entered one of the side galleries, and sat there undisturbed for a long time, the gallantry of the officials forbidding them to turn her out.436

When the new Houses of Parliament were built, slightly better accommodation was provided for the fair sex. It was at first proposed that they should be seated in the open galleries of the Commons, but this suggestion met with little support. Miss Harriet Martineau, writing somewhere about 1876, prophesied pessimistically that if such a proposition were carried out, the galleries would be occupied by giddy and frivolous women, lovers of sensation, with plenty of time upon their hands; "a nuisance to the Legislature and a serious disadvantage to the wiser of their own sex."437 This idea seems to have been the popular one, and it was resolved to keep the ladies who attended debates as much in the background as possible.

The present gallery has many disadvantages. Its occupants are enclosed in a cage which prevents them from obtaining a good view of the proceedings, and altogether conceals them from the gaze of the members. Repeated attempts have been made to secure better accommodation, notably by Mr. Grantley Berkeley, to whom a number of ladies in 1841 presented a piece of plate in recognition of his services on their behalf. The House is determined, however, that its deliberations shall not be affected by the presence of any disturbing element, agreeing apparently with that member who assured the Speaker that if ladies were permitted to sit undisguised in the gallery, "the feelings of the gallant old soldiers and gentlemen would be so excited and turned from political affairs, that they would not be able to do their duty to their country."438

The suggestion has often been made that the grille should be taken away from the front of the Ladies' Gallery, but it is doubtful whether the removal of this screen would commend itself to the visitors. Its retention bestows one undoubted benefit upon them; it allows ladies to steal away unnoticed during the speech of some bore, with whom they may be personally acquainted, or whose feelings they would not like to hurt. This is an advantage which cannot be esteemed too highly.

The Ladies' Gallery, which, as has often been said, might be called, but for its occupants, a veritable "chamber of horrors," is not considered to be within the House. Consequently, when strangers are forced to withdraw, ladies may still remain. They are even allowed to be present during prayers. The feminine privilege of not being excluded with other strangers is shared by the peers, who, since 1698, have always (with the exception of a few years) had a gallery reserved for them.

Up to a short time ago members of the House of Commons were allowed to introduce ladies to the inner lobby, whence they could obtain a fragmentary glimpse of the proceedings through a small window. This privilege was withdrawn in 1908, when a lady who was the guest of a member sought to make some return for his hospitality by rushing on to the floor of the House and shouting, "Votes for Women!" Shortly before this two other ladies in the gallery, also the guests of members, had attempted to prove the fitness of their sex for the franchise by chaining themselves to the grille and screaming. This was the first instance of unruly behaviour in the Ladies' Gallery since June of the year 1888, when some women applauded a speech, much to the indignation of Speaker Peel. It resulted in the closing of the gallery, and the exclusion of all but the Speaker's own personal guests, on whose sense of honour and decency he could rely. In 1909, however, the Ladies' Gallery was once more thrown open to members of the fair sex, tickets of admission being confined to the relatives of members, who balloted for them a week in advance. The ladies were required to sign an undertaking to behave decorously while they occupied seats in the gallery, and their exact relationship to members was not inquired into too closely.

CHAPTER XVI

PARLIAMENTARY REPORTING

Of all the strangers who honour the Palace of Westminster with their presence none are treated with greater consideration than the reporters. This touching regard shown for the comfort of the Press is a flower of modern growth. It has blossomed forth within the last fifty years, watered by that love of publicity which is nowadays as common in St. Stephen's as elsewhere. Journalists are in the habit of complaining that the public no longer requires those full reports of parliamentary utterances which a few years ago were considered a very necessary part of the day's news. Short political sketches have taken the place of full verbatim reports, and very few papers give anything but a rough outline of the daily parliamentary proceedings. Politicians themselves, however, do not appear to share the general aversion to reading their speeches in print, and it is strange to contrast the warm welcome accorded by Parliament to modern journalism with the cold reception met with by reporters in the days of our ancestors.

In the Order Book of the House of Commons there still exists a Standing Order which, though long in disuse, has never been repealed, declaring it a gross breach of privilege to print or publish anything relating to the proceedings of either House. This is but a relic of those distant days when the perpetual conflicts between the Commons and the Crown made secrecy a necessity of debate.

In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Parliament was anything but anxious that the result of its deliberations should be made public, except in such a form as it considered desirable. The Commons especially feared that information as to their intentions should reach the King's ears, and took every possible precaution to avert such a calamity. In this they were not altogether successful. During the debates on the proposed impeachment of the Duke of Buckingham, in 1626, members were very busy with their pencils. The King himself had as many as four or five amateur note-takers present to supply him with reports, and among the private members were many other unofficial reporters. Of these, perhaps, the most famous was Sir Symonds D'Ewes, the member for Sudbury, a lawyer with only one eye, devout, ambitious, conceited, and something of a snob.439 Records were, to his way of thinking, the most ravishing and satisfying part of human knowledge. His historical researches had given him an acquaintance with precedents which was long the envy of his colleagues in Parliament. In 1629 he transcribed the Journals of both Houses from the original Journal books, adding comments of his own, and inserting various interesting speeches which he obtained from private manuscripts and diaries. When objections were raised to his incorrigible cacoethes scribendi, "If you will not permit us to write," he observed pathetically, "we must go to sleep, as some among us do, or go to plays, as others have done."440 The contemplation of such tragic alternatives did not, however, shake the resolution of the Commons, and the practice of note-taking was put a stop to by a peremptory order of the House.

Sir Symonds' peculiar knowledge of parliamentary precedents resulted in his perpetual interference with the procedure of the House. His frequent attempts to set the Speaker right upon various points of order at length irritated the Commons to the verge of madness, and it was with a sigh of relief that his colleagues bade him farewell when he reluctantly retired into private life to continue uninterrupted his antiquarian pursuits.

Rushworth, who was Assistant Clerk of the Commons at the time of the Long Parliament, proved almost as energetic a reporter as D'Ewes, and thereby repeatedly got himself into trouble. In 1642, he was forbidden to take any notes without the sanction of the House, and a Committee was appointed to look through his manuscripts and settle how much of them was worthy of preservation. The result of Rushworth's passion for reporting is the "Historical Collections," which Carlyle has called a "rag-fair of a book; the mournfullest torpedo rubbish-heap of jewels buried under sordid wreck and dust and dead ashes, one jewel to the waggon-load."441 One of the undoubted gems from this dust-heap is a full account of the proceedings in Parliament on the famous occasion of Charles I.'s violent attempt to arrest the five members. This dramatic incident does not appear to have deprived Rushworth of his presence of mind. While the Commons sat openmouthed and aghast, the Assistant Clerk calmly continued to take notes of every word that fell from the royal lips. For this posterity owes him a debt of the deepest gratitude.

The right of Parliament to deliberate in secret was long jealously guarded, any breach of that privilege being punished with extreme severity. In 1641, an oration delivered by Lord Digby on the Bill for Strafford's attainder, and circulated on his own initiative, was ordered to be burnt by the common hangman. At the same time it was formally resolved that no member should publish any speech without the express permission of the House.

In the reign of Charles II. such men as Shaftesbury, Halifax, Hampden, and Hyde were not reported, though the first would occasionally issue his speeches in pamphlet form. Towards the middle of the seventeenth century, however, the House ordered utterances of exceptional importance to be printed. During the Long Parliament licensed reports appeared under the title of "Diurnal Occurrences of Parliament," and later on a meagre outline of the daily proceedings of Parliament began to be published. But when Locke, in 1675, printed a report of a House of Lords' debate, calling it "A letter from a Person of Quality to His Friend," it was ordered by the Privy Council to be burnt.

The Licensing Act of 1662 confined printing to London, York, Oxford, and Cambridge, and did not permit the number of master printers to exceed twenty. The Commons' refusal in 1695 to renew the censorship marks the commencement of the emancipation of the Press.

A system of newsletters had been started with the Restoration, whereby the outside world could learn something of the doings of Parliament. This no doubt whetted the public appetite, and increased the popular interest in political affairs. In 1694, however, it was resolved in Parliament that "no newsletter writers do in their letters or other papers that they disperse presume to intermeddle with the debates or any other proceedings of the House."

Newsletters were rapidly followed by regular newspapers, which supplied their readers with somewhat imaginative accounts of the debates. The periodicals of William III.'s day sometimes reported the speeches of particular speakers, who contributed their manuscripts to the papers. During the factious years that followed, the debates were officially distributed in monthly parts, but at the beginning of the eighteenth century the publication of newspaper reports was again declared a breach of parliamentary privilege, and a stamp duty was imposed with a view to arresting the circulation of the Opposition Press.

A regular party organ first appeared in Queen Anne's reign. This was "The Examiner," subsidised by Harley's Ministry, and conducted by Swift. It was answered by "The Whig Examiner," edited by Addison, which was followed by "Manwaring's Medley," a paper which soon became the recognised journal of the Opposition.442 Towards the close of Anne's reign Boyer began to publish "The Political State of Great Britain" in which he included accounts of all the important parliamentary debates.443 This was succeeded in 1716 by "The Historical Register," which purported to describe the proceedings in both Houses. In the reports of the Commons' debates the names of the speakers were published without concealment, but the Lords were treated more cautiously. Thus, in an account of the Septennial Bill, we find such sentences as, "a noble Duke stood up and said," or "this was answered by a northern peer," no further clue being given as to the identity of the several speakers.444

"The Historical Register" was superseded twenty years later by the "Gentleman's Magazine," a monthly periodical founded by the bookseller Cave and edited by Guthrie. Cave used to obtain admission to the House of Commons for himself and a few friends, and would there take surreptitious notes of the proceedings. These he subsequently elaborated in some adjoining coffee-house, evolving lengthy and vivid descriptions of the debates from his inner consciousness. His editor was the first journalist to obtain access to the official parliamentary Journals. The Government had apparently by this time begun to regard the Press as a more or less necessary evil, and thought it worth while to pay Guthrie a small sum for his services, even providing him with a pension when he retired.