A PEEP AT AN OLD HOUSE OF COMMONS FROM THE LADIES' GALLERY.
"No," Mrs. Chiltern-Hundreds said when I asked, Was she in these days
a constant visitor at the House of Commons? "Chiltern, you know, has
accepted a place of profit under the Crown, and is no longer eligible
to sit as a member. It is such trouble to get in, and when you are
there the chances are that nothing is going on, so I have given it up.
I remember very well the first time I was there. I wrote all about it
to an old schoolfellow. If you are interested in the subject, I will
show you a copy of what I then jotted down."
I was much interested, and when I saw the letter was glad I had
expressed my interest. The copy placed at my disposal was undated,
but internal evidence showed that Mrs. Chiltern-Hundreds had paid her
visit in the session of 1874, when Mr. Disraeli had for the first time
in his history been returned to power as well as to office, and Mr.
Gladstone, crushed by an overwhelming defeat, had written his famous
letter to "My dear Granville," announcing his retirement from
political life. Looking down through the _grille_, the visitor in the
gallery saw many bearers of well-known names who have travelled far
since that date, some beyond the grave. Here are Madame's notes
written in her own angular handwriting:--
"Be in the great hall at four o'clock."
Those were Chiltern's words to me as he hurried off after luncheon,
and here we were in the great hall, but there was no Chiltern,
which was vexatious. True, it was half-past four, and he is such a
stickler for what he calls punctuality, and has no sympathy with
those delays which are inseparable from going out in a new bonnet.
One of the strings----but there, what does it matter? Here we were
standing in the great hall, where we had been told to come, and no
one to meet us. There was a crowd of persons standing before the
entrance to a corridor to the left of the hall. Two policemen were
continually begging them to stand back and not block up the entrance,
so that the members who were passing in and out (I dare say on the
look-out for their wives, so that they should not be kept here a
moment) might not be inconvenienced. It is really wonderful how
careful the police about Westminster are of the sacred persons of
members. If I cross the road at the bottom of Parliament Street by
myself I may be run over by a hansom cab or even an omnibus, without
the slightest compunction on the part of the police on duty there.
But if Chiltern happens to be with me the whole of the traffic going
east and west is stopped, and a policeman with outstretched hands
stands waiting till we have gained the other side of the road.
We were gazing up with the crowd at somebody who was lighting the
big chandelier by swinging down from somewhere in the roof a sort
of censer, when Chiltern came out of the corridor and positively
began to scold us for being late. I thought that at the time very
mean, as I was just going to scold him; but he knows the advantage
of getting the first word. He says, Why were we half an hour late?
and how could he meet us there at four if at that time we had not
left home? But that's nonsense. Chiltern has naturally a great
flow of words, which he has cultivated by close attendance upon
his Parliamentary duties. But he is mistaken if he thinks I am a
Resolution and am to be moved by being "spoken to."
We walked through a gallery into a hall something like that in which
Chiltern had kept us waiting, only much smaller. This was full of men
chattering away in a manner of which an equal number of women would
have been ashamed. There was one nice pleasant-looking gentleman
carefully wrapped up in an overcoat with a fur collar and cuffs.
That was Earl Granville, Chiltern said. I was glad to see his
lordship looking so well and taking such care of himself. There
was another peer there, a little man with a beaked nose, the only
thing about him that reminded you of the Duke of Wellington. He had
no overcoat, being evidently too young to need or care for such
encumbrance. He wore a short surtout and a smart blue necktie, and
frisked about the hall in quite a lively way. Chiltern said that he
was Lord Hampton, with whom my great-grandfather went to Eton. He
was at that time plain "John Russell" (not Lord John of course),
and has for the last forty-five years been known as Sir John
Pakington. But then Chiltern has a way of saying funny things, and
I am not sure that he was in earnest in telling us that this active
young man was really the veteran of Droitwich.
From this hall, through a long carpeted passage, catching glimpses
on the way of snug writing rooms, cosy libraries, and other devices
for lightening senatorial labours, we arrived at a door over which
was painted the legend "To the Ladies' Gallery." This opened on to a
flight of steps at the top of which was another long corridor, and
we found ourselves at last at the door of the Ladies' Gallery, where
we were received by a smiling and obliging attendant.
I expected to find a fine open gallery something like the orchestra
at the Albert Hall, or at least like the dress circle at Drury Lane.
Picture my disappointment when out of the bright light of the
corridor we stepped into a sort of cage, with no light save what
came through the trellis-work in front. I thought this was one of
Chiltern's stupid practical jokes, and being a little cross through
his having kept us waiting for such an unconscionable long time, was
saying something to him when the smiling and obliging attendant said,
"Hush-sh-sh!" and pointed to a placard on which was printed, like a
spelling lesson, the impertinent injunction "Silence is requested."
There was no doubt about it. This was the Ladies' Gallery of the British
House of Commons, and a pretty place it is to which to invite ladies. I
never was good at geometry and that sort of thing, and cannot say how
many feet or how many furlongs the gallery is in length, but I counted
fourteen chairs placed pretty close together, and covered with a hideous
green damask. There are three rows of chairs, the two back rows being
raised above the first the height of one step. As far as seeing into the
House is concerned, one might as well sit down on the flight of steps in
Westminster Hall as sit on a chair in the back row in the Ladies'
Gallery. On the second row it is tolerable enough, or at least you get a
good view of the little old gentleman with the sword by his side sitting
in a chair at the far end of the House. I thought at first this was the
Speaker, and wondered why gentlemen on the cross benches should turn
their backs to him. But Chiltern said it was Lord Charles Russell,
Sergeant-at-Arms, a much more important personage than the Speaker, who
takes the Mace home with him every night, and is responsible for its due
appearance on the table when the Speaker takes the chair.
In the front row you can see well enough--what there is to be seen, for
I confess that my notion of the majesty of the House of Commons is
mightily modified since I beheld it with my own eyes. In the first place
you are quite shut out of sight in the Ladies' Gallery, and I might have
saved myself all the trouble of dressing, which made me a little late
and gave Chiltern an opportunity of saying disagreeable things which he
subsequently spread over a fortnight. I might have been wearing a
coal-scuttle bonnet or a mushroom hat for all it mattered in a prison
like this. There was sufficient light for me to see with satisfaction
that other people had given themselves at least an equal amount of
trouble. Two had arrived in charming evening dress, with the loveliest
flowers in their hair. I dare say they were going out to dinner, and at
least I hope so, for it is a disgraceful thing that women should be
entrapped into spending their precious time dressing for a few hours'
stay in a swept and garnished coal-hole like this.
The smiling and obliging attendant offered me the consolation of knowing
that the Gallery is quite a charming place compared with what it used to
be. Thirty or forty years ago, whilst the business of Parliament was
carried on in a temporary building, accommodation for ladies was
provided in a narrow box stationed above the Strangers' Gallery, whence
they peered into the House through pigeon holes something like what you
see in the framework of a peep-show. The present Gallery formed part of
the design of the new Houses, but when it was opened it was a vastly
different place. It was much darker, had no ante-rooms worth speaking
of, and the leading idea of a sheep-pen was preserved to the extent of
dividing it into three boxes, each accommodating seven ladies. About
twelve years ago one of the dividing walls was knocked down, and the
Ladies' Gallery thrown into a single chamber, with a special pen to
which admission is obtained only by order from the Speaker. Still much
remained to be done to make it even such a place as it now is, and that
work was done by that much--and, as Chiltern will always have it,
_unjustly_--abused man, Mr. Ayrton. It was he who threw open the back of
the Gallery, giving us some light and air, and it is to him that we
ladies are indebted for the dressing-room and the tea-room.
This being shut up is one reason why I was disappointed with the House
of Commons. Another is with respect to the size of the chamber itself.
It is wonderful to think how _big_ men can talk in a room like this. It
is scarcely larger than a good-sized drawing-room. I must say for
Chiltern that we got seats in the front row, and what there was to be
seen we saw. Right opposite to us was a gallery with rows of men sitting
six deep. It was "a big night," and there was not a seat to spare in
this, which I suppose was the Strangers' Gallery. Everybody there had
his hat off, and there was an official sitting on a raised chair in the
middle of the top row, something like I saw the warders sitting amongst
prisoners at Millbank one Sunday morning when Chiltern took me to see
the Claimant repeating the responses to the Litany. The House itself is
of oblong shape, with rows of benches on either side, cushioned in
green leather and raised a little above each other. There are four of
these rows on either side, with a broad passage between covered with
neat matting.
Chiltern says the floor is an open framework of iron, and that beneath
is a labyrinth of chambers into which fresh air is pumped and forced in
a gentle stream into the House, the vitiated atmosphere escaping by the
roof. But then the same authority, when I asked him what the narrow band
of red colour that ran along the matting about a pace in front of the
benches on either side meant, gravely told me that if any member when
addressing the House stepped out beyond that line, Lord Charles Russell
would instantly draw his sword, shout his battle-cry, "Who goes Home!"
and rushing upon the offender bear him off into custody.
So you see it is difficult to know what to believe, and it is a pity
people will not always say what they mean in plain English.
Midway down each row of benches is a narrow passage that turned out
to be "the gangway," of which you read and hear so much. I had always
associated "the gangway" with a plank along which you walked to
somewhere--perhaps on to the Treasury Bench. But it is only a small
passage like a narrow aisle in a church. There is a good deal of
significance about this gangway, for anybody who sits below it is
supposed to be of an independent turn of mind, and not to be capable
of purchase by Ministers present or prospective. Thus all the Irish
members sit below the gangway, and so do Mr. Macdonald and Mr. Charles
Lewis. It is an odd thing, Chiltern observes, that, notwithstanding
this peculiarity, Ministries are invariably recruited from below the
gangway. Sir Henry James sat there for many Sessions before he was
made Solicitor-General, and there was no more prominent figure in
recent years than that of the gentleman who used to be known as
"Mr. Vernon Harcourt."
On the conservative side this peculiarity is less marked than on the
Liberal, though it was below the gangway on the Conservative side
that on a memorable night more than a quarter of a century ago a
certain dandified young man, with well-oiled locks and theatrically
folded arms, stood, and, glaring upon a mocking House, told them that
the time would come when they _should_ hear him. As a rule, the
Conservatives make Ministers of men who have borne the heat and
burden of the day on the back Ministerial benches. With the Liberals
the pathway of promotion, Chiltern says, opens from below the gangway.
Mr. Lowe came from there, so did Mr Goschen, Mr. Stansfeld, Mr.
Childers, Mr. Foster, and even Mr. Gladstone himself. The worst thing
a Liberal member who wants to become a Cabinet Minister or a Judge
can do is to sit on the back Ministerial benches, vote as he is bidden,
and hold his tongue when he is told. He should go and sit below the
gangway, near Mr Goldsmid or Mr. Trevelyan, and in a candid, ingenuous,
and truly patriotic manner make himself on every possible occasion as
disagreeable to the leaders of his party as he can.
I do not attempt to disguise the expectation I cherish of being some day
wife of the First Lord of the Admiralty, or at least of the President of
the Board of Trade; for there are few men who can, upon occasion, make
themselves more disagreeable than Chiltern, who through these awkward
bars I see sitting below the gangway on the left-hand side, and calling
out "Hear, hear!" to Sir Stafford Northcote, who is saying something
unpleasant about somebody on the front Opposition benches.
The front seat by the table on the right-hand side is the Treasury
bench, and the smiling and obliging attendant tells me the names of the
occupants there and in other parts of the House. The gentleman at the
end of the seat with the black patch over his eye is Lord Barrington,
who, oddly enough, sits for the borough of Eye, and fills the useful
office of Vice-Chamberlain. Next to him is Sir H. Selwin-Ibbetson,
Under-Secretary of State for the Home Department, and whom I have
heard genially described as "one of the prosiest speakers in the
House." Next to him, with a paper in his hand and a smirk of supreme
self-satisfaction on his face, is Mr. Cross, the Home Secretary.
He sits beside a figure you would notice wherever you saw it. The
legs are crossed, the arms folded, and the head bent down, showing
from here one of the most remarkable styles of doing the human hair
that ever I beheld. The hair is combed forward from the crown of the
head and from partings on either side, and brought on to the forehead,
where it is apparently pasted together in a looped curl.
This is Mr. Disraeli, as I know without being told, though I see him
now for the first time. He is wonderfully old-looking, with sunken
cheeks and furrowed lines about the mouth and eyes. But his lofty
brow does not seem to have a wrinkle on it, and his hands, when he
draws them from under his arms and folds them before him, twiddling
his thumbs the while, are as smooth and white as Coningsby's. He is
marvellously motionless, sitting almost in the same position these
two hours. But he is as watchful as he is quiet. I can see his eyes
taking in all that goes on on the bench at the other side of the
table, where right hon. gentlemen, full of restless energy, are
constantly talking to each other, or passing notes across each other,
or even pulling each other's coat-tails and loudly whispering
promptings as in turn they rise and address the House.
I observe that Mr. Disraeli does not wear his hat in the House, and
Chiltern, to whom I mention this when he comes up again, tells me
that he and some half-dozen others never do. Since Mr Gladstone has
retired from the cares of office he is sometimes, but very rarely,
able to endure the weight of his hat on his head while sitting in
the House; but, formerly, he never wore it in the presence of the
Speaker. The rule is to wear your hat in the House, and a very odd
effect it has to see men sitting about in a well-lighted and warm
chamber with their hats on their heads.
Chiltern tells me this peculiarity of wearing hats was very nearly
the means of depriving Great Britain and Ireland of the presence in
Parliament of Mr. John Martin. That distinguished politician, it
appears, had never, before County Meath sent him to Parliament,
worn a hat of the hideous shape which fashion entails upon our
suffering male kindred. It is well known that when he was returned
he declared that he would never sit at Westminster, the reason
assigned for this eccentricity being that he recognised no
Parliament in which the member for County Meath might sit other
than one meeting of the classic ground of College Green. But
Chiltern says that was only a poetical flight, the truth lying at
the bottom of the hat.
"Never," Mr. Martin is reported to have said to a Deputation of his
constituents, "will I stoop to wear a top hat. I never had one on my
head, and the Saxon shall never make me put it there."
He was as good as his word when he first came to town, and was wont to
appear in a low-crowned beaver hat of uncertain architecture. But after
he had for some weeks assisted the process of Legislature under the
shadow of this hat, the Speaker privately and in considerate terms
conveyed to him a hint that, in the matter of hats at least, it was
desirable to have uniformity in the House of Commons.
Mr. Martin, who, in spite of his melodramatic speeches and his strong
personal resemblance to Danny Man in the "Colleen Nawn," is, Chiltern
says, really one of the gentlest and most docile of men, straightway
abandoned the nondescript hat and sacrificed his inclinations and
principles to the extent of buying what he calls "a top hat." But he
has not taken kindly to it, and never will. It is always getting in his
way, under his feet or between his knees, and he is apparently driven
to observe the precaution of constantly holding it in his hands when it
is not safely disposed on his head. It is always thus held before him,
a hand firmly grasping the rim on either side, when he is making those
terrible speeches we read, in which he proves that John Mitchel is an
unoffending martyr, and that the English, to serve their private ends,
introduced the famine in Ireland.
Mr. Cowen, the member for Newcastle, shares Mr Martin's prejudices about
hats, and up to the present time has not abandoned them. As we passed
through the lobby on our way to the Gallery, Chiltern pointed him out to
me. He was distinguished in the throng by wearing a round hat of soft
felt, and he has never been seen at Westminster in any other. But at
least he does not put it on his head in the House; and it is much better
to sit upon than the tall hats on the top of which excited orators not
unfrequently find themselves when, hotly concluding their perorations
and unconscious of having left their hats just behind them, they throw
themselves back on the bench from which they had erewhile risen to "say
a few words."
The gentleman on the left of the Premier is said to be Sir Stafford
Northcote, but there is so little of his face to be seen through the
abundance of whisker and moustache that I do not think any one has a
right to speak positively on the matter. The smooth-faced man next to
him is Mr. Gathorne Hardy. The tall, youthful-looking man on his left is
Sir Michael Hicks-Beach, who, I suppose by instructions of the Cabinet,
generally sits, as he does to-night, next to Mr. Ward Hunt. The Chief
Secretary for Ireland is slim; not to put too fine a point on it, Mr.
Ward Hunt is not, and the two manage to seat themselves with some
approach to comfort. The First Lord of the Admiralty further eases the
pressure on his colleagues by throwing his left arm over the back of the
bench, where it hangs like a limb of some monumental tree.
The carefully devised scheme for the disposition of Mr. Ward Hunt on the
Treasury bench is completed by assigning the place on the other side of
him to Sir Charles Adderley. The President of the Board of Trade,
Chiltern says, is understood to have long passed the mental stage at
which old John Willet had arrived when he was discovered sitting in his
chair in the dismantled bar of the Maypole after the rioters had visited
his hostelry. He is apparently unconscious of discomfort when crushed up
or partially sat upon by his elephantine colleague, which is a fortunate
circumstance.
The stolid man with the straight back directly facing Mr Disraeli on the
front bench opposite is the Marquis of Hartington. The gentleman with
uncombed hair and squarely cut garments on the left of the Leader of the
Opposition is Mr Forster. The big man further to the left, who sits with
folded arms and wears a smile expressive of his satisfaction with all
mankind, particularly with Sir William Harcourt, is the
ex-Solicitor-General. The duck of a man with black hair, nicely oiled
and sweetly waved, is Sir Henry James. Where have I seen him before? His
face and figure and attitude seem strangely familiar to me. I have been
shopping this morning, but I do not think I could have seen behind any
milliner's or linendraper's counter a person like the hon. and learned
gentleman the member for Taunton.
Beyond this doughty knight, and last at this end of the bench, is a
little man in spectacles, and with a preternatural look of wisdom on his
face. He is the Right Hon. Lyon Playfair, and is said to have, next to
Mr. Fawcett, the most remarkably retentive memory of any man in the
House. Chiltern says he always writes his lectures before he delivers
them to the House, sending the manuscript to the _Times_, and so accurate
is his recitation that the editor has only to sprinkle the lecture with
"Hear, hears!" and "Cheers" to make the thing complete.
On the right-hand side of the Marquis of Hartington is Mr. Goschen. In
fact, at the moment I happen to have reached him in my survey he is on
his feet, asking a question of his "right hon. friend opposite." What a
curious attitude the man stands in! Apparently the backs of his legs are
glued to the bench from which he has risen, a device which enables him,
as he speaks, to lean forward like a human Tower of Pisa. He is putting
the simplest question in the world to the Chancellor of the Exchequer,
but if he were a junior clerk asking his employer for the hand of his
eldest daughter he could not look more sheepish. His hat is held in his
left hand behind his back possibly with a view to assist in balancing
him, and to avoid too much strain on the adhesive powers that keep the
back of his legs firmly attached to the bench. With his right hand he
is, when not pulling up his collar, feeling himself nervously round the
waist, as if to make sure that he is there.
Next to him are Mr. Dodson and Mr. Campbell-Bannerman, and, with these
planted between him and actual or aspirant leaders of the Liberal party,
sits Mr. Lowe. I cannot see much of his face from here, for he wears his
hat and at the moment hangs his head. A little later on I both saw and
heard him speak and a splendid speech he made, going right to the heart
of the matter, laying it bare. His success as a debater is a marvellous
triumph of mind over material influences. It would be hard to conceive
a man having fewer of the outward graces of oratory than Mr Lowe. His
utterance is hesitating, sometimes even to stuttering, he speaks
hurriedly, and without emphasis; his manner is nervous and restless, and
he is so short-sighted that the literary quotations with which his
speeches abound are marred by painful efforts to read his notes. Yet how
he rouses the House, moving it to cheers and laughter, and to the rapid
interchange of volleys of "Hear, hear" from opposite sides of the House,
which Chiltern says is the most exhilarating sound that can reach the
ear of a speaker in the House of Commons. Mr. Lowe sits down with the
same abruptness that marked his rising, and rather gets into his hat
than puts it on, pushing his head so far into its depths that there is
nothing of him left on view save what extends below the line of his
white eyebrows.
To the right of Mr. Lowe I see a figure which, foreshortened from my
point of view, is chiefly distinguishable by a hat and pair of boots.
Without absolute Quaker fashion about the cut of the hat or garments,
there is a breadth about the former and a looseness about the latter
suggestive of Quaker associations. Perhaps if my idea were mercilessly
analysed it would appear that it has its growth in the knowledge that
I am looking down on Mr. Bright, and that I know Mr. Bright is of
Quaker parentage. But I am jotting down my impressions as I receive
them. Mr. Bright does not address the House to-night, but he has made
one or two short speeches this Session, and Chiltern, who has heard
them, speaks quite sorrowfully of the evidence they give of failing
physical power. The orator who once used to hold the House of Commons
under his command with as much ease as Apollo held in hand the fiery
coursers of the chariot of the sun, now stands before it on rare
occasions with a manner more nervous than that in which some new
members make their maiden speech. The bell-like tones of his voice are
heard no more; he hesitates in choosing words, is not sure of the
sequence of his phrases, and resumes his seat with evident
gratefulness for the renewed rest.
Chiltern adds that much of this nervousness is probably owing to a
sensibility of the expectation which his rising arouses in the House,
and a knowledge that he is not about to make the "great speech" looked
for ever since he returned to his old place. But at best the matchless
oratory of John Bright is already a tradition in the House of Commons,
and it is but the ghost of the famous Tribune who now nightly haunts
the scene of his former glories. Mr Gladstone was sitting next to Mr.
Bright, in what the always smiling and obliging attendant tells me is
a favourite attitude with him. His legs were stretched out, his hands
loosely clasped before him, and his head thrown back, resting on the
cushion at the back of the seat, so that the soft light from the
illuminated roof shone full on his upturned face. It is a beautiful
face, soft as a woman's, very pale and worn, with furrowed lines that
tell of labour done and sorrow lived through.
Here again I am conscious of the possibility of my impressions being
moulded by my knowledge of facts; but I fancy I see a great alteration
since last I looked on Mr. Gladstone's face, now two years ago. It was
far away from here, in a big wooden building in a North Wales town. He
was on a platform surrounded by grotesque men in blue gowns and caps,
which marked high rank in Celtic bardship. At that time he was the
nominal leader of a great majority that would not follow him, and
president of a Ministry that thwarted all his steps. His face looked
much harder then, and his eye glanced restlessly round, taking in
every movement of the crowd in the pavilion. He seemed to exist in a
hectic flush of life, and was utterly incapable of taking rest. Now his
face, though still thin, has filled up. The lines on his brow and under
his eyes, though too deeply furrowed to be eradicable, have been
smoothed down, and there is about his face a sense of peace and a
pleasant look of rest.
Chiltern says that sometimes when Mr. Gladstone has been in the House
this Session he has, during the progress of a debate, momentarily
sprung into his old attitude of earnest, eager attention, and there
have been critical moments when his interposition in debate has
appeared imminent. But he has conquered the impulse, lain back again
on the bench, and let the House go its own way. It is very odd,
Chiltern says, to have him sitting there silent in the midst of so
much talking. This was specially felt during the debate about those
Irish Acts with which he had so much to do.
Chiltern tells me that whilst the debate on the Irish Bill was going on
there came from no one knows where, passed from hand to hand along the
benches, a scrap of paper on which was written this verse from "In
Memoriam":--
"At our old pastimes in the hall
We gambol'd making vain pretence
Of gladness, With an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all."
Although the gangway has a distinct and important significance in
marking off _nuances_ of political parties, it appears that it does not
follow as an inevitable sequence that because a man sits behind the
Ministerial bench he is therefore a Taper or a Tadpole, or that because
he takes up his quarters below the gangway he is a John Hampden. The
distinction is more strongly marked on the Liberal side; but even there
there are some honest men who usually obey the crack of the Whip. On the
Conservative side the gangway has scarcely any significance, and though
the Lewisian "Party," which consists solely of Charles, sits there, and
from time to time reminds the world of its existence by loudly shouting
in its ear, it may always be depended upon in a real party division to
swell the Ministerial majority by one vote. The Scotch members, who sit
chiefly on the Liberal side, spread themselves impartially over seats
above and below the gangway. The Home Rule members, who also favour the
Liberal side, sit together in a cluster below the gangway in defiant
proximity to the Sergeant-at-Arms. They are rather noisy at times, and
whenever Chiltern comes in late to dinner, or after going back stays
till all hours in the morning, it is sure to be "those Irish fellows."
But I think the House of Commons ought to be much obliged to Ireland for
its contribution of members, and to resist to the last the principle of
Home Rule. For it is not, as at present constituted, an assembly that
can afford to lose any element that has about it a tinge of originality,
a flash of humour, or an echo of eloquence.
That, of course, is Chiltern's remark. I only know, for my part, that
the Ladies' Gallery is a murky den, in which you can hear very little,
not see much, and are yourself not seen at all.