When I went out to Egypt some years ago, I determined to devote myself
to the study of Arabic, and not to rest till I could speak and write it
like an educated native. This rash resolve, however, was made in
ignorance of the sublime difficulties of this language, and after
plodding at it with great vigour for a year, and acquiring some facility
in speaking it, and the ability to read a sentence so as to sometimes
get a faint glimpse into the meaning hidden behind the hieroglyphs which
the Arabs call letters, I came to the conclusion that I had better rest
on my laurels.
While my enthusiasm lasted I used to seize every possible opportunity of
talking Arabic with any native I came across, and great was my disgust
when, as sometimes happened, an Arab would persist in airing his English
on me. As a rule, however, they were rather flattered by my evident
desire to know their tongue, and some of the shopkeepers with whom I
dealt would take a pleasure in teaching me new phrases.
One of these, by name Halil, who sold silks, shawls, etc., etc., and
whose respect I had gained by some considerable purchases for friends in
England, became quite intimate with me, and related to me a considerable
portion of his own history and that of his family, and it was from him
that I heard the following story of his courtship, which is not quite so
prosaic and business-like as such affairs usually are in Mohammedan
countries. His shop was in the silk bazaar at Cairo, and what first led
to the subject was a sentence in Arabic written over it, which I had
puzzled my brains in trying to read for some time before I at last
managed to translate it. It ran as follows: "Long is the hair of woman,
and long also is her understanding." This motto rather surprised me, as
the Arabs have not, as a rule, that high opinion of the fair sex's
understanding which it expressed, and I thought I could see the reason
for a certain reluctance to assist me in translating it in the usually
obliging Halil. After some evasive answers to my questions he took me
into his confidence, and told me the following story in explanation of
it:--
"I have already told you, Effendi, that my father died when I was
eighteen years old, and that, being the only son, I became proprietor of
this shop and the head of our household.
"I was not married, and had no wish to be, as I looked upon women with
aversion and contempt, and was angry with my mother when she wished to
get me a wife. I was encouraged in these ideas by an old man named
Mahran Effendi, who had been a great friend of my father, and who still
came in the evening to my house to smoke a nargileh with me. He had two
wives, who gave him much trouble with their quarrels, and he used to say
that women were created as a punishment for the sins of men, and to
prevent them from being so much attached to this world as to be
unwilling to leave it even for the joys of paradise, which, he said,
would certainly be the case if there were no women. He repeated to me a
sentence which he said was out of the Koran, though I have not seen it
there myself. It was, 'Long is the hair of woman, but short is her
understanding.'
"I was much struck with this, and repeated it to my mother with great
pleasure, who was not so much pleased with it as I was. Indeed, she was
quite angry, and said that Mahran was an old donkey, and the son of a
donkey. I, however, had a higher opinion of the wisdom of my old friend,
and, acting upon his advice, I determined to adopt this as my motto, and
to paint it over my shop instead of the proverb which had been put there
by my father. My motto made quite a stir in the bazaar for the first few
days, and caused a good deal of amusement amongst the other shopkeepers
and the passers-by. I have no doubt it was repeated in many of the
harems also, for some of the women, who may have been teased about it by
their husbands, reviled me as they passed.
[Illustration: "SHE GAVE ME A GLANCE OUT OF HER DARK EYES."]
"One day, not long after this, two women entered my shop and asked to be
shown some of my finest silks; so I took them into the inner part, where
I keep the most costly of my goods. While they were examining them I
noticed that one of them had eyes that shone like stars, and which she
kept fixed on me even while she laughed and chatted with her companion.
Then, in stooping to pick up one of the shawls, her veil by some means
became detached and fell to the ground, and I saw the face of what I
thought to be surely the loveliest houri ever seen by mortal man. She
gave a little scream and called to her companion, who seemed to be her
servant, to assist her to refasten it, but at the same time gave me a
smile and a glance out of her dark eyes, which swallowed up all my
dislike to women as the light of a taper is swallowed up in that of the
noonday sun. I was so confused by the new emotions which possessed my
soul, that when they departed, saying they would come again shortly to
decide about the silk, I could not utter a word to detain them. Nay, by
the beard of the Prophet, I could do nothing but gaze at the houri till
she was out of my sight. For three long days I waited in vain for their
return. At last my heart began to be sick within me, and I feared I
should never again behold the lovely maiden who had bewitched my soul,
when on the fourth day I saw two females approaching, and I recognised
that the slighter of the two was she. I had provided myself with several
gold pieces, and was ready to give them all, if necessary, to make the
attendant my friend. As soon as they had entered, and I had brought
forth my silks, I drew this woman aside, and slipping one of the gold
pieces into her hand, disclosed to her my passion for her mistress, and
begged her to tell me who she was. The woman seemed inclined to laugh at
first, but when I had finished became grave and said in a low voice, 'My
young mistress looks upon you with favour; but, alas! her father, the
Sheikh Abdu Hassan, is so mean that he cannot bear the thought of his
daughter marrying, on account of the dowry he would be expected to give
with her, and he will not even allow her to see any visitors, lest her
beauty should become known, and he tells all who ask for her that she is
very ugly and ill-tempered, so no one will marry her on that account;
but if you love Khadijah, my mistress, go to the Sheikh and say that you
will take her without any dowry, and then he will, perhaps, be tempted
to give her to you.'
"When she had told me this, she went back to her mistress, and they both
hastily departed.
"I shut my shop an hour earlier that day, and, on arriving home, told my
mother all that had happened. She was very much astonished, and could
not understand why, after refusing to have a wife for so long, I was now
so anxious to have one without a dowry. She tried to dissuade me, but I
paid no heed to her words, and went that same evening to the Sheikh,
whom I fortunately found alone. I told him who I was and what my
possessions were, and that I wanted a wife; but, as I had no one to
speak for me--my father being dead--I had come myself to ask him for his
daughter.
"He listened quietly, with his eyes fixed on my face, and when I had
finished, said:--
"'Alas! my son, the girl Khadijah is ugly, and has the temper of a
mule.'
"'For these things, O Sheikh,' I replied, 'I care not.'
"'You think you will get a heavy dowry with her,' he said, coldly; 'it
is for that you have come.'
"'I swear by the holy Prophet,' I cried, 'that I want the girl and not
the money. Nay, I will even take her without a single piastre, to prove
it.'
"At these words his eye brightened, and on my promising that no one
should know that I was not to receive a dowry with her, he embraced me,
saying, 'She is yours, my son,' and the matter was settled.
[Illustration: "A SHARP-FACED, UGLY WOMAN".]
"Of course, I did not see my bride till we were married, which we were
in seven days. What was my horror when, after the ceremonies were over
and my wife unveiled, I beheld, instead of the lovely girl who had come
to my shop, a sharp-faced, ugly woman with a sour expression. I was dumb
with amazement; but, by a great effort, I controlled my temper, and
pretending to seem satisfied with my bargain, inwardly resolved to find
out why I had thus been duped. My wife soon showed her temper, and
quarrelled with my mother the very first day. She seemed to think she
had married beneath her, and to show her superiority, began to
ill-treat the servants, and usurped my mother's place in the house.
"Some days after my wedding I was in my shop as usual, when the two
women appeared as before. I immediately beckoned them to follow me into
the inner part. As soon as we were there I turned to the false Khadijah,
and almost choking with anger I asked her why she had brought this curse
upon my life.
"'What have I ever done to you that you should make such a day of pitch
for me?' I cried.
"She laughed heartily, and her old servant followed her example. I was
just about to burst forth into a torrent of invectives when she threw
off her veil and, laying her hand on my arm, said softly, 'I have done
this, O Halil, to show you that the motto over your shop is not true,
and that the understanding of woman is as long as her hair. I will show
you a way by which you can divorce your wife without offending her
father, but on one condition only.'
[Illustration: "CHANGE THE MOTTO OVER YOUR SHOP."]
"'It is granted,' I cried, 'if I come freely out of this.'
"'Change, then, the motto over your shop, and put instead, "Long is the
hair of woman, and long also is her understanding,"' she said, almost
fiercely.
"'But I shall have the whole bazaar laughing at me,' I cried, aghast at
this proposal. 'I will take it away and restore my father's proverb if
you will help me, and will give you as much jewellery as you shall ask,
but I cannot change the motto to what you say.'
"'Jewellery is nothing to me,' she said, scornfully. 'Change the motto
to what I have said, or keep your wife, I care not which.' Upon this she
veiled herself and was going away, but I detained her and said, 'O
maiden, you have asked me a very hard thing; but I will do even this if
you will rid me of this woman, and tell me in truth who you are, so that
I may have you for myself.'
"She promised she would, and made me swear by the sacred window of the
Prophet that I would change the motto to her liking the day after I
should be married to her. She then went away, saying she had stayed too
long already, but that she would send her servant the next day, who
would tell me her plan.
"On my return home that evening my mother met me with many complaints of
the behaviour of my wife, who had abused her during my absence, and she
ended by bewailing that I had not let her choose a wife for me.
"The next day the servant appeared, and after telling me who her
mistress really was, thus unfolded her plan:--
"'To-morrow evening you must meet your father-in-law at the coffee-house
he frequents, and in the meantime collect some of the poorest and lowest
men you can find, and promise them a good backsheesh if they will obey
the orders you will give them, which are these: While you are at the
coffee-house the oldest man of them must come in and sit by your side,
and call you his dear nephew, and say he hears that you have made a rich
marriage, and that he hopes you are not going to slight your own
relations in consequence. The other men must follow his example, and say
much the same thing, but call you cousin, brother-in-law, or friend.
"'The old Sheikh, who is very proud of his family, will want you to
divorce his daughter at once, but you must pretend you are too satisfied
with her to do that, and from threats he will come to entreaties, and
will at last want to bribe you. Not till then must you yield, and when
you do, it must be with apparent reluctance.'
[Illustration: "I SAW DISGUST AND DISMAY RISE IN ABDU HASSAN'S FACE."]
"I was overjoyed at this plan, and bestowed one of my brightest shawls
on Fatima, who went away promising to come soon again and see how I had
got on. I told my mother of the plan, which comforted her a good deal,
and on the next evening I carried it out. I saw disgust and dismay rise
in Abdu Hassan's face when we were at the cafe and the first dirty old
beggar came up to me and addressed me as his nephew, which became
mingled with rage when another ragged fellow came up to congratulate his
cousin, as he called me; but when two more supposed cousins had joined
us, even dirtier than the others, he could contain his feelings no
longer, and turning to me, cried: 'Is it true, O Halil, that these sons
of dogs are indeed your relations?'
"'Yes, O Sheikh,' I said, humbly. 'Be not displeased with me; a man must
not disown the brother of his father, or the sons of his father's
sister, even though they be poor.'
"'Poor!' he roared. 'Poor! They are not only poor, but they are sons of
pigs. Give me back my daughter. She shall not stay with you to be the
mother of dogs!'
"'You cannot take her away unless I divorce her,' I replied, calmly,
'and that I will not do, for I love the girl.'
"At this he began to entreat me, offering me at first four purses of
silver, and at last offered me the same number of purses filled with
gold, to which I consented, with apparent reluctance.
"He made me divorce her that very evening, for divorce, as you know,
Effendi, is very easy with us; and a week afterwards I altered the motto
over my shop door to what it now is, for Ayesha (that was her true name)
was mine."
As Halil finished his story, I became aware that he had another listener
in the shape of a little urchin, clad in a brightly coloured gown, which
reached to the ground, and who wore, perched on his closely-shaven head,
a small tarboosh. He had appeared from some corner of the shop, and now
sidled up to Halil, his bright black eyes fixed on my face.
"See, Effendi," said Halil, with a proud smile, "this is the eldest of
my five boys."
After I had rejoiced the eldest son's heart with a small "backsheesh," I
took leave of Halil with many friendly salutations, and a pressing
invitation on his part to come again soon.
_From Behind the Speaker's Chair._
(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)
[_The first of what, it is hoped, will be a long series of
articles, descriptive of the House of Commons, is here
appended. The author is Mr. Henry Lucy, who has spent nearly a
quarter of a century in the Press Gallery of the House, and
who, in addition to much other successful journalistic work,
has, in the character of "Toby, M.P.," supplied to our
distinguished contemporary, "Punch" some of its most amusing
sketches. "From Behind the Speaker's Chair" will be continued,
and will, we believe, be looked forward to by our readers,
month by month, with constant interest._--EDITOR.]
[Illustration]
Eheu fugaces! It is just twenty years, marked by the opening Session,
since I first had the opportunity of viewing the House of Commons from a
coign of 'vantage behind the Speaker's Chair. It is more than twenty
years since I looked on the place with opportunity for closely studying
it. But, as I am reminded by an inscription in an old rare copy of
"Dod," it was in February, 1873, that I was installed in the Press
Gallery in charge of the Parliamentary business of a great daily paper.
I first saw the House in circumstances that might well have led me to
the Clock Tower. It was in the spring of 1869. I was passing through
London, on my way to Paris, where I had proposed to myself to live for a
year, master the language, and proceed thence to other capitals of
Europe, learn their tongues, and return to storm the journalistic
citadel in London, armed with polyglot accomplishments. Even then I had
a strong drawing towards the House of Commons, but desired to see it,
not as the ordinary stranger beheld it from the gallery facing the
Chair, but from the Press Gallery itself.
In those days the adventure was far more difficult than in existing
circumstances. The country Press was not represented save vicariously in
the form of a rare London correspondent, who wrote a weekly letter for
some phenomenally enterprising county paper. The aggregate of the London
staffs was far smaller than at present, and was, it struck me at the
time, composed almost exclusively of elderly gentlemen. The chances of
detection of an unauthorized stranger (being, moreover, a beardless
youth) were accordingly increased. But I was determined to see the House
from behind the Speaker's Chair, and was happy in the possession of a
friend as reckless as myself. He was on the staff of a morning journal,
and, though not a gallery man, knew most of the confraternity.
One night he took me down to the gallery and endeavoured to induce more
than one of the old stagers to pilot me in. They stared aghast at the
proposal, and walked hurriedly away. We were permitted to stand at the
glass door giving entrance to the gallery and peer upon the House, which
struck me as being very empty. The door swung easily to and fro as the
men passed in and out, taking their turn. The temptation proved
irresistible.
"I think I'll go in," I said.
[Illustration: OLD STAGERS.]
"Very well," dear old Walter hoarsely whispered. "Turn sharp to the
right, sit down on a back bench, and I daresay no one will notice you."
At the corner of the bench, presumably guarding the doorway, sat a
portly gentleman in evening dress, with a gold badge slung across his
abundant shirt front. He was fast asleep, and I passed along the bench,
sitting down midway. At that time there were no desks in front of these
back benches, which were tenantless. I suppose my heart beat
tumultuously, but I sat there with apparent composure. At length I had
reached the House of Commons, and eagerly gazed upon it, feeling like
some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when, with eagle eyes,
He stared at the Pacific.
[Illustration: Fast asleep.]
I don't know how long I sat there; probably not five minutes, certainly
long enough to be struck with the smallness of the chamber, the
commonplace appearance of the personages forming the historic assembly,
and the perfect manner in which they dissembled their interest in
current proceedings. Then I became conscious of a movement in the sunken
boxes before me, where the reporters, taking their turn, sat. Heads were
turned and whispered consultations took place. Someone woke up the
portly gentleman, whom through many later years I knew as Steele, the
chief janitor of the Press Gallery.
In time, then far off, he became the possessor of a cottage and garden
in Kent, whither, wearied with his legislative labours, he used to
retire from Saturday to Monday.
[Illustration: Roses.]
In summer-time he always brought me two or three roses, which he put in
my hand with an awkward sort of flap, as if they were a slice of bacon
he was depositing on a counter. That was his way of intimating that it
was of no consequence. He noticed that I always comforted myself through
long debates and all-night sittings with a handful of flowers set in a
little glass on my desk, which was generally upset in the course of the
evening by some unsympathetic reporter borrowing my box during a
temporary absence, and clumsily turning round in the circumscribed
space.
[Illustration: "Get out!"]
But that is another story. It was no flowers that Steele now brought me,
but stern peremptory command to "get out!" He was unusually irate, first
at having been wakened out of his sleep, and secondly at having in
probably unique circumstances been caught napping at the post of duty. I
went forth disconsolate, and there was a great hubbub in the dark little
room outside. My friend and co-conspirator fled in affright when he saw
me actually enter the gallery. Now he dropped in in a casual way, and
stood at the edge of the crowd whilst Steele took down my name and
address, and told me I should "hear from the Serjeant-at-Arms." I don't
know whether that potentate ever communicated with me. I fancy Steele,
recognising his own somewhat imperilled position, was not anxious to
pursue the matter. Anyhow, I never heard from the Serjeant-at-Arms.
Walter and I agreed, as a matter of precaution, that I had better
hasten my departure for Paris, and two days later the English Channel
rolled between me and the Clock Tower.
Next time I entered the Press Gallery it was as the accredited
representative of the _Pall Mall Gazette_. I came over from Paris to
spend Christmas at home, and never went back to complete that
continental tour in search of knowledge, which I fancy had been
suggested by Goldsmith's trip with his flute. It happened that in the
early days of 1870, the proprietor of the _Pall Mall Gazette_ began the
first of the series of chequered changes in the history of the journal,
by starting it as a morning paper. I had been an occasional contributor
in a humble way to the evening edition, and thought I might have a
chance of an appointment on the staff of the new morning paper.
Mentioning this to my friend Walter, he undertook to see it through,
just as he had fallen in with the even more audacious proposal to enter
the Press Gallery. I remember we were not far off Northumberland Street
when the subject was broached, and might easily have walked there. But
Walter could never embark upon enterprises of this kind unless he went
in a cab, the driver being incited to go at topmost speed.
[Illustration: OUTSIDE THE "PALL MALL" OFFICE.]
He left me in the cab whilst he ran upstairs to the office in
Northumberland Street--I saw him going two steps at a time--and flung
himself into the office of Mr. Fyffe, an old and highly-esteemed member
of the _Times_ staff, who had joined Mr. Frederick Greenwood in the
editorial direction of the new development of the _Pall Mall_. What
Walter said to Fyffe I never learned in detail, but subsequently had
reason to guess he told him he had in the cab downstairs a young fellow
who was (or would be) one of the wonders of the journalistic world, and
that the morning edition of the _Pall Mall_ would have no chance unless
it secured his services.
However it came about; whether Fyffe had some work in hand and was
anxious to be relieved from the embarrassing presence of his visitor
bounding all over the room in the enthusiasm of his advocacy; or
whether, as usually happens with a new paper, choice was limited, I was
engaged then and there as assistant sub-editor at the salary of four
guineas a week. I believe the regular average rate of remuneration was
five guineas. But I was young and inexperienced; and after living in the
Quartier Latin for nearly a year on fifteenpence a day, cultivating
French literature on _petits noirs_, four guineas a week was a
competency. "_Trois de cafe_" is what Daudet in his "_Trente ans de
Paris_" calls this sip of nectar. "_C'est a dire_," he explains, "_pour
trois sous d'un cafe savoureux balsamique raisonnablement edulcore_."
But Daudet must have frequented aristocratic quarters. At our _cremerie_
we never paid more than two sous, and, bent on attaining luxury, we
demanded "_un petit noir_."
When the paper started, Mr. Fyffe did the Parliamentary summary, of
which the _Pall Mall_ made a feature, placing it on the leader page. One
afternoon, after I had been on the staff for some six weeks, I looked in
at the office, and found it in a state of consternation. Fyffe had been
suddenly taken ill, and it was impossible for him to go down to the
House to do the summary. Mr. Greenwood sent for me and asked me to take
his place, for that night at least. To go down to the House of Commons
and take an ordinary "turn" of reporting for the first time is, I
suppose, a trying thing. To be bundled off at an hour's notice to fill
the place of one of the most eminent Parliamentary writers of the day,
and to supply a leading article on a subject of the surroundings of
which one was absolutely ignorant, might seem appalling. It all came
very naturally to me. I did my best in the strange, somewhat
bewildering, circumstances, and as long as the morning edition of the
_Pall Mall_ lasted, I continued to write its summary. Fyffe came round
again in a week; but he never more took up the summary, leaving it in my
hands, with many words of kind encouragement.
It was in October, 1872, I joined the staff of the _Daily News_, having,
under Mr. Robinson's watchful eye, gone through a period of probation
as contributor of occasional articles descriptive of current events. I
might, in the ordinary course of events, have continued in that line, as
my friend and colleague Senior has done these twenty years, with honour
to himself and credit to the paper. But here, again, chance befell and
irresistibly led me back to the Press Gallery. In this very year a
change took place in a long-standing management of the _Daily News_
Parliamentary corps and the writing of its summary, and Mr. Robinson
designated me as successor of the gentleman who retired. It was a
curious and, in some respects, a delicate position, seeing that I was,
compared with some members of the staff, a mere chicken in point of age.
There were three who had been on the paper since it started, any one of
whom might, had Fortune favoured me in that direction, have been my
grandfather. But we got along admirably, they easing my path with kindly
counsel and the friendliest consideration.
[Illustration: MR. ROBINSON.]
[Illustration: THREE OLD MEN.]
It was different with some of the old hands on the other corps, who
bitterly resented the intrusion. I am not quite sure whether the two or
three who still survive have got over it yet. Certainly old "Charlie"
Ross, then and for some years after manager of the _Times_ staff,
carried the feeling to his honoured grave. After I had sat next but one
to him in the gallery for many Sessions he used, on encountering me in
the passage, to greet me with a startled expression, as if I were once
more an intruder, and would walk back to the outer doorkeeper (whom he
autocratically called Smeeth, because his name was Wright) to ask,
"Who's that?"
Old Ross's personal affront in this matter probably dated back to the
Session of 1872, when I took an occasional turn for a friend who was a
member of his staff. This was young Latimer, son of the proprietor of
the _Western Daily Mercury_, who had been called to the Bar and
occasionally got a brief on the Western Circuit. When he went out of
town I became his substitute in respect of his Parliamentary duties. It
was Mr. Ross's custom of an afternoon to seat himself on the bench in
the ante-chamber of the Press Gallery, armed with a copy of the _Times_
report of the day, with the "turns" all marked with the name of the man
who had written them. He genially spent the morning in reading the
prodigious collocation in search of errors. When found, these were made
a note of, the guilty person was sent for and had a more or less
pleasant quarter of an hour. This was called being "on the gridiron."
I had only one experience of the process. Seated one day by command
beside this terrible old gentleman, he produced the marked passage
containing one of my turns, and pointing to the name, Mr. Ward Hunt,
fixed a glowering eye on me and said, with his slow intonation:--
"Who is 'Mr. Ward Hunt'?"
"He is the member for North Northamptonshire," I timidly replied.
"Oh!" he said, witheringly, "that's whom you mean. 'Ward Hunt'! Let me
tell you, sir, Ward Hunt may do very well for the penny papers, but in
the _Times_ report we write 'Mr. W. Hunt.'"
I don't know why this should have been, since the burly gentleman, who
in the next Parliament was Chancellor of the Exchequer, was invariably
called by his full style. But then, as I have said, nobody knew why old
"Charlie" Ross dubbed Wright Smith, and pronounced it Smeeth.
Gentlemen of the Press Gallery who now live at Westminster at ease, with
their library, their smoking-room, their choice of writing-out rooms,
their admirably-appointed and self-administered commissariat department,
little know the state of things that existed twenty years ago. Committee
Room No. 18 had then recently been appointed to their use as a
writing-room, providing it were not, when the House met, still in the
occupation of a Committee. But the writing-out rooms originally
apportioned, and then still in constant use, were two dark,
ill-ventilated dens which served as ante-chambers from the Press
Gallery. The _Times_ staff appropriated the room to the right, still
occupied by their telephonic service; the corresponding room to the left
being for general use. The room at the top of the stairs--where Wright
still presides and entrances the telegraph messengers with sententious
remarks on political, social, and philosophic affairs--was also used for
writing-out purposes, if a man could find a corner at the table at which
to sit.
[Illustration: SMEETH.]
This was difficult, since this closet, not bigger than a boot-room in an
ordinary household, was also sole dining-room attached to the Press
Gallery. In addition to his official duties at the door, Wright, in his
private capacity, added those of purveyor. Every Monday he brought down
(in two red cotton pocket-handkerchiefs, it was profanely said) a round
of cold boiled beef and a chunk of boiled ham; the latter tending, if
memory serves, rather towards the shank end. This, with bread, cheese,
and bottled beer, was the sole provision for the sustenance of the sixty
or seventy gentlemen who then composed the corps of the Press Gallery.
At that time it was more widely the practice to go out to dinner or
supper. But for those whose duties kept them in close attendance on the
gallery there was nothing for it but cold beef, cold ham, or an
amalgamation carefully doled forth. Many a night, seated at the little
table that still remains in this outer room, I have watched Wright
prepare my sumptuous repast. He was even then short-sighted, and to this
day I have vivid recollection of the concern with which I saw his nose
approach to dangerous contiguity of the round of beef as he leaned over
it to cut a slice with judicious thinness.
[Illustration: CUTTING THE BEEF.]
[Illustration: LORD CHARLES RUSSELL.]
Even this accommodation was regarded askance by the constitutional
authorities of the House, still accustomed to regard the Press as an
intruder happily subject, under the beneficent regulations of the Stuart
days, to instant expulsion if any member pleased to take note of the
presence of its representatives. In 1867, a Committee sat to consider
the general arrangements of the House. The reporters, greatly daring,
took the opportunity of laying before it a statement of their
grievances, and asked for fuller convenience for carrying on their work.
Lord Charles Russell, then Serjeant-at-Arms, was, very properly,
astonished at their unreasonableness, and plaintively deplored the times
when, as he put it, reporters seemed to require only the necessaries of
life, not presuming to lift their eyes to its luxuries.
"They used, I am told," Lord Charles added, "to have just a glass of
water and biscuits, or anything of that sort. Now they have their tea at
the back of the gallery."
[Illustration: MR. DAVID PLUNKET.]
Oliver Twist asking for more scarcely reached the height of the audacity
of these reporters in 1867. Like Mr. Bumble, the Serjeant-at-Arms of the
day literally gasped in dismayed astonishment.
All this is changed. Thanks to the courtesy and reasonableness of
successive First Commissioners of Works, of whom Mr. David Plunket was
not the least forward in doing good, the arrangements in connection with
the Press Gallery of to-day leave nothing to be desired.
Of the changes that have taken place in the House itself, and of the
ghosts that flit about the benches where twenty years ago they sat in
flesh and bone, I shall have something to say next month.
* * * * *
[IMPORTANT NOTICE.--_Companion to the STRAND MAGAZINE. Now Selling. To
be obtained of all Booksellers and Newsagents. THE PICTURE MAGAZINE,
Price Sixpence, Monthly. This new publication, issued from the offices
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Magazine for the General Public. Features:--Fine Art Portraits, Curious
Pictures, Humorous Pictures, Pictures of Places, Pictures for Children,
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_A Child's Tear._
[Illustration]