• CHAPTER X

THROWN OUT OF THE LADIES’ GALLERY — I MEET LADY CONSTANCE LYTTON

April 25th, 1906, was a red-letter day for me. I was to have a seat in the Ladies’ Gallery of the House of Commons, in order to join in a protest that had to be made. Mr. Keir Hardie introduced a motion which stated that sex should no longer be a barrier against Votes for Women. I understood Parliamentary procedure sufficiently to read the unexpressed thoughts of my leader, which were, “It will be talked out.”

I was called upon to be one of the small group which was to wait with patience until about three minutes to 11 p.m. Then if the Member, whoever he was, grew more eloquent as minutes passed, we were to rise and call out “Divide, divide!”

The famous banner was, as usual, part of our clothing. How tired I got, not of listening to the speeches, but of waiting until three minutes to eleven! Our faith in Members was exactly like the faith of the old lady who was told that if she had sufficient faith, the mountain which continually threw a shadow on her home would be removed. After much waiting she told a friend that “she had had faith, but she had known all along that it wouldn’t!” We had faith that Parliament would vote for the motion, but we knew all along they wouldn’t!

When three minutes to eleven arrived. Sir Samuel Evans, then Mr. Samuel Evans, an avowed opponent of Votes for Women, was talking as though he had just finished a strong cup of black coffee, and was wide awake preparing for a good long speech. We rose, and gave one long shout, “Divide!” Members looked startled. Everything seems so slow in Parliament except when there is a protest from an outsider! Then events move fast.

Within a few minutes we were in the cold fresh air — such a relief after the heavy germ-laden atmosphere of the Inner Chamber. After my first visit to the Ladies’ Gallery I was not in the least surprised that Members sometimes feel sleepy. It is a badly ventilated place, most enervating. The best that is in the air seems eaten up. The marvel is that Members of Parliament live so long, spending their lives in such an unventilated, old-fashioned atmosphere as that which pervades the assembly chamber of the Commons. I suppose all Members become microbe- and germ-proof.

The House of Lords seemed lighter to me, but as I have only been in the Chamber once I ought not to judge the amount or the type of microbes which choose as their home those historic and beautiful buildings, the Houses of Parliament.

Soon after this protest I asked that my sister Jessie might come to London. She is much younger in years than I. Mrs. Lawrence said that she would take her as a private secretary.

When she arrived in London she looked a child. I could see that Christabel thought that I had been unwise to bring one so young into the Movement. I had faith in Jessie, we had not got lost over the moorlands for nothing. I knew that she had a fund of common sense, extraordinary sound judgment for her years, that she was brave, and that her loyalty would remain unshaken.

Jessie and I had a long talk on her arrival. We agreed that in work we would act towards each other as members, that we would never confide Union secrets out of our own departments, or try to shelter each other if we were rebuked for any mistakes we might make; that no Union work or policy should be written about to other members of the family. We kept rigidly to these rules throughout the fight. My sister Jessie played a unique part in the Movement — that is why I mention her name.

It was soon found that she had the most remarkable powers of organization for one so young.

She was in prison at twenty-one; and after that she had the greatest responsibility, next to Christabel and Mr. Lawrence, for the success of the great processions, Albert Hall meetings, and deputations. Afterwards she was the head of the London Militant departments. Christabel insisted on Jessie’s room being next to hers, as she looked upon her as absolutely indispensable for the carrying out of her London plans.

It was soon after I met the Lawrences that I also met Lady Constance Lytton.

Mrs. Lawrence took me to stay with her at Littlehampton. She and Mr. Lawrence ran a hostel for working girls in London. Lady Constance Lytton was also a guest.

Tall, majestic, noble, to me she looked what she was — one of England’s great noblewomen. She always wore long flowing coloured scarves which reminded me of a bunch of lavender enveloped by clouds of delicate, varied hues. Her voice was quiet with a depth of feeling, and, to me, a touch of sadness. She wanted to know the why and wherefore of every move we had made. She was one of those who desired to know the truth of why certain actions had been taken. Once she also saw the necessity for militancy she joined the ranks of those whose one passion in life was service for others. It was a joy talking to her. She was so understanding and sympathetic even in her opposition. After her conversion she was one of the finest, most unselfish, and most loyal of loyalists. She never demurred one moment from undertaking the most serious piece of militancy. Her passion and devotion for the working-class women in the Movement was quite out of the ordinary. She loved them and they loved her. She was one of the few people in the world that sees in others nothing but good. She never talked of herself, of her childhood, of her travels, her experiences, her love of music, but she would listen enraptured to the working women tell of their life, of their childhood, and she made them feel, each and all, heroines of the first order. Only those at the head realized the tremendous asset it was for the Movement when Lady Constance Lytton, a member of one of England’s most illustrious families, joined us. If the mystic sages and seers of the world are those who understand the true meaning of the words, love and humility, then she was an adept in the school of the world’s great occult human teachers.

I also met Mrs. Wolstenholme Elmy, the beautiful-souled woman whose eyes had the light of eternal youth in them. She had worked earnestly for over forty years for votes for women, and though she was so old she recognized in Christabel the women’s leader.

• CHAPTER XI

THE FIRST LONDON ARRESTS — MYSELF AND TWO EAST-END WOMEN — SENTENCED TO TWO MONTHS IN HOLLOWAY PRISON

Events moved fast in the work, and I had not long to wait before I was to experience my first visit to Holloway Prison. Mr. Churchill was the cause of my first arrest; Mr. Asquith was the originator of my second imprisonment. We had been on a deputation to Downing Street, interviewing the Prime Minister, Sir Henry Campbell-Hannerman. In his reply to an appeal to him as head of the newly elected Government, whose boast at the Election had been their love of freedom, to give freedom to women, he in his frank way admitted that he had obstacles in his Cabinet, the greatest being Mr. Asquith.

A letter was immediately sent by the Union asking Mr. Asquith to receive a deputation. Mr. Asquith refused, and I was chosen as one out of a small group, chiefly composed of East-End women, to go and see him unannounced. I drilled my little band with the seriousness of an Army sergeant. Two were sent one way, two another, so that our battalion of about eight people merged at a given moment for the great attack. The camouflage decided upon was that one of the women should occupy the policeman in conversation while I, the general, put my finger on the door bell and kept it there.

The door opened, but when the attendant saw a woman armed with Suffragette literature, it was banged to, and in a few minutes a head appeared calling excitedly to a policeman, “Arrest that woman who is ringing the bell. Can’t you see that she is the ringleader of the lot of them?”

I was arrested, and two other women were taken also for trying to rescue me. We discovered by this act that if we wanted to be arrested, the best thing was to help to rescue a prisoner. Arrest for ourselves then was certain.

We learned the law day by day without books, through observation and experience.

The two women who were arrested with me were two women from the East End: a beautiful character who must have been well over sixty called Mrs. Sparborough, and a lame woman extraordinarily clever, Mrs. Knight. The three of us were sentenced to a term of imprisonment. My two companions were sentenced to six weeks, and I to two months.

This was the first time I saw the inside of a prison van. Bamum and Bailey’s Wild West Show sums up the prison van. Each species of humanity has its little cage with the small iron grating to nose through. We were trundled along, picking up other specimens on our way to Holloway. Then we all alighted, shook ourselves out as it were, and were marshalled in a line by a prison wardress. Our names, our ages, our occupation, our addresses, our religion, our education, were all entered in a ledger, a book I have always hated. We were then locked in tiny cells not unlike a small pantry in a country house. Then we were all let out, marshalled again into another line, and each had a bundle of old clothes given to her. We all looked as though we were about to visit a shop that has as its sign three bright balls. Instead of that we were taken into a large room with a warm fire burning brightly in the grate.

A stern wardress told me to undress. I did so. My hair was taken down and the wardress put her hands into it exactly as though she was about to give me a good scalp massage, but instead she told me to put it up again, though my combs would not be returned to me until I was released. I was then marched to the bath, a grubby grimy bath it looked, but the water was hot, and a hot bath invariably brings ideas very swiftly, so I made in thought the most eloquent speech to the magistrate who had sentenced me. But in the middle of an inspired sentence I gave such a start; a great bang roused me, and I heard the wardress’s voice saying, “Eighteen, you must not go to sleep in the bath. Hurry up, or there will be trouble!”

Mr. Paul Taylor, the magistrate who sentenced me, will never know the great oration that was lost.

After climbing what looked like Jacob’s ladder, we reached a cell, No. 18, which was the number on the canary-coloured medal I had to wear. When I was safely inside, the door was shut with a bang. What struck me was the lack of instructions given to “first-nighters.” A printed programme would have been helpful. There is a programme, but it tells of punishments awaiting those who do this or don’t do that, no use for either intelligent prisoners or prisoners who ought to be in a nursing-home!

The toilet utensils amused me. They looked like toys. If you took an inventory it would read like this: — 1 tin basin, 1 tin plate, 1 tin can of water, 1 tin dust-pan. (You used the dust-pan as a looking-glass, the only one you possessed.) We had to keep them as bright as though they were Waring & Gillow’s best plate.

I went to bed, or rather I retired to the floor, and wondered what in the world was going to happen to me. I guarantee that if an accurate account of the thoughts that pass through the minds of those in prison the first night were registered (omitting those too drunk to have thoughts), you would find that they were centred round those nearest and dearest to them. They would all be anxious thoughts. The whole atmosphere seems steeped with fear and anxiety.

The following morning about five o’clock I heard a loud bell. I packed my mattress and tried to copy the roly-poly pudding, but the treacle bit would show outside instead of inside.

I took my tub in the tin bowl. It was about ten inches in diameter. I then cleaned the old tin cans, etc. Afterwards I washed the floor, yes, washed the floor for the first few days. But after that I soaped it and polished it!

I had many tips given me by old hands, and when I became an old hand I passed the tips on to others.

On this occasion I was in for special luck. I was passing the cell of an old hand, and I just had a second when the watchful eye of the wardress was not upon me. “I say, how do you get your cell-floor so black and bright?” I asked. The reply came without a pause, “Spit on it! Soap it! Polish it! What sentence? What for? Did your chum get away? Lawd, me another two months yet!”

I followed her advice, as far as the soap was concerned, and I had a wonderfully bright polished floor when I had finished my morning’s labour.

Then came breakfast. The cell-door was unlocked. When it opened I saw in front of me a wardress and four prisoners. Two of them carried a huge tin can with tea, the others had a large basket with dry, brown, tiny loaves. You had your pint of tea in your old tin mug. It was always a relief to hear that it was tea — I should never have guessed it by the taste. When I started eating the dry little loaf I always thought of the butter I had wasted having it with jam.

Breakfast over, we were marshalled for church. I loved church. The prisoners put their hearts and souls into the singing. We always had the old hymns with the old tunes. We were like one person for a brief fifteen minutes.

After church we went for exercise for half an hour in the prison yard. It would have been nice, but one’s head got dazed with marching round and round the yard. There had to be a few feet between each prisoner, and no one was allowed to speak, a rule which I broke, with the result that I was soon sent back to my cell.

I felt we were treated as children, and before long we all acted as children. No responsibility, no initiative, is very bad for grown-up people of any class.

When the half-hour was over we were marched back to our cells, and locked in for the rest of the day.

There were lectures given once a week. I trust they have better speakers than the lady I heard. I was allowed to go, but I could scarcely sit still to listen, when, fortunately for me, my wardress came and said a gentleman had come to see me.

His name was W. T. Stead. The wardress was quite excited and informed me she had a great admiration for him. The officials were more than surprised when they saw the warm welcome Mr. Stead gave me. They had to stand outside the reception cell, and not inside according to the usual custom, and this was very nice for me.

He brought me a pile of letters from friends, and read them. He told me he had seen Mr. Herbert Gladstone, and had been very firm about a permit to come into Holloway to see me.

I was so interested in all the news of the outside world, I forgot to tell him about what had happened to me, inside, which was that I had been searched like an ordinary thief. I am glad now that they searched me, but I was very humiliated at the time.

This ordeal happened very suddenly. The great jangling keys opened the door, and behold, not one wardress, but many, stood before me. I was told to undress, my hair was taken down, all my clothes shaken, and the cell was searched. What in the world could you hide, or what in the world could you steal? Afterwards I realized that the object of the search was “written notes,” that were passed from prisoner to prisoner.

During the day we worked in our cells. We had to knit stockings or sew postmen’s bags. I chose knitting, and was soon an expert. During one imprisonment when I was in the first division I earned as much as 12s. 6d. at knitting.

The joy of release! It was almost worth while going to prison for the supreme happiness of getting out. When I was released I summed up prison as follows: — Too much discipline, too little companionship, too much gloom, too little laughter. There is a sadness, an oppression, in every cell that goes to the building of that great structure. The mentality of the prisoners is very little developed, and I should think there is very little serious, genuine, and lasting reform carried out inside our prisons as constituted to-day. Lady Constance Lytton, in her book Prisons and Prisoners, tells something of changes brought about through agitation of Suffragette prisoners.

One class of people who have my sympathy in prison are the wardresses. Their work is monotonous, and their lives are spent with the undeveloped and disharmonized souls on life’s ocean. They are on their feet all day long, and their pay when I was in prison was poor. I used to think that I would much sooner return to a cotton factory than lead the dull, dreary, uneventful, enervating life that these women lead in our prisons as run to-day. Some of them were far too good to be wasted there, and yet such kind, gentle natures could be greatly utilized if the women prisoners could be divided up in groups, each group representing the different stages of personality or development or education, and these groups organized and utilized according to their capacity.

Holloway, Wormwood Scrubs, Dartmoor Convict Prison do not belong to the period of wireless telegraphy, radium, aeroplanes. The era of tremendous scientific discoveries is not the age for prison institutions organized and conducted on the lines upon which these prisons are conducted to-day. The people of the future will look with the same horror on these buildings as we look on the dungeons and the black pits of the middle ages. Prison is a peculiar place to live in. To the dull and inert it is boredom; to the over-active it is agonizing in its slowness; to the cultured and educated it is a constant source of interest; to the dreamer it is a nightmare. The imagination must be very vivid to get away from its deadening, soul-destroying atmosphere. It is a death-trap to aspiration and inspiration.

I was impressed by a fear that often swept over me, clutching at my heart and making it heavy. I found later that a dream I had once read of constantly came to me. A man who had been condemned to hell for a certain period, discovered on the day of his release from torment, that God had overlooked his name on the scroll of release. I used to wonder whether this might happen to me. In prison you honestly feel that you might be forgotten, and the feeling is very real and the picture of the results of such a mistake most vivid.

On the morning of my release I was sick with suppressed excitement. I missed many picnics and parties as a child through getting so inwardly excited, not wanting to show my wild enthusiasm. The same thing happened when I received freedom. I was sick with joy. I missed an excellent breakfast after almost two months of dry bread.

CHAPTER XII

I VISIT MR. ASQUITH’S CONSTITUENCY: EAST FIFE — WE STORM PARLIAMENT — MANY ARRESTS — THE BEGINNING OF MILITANCY IN LONDON — HOLLOWAY — THE OLD SUFFRAGE SOCIETIES GIVE THE MILITANTS A DINNER ON THEIR RELEASE

My second imprisonment made me a greater draw than ever at public meetings. I spoke in Hyde Park on the day of my release, and again on the following Sunday. On the Monday afterwards I started my first lecturing tour, the big towns of Lancashire and Yorkshire being chosen. All my speeches consisted of the wonders that would be performed once we had won the Vote, and of details of prison life, which interested or moved the people.

These changes were most suitable to my temperament. After the Lancashire and Yorkshire towns were visited my instructions were to join Miss Billington in East Fife, the constituency of our greatest opponent, Mr. Asquith. I had read about Scotland, but I had never visited that grand mountainous country. I enjoyed the journey, and I held a meeting in my compartment, telling my fellow-travellers all about the “wicked man” whose constituency I was about to visit.

Scotland, believing in the Sabbath, made it possible for me to get a day of rest, and this was spent in writing a report to Christabel, addressing envelopes for the circulars which were to be sent out the following week, and retiring early to be ready for another strenuous week of hard campaigning. I do not wonder we succeeded in rousing the people wherever we went. They could not help being roused. We were never still for a moment. If we were not ringing a bell calling them to a meeting, we were chalking the pavements or the doors of barns, giving away handbills, speaking in the market-place or at the street corner, or canvassing from door to door. We almost ruined the profession of “Party Agents, Organizers, and Speakers.” Our very activity and continuous energy were enough to make Party Organizers tired to think of their future prospects should we continue.

We made a mark in the constituency. We roused Scottish Liberal women, and gained many adherents, who afterwards proved to be the bravest and most daring of Militants and the most generous of subscribers. Scotland stood firm all through. East Fife was our first centre owing to our rancorous opponent being their representative at that time.

It was obvious why I was sent to East Fife, Was I not one of Asquith’s prisoners? Had not I been arrested on his doorstep in the attempt to make him listen to what Suffragettes had to say? No other person, except perhaps Mrs. Sparborough or Mrs. Knight, would have proved such a useful asset to Miss Billington as I, owing to my having been in prison. I had been in prison twice. I repeatedly reminded the audience that I knew what I was talking about. That is why I was chosen to visit the constituency of Mr. Asquith.

No one will ever surpass Christabel for tactics. Not a word was lost, not a movement overlooked. The politicians, the public, the Press, were like an open book to her, and we were all placed as though she were playing a serious game of political chess, her opponent being Parliament. I never had the least objection to being moved about on the political chess-board, and even if I, as a pawn, was captured, I knew that she would soon recover lost ground. Political movements can be won in two ways. One way, which is the easiest and the best understood, is by means of the Party Press. If the Party Press continuously repeats the same statements, they are gradually accepted by the public as facts. Facts, like fashions, only need repeating often enough to make them popular and much sought after.

The second way is by individual labour, which is more difficult. The Women’s Vote was won in the second way, though it was helped over the last ditch by the Party Press and Party Politicians.

From the very beginning the Party Press of both sides was against us, and there must have been a tacit agreement that hostility should be the policy of both the Conservative and the Liberal papers. The only happenings that were given prominence to were militant episodes. Only at brief periods was this hostile attitude broken down. This was when we had gigantic processions and demonstrations which attracted London, and the Press must have guessed that London and the provinces would want to read about the procession or demonstration that they, as the public, had taken the trouble to watch or to attend. The hundreds of thousands of meetings held throughout the country were left unrecorded, unnoticed, and yet on looking back I can honestly say that I, as one Suffragette, would not have had it otherwise. We should never have experienced the good, honest, healthy companionship that the Movement gave us had one section of the Party Press taken us up at the beginning of the fight. No political corruption ever crept into the Movement. Salaries being low, it was no inducement to women to join the Movement as a profession. Our very isolation was our best protection, and made us loyally cling to every woman whose badge was a prison gate.

Some of the meetings were really amusing. Incident after incident would happen, especially on a Saturday night when money had been spent more freely than usual. At one meeting I was addressing on Clifton Downs, Bristol, with Miss Mary Gawthorpe, a most irate man, who had been doing the week-end shopping, was continually interrupting. He got furious with the speaker, who to his annoyance turned all his remarks to good account, and at last in exasperation flung the Sunday cabbage at her. She caught it quite neatly, with the remark, “I was afraid that man would lose his head before the meeting was over!”

At another meeting in Somerset, an elderly man kept repeating the same statement every few minutes: “If you were my wife I’d give you poison!” Loud laughter greeted the statement each time. At last the speaker, tired of his repeated interruption, replied, “Yes, and were I your wife I’d take it!”

At one of the Liberal rallies in a West of England town, the speaker, a learned woman, was discussing Mr. Churchill, but much to the disgust of a local Liberal she spoke of him as “Churchill.” “Show respect for a gentleman, if you please!” cried he. “But,” replied the speaker, “you ought to feel honoured that I address him as Churchill. When you speak of Shakespeare you don’t say ‘Mr. William Shakespeare,’ or when you speak of Plato, `Mr. Plato’!” The name “Plato” was sufficient. The humour aroused at the idea of anyone called “Plato” was too much for the audience, and that name broke up the meeting.

Audiences are strange things to handle. We were taught never to lose our tempers; to always get the best of a joke, and to join in the laughter with the audience even if the joke was against us. This training made most of the Suffragettes quick-witted, good at repartee, and the speakers that an audience took a delight in listening to, even though they did not agree with them, were those able to make an audience laugh.

The campaign in East Fife being over, I returned to London. London had become a genuine centre. “At Homes” were held in the new offices, at Clement’s Inn. Teas were arranged at a profit, which went to the Union. Prominent women interested in politics, in women’s welfare, in children, in the unemployed, and in equal laws between men and women, all joined the ranks. Among the women of note who joined us was Mrs. Cobden Sanderson.

On the re-assembling of Parliament on October 3rd after the summer recess, the policy decided on by the Union was to have a Lobbying Committee. The news had been made public, what was the use of women going to Parliament unless the Press could tell the public that they were there?

Parliament was not over keen to receive the Lobbying Committee, so only a small group of women were allowed to enter, Mrs. Pankhurst, Mrs. Pethick Lawrence, and Mrs. Cobden Sanderson being amongst those to gain admittance.

The Liberal Whip was sent for and asked to take a message to the Prime Minister, which was to this effect: “Would Parliament grant the Vote? The reply came: “No.” This was the cause of our first protest in the Lobby of Parliament.

The protest meant quick action on the part of the police. The whole Committee was turned out into the street. I had been asked to give a promise that I would not be arrested, which of course showed me that arrests were expected.

On seeing Mrs. Pankhurst and Mrs. Lawrence turned out of the House, I rushed forward and caught Mrs. Lawrence’s arm. That was enough. The police thought I was attempting a rescue, and within a second I was again a prisoner. I had this advantage over the others, that I had been in prison before. So I very proudly gave them some bits of advice.

It was at this period of prison life that we were transferred to the First Division. This was owing to prominent social and political women being part of the Suffragette band. The difference was very marked.

There are so many books on prison life that it is unnecessary for me to discuss it here. The things I appreciated in first-division treatment were, more letters, more visitors, more literary works, greater freedom. It was during this imprisonment that I earned the 12s. 6d. for knitting stockings. The 10s. gold coin I gave to Mrs. Lawrence as a gift, the rest I spent on a good meal at the Cabin Restaurant in the Strand — I had moved up one for my place of dining!

I read the Bible day after day, and I interpreted it quite differently in prison to the way I had interpreted it outside. It is a beautiful book, full of hope; the poetry of it is charming, and the wisdom and philosophy truly helpful to the struggling soul. The time did not seem quite so long. I made great friends with the wardress who attended the part of the prison where I was stationed.

On our release I heard good news. The silent feud that had been raging between Suffragists and Suffragettes was stilled for the time being. The old Suffrage Society was to give a dinner in our honour at the Savoy Hotel. What better gift could they have given us after a period of prison diet, even though the diet had been first class? Mrs. Lawrence bought me a very pretty green silk Liberty dress for the occasion, and I wore a piece of real lace. I was so pleased with them both.

Miss Billington responded to the toast, and I was glad I had not to speak, as I could indulge in watching the faces of those present.

Miss Beatrice Harraden took me in to dinner. I enjoyed myself very much, and I thought the dinner good.

The famous Huddersfield election was by now in full swing. The by-election policy of the Militants was not a policy easily understood by the rank and file of Party men, and yet it was simple in the extreme. The policy was “opposition to all Government candidates unless a definite pledge were given that women would be enfranchised.” “Yes,” said the electors, “but you only break up Cabinet Ministers’ meetings, and yet you oppose private members when there is an election!” Our explanation was obvious. The Cabinet alone were responsible for deciding what reforms should be taken up by them as a Government, but each candidate who was elected at a by-election, strengthened the Government in office and his election was looked upon as a sign that the policy adopted by the Cabinet was favourable to the electors. Therefore the by-election policy of the Suffragettes was wise, logical, and far-seeing. Cabinet Ministers knew this, and agents many times grew very troubled.

No time was lost after the Savoy dinner. I found myself on the high road to Huddersfield. The electorate were delighted, listening to prison experiences. Imprisonment in the First Division was explained, and our appeal was that the electorate should return a man who would secure this for us if we were to be punished at all.

One morning we found at our committee rooms the following leaflet: “Men of Huddersfield, don’t be misled by Socialists, Suffragettes, or Tories. Vote for Sherwell!” This gave us great pleasure, certainly more pleasure than it had given the committee which had found it necessary to have it printed. We felt we were a force, and the handbill was a sign that Mr. Sherwell’s agents also felt that we were a force. Mr. Sherwell was elected, but with a reduced majority.

The election that I enjoyed most, and had the greatest fun over, was at Bristol. In one of the centres there was a splendid place for open-air meetings. We went there night after night, only to be shouted down by the irate Party men and a group of boys. I never got a word in edgeways.

As the chief organizer for the election I decided to send a dummy. The member chosen had never done any speaking before, but had a lot of pluck. She mounted the platform, which was a trolley, and started speaking, as the audience thought. At last a few of the ringleaders decided that it was not me, but a new-comer. They would give her a chance. Silence reigned. She said a few words about Votes for Women, but her eloquence did not satisfy them. “Why, you are no speaker!” “I know that, that is why Annie Kenney has sent me!” Unfortunately for me, I at this moment put in an appearance. The usual songs greeted me, “She’s a lassie from Lancashire,” “ Tell me the old, old story,” “Never say die.”

This went on for a long time, then I saw a little group putting their heads together. In a minute they had hold of the shafts, calling, “Pull along, boys, we’re taking them home!” They dragged the trolley with us upon it a long distance. Then we saw two large iron gates not unlike a prison.

I said, “Look here, men, where are we?” “At home!” they replied in one voice. “We will bid you good night.” We discovered we were at the gates of the lunatic asylum!

Another election that stands out in my memory was the North Staffordshire election. There is a very, very poor part there, and the women supporters of the Liberal candidate we were opposing painted themselves with dolly blue (his colours).

One of the Somerset elections was very rough. Bad eggs were the chief arguments used by Party Liberals against the Suffragettes. I went home night after night covered with yolks, the smell of which remained in my memory for weeks.

At one election in Wales, fish was the Liberal argument used against us. We took it all in good part. Fish, flesh, fowl, or eggs, it made no difference. We had been instructed to keep the Liberal out, and we followed the instructions to the best of our ability, no matter how soft or hard the arguments which were flung in our faces. We were doing our duty to a leader whose instructions we followed faithfully at any cost.

Nuns in a convent were not watched over and supervised more strictly than were the organizers and members of the Militant Movement during the first few years. It was an unwritten rule that there must be no concerts, no theatres, no smoking; work, and sleep to prepare us for more work, was the unwritten order of the day. These rules were good, and the more I look back on those early days the more clearly I see the necessity for such discipline. The changed life into which most of us entered was a revolution in itself. No home-life, no one to say what we should do or what we should not do, no family ties, we were free and alone in a great brilliant city, scores of young women scarcely out of their teens met together in a revolutionary movement, outlaws or breakers of laws, independent of everything and everybody, fearless and self-confident. It was not only necessary but most wise to set the standard of “Early to bed and early to rise, for much work awaits you all.”

If there is a resting-place in heaven a few of the responsible Militants deserve a front seat. We worked for nine full years to breaking-point. I used to think that once the Vote was won I would turn tramp. As I had slept in Salvation Army shelters, casual wards, workhouses and prisons, the road would have had no fears, for I should be familiar with its many paths of travel and its varied places of rest.