My own story
prisoners. I asked him if I might, when I was strong enough to walk,
take exercise with my friends. To this he assented, and I soon had the
joy of seeing my daughter and the other brave comrades, and walking
with them in the dismal courtyard of the prison. Single file we walked,
at a distance of three or four feet from one another, back and forth
under the stony eyes of the wardresses. The rough flags of the pavement
hurt our feet, shod in heavy, shapeless prison boots. The autumn days
were cold and cheerless, and we shivered violently under our scanty
cloaks. But of all our hardships the ceaseless silence of our lives was
worst.
At the end of the second week I decided I would no longer endure it.
That afternoon at exercise I suddenly called my daughter by name and
bade her stand still until I came up to her. Of course she stopped, and
when I reached her side we linked arms and began to talk in low tones. A
wardress ran up to us, saying: "I shall listen to everything you say." I
replied: "You are welcome to do that, but I shall insist on my right to
speak to my daughter." Another wardress had hastily left the yard, and
now she returned with a large number of wardresses. They seized me and
quickly removed me to my cell, while the other suffrage prisoners
cheered my action at the top of their voices. For their "mutiny" they
got three days' solitary confinement, and I, for mine, a much more
severe punishment. Unrepentant, I told the Governor that, in spite of
any punishment he might impose on me, I would never again submit to the
silence rule. To forbid a mother to speak to her daughter was infamous.
For this I was characterised as a "dangerous criminal" and was sent into
solitary confinement, without exercise or chapel, while a wardress was
stationed constantly at my cell door to see that I communicated with no
one.
It was two weeks before I saw any of my friends again, and meantime the
health of Mrs. Drummond had been so seriously impaired that she was
released for hospital treatment. My daughter also, I learned, was ill,
and in desperation I made application to the Board of Visiting
Magistrates to be allowed to see her. After a long conference, during
which I was made to wait outside in the corridor, the magistrates
returned a refusal, saying that I might renew my application in a month.
The answer then, they said, would depend on my conduct. A month! My girl
might be dead by that time. My anxiety sent me to bed ill again, but,
although I did not know it, relief was already on its way. I had told
the visiting magistrates that I would wait until public opinion got
within those walls, and this happened sooner than I had dared to hope.
Mrs. Drummond, as soon as she was able to appear in public, and the
other suffrage prisoners, as they were released, spread broadcast the
story of our mutiny, and of a subsequent one led by Miss Wallace Dunlop,
which sent a large number of women into solitary confinement. The
Suffragettes marched by thousands to Holloway, thronging the approaches
to the prison street. Round and round the prison they marched, singing
the Women's Marseillaise and cheering. Faintly the sound came to our
ears, infinitely lightening our burden of pain and loneliness. The
following week they came again, so we afterwards learned, but this time
the police turned them back long before they reached the confines of
the prison.
The demonstrations, together with a volley of questions asked in the
House of Commons, told at last. Orders came from the Home Office that I
was to see my daughter, and that we were to be allowed to exercise and
to talk together for one hour each day. In addition, we were to be
permitted the rare privilege of reading a daily newspaper. Then, on
December 8th, the day of Christabel's release, orders came that I, too,
should be discharged, two weeks before the expiration of my sentence.
At the welcome breakfast given us, as released prisoners, at Lincoln's
Inn Hotel, I told our members that henceforth we should all insist on
refusing to abide by ordinary prison rules. We did not propose to break
laws and then shirk punishment. We simply meant to assert our right to
be recognised as political prisoners. We reached this point after due
reflection. We first set ourselves not to complain of prison, not to say
anything about it, to avoid it, to keep away from all side issues, to
keep along the straight path of political reform, to get the vote;
because we knew that when we had won it we could reform prisons and a
great many other abuses as well. But now that we had had in the witness
box the admission of Cabinet Ministers that we are political offenders,
we should in future demand the treatment given to men political
offenders in all civilised countries. "If nations," I said, "are still
so governed that they make political offenders, then Great Britain is
going to treat her political offenders as well as political offenders
are treated by other nations. If it were the custom to treat political
offenders as ordinary offenders against the well-being of society are
treated, we should not have complained if we were treated like that; but
it is not the international custom to do it, and so, for the dignity of
the women of the country, and for the sake of the consciences of the men
of the country, and for the sake of our nation amongst the nations of
the earth, we are not going to allow the Liberal government to treat us
like ordinary law-breakers in future."
I said the same thing that night in a great meeting held in Queen's Hall
to welcome the released prisoners, and, although we all knew that our
determination involved a bitter struggle, our women endorsed it without
a moment's hesitation. Had they been able to look forward to the events
which were even then overshadowing us, could they have foreseen the new
forms of suffering and danger that lay in waiting, I am certain that
they would still have done the same thing, for our experiences had
taught us to dispense with fear. Whatever of timidity, of shrinking from
pain or hardship any of us had originally possessed, it had all
vanished. There were no terrors that we were not now ready to face.
The year 1909 marks an important point in our struggle, partly because
of this decision of ours, never again to submit to be classed with
criminals; and partly because in this year we forced the Liberal
Government to go on record, publicly, in regard to the oldest of
popular rights, the right of petition. We had long contemplated this
step, and now the time seemed ripe for taking it.
In the closing days of 1908 Mr. Asquith, speaking on the policy to be
carried out in 1909, commented on the various deputations he was obliged
at that time to receive. They called on him, he said, "from all quarters
and in all causes, on an average of something like two hours on three
days in every week." The deputations all asked for different things,
and, although all of the things could not possibly be included in the
King's speech, Mr. Asquith was inclined to agree that many of them ought
to be included. This declaration from the Prime Minister that he was
constantly receiving deputations of men, and listening favourably to
their suggestions of what policies to pursue, aroused in the
Suffragettes feelings of deep indignation. This in part they expressed
on January 25th, when the first meeting of the Cabinet Council took
place. A small deputation from the W. S. P. U. proceeded to Downing
Street to claim the right to be heard, as men were heard. For knocking
at the door of the official residence four of the women, including my
sister, Mrs. Clark, were arrested and sent to prison for one month.
A month later the seventh of our Women's Parliaments was called against
this and against the fact that no mention of women had been included in
the King's speech. Led by Mrs. Pethick Lawrence, Lady Constance Lytton
and Miss Daisy Solomon, a deputation of women endeavoured to carry the
resolution to the House of Commons. They were promptly arrested and,
next day, were sent to prison on sentences of from one to two months.
The time was rapidly approaching when the legality of these arrests
would have to be tested. In June of the year 1909 the test was made.
It will be remembered that we had endeavoured to force the authorities
to make good their threat to charge us under the obsolete Charles II
"Tumultuous Petitions Act," which prescribes severe penalties for
persons proceeding to Parliament in groups of more than twelve for the
purpose of presenting petitions. It had been stated that if we were
charged under that act our case would be given a hearing before a judge
and jury instead of a police magistrate. Since this was exactly what we
desired to have happen we had sent deputation after deputation of more
than twelve persons, but always they were tried in police courts, and
were sent to prison often for periods as long as that prescribed in the
Charles II Act. Now we determined to do something still more ambitious;
we resolved to test, not the Charles II Act, but the constitutional
right of the subject to petition the Prime Minister as the seat of
power.
The right of petition, which has existed in England since the earliest
known period, was written into the Bill of Rights which became law in
1689 on the accession of William and Mary. It was, in fact, one of the
conditions attaching to the accession of the joint monarchs. According
to the Bill of Rights, "It is the right of subjects to petition the King
and all commitments, and prosecutions for such petitionings are
illegal." The power of the King having passed almost completely into
the hands of Parliament, the Prime Minister now stands where the King's
majesty stood in former times. Clearly, then, the right of the subject
to petition the Prime Minister cannot be legally denied. Thus were we
advised, and in order to keep within the strict letter of the law, we
accepted the limitations of the right of petition laid down in the
Charles II Act, and decided that our petition should be carried to the
House of Commons by small groups of women.
Again I called together, on the evening of June 29th, a Parliament of
women. Previously I had written to Mr. Asquith stating that a deputation
of women would wait on him at the House of Commons at eight o'clock in
the evening. I wrote him further that we were not to be refused, as we
insisted upon our constitutional right to be received. To my note the
Prime Minister returned a formal note declining to receive us.
Nevertheless we continued our preparations, because we knew that the
Prime Minister would continue to decline, but that in the end he would
be forced to receive us.
An incident which occurred a week before the date of the deputation was
destined to have important consequences. Miss Wallace Dunlop went to St.
Stephen's Hall in the House of Commons, and marked with printer's ink on
the stone work of the Hall an extract from the Bill of Rights. The first
time she made the attempt she was interrupted by a policeman, but two
days later she succeeded in stamping on the ancient walls the reminder
to Parliament that women as well as men possess constitutional rights,
and that they were proposing to exercise those rights. She was arrested
and sentenced to prison for one month, in the third division. The option
of a heavy fine was given her, which of course she refused. Miss Wallace
Dunlop's prison term began on June 22d. Perhaps her deed had something
to do with the unusual interest taken in the approaching deputation, an
interest which was shown not only by the public but by many members of
Parliament. In the House of Commons a strong feeling that the women