Mabel Barlow Photo: courtesy of Antony Barlow
How things have changed
Antony Barlow writes about the anniversary of women’s suffrage
My grandmother, Mabel Barlow, was taken on her twenty-first birthday in 1889 on an outing to the Houses of Parliament. Her wonderful account of the experience, as we commemorate the fine work of the suffragettes, shows that feelings of being omitted from the legislative process were apparent even in the nineteenth century. She wrote:
My first visit to the House of Commons! How my pulses thrilled with excitement at the thought of entering that grand old place; of hearing and seeing all those men of whom I had so often read, the men whose names resounded through the country and who formed our laws and were there representing the whole of England – except of course a considerable minority.
The minority she is referring to, of course, is women. It is a remarkable example of early feminism. She continues:
It seemed almost incredible that women were only allowed to listen to a debate, peering through aggravating bars, both perpendicular and horizontal, and shut up in a dark kind of cabin! There we were, caged in like dangerous creatures, looking through first one little aperture and then another of our cage, vainly trying to read our programme of the day’s proceedings, by the few gleams of light that found their way into our prison.
Imbued with early feminism, she is plainly not impressed:
How strangely far from uncommon, looked these representatives of the English people! It was necessary to recall that they had not been chosen for any outward appointments, but for some mental or moral capacity which their constituents had supposed them at one time to possess. There sat the Speaker (Mr Peel) with a ghastly green hue upon his face – thrown by the shade of the sounding board above him. Looking somewhat like a spectre as he rose, tall and thin to cry ‘Order, Order!’ Or to read some note. There surely on that further row, which was already crowded, a retired burly Publican has just squeezed himself. From behind the Speaker’s chair enters a man who might be a paper hanger as he clutches a bundle of rolls closely to him, as he advances to take a seat. Is it Spring cleaning time?
In many ways my grandmother’s account could easily be a description of today’s chamber:
There are members in immaculate attire with dainty flower buttonholes, there are smooth, glossy top hats contrasting with others of a rumpled and crushed appearance. Keen eagerness and interest are here opposed to drowsiness and lackadaisical indifference. Others shuffle and lounge and lounge and shuffle as much as any schoolboy – until one longs for a schoolmaster to call them to order and forbid talking which often goes on in spite of the fact that some member is on his feet, delivering a speech. Having seen enough of these everyday characters, the doors are anxiously watched – and at last, walking slowly – in comes the king of them all, WE Gladstone – and takes his seat on the front opposition bench. This is our first sight of the GOM, yet recognition is instantaneous. We in our cage lean eagerly forward, regardless of crushing feather and ribbons. We all peer through our peepholes and watch his every movement. He is about to speak… See he half rises hands on knees, he essays twice or thrice – at last on his feet! Ears are now pressed close to the bars, we strain our faculties but only hear a few short sentences addressed to the Table in a rather low gruff voice. That is all – but we have seen him and heard him and for a while we are satisfied.
Many years later, in 1918, my enlightened grandfather John Henry Barlow wrote to his daughter Millior on the passing of the Representation of the People Act. His words capture how things had changed:
Isn’t it fine women have the vote now? What centuries of unfairness and inequality there have been between men and women. It was splendid your Head Mistress took you all down to see her register her vote, hurrah!
Quakers then, as now, were way ahead.
