Up to within the last forty years it was quite sufficient for a member of Parliament to inform the Speaker that he "espied strangers" for the galleries to be instantly cleared. On April 27, 1875, however, the cantankerous and obstructive Mr. Biggar brought this rule into disrepute by calling the Speaker's attention to the Strangers' Gallery at a time when its occupants included the Prince of Wales and the German Ambassador. In accordance with the regulations of the House, these distinguished visitors were compelled to leave forthwith. This quite gratuitous act of discourtesy on the part of an extremely unpopular member was little to the taste of the House. The sentiments of the majority were aptly voiced by Disraeli when he begged Mr. Biggar to bear in mind that the House was above all things "an assembly of gentlemen." On the Prime Minister's motion, carried by a unanimous vote, the Standing Order relative to the exclusion of strangers was temporarily suspended, and the galleries reopened. A resolution of Disraeli's was eventually adopted whereby strangers could only be compelled to withdraw on a division in favour of their exclusion, no debate or amendment being permitted; though it was still left to the discretion of the Speaker or Chairman to order their withdrawal at any time and from any part of the House, if necessary.
Visitors to the House of Commons enter by St Stephen's porch, where, until recently, they were interrogated by the police constable on duty. If their answers proved satisfactory, they were admitted to the Central Hall, whence they dispatched printed cards inscribed with their names, addresses, and the object of their visit, to such members as they desired to see. The duty of ministering to the needs of friends who were anxious to listen to the debates was one of the minor discomforts of membership. There is a story of a member of Parliament receiving a letter from a constituent asking for a pass to the Speaker's Gallery or, if that were impossible, six tickets to the Zoological Gardens. The natural inference to be gathered from this request must be that the House of Commons, which Lord Brougham once likened to a menagerie, is capable of affording six times as much entertainment as the monkey-house in Regent's Park.
Until the last session of 1908 members could obtain two daily orders of admission for strangers from the Speaker's secretary or the Sergeant-at-Arms, the Speaker's and Strangers' Galleries (which were amalgamated in 1888) providing accommodation for about one hundred and sixty visitors. In the autumn of 1908, however, a man who wished to advertise the cause of Female Suffrage—and incidentally himself—threw a number of pamphlets down from the gallery on to the floor of the House, and was summarily ejected. This resulted in an order issued by the Speaker that for the remainder of the session no strangers should be admitted. The Strangers' Galleries were reopened in May of the following year, and new regulations were framed to prevent the recurrence of such a scene. Visitors are now permitted to apply at a special bureau in St. Stephen's Hall, at any time after 4.15 p.m. and, if there is room, are at once admitted to the gallery without the formality of searching for a member. Each stranger signs a declaration undertaking to abstain from making any interruption or disturbance, and to obey the rules for the maintenance of order in the galleries.
Applause, or the expression of any feeling, is strictly prohibited in the Strangers' Gallery, and the attendants on duty there have instructions to expel offenders without waiting for any explanation of their conduct. In the commencement of the last century a stranger once shouted, "You're a liar!" while O'Connell was speaking, and was arrested by the Sergeant-at-Arms and compelled to apologise the next day.[420] Since that time, until recently, visitors have behaved with commendable decorum.
The instances of strangers causing a commotion in Parliament by extraordinary or improper behaviour are few in number. The assassination of Spencer Perceval, the Prime Minister, by a visitor in 1812 is undoubtedly the most tragic event that has ever taken place within the precincts of the House of Commons, the murderer being a mad Liverpool merchant, named Bellingham, who had a grievance against the Government. The recollection of this outrage almost gave rise to a panic some years later when a wild-eyed, haggard man rushed into the House while Sir Robert Peel was speaking, and walked boldly up to the Minister. Stopping within a few feet of the speaker, this alarming stranger made a low bow. "I beg your pardon," he remarked suavely, "but I am an unfortunate man who has just been poisoned by Earl Grey!" He was at once removed to the nearest lunatic asylum.[421]
Other strangers have from time to time created a mild consternation or amusement by some eccentricity of dress or deportment. In 1833 a young Scotsman crossed the bar of the Commons and sat deliberately down on a bench among the members, where he remained undiscovered for some time. In the same year a compatriot, garbed in full Highland costume, unwittingly entered the side gallery reserved for members, and prepared to listen to the debate from this comfortable quarter. On being informed of his mistake, this hardy Northman was so overcome with terror at the contemplation of his crime and the consequences that would probably ensue—nothing short of death could, he imagined, be the punishment appropriate to such an offence—that he took to his heels and ran like a hare, never pausing for breath until he reached Somerset House, a mile and a half away.[422] Sir Wilfrid Lawson in 1894 was shown a man in the Lobby who had been turned out of the gallery for being drunk. On asking what crime the stranger had committed, he was told that he had said "Bosh!" to some of the speeches. This, as Sir Wilfrid remarked, was not conclusive evidence of drunkenness.[423]
A strange Irishman provided the peers with some amusement in 1908 by appearing in the House of Lords attired in a saffron-coloured kilt and toga which he claimed to be his national costume, and which had doubtless been so ever since the days of Darwin's missing link. He turned out to be harmless enough, and, though momentarily disturbing to Black Rod's peace of mind, did nothing more alarming than to provide another example of the well-known fact that it is possible to be a Celt and at the same time to lack a sense of humour.
Strangers of the male sex who visit the Upper House may be accommodated in the large Strangers' Gallery facing the throne, or, if members of Parliament, in the special House of Commons' gallery, or at the bar. Privy councillors and the eldest sons of peers are allowed to sit or stand upon the steps of the Throne, and there are special galleries set apart for the use of the corps diplomatique and the Press.
THE HOUSE OF LORDS IN 1910