The place assigned ladies in the House of Commons is really a disgrace to a country ruled by a queen.  This dark perch is the highest gallery, immediately over the speaker’s desk and government seats, behind a fine wire netting, so that it is quite impossible to see or hear anything.  The sixteen persons who can crowd into the front row, by standing with their noses partly through the open network, can have the satisfaction of seeing the cranial arch of their rulers and hearing an occasional paean to liberty, or an Irish growl at the lack of it.  I was told that this network was to prevent the members on the floor from being disturbed by the beauty of the women.  On hearing this I remarked that I was devoutly thankful that our American men were not so easily disturbed, and that the beauty of our women was not of so dangerous a type.  I could but contrast our spacious galleries in that magnificent Capitol at Washington, as well as in our grand State Capitols, where hundreds of women can sit at their ease and see and hear their rulers, with these dark, dingy buildings.  My son, who had a seat on the floor just opposite the ladies’ gallery, said he could compare our appearance to nothing but birds in a cage.  He could not distinguish an outline of anybody.  All he could see was the moving of feathers and furs or some bright ribbon or flower.

In the libraries, the courts, and the House of Lords, I found many suggestive subjects of thought.  It was interesting to find, on the frescoed walls, many historical scenes in which women had taken a prominent part.  Among others there was Jane Lane assisting Charles II. to escape, and Alice Lisle concealing the fugitives after the battle of Sedgemoor.  Six wives of Henry VIII. stood forth, a solemn pageant when one recalled their sad fate.  Alas! whether for good or ill, women must ever fill a large space in the tragedies of the world.

I passed a few pleasant hours in the house where Macaulay spent his last years.  The once spacious library and the large bow-window, looking out on a beautiful lawn, where he sat, from day to day, writing his glowing periods, possessed a peculiar charm for me, as the surroundings of genius always do.  I thought, as I stood there, how often he had unconsciously gazed on each object in searching for words rich enough to gild his ideas.  The house was owned and occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Winckworth.  It was at one of their sociable Sunday teas that many pleasant memories of the great historian were revived.

One of the most remarkable and genial women I met was Miss Frances Power Cobbe.  She called one afternoon, and sipped with me the five o’clock tea, a uniform practice in England.  She was of medium height, stout, rosy, and vigorous-looking, with a large, well-shaped head, a strong, happy face, and gifted with rare powers of conversation.  I felt very strongly attracted to her.  She was frank and cordial, and pronounced in all her views.  She gave us an account of her efforts to rescue unhappy cats and dogs from the hands of the vivisectionists.  We saw her, too, in her home, and in her office in Victoria Street.  The perfect order in which her books and papers were arranged, and the exquisite neatness of the apartments, were refreshing to behold.