I was in some ways more childish, and in some ways more grown-up, than my schoolmates. Completely ignorant as I was of their world, I was shocked at the language used by the boys. Their devices to shirk work and deceive the masters seemed to me silly and immoral. Though I remember having a fight with a boy soon after I got there, in general I failed to stand up for myself, and therefore could be bullied with impunity. I was frankly bored with the way the classics were taught, and I found myself in agreement with a remark, made by one of the boys, that hard work was systematically discouraged at Eton.

Latin and Greek occupied most of our time and I found them deadly dull. No doubt at that age my mind was most sterile soil in which to implant the seeds of literature. But I cannot help thinking that the worst method was adopted of arousing our interest. If we were doing a Greek play, for instance, we got through some 20 lines only in each lesson; and all the stress was placed on our knowing the cases of the nouns and tenses of the verbs. At this rate we scarcely ever completed the play before the end of the 'half'. Even the literal meaning of the sentences generally escaped me, and of the tremendous human issues of the drama I never had the foggiest notion. I suspect that only a tiny minority of my class-mates would have a different tale to tell.

On March 18 (1891) the new Lower Schools were opened and a statute of Queen Victoria was unveiled by the Empress Frederick. The Queen herself also came in person to the ceremony. The captain of the school was given an address to present to the Queen, and I had one to present to the Empress.

Another illustrious visitor to whom I was presented was the Rt. Hon. W. E. Gladstone. He came to Eton to lecture on Homer, a relaxation-subject in which he took great interest, though his views on it were considered by the orthodox to be unsound. The headmaster invited me to dine with him and I remember, talked a great deal throughout the meal about the merits of sliding seats in the school boats. He was already in advanced years and was evidently rather deaf, as he occasionally made asides to his wife in audible tones which we were not intended to overhear. But his eye was still keen and his face bespoke a personality accustomed to make decisions and to be obeyed.

During the last quarter of the nineteenth century wealth had multiplied enormously in the British Isles. Mass production as we know it today had scarcely begun, but large-scale competitive industry working at feverish pressure was turning out an ever-increasing stream of communities. The wealth was abominately distributed. A few 'captains of industry' made great fortunes. Many more of the upper middle class had incomes which enabled them to live in comfort in town and country houses and travel to the Continent. But at least a third of the people lived miserably. They worked long hours.

Their food, even when sufficient, was monotonous and of poor quality. Their clothes were generally ill-fitting and, from long use, threadbare and dirty. Their houses were in mean streets, badly built, and frequently verminous. Worst of all, they had no security. Accident, sickness or a spell of unemployment plunged them into dire poverty and debt. Old Age broke up their homes; and husbands and wives, who had up and then fulfilled their marriage vows to cherish one another, found that the workhouse anticipated death in tearing them apart.

My wife and I saw a great deal of Keir Hardie in those days; for he had rooms in a tiny house in an old-world court behind Chancery Lane, and he often dropped in to see us in Clement's Inn. Closer acquaintance confirmed the impression I had formed when I met him for the first time at Mansfield House. He was, in fact, the exact opposite of the uncouth and unpractical iconoclast, which those whose privileges he threatened painted him. He was the most sensitive person I have ever known in my life, and if he was unconventional it was because he had to be, in order to achieve his purpose.

As for the other charge that he was unpractical, it is true that he dreamed dreams of a more just world. But a very large number of those dreams have already come true; and if any man is entitled to be accounted the principal architect of the better order it is he. He founded the I.L.P. and from it built up the Labour Party and inspired both with his spirit. At the time his worth was only appreciated by a few, and I am happy to have been one of the number.

The principal motive of men's opposition to woman suffrage was undoubtedly fear of the use to which women would put the vote if they got it. Men, it was said, were governed by reason, women by emotion. If once the franchise were thrown open to women, they would speedily obtain a majority control and force an emotional policy on the country. In particular it was said (though less openly) that on sex matters women were narrower and harder than men; and that if they were given power they would impose impossibly strict standards of morality, and endeavour to enforce them by penalties for non-observance. A further fear was that, if women came to share the political, intellectual, and occupational life of men they would lose their special charm and attraction. A slightly different motive was the innate love of domination. This was sometimes expressed in the blunt rejoinder: "Votes for Women, indeed; we shall be asked next to give votes to our horses and dogs."

That autumn (1906) saw, the beginning of the Monday afternoon 'At Homes', which went on continuously year in year out during the militant campaign. They were intended principally for women, but men were not excluded. Strategy was explained, militant demonstrations were announced, a collection was taken and members were enrolled. I generally came and sold literature - books, pamphlets and, later, the Votes for Women newspaper. When the attendance grew too big to be accounted in the office in Clement's Inn the venue was changed to the Portman Rooms in Baker Street, and later to the Queen's Hall.

At the end of October 1906 events occurred which brought me into far closer association with the movement. My wife was arrested. She had gone, with other members of the Women's Social and Political Union to the House of Commons on the day that Parliament opened; and in accordance with a preconcerted plan she had jumped up on to one of the seats in the Central Lobby and started to address the M.P.s and others who were present. Pulled down and bundled out into the street, along with a number of other women who had made a similar protest, she had tried to re-enter the House and had been taken into custody.

I went with her to the Court next morning, and she surrendered to her bail, together with nine other women, including Mrs. Cobden Sanderson, daughter of Richard Cobden. The magistrate bound them all over to enter into their own recognizances to keep the peace for six months. This they unanimously refused to do. In default, they were committed to prison for two months. They were accordingly packed off the Holloway.

I determined at once that during my wife's absence her side of the work should not suffer. I agreed to look after the finances, and at a public meeting that very afternoon I made an appeal for funds. By way of setting the ball rolling I promised to contribute £10 for every day of her imprisonment.

May I respectfully ask if it is not possible to break up the Suffragette movement by taking action against Mr and Mrs Pethick Lawrence for conspiring and inciting to serious breaches of the peace. It can very easily be proved that Mr Pethick Lawrence went to East Ham on one occasion and hired a number of women at two shillings per day plus their expenses. These women were drilled into their work by Mr Lawrence and his assistants and took part in very disorderly scenes... These women (and many of the women agitators who are paid £2-£5 per week) know nothing of politics or Votes for Women questions and are paid for creating disturbance at command of the leaders.

I too adopted the hunger-strike. The first day I was all hot and bothered about it and got a headache and slept badly. The second day I took myself in hand and found out that what usually passes for hunger is better described as the 'food habit', and that if not appeased it soon passes away. I slept well that night. The third day the authorities discovered what I was doing and carried me away to hospital and told me that they were going to feed me by force.

The head doctor, a most sensitive man, was visibly distressed by what he had to do. It certainly was an unpleasant and painful process and a sufficient number of warders had to be called in to prevent my moving while a rubber tube was pushed up my nostril and down into my throat and liquid was poured through it into my stomach. Twice a day thereafter one of the doctors fed me in this way. I was not allowed to leave my cell in the hospital and for the most part I had to stay in bed. There was nothing to do but to read; and the days were very long and went very slowly.

Mrs. Pankhurst invited us to her room. She then told us that she had decided to sever our connection with the WSPU. We saw, then, that the breach between ourselves and the Pankhursts was complete and irrevocable. There was, further, no appeal against our exclusion from the WSPU. Mrs. Pankhurst was the acknowledged autocrat of the Union. We had ourselves supported her in acquiring this position several years previously; we could not dispute it now.

Thus ended our personal association with two of the most remarkable people I have ever known. In some ways they were widely different. Christabel, with her girlish figure, her penetrating brain, her inexorable logic, and her power of acute political analysis, appealed particularly to the young of both sexes. Mrs. Pankhurst, with her warm Manx blood, her rich experience of life, and her moving voice, whose modulations she knew so well how to control, touched the hearts and won the sympathies of those who would have been unaffected by a merely rational approach.

Even the split with the WSPU did not end of this agony - the Pethick-Lawrences were still facing bankruptcy proceedings. An auction of their belongings was held at The Mascot, but raised only £300 towards their £1,100 court costs even though many friends arrived to buy personal possessions and give them back to the couple. Even the auctioneer returned to them a trinket he had bought as a keepsake. The rest of the costs were later taken from Fred's estate, plus a further £5,000 for repairs to shop windows damaged in the raids. Fortunately he had deep pockets and did not have to sell his home.

My own personal attitude was highly critical. The war seemed to me to have started on the Continent without any sufficient cause and to mark a complete breakdown of statesmanship all round. I strongly resented the clandestine way in which Sir Edward Grey had in effect committed the British people in advance behind their back. But I to, in spite of my loathing of war, felt that, granted the circumstances as they were at the twelfth hour, a refusal to come to the help of France and Belgium would have been a breach of faith.

I joined the Union of Democratic Control and became its treasurer. As its name implies, it was founded to insist that foreign policy should in future, equally with home policy, be subject to the popular will. The intention was that no commitments should be entered into without the peoples being fully informed and their approval obtained. By a natural transition, the objects of the Union came to include the formation of terms of a durable settlement, on the basis of which the war might be brought an an end.

At first we were able to hold public meetings everywhere and state our case, but as time went on, an organised opposition was worked up by a section of the Press, which represented us as opponents of the brave men who were fighting the country's battles. Our meetings in London were accordingly broken up. I remember one in particular where, as chairman, I was thrown from the platform. In the middle of the struggle a young soldier called out: "Don't hurt the old man." I heard the epithet with some amusement. I was only 43.

There is a choice between two policies. The first is peace by negotiation, the second is going on with the war for months and months - perhaps for years. Peace by negotiation does not mean going to the Kaiser and asking what terms of peace he will graciously give us, and accepting those terms. That would be peace by surrender. Peace by negotiations means a peace in which Great Britain and her allies would insist upon certain irreducible terms and come to a settlement with regard to the others.

It was not until the middle of 1918 that my age group came within the Conscription Act and I was called up. I was then 46. Believing as I did that the war could and should be brought to an end by a negotiated peace, I could not very well go out to fight for Mr. Lloyd-George's "knock-out blow". I accordingly went before a tribunal in Dorking as a conscientious objector. The Clerk to the Council told the tribunal that he knew I had held my views for a considerable time, and the military representative said that he did not particularly "want this man". So I was awarded exemption, conditional on my doing work of national importance, and work on the land was indicated.

The German High Command asked for an armistice, and at eleven o'clock on the morning of November 11th, 1918, the order to cease fire was given. In London as the hour struck the whole population by common impulse left their workshops, their offices, and their houses and came out on to the street. I mingled with the dense throng. There was no sign of frothy exultation. The one thought appeared to be thankfulness that the killing had come to an end, that loved ones could now return home, that hatred could be banished, and the work of destruction was ended, and the constructive rebuilding of the world could begin.

Susan Lawrence came to see me. As Parliamentary Secretary to the Ministry of Health, was concerned with the proposed cuts in unemployment relief, which she regarded as dreadful. We discussed the whole situation and agreed that, if the Cabinet decided to accept the cuts in their entirety, we would both resign from the Government.

At last I got my summons from the Prime Minster, and went to Downing Street. We went in and were sat round a table. MacDonald proceeded to address us. He gave a short account of the crisis, told us that the Cabinet had broken up and that he was forming a National Government with Conservative and Liberal colleagues. He closed the meeting abruptly, saying he had important business to transact. As we filed past to say good-bye, he detained me for a moment, and said he thought I might be willing to stay with the new Government; but I declined the suggestion.