A First Amendment Audit in 1847 London

 

The smog of coal smoke and the stench of unwashed bodies clung to the damp air as Richard Pemberton strode down Fleet Street, the buckle of his boot clicking against the cobblestones. In his hand, he held a leather-bound notebook, and at his side, a brass spyglass dangled from a cord. He fancied himself a crusader for liberty—though the term "First Amendment audit" had yet to exist, he was determined to put the principles of free speech and public accountability to the test.

He approached the towering edifice of Scotland Yard, the seat of the Metropolitan Police. A bobby in a tall stovepipe hat and dark blue greatcoat stood outside, twirling his truncheon absentmindedly.

Richard, with exaggerated confidence, pulled out his notebook. "I shall now engage in a perfectly legal act—recording the activities of public officials in a public space."

The bobby gave him a squinting glare. "And what, sir, precisely do you mean by that?"

Richard flipped open his notebook and began sketching. "Sir Robert Peel himself said that the police are the public, and the public are the police. Therefore, I, a member of the public, am at liberty to observe my government’s functionaries."

The constable snorted. "Aye, but sketching government buildings might make you a French spy, lad."

"Preposterous!" Richard scoffed. "The freedom of the press is a sacred right! The London Times itself has published likenesses of Parliament without harassment!"

"Aye, but The Times is owned by men of means. You? You’re a scribbling layabout." The officer stepped forward, his polished boots scraping the stone. "What’s your true purpose, then?"

Richard straightened his frock coat. "To ensure the public’s right to information is upheld!"

The bobby sighed. "We ‘aven’t got a ‘First Amendment,’ whatever that is. Now move along, or I’ll have you charged with loitering."

Unfazed, Richard turned on his heel and marched toward the Royal Exchange, where merchants and brokers bustled beneath the grand colonnades. Standing at the steps, he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "Ladies and gentlemen! Know your rights! The government does not own the streets!"

The crowd barely noticed, save for a few errant glances. A stout man selling roasted chestnuts near the curb barked, "Oi, shut yer gob unless yer buying!"

Undeterred, Richard climbed atop a wooden crate. "The people must demand transparency from their government! If they can observe us, why should we not observe them?"

A passing gentleman in a top hat muttered to his wife, "Another radical, no doubt."

Moments later, the bobby from Scotland Yard arrived, flanked by two more officers. "That’s quite enough out of you, sir," he said.

"I am exercising my right to free speech!"

"Aye, and I am exercising my right to arrest you for disturbing the peace."

As the officers dragged him down from the crate, Richard shouted, "This is an unlawful detainment! My rights are being trampled upon!"

The constable smirked. "Welcome to England, lad. Mind your business next time."

And with that, Richard’s grand experiment in free speech ended in a damp, rat-infested cell at Newgate Prison, where his most captive audience was a drunken pickpocket and a snoring debtors’ clerk.