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Persons of all sorts and descriptions, as the Journals of the House show, have stood at the Bar of the Commons not only for disobedience of the orders of the House, for indignities offered to it, for insults to Members, for reflections on their character and conduct in Parliament, for interference with the officers of the House in the discharge of their duties, but also to give evidence in inquiries instituted by the House, to plead some cause, or to receive the thanks of the House for services to the State. In each case the Serjeant-at-Arms, with the Mace on his shoulder, was a prominent figure in the scene. Samuel Pepys stood at the Bar to defend himself against charges of dereliction of duty as registrar of the Navy Board. To fortify himself for the ordeal he drank at home a half-pint of mulled sack, and just before being called to the Bar he added a dram of brandy. So completely did he answer the accusations that he and his fellow-officials were acquitted of all blame. Titus Oates, the perjurer, stood there to relate the particulars of his Popish Plot. Dr. Sacheverell, the Jacobite divine, stood there in 1709 to answer the charge of preaching “a scurrilous and seditious libel” in St. Paul’s Cathedral—that famous sermon in which he asserted that it was sinful for subjects to resist the authority of the King. Wellington sat on a chair, set for him within the Bar, in 1814, to receive the thanks of the House of Commons for his services in the Peninsular campaign. Mrs. Clarke, the discarded mistress of the Duke of York, appeared there in 1809, to give evidence in support of the charge brought against his Royal Highness of having, as Commander-in-Chief, corruptly bartered in the sale of Army Commissions, an accusation that was declared not proven, though it led to the Duke’s resignation. Warren Hastings stood there as a witness, close on thirty years after his impeachment. Members cheered him on his appearance, and when he retired they rose and uncovered. Daniel O’Connell, the first Roman Catholic elected to Parliament since the Revolution, stood there is 1828 to plead, and plead in vain, that he should be allowed to take his seat without having to subscribe to the oath which declared his faith to be idolatrous and blasphemous, an abjuration, however, that was abolished by the Catholic Emancipation Act which was passed in the following year.
Persons not so distinguished or notorious have also stood at the Bar, in the custody of the Serjeant-at-Arms, charged with whimsical breaches of privilege. A man named Hyde, who tried to obtain admission to Westminster Hall at the impeachment of Warren Hastings, was rudely jostled into Palace Yard by a policeman. Hyde had the constable served with a summons for assault. For this Hyde was arrested by the Serjeant-at-Arms, on the order of the House, brought to the Bar, and actually committed to prison for a breach of privilege in having attempted to bring an officer of the House before the ordinary legal tribunals of the land. But perhaps the most amusing instance remains to be told. Dick Martin, a well-known Irish Member in the early years of the nineteenth century (founder of the excellent Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals), was greatly perturbed to find in a London newspaper some passages of his speech in the House, the previous night, printed in italics. He complained to the House of having been misrepresented, and the reporter (who happened to be a fellow-countryman of Mr. Martin) was brought to the Bar for a breach of privilege. The journalist pleaded that the report was absolutely correct. “It may be,” replied the indignant Irish representative, “but I defy the gentleman to prove that I spoke in italics!” In this case the culprit was dismissed amid the laughter of the House.