The jealous care with which Parliament guarded its rights in olden days often threatened to bring the very name of privilege into contempt. The Commons especially acquired the pernicious habit of voting that whatsoever displeased them was an insult to Parliament, requiring instant and drastic punishment. Books or sermons which criticized or reflected upon the doings of either House were condemned wholesale, confiscated, and publicly burnt by the common hangman; authors or preachers were imprisoned and otherwise penalized. "The Parliament-men are as great Princes as any in the World," says Selden, "when whatsoever they please is privilege of Parliament; no man must know the number of their privileges, and whatsoever they dislike is breach of privilege."[260]
Impeachment, imprisonment, fines, confiscation of property, or committal to the Tower, were among the penalties meted out with a lavish hand to all who gave offence to the Commons. In 1624, Dr. Harrys, vicar of Blechingly, was brought to the bar of the Commons for interfering at elections, and compelled to confess his guilt, and afterwards to apologise to his parishioners. A Welsh judge named Jenkins was summoned before the Long Parliament for having called the House of Commons a den of thieves, and, on refusing to "bow himself in this house of Rimmon," was sentenced to death.
The most trivial faults, the most innocent acts, were from time to time voted contempts of Parliament, and the offenders chastised with a barbarity which was out of all proportion to the nature of their misdeeds. So harmless an offence as crowding or jostling against a member of Parliament was at one time considered a crime. In the days when the great Arthur Onslow occupied the Chair of the House of Commons, it was his custom to traverse Westminster Hall on his way to the House, saluting the Judges as he passed. An unfortunate man who accidentally blocked the Speaker's path on one occasion was instantly ordered into custody.[261]
Poaching the game of a member of Parliament was also adjudged a misdemeanour worthy of severe retribution. A poacher who trespassed on the fishing rights of Admiral Griffiths, M.P., in 1759, was reprimanded on his knees at the bar of the Commons.[262]
The presentation of fraudulent petitions has always been regarded as a breach of parliamentary privilege; and, in 1887, a man named Bidmead, who presented a petition which was found to be full of false signatures, was brought to the bar and severely reprimanded. This process of haling an offender to the bar to receive the censure of the House was an impressive one, calculated to strike fear into the boldest heart. The culprit was brought in, in the custody of the Sergeant-at-Arms, and compelled to kneel at the bar, where the Speaker sentenced him in his severest tones to such penalties as the House deemed sufficient to expiate his crime. One wretched prisoner was so alarmed that he had a fit, and was carried out in an unconscious condition.
The rule requiring an offender to kneel was not finally repealed until the middle of the eighteenth century. In 1751 an attorney named Crowle was reprimanded on his knees for misconduct of some kind or other at an election. On rising to his feet Mr. Crowle carefully wiped the knees of his trousers, remarking contemptuously that he had never before been in so dirty a house.[263] In this same year Alexander Murray, brother of the Jacobite Lord Elibank, was summoned for obstructing the High Bailiff of Westminster at election time. He resolutely declined to kneel when brought to the Commons bar, nor could the threats or entreaties of the Sergeant-at-Arms prevail upon him to conform to the rules of the House in this respect. "I never kneel but to God," he said. "When I have committed a crime I kneel to God for pardon, but, knowing my own innocence, I can kneel to no one else." As a punishment for his obstinacy, Murray was committed to Newgate, and remained there until the prorogation of Parliament. The close of the session operated as his release, and he was acclaimed in triumph by the City populace. When Parliament met again he was once more committed, but fled abroad, and so escaped further imprisonment.
This ceremony of enforced kneeling was a humiliation repulsive to many. Windham told Fanny Burney that the sight of Warren Hastings on his knees at the bar was so repugnant to his feelings that he looked the other way to avoid seeing the degradation of the impeached statesman. "It hurt me," he says, "and I wished it dispensed with."[264] This wish soon became universal, and the practice was discontinued in 1772, Baldwin, the printer of the "St. James's Chronicle," who was reprimanded for publishing a report of the parliamentary proceedings, being the last man to kneel at the bar of the House.
When a member of Parliament incurs the displeasure of the House its censure may be visited upon him in various ways, either by a reprimand, or by fine, or by committal to prison. The first instance of the Commons punishing one of their own number occurs in 1547, when a member named Storie was arrested by the Sergeant-at-Arms for speaking disrespectfully of the Duke of Somerset, and was confined to the Tower. The House of Commons has never allowed its members to reflect upon the conduct of those in high places. It also forbids any criticism of a Resolution of the House, unless the critical member intends to conclude with a motion for rescinding it. Eight years after the committal of Storie, another member, Dr. Parry by name, was brought to the bar for speaking in the House against a Bill that had already passed its third reading, saying that it was "full of confiscations, blood, danger, despair, and terror to the English subjects of this realm, their brothers, uncles, and kinsfolk."[265] Dr. Parry absolutely declined to give his reasons for holding this view, nor would he deign to explain why the Bill should cause his uncles to become desperate and terrorstricken. He was therefore committed to the Tower, and expelled from the House. Later on an accusation of treason was brought against him, and a motion made (but, let us hope, not carried) that he be executed. In 1581, another member, Arthur Hall, was fined and imprisoned in the Tower for publishing a book of a slanderous character.
When the House of Commons punished in those days it certainly never erred on the side of leniency. A Roman Catholic member named Floyd, who had made use of insulting expressions with reference to the daughter of James I., was found guilty of gross breach of privilege. He was sentenced to be degraded, branded, whipped, fined £1000, and to stand twice in the pillory. After this, whatever was left of him was to be imprisoned for life. The pillory was evidently a favourite punishment for recalcitrant members, and as late as 1727 we find a legislator named Ward suffering this unpleasant penalty in addition to expulsion from the House.[266]
In James I.'s reign a certain Sir Giles Mompesson, member of Parliament, was accused of "being a Monopolist." For this crime he was turned out of the House, perpetually outlawed, excepted from all general pardons, bereft of his goods, imprisoned for life, and, last of all, sentenced to be "for ever held an infamous person."[267] Another member was sent to the Tower for "speaking out of season," an offence which is fortunately no longer considered particularly heinous, or perhaps few members would be at liberty to-day.