Parliament has ever been most tenacious of its historic and traditionary rights and privileges. Of these, freedom of speech and freedom from arrest may be considered the most important. The right of personal access to the Crown is claimed by peers, any one of whom may demand a private audience with the sovereign, and, though the Commons are not granted a similar privilege, it is permissible for them to accompany their Speaker when he presents an address to the King, and to wear ordinary dress on such an occasion.

In olden days peers enjoyed other indulgences denied to their humbler brethren. They were, for instance, permitted to kill deer in the King's forests whenever, in obedience to a royal summons, they journeyed to or from the sovereign. At such times the bag was limited to two deer, and these might only be slain in the presence of the King's Forester. If that official were not at hand, the sporting peer was enjoined to blow several loud blasts upon his hunting-horn before pursuing his quarry to the death.[256] Peers were further allowed "benefit of clergy," in the good old days, for such crimes as highway robbery, horse-stealing and house-breaking, but only for a first offence. If they took up burglary as a hobby, or if the robbery of churches became with them a daily habit, they could no longer escape from the consequences of their misdeeds, and were haled to prison just as though they had been mere ordinary mortals. "Benefit of clergy" was a privilege which was repealed by Act of Parliament in 1801, and a peer to-day cannot steal a single gold watch with impunity.

Exemption from arrest on a civil process during the session, or for forty days before and after, is a privilege which members of the House of Commons as well as the Lords have always enjoyed.[257] It extended to their estates until 1857, and to their servants until 1892. This immunity does not, however, extend to breaches of the criminal law, nor can it be claimed in the case of an indictable offence or of contempt of court, its original object being merely to secure freedom of arrival and attendance. The Speaker of the Commons, Thomas Thorpe, who was summoned in Henry VI.'s time for carrying away certain goods and chattels from the Bishop of Durham's Palace, was fined £1000, and committed to the Fleet until this sum should be paid. The question of privilege was raised, but the House of Lords decided that the culprit must remain in prison, and the Commons were directed to elect another Speaker.

In the early days of Parliament, privilege from arrest was generally enforced by a resolution of the House or by a Chancery writ, though there is at least one instance of a member being released without any such formality. This occurred in the case of a member named Ferrars, who had been arrested for debt by the Sheriff of London in 1543. The Sergeant-at-Arms who went to demand his release was illtreated, and sent back empty-handed. The House thereupon summoned the sheriff to the Bar, and with him the creditor who had sued Ferrars, and committed both to prison.

In 1575 the privilege was extended, the servants of members of the House of Commons being included within the pale of its protection. This naturally led to many abuses, culminating in the case of the notorious Colonel Wanklyn. This member gave a signed "protection" to a wealthy friend whom he falsely named as his servant in order to enable him to escape the payment of a debt which he owed to his own wife. The fraud being made public, the culprit was expelled from the House, and went away weeping bitterly, "to the scandal of his brother officers."[258] In the same year a man named Smalley, the servant of Arthur Hall, member for Grantham, was arrested for debt and released by the Speaker's order. It was afterwards discovered that he had arranged his arrest so as to elude his financial liabilities, and the indignant House ordered him to be imprisoned and fined £100.[259] Further discredit was cast upon one of the ancient privileges of Parliament by another member named Benson, who was found guilty of selling "protections" at sixteen shillings apiece, and was turned out of the House.

If the Commons were justly severe in their treatment of members who abused this particular privilege, they punished with even greater severity any unfortunate persons who attempted to violate it. In 1584 an official of the mighty Star Chamber was committed to the Tower for daring to serve a subpoena on a member of Parliament. At the beginning of the next century, two officers who had arrested a member's servant were condemned to ride together upon a single horse, back to back, through the streets of London. In this insecure and undignified position they were taken from Westminster to the Exchange, wearing upon their breasts a placard inscribed with their offence, an awful example to all who would dream of laying hands on the sacred persons of parliamentarians or their dependents.

The immunity which members had hitherto enjoyed was slightly modified in 1700, when an Act was passed permitting civil suits to be commenced against them after a dissolution or prorogation, or during any adjournment of more than fourteen days. Later on, in George III.'s reign, their privileges were still further curtailed, their persons alone being held sacred, and that for a period of only forty days before or after the meeting of Parliament. Use was still made of this privilege as a shield from the power of the law, and as late as 1807 there are instances of the unscrupulous purchase of seats in the Commons for the sole purpose of obtaining release from prison or escaping the payment of debt.

To this day members of Parliament are safe from arrest within the precincts of the Palace of Westminster. Irish members who had been convicted under the Coercion Act, in the palmy days of the Land League, found in the House of Commons a useful if only temporary sanctuary. Dr. Tanner took his seat there at a time when a warrant for his arrest had been issued, and it was not until the adjournment of the House and the return to his hotel of this member, so badly "wanted by the police," that he could be lawfully apprehended.

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.

In 1642 Parliament appears to have been especially pitiless, dispensing fines and imprisonments right and left upon any one who displeased it. Sir Edward Dering was impeached for promoting a petition from the county of Kent, and the petition itself was ordered to be burnt at the hands of the common hangman. Sir Ralph Hopton was imprisoned in the Tower for saying in the House that his fellow-members seemed to ground their views of the King's apostacy upon evidence insufficient to convict a horse-thief; and a wretched tradesman named Sandeford, who cursed Parliament and all its works, was fined a hundred marks, pilloried, whipped, and sentenced to life-long confinement in a House of Correction. So assertive of their power and so jealous of their privileges were the Commons at this time that they even made an order to issue a warrant for the apprehension of all such persons as one of their members, Sir Walter Erie, should name.[268]

Peers and prelates were no safer than the humbler members from the vindictive spirit of Parliament, and any breach of its privileges on their part brought instant punishment. In 1603 the Bishop of Bristol published a book which was considered by Parliament to be most offensive. At a conference of both Houses he was sternly rebuked "for presuming to see more than a Parliament could," when he at once recanted, withdrew his obnoxious presumptions, and declared, "first, that he had erred; secondly, that he was sorry for it; and, thirdly, that if it were to do again, he would not do it."[269] Only on these abject terms could he expiate his offence. A hundred years later, in 1712, a volume of sermons written by the Bishop of St. Asaph, deploring the terms of the peace with France and Spain, was condemned to be burnt in Palace Yard.

The Sergeant-at-Arms is the official entrusted with the duty of enforcing the penal decisions of the House of Commons. All warrants issued by the House are executed by him. He brings witnesses and culprits to the bar, sees that members and strangers do not infringe its resolutions, and has the custody of such persons as may be committed to his charge. The doorkeepers, messengers, and police employed in the Commons are under his control, as are the buildings themselves while Parliament is sitting. As an officer of the Crown, he may be summoned to attend upon the sovereign on such occasions as the opening of Parliament, when the Deputy Sergeant-at-Arms takes his place as the personal escort of the Speaker. Like his colleagues, the Sergeant used formerly to eke out a precarious living upon fees, and received all or a part of the fines inflicted upon members for absence or unpunctuality. To-day, however, he enjoys a regular salary, and an official residence.[270]

Only once since the attempt of Colonel Pride to purge the House have representatives of the law traversed the bar of the Commons. The Palace of Westminster, within and without, is guarded by members of the Metropolitan Police, but they studiously refrain from trespassing upon the sacred ground that lies within the bar of either House. During the Speakership of Mr. Gully, however, in 1901, several Irish members declined to leave the House when ordered to do so for a division, and resisted the Sergeant-at-Arms and his myrmidons. Stout police-constables were therefore summoned, and bore the unwilling members struggling to the door in that kindly but determined grasp which, as Suffragettes have since learnt by experience, is one of the chief charms of the A Division.

The right of the Houses of Parliament to regulate their own internal concerns has always been admitted. In Henry VI.'s reign the Lord Chief Justice informed the House of Lords that the High Court of Parliament "is so high and mighty in its nature that it may make law, and that that is law it may make no law, and the determination and knowledge of that privilege belongs to the Lords of the Parliament, and not to the Justices."[271] Courts of law have never interfered with anything that took place in Parliament unless it were of an essentially criminal character. Parliament, however, has not always shown the same consideration for courts of law. In 1703, a man named Ashby brought an action against the constables of Aylesbury for refusing to record his vote at an election. The Commons thereupon declared it a gross breach of privilege that any court other than themselves should presume to try a case that had any reference to an election, and proceeded to take into custody everybody concerned in the affair. The Speaker went in person to the Court of Queen's Bench to summon the Lord Chief Justice to attend upon the Commons and explain the law's unjustifiable interposition. For once, however, the representative of Parliament was forced to beat an undignified retreat. Old Lord Chief Justice Holt was a quick-tempered man, and not at all awed by the presence of Speaker Smith. "If you do not depart from this court," he said to him in his sternest voice, "I will commit you, though you have the whole House of Commons in your belly!"

This was but one example of the numerous collisions between Parliament and the law, resulting from the former's rigid insistence upon bygone privileges, and the difficulty of settling which questions should be left to the arbitrament of either authority. If matters were left to the decision of the Commons, it is clear that everything would probably be brought within the scope of privilege; if to courts of law, all privilege would possibly be abolished. Some thought the former alternative was the least to be feared. "While men are but men," said Lord Jeffrey, "we must be at the mercy of a fallible and irresponsible despotism at best; and if we have to choose, as in an open question, few would hesitate to say that they would rather have the House of Commons for a despot than the courts of law."[272] But the matter became ridiculous when Parliament insisted on interfering in questions which it had clearly no right to decide. In 1721, for instance, the House of Commons committed the proprietors of a paper called "Mist's Journal" to Newgate for publishing an article favouring the restoration of the Pretender. This could scarcely be considered a breach of privilege, but the House thought itself empowered to deal with all political offenders. Since that time no one has been committed, except for a distinct breach of privilege, or for contempt of Parliament. The latter term, however, embraces the most trivial offences. In 1827, a stranger who was visiting the House of Lords left his umbrella in the cloak-room, by order of the attendant. On returning to claim his property at the end of the sitting, he found that his umbrella—following the universal fashion of that elusive article—had disappeared. He proceeded to bring an action against the doorkeeper, and was awarded damages amounting to £1 0s. 4d. Lord Chancellor Eldon thereupon summoned him to the bar of the Lords, and forced him, on pain of imprisonment, to refund the value of his umbrella and apologise. Four years later, the printer of "The Times" was fined £100 and sent to Newgate for having dared to call the Earl of Limerick "a thing with human pretensions."

The House of Lords has always considered itself empowered to inflict fines as well as imprisonment for a fixed period. When the Commons confine an offender they may put no term to his sentence, and he is released automatically on a prorogation. For the last two hundred years they have ceased to exercise the right of fining delinquents, but in early days, as we have seen, they often inflicted financial penalties, and stimulated the attendance of their own members by an inroad upon their pockets.

At the very commencement of parliamentary history the shires or boroughs whose representatives did not appear in their places in Parliament were fined £100. In 1580, any knight who stayed away for a whole session was fined £20, while citizens and burgesses were fined £10. Besides this, members lost their pay during absence, and, by an Act of Henry VIII., boroughs and shires were exonerated from the payment of wages to members who left Parliament before the end of the session without the Speaker's permission.

In similar fashion peers and bishops were punished for non-attendance, the size of their fines varying in proportion to the rank of the offender. An ordinance framed in Henry VI.'s time, about 1452, imposed fines of from £40 to £100 upon absentee peers, the sum thus raised to be appropriated to the defence of Calais.[273] In 1625 a fine of 5s. per day was imposed upon peers who disregarded their summons to Parliament, and we read of the Cinque Ports being mulcted in the sum of a hundred marks because their baron absented himself.[274] When the Bill for degrading Queen Caroline was before the Lords a fine of £100 was imposed during the first three days, and £50 for any subsequent day, on which any peer did not attend, unless he could prove illness or unavoidable absence. By a former Standing Order, every lord who entered the House after prayers was fined, if a baron or a bishop, 1s.; if of higher rank, 2s. What a contrast to these degenerate days in which the Lord Chancellor, the bishop, and one peer, hunted up for the purpose, form a reluctant congregation!

In the days of Charles I. penalties were extremely necessary if the business of Parliament was to be carried on at all. Members took their duties lightly, and at times not more than a dozen would appear in their places at Westminster. Prynne describes them as wasting their time in taverns, playhouses, dicing-houses, cockpits, and bowling alleys, "rambling abroad to such places at unreasonable Hours of the Night in antique Parliamentary Robes, Vestments fitter for a Mask or Stage than the gravity of a Parliament House." They would only come to peep into the House once or twice a week, he says, to show themselves in such disguises, and ask, "What news?"[275]

In the Parliament which passed the Grand Remonstrance there were sometimes as many as two hundred absentees. To remedy this evil it was proposed by Strode that any member who stayed away without leave should be fined £50, or expelled. This proposal, says D'Ewes, "was much debated, but laid aside."[276] Even those members who attended did so in a casual and perfunctory fashion, which proved a source of great inconvenience to colleagues who took their responsibilities more seriously. In order, therefore, to enforce punctuality, minor fines were inflicted, and in 1628 an order was made that any member who came in late for prayers must contribute 1s. to the poor box. The House met at seven or eight o'clock in the morning in those days; members therefore had some excuse for arriving late, and the system had to be temporarily abandoned in 1641, owing to the interruption of business resulting from the cries of "Pay! Pay!" with which unpunctual persons were greeted. "Scenes" would often take place when members arrived just as the clock was striking, and either refused to pay their shillings, or flung them angrily upon the floor for the Sergeant to pick up. Later on, when the House rose at midday, instead of in the afternoon, the regulation was revived. Speaker Lenthall himself was late on one occasion, much to the delight of the House, and, his attention being drawn to the fact, threw his shilling down on to the table with every sign of annoyance.

As late as the middle of the eighteenth century members did not allow their parliamentary duties to interfere with their social pleasures. Burke once complained because the Commons rose early in order to attend a fÊte-champÊtre given by Lady Stanley.[277] And in 1751 Horace Walpole told a friend that on the day appointed for the debate on the Naturalization Bill the House "adjourned to attend Drury Lane."[278]

From time to time attempts were made to secure the attendance of members by means of a "call of the House," of which due notice was given, members who failed to answer their names being punished. A "call" which was taken in October, 1647, resulted in the discovery that one hundred and fifty members were absent, and after a prolonged debate it was decided that they should be ordered to pay a fine of £20 each. This system has fallen into disuse, the last "call" taking place in 1836.[279] Five years before this date, however, on March 17, 1831, three members, including Lord F. L. Gower, who were not in their places when their names were called, were given into the custody of the Sergeant-at-Arms, and compelled to pay fines ranging from £8 to £10.[280]

A member who offends against any of the rules or orders of the House of Commons may be dealt with in several ways, either by being silenced, suspended, expelled, or committed to prison. If any member indulges in irrelevance or tedious repetition the Speaker can call upon him to discontinue his speech. Should the offence against order be more serious the Speaker may either order the offender to withdraw from the House or may "name" him, whereupon, on the motion of the Leader of the House, he is suspended from its service. The practice of "naming" originated in 1841, when Speaker Lenthall, after trying in vain to silence certain noisy members who were chatting together under the gallery, called upon Sir W. Carnabie by name. In former days little unpleasantness seems to have attached to the process of "naming," and when Speaker Onslow was asked what the result would be of "naming" a refractory member he could but answer, "Heaven only knows!"[281]

To-day a Speaker may order any member whose conduct is unruly to withdraw from the House for the remainder of the sitting. By a Standing Order any member wilfully abusing the regulations of the House can be "named" by the Chairman or Speaker, and suspended until the end of the session, unless the House decides to re-admit him sooner. When a member is "named," the Sergeant-at-Arms escorts him from the precincts of the chamber, and he is seen off the premises by the police. Should he decline to obey the Sergeant's invitation to accompany him beyond the bar, a couple of elderly attendants step forward and prepare to expedite his progress towards the door. If force has to be used in order to make a member withdraw, his suspension lasts unquestionably until the end of the session.

The punishment of suspension had not been used for two hundred years when it was revived in 1877. Immediately following the extraordinary scenes of obstruction which gave rise to Speaker Brand's resolute action, a wholesale suspension of Irish members took place. On February 3, 1881, Parnell and more than a score of his colleagues were named and suspended for refusing either to take part in a division or to withdraw from the House. When the "closure" was applied for the first time in February, 1885, a scene of uproar ensued, as a result of which Mr. O'Brien was suspended, and in March, 1901, as already mentioned, twelve Irish members who declined to leave their places for a division were forcibly removed by the Sergeant-at-Arms and police, and subsequently suspended.

Committal to the custody of the Sergeant-at-Arms is nowadays an uncommon parliamentary punishment, Bradlaugh being one of the last members to be confined in the Clock Tower.[282] Both Houses, however, have the legal right of imprisoning (at Holloway or elsewhere) any British subjects who offend against their privileges.

Expulsion from the House of Commons is, perhaps, the direst penalty that can be inflicted upon a member. In 1714, Lord Cochrane and Steele the essayist were both expelled—the one for spreading false reports on the Stock Exchange, the other for publishing "The Crisis," a pamphlet antagonistic in tone to the Government. Some fifty years later Wilkes, who had been prosecuted for his articles in the "North Briton," was also expelled from the House. The voters of Middlesex at once re-elected him, but Parliament declared his opponent, the defeated candidate, to be duly elected. In 1782, however, the resolution against Wilkes was erased from the journals of the House. At the time of the South Sea Bubble a number of members were turned out for fraud. Since then, however, the list of expulsions has dwindled, until to-day such a thing would be considered a rare and unique occurrence. Though expulsion does not preclude re-election, a grave moral stigma attaches to the penalty, and a modern member who incurred it would find but little consolation in the reflection that he shared this invidious distinction with men of no less eminence than Steele and Walpole.