The Serjeant-at-Arms brings his prisoner to the House of Commons. A brass rod is pulled out from the receptacle in which it is telescoped at the Bar, and stretched across the line which marks the technical boundary of the Chamber. The fixing of that glittering rod is almost as fearfully thrilling as the putting on of the black cap by the Judge to impose the sentence of death, and I have seen both spectacles. Behind the rod stands the prisoner. To his right is the Serjeant-at-Arms, carrying the glittering Mace on his shoulder. At the other end of the Chamber, standing on the dais of the Chair, is Mr. Speaker in his flowing silk gown, his face sternly set under his huge wig—an awful figure indeed—delivering in the weightiest words he can command, amid the dramatic hush of the crowded Chamber, the sentence or reprimand of the House on the scorner or violator of its ancient privileges. On such occasions, the Mace being off the table, no Member can address the House. It would be out of order for a Member to put a question direct to the prisoner at the Bar. If therefore a Member desires to put such a question he must write it down and submit it to the Speaker, who alone has then the right of speech. In former times the prisoner at the Bar was compelled to kneel down while the Speaker delivered the sentence or censure of the House. In February 1751 a Scottish gentleman named Alexander Murray (brother of the Master of Elibank), having, in the course of a contested election at Westminster, under the very shadow of the House, spoken disrespectfully of the authority of that august assembly, was brought to the Bar in custody. But so unimpressed was he by the crowded benches, by Mr. Speaker Onslow in wig and gown, by the Serjeant-at-Arms with the Mace on his shoulder, that he flatly declined to kneel, though the Speaker sternly roared at him, “Your obeisance, sir! You forget yourself! On your knees, sir!” “Sir,” said Murray, “I beg to be excused; I never kneel but to God.” “On your knees, sir!” again cried the Speaker. “Your obeisance—you must kneel.” But down on his knees Murray stoutly declined to go. “That,” said he, “is an attitude of humbleness which I adopt only when I confess my sins to the Almighty.” The House declared that this obstinacy aggravated his original offence. “Having in a most insolent, audacious manner, at the Bar of the House, absolutely refused to go upon his knees,” so ran the resolution of the House, “he is guilty of a high and most dangerous contempt of the authority and privileges of this House.” Murray was committed to Newgate, and so close was his confinement that he was denied the visits of friends and the use of pen, ink and paper. Committal to prison by Parliament lapses, as I have said, at the end of the session. That being so, when Parliament was prorogued the doors of Murray’s prison had to be flung open. The House of Commons, however, was not satisfied that three or four months’ incarceration had adequately purged the