ever existed. With few talents, and fewer virtues, he acquired and
preserved in one of the most trying situations, and in spite of all
opposition, the highest reputation for the possession of every moral
excellence, and as having carried the attainments of eloquence and
wisdom as far as human abilities could go. This he did (strange as it
appears) by a negation (together with the common virtues) of the common
vices of human nature, and by the complete negation of every other
talent that might interfere with the only one which he possessed in a
supreme degree, and which indeed may be made to include the appearance
of all others--an artful use of words, and a certain dexterity of
logical arrangement. In these alone his power consisted; and the defect
of all other qualities which usually constitute greatness, contributed
to the more complete success of these. Having no strong feelings, no
distinct perceptions, his mind having no link as it were, to connect it
with the world of external nature, every subject presented to him
nothing more than a _tabula rasa_, on which he was at liberty to lay
whatever colouring of language he pleased; having no general
principles, no comprehensive views of things, no moral habits of
thinking, no system of action, there was nothing to hinder him from
pursuing any particular purpose, by any means that offered; having
never any plan, he could not be convicted of inconsistency, and his own
pride and obstinacy were the only rules of his conduct. Having no
insight into human nature, no sympathy with the passions of men, or
apprehension of their real designs, he seemed perfectly insensible to
the consequences of things, and would believe nothing till it actually
happened. The fog and haze in which he saw everything communicated
itself to others; and the total indistinctness and uncertainty of his
own ideas tended to confound the perceptions of his hearers more
effectually, than the most ingenious misrepresentation could have done.
Indeed, in defending his conduct he never seemed to consider himself as
at all responsible for the success of his measures, or to suppose that
future events were in our own power; but that as the best-laid schemes
might fail, and there was no providing against all possible
contingencies, this was a sufficient excuse for our plunging at once
into any dangerous or absurd enterprise, without the least regard to
consequences. His reserved logic confined itself solely to the
_possible_ and the _impossible_; and he appeared to regard the
_probable_ and _improbable_, the only foundation of moral prudence or
political wisdom, as beneath the notice of a profound statesman; as if
the pride of the human intellect were concerned in never entrusting
itself with subjects, where it may be compelled to acknowledge its
weakness.[13] From his manner of reasoning, he seemed not to have
believed that the truth of his statements depended on the reality of
the facts, but that the things depended on the order in which he
arranged them in words: you would not suppose him to be agitating a
serious question which had real grounds to go upon, but to be
declaiming upon an imaginary thesis, proposed as an exercise in the
schools. He never set himself to examine the force of the objections
that were brought against his measures, or attempted to establish these
upon clear, solid grounds of his own; but constantly contented himself
with first gravely stating the logical form, or dilemma, to which the
question reduced itself, and then, after having declared his opinion,
proceeded to amuse his hearers by a series of rhetorical commonplaces,
connected together in grave, sonorous, and elaborately, constructed
periods, without ever showing their real application to the subject in
dispute. Thus, if any member of the Opposition disapproved of any
measure, and enforced his objections by pointing out the many evils
with which it was fraught, or the difficulties attending its execution,
his only answer was, 'That it was true there might be inconveniences
attending the measure proposed, but we were to remember, that every
expedient that could be devised might be said to be nothing more than a
choice of difficulties, and that all that human prudence could do was
to consider on which side the advantages lay; that for his part, he
conceived that the present measure was attended with more advantages
and fewer disadvantages than any other that could be adopted; that if
we were diverted from our object by every appearance of difficulty, the
wheels of government would be clogged by endless delays and imaginary
grievances; that most of the objections made to the measure appeared to
him to be trivial, others of them unfounded and improbable; or that if
a scheme free from all these objections could be proposed, it might
after all prove inefficient; while, in the meantime, a material object
remained unprovided for, or the opportunity of action was lost.' This
mode of reasoning is admirably described by Hobbes, in speaking of the
writings of some of the Schoolmen, of whom he says, that 'They had
learned the trick of imposing what they list upon their readers, and
declining the force of true reason by verbal forks: that is,
distinctions which signify nothing, but serve only to astonish the
multitude of ignorant men.' That what I have here stated comprehends
the whole force of his mind, which consisted solely in this evasive
dexterity and perplexing formality, assisted by a copiousness of words
and commonplace topics, will, I think, be evident in any one who
carefully looks over his speeches, undazzled by the reputation or
personal influence of the speaker. It will be in vain to look in them
for any of the common proofs of human genius or wisdom. He has not left
behind him a single memorable saying--not one profound maxim--one solid
observation--one forcible description--one beautiful thought--one
humorous picture--one affecting sentiment.[14] He has made no addition
whatever to the stock of human knowledge. He did not possess any one of
those faculties which contribute to the instruction and delight of
mankind--depth of understanding, imagination, sensibility, wit,
vivacity, clear and solid judgment. But it may be asked, If these
qualities are not to be found in him, where are we to look for them?
And I may be required to point out instances of them. I shall answer,
then, that he had none of the profound legislative wisdom, piercing
sagacity, or rich, impetuous, high-wrought imagination of Burke; the
manly eloquence, strong sense, exact knowledge, vehemence, and natural
simplicity of Fox: the ease, brilliancy, and acuteness of Sheridan. It
is not merely that he had not all these qualities in the degree that
they were severally possessed by his rivals, but he had not any of them
in any striking degree. His reasoning is a technical arrangement of
unmeaning commonplaces; his eloquence merely rhetorical; his style
monotonous and artificial. If he could pretend to any one excellence in
an eminent degree, it was to taste in composition. There is certainly
nothing low, nothing puerile, nothing far-fetched or abrupt in his
speeches; there is a kind of faultless regularity pervading them
throughout; but in the confined, mechanical, passive mode of eloquence
which he adopted, it seemed rather more difficult to commit errors than
to avoid them. A man who is determined never to move out of the beaten
road, cannot lose his way. However, habit, joined to the peculiar
mechanical memory which he possessed, carried this correctness to a
degree which, in an extemporaneous speaker, was almost miraculous; he
perhaps hardly ever uttered a sentence that was not perfectly regular
and connected. In this respect he not only had the advantage over his
own contemporaries, but perhaps no one that ever lived equalled him in
this singular faculty. But for this, he would always have passed for a
common man; and to this the constant sameness, and, if I may so say,
vulgarity of his ideas, must have contributed not a little, as there
was nothing to distract his mind from this one object of his
unintermitted attention; and as even in his choice of words he never
aimed at anything more than a certain general propriety, and stately
uniformity of style. His talents were exactly fitted for the situation
in which he was placed; where it was his business, not to overcome
others, but to avoid being overcome. He was able to baffle opposition,
not from strength or firmness, but from the evasive ambiguity and
impalpable nature of his resistance, which gave no hold to the rude
grasp of his opponents: no force could bind the loose phantom, and his
mind (though 'not matchless, and his pride humbled by such rebuke'),
soon rose from defeat unhurt,
'And in its liquid texture mortal wound
Receiv'd no more than can the fluid air.'[15]
1806.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] One instance may serve as an example for all the rest:--When Mr.
Fox last summer (1805) predicted the failure of the new confederacy
against France, from a consideration of the circumstances and relative
situation of both parties, that is, from an exact knowledge of the
actual state of things, Mr. Pitt contented himself with
answering--and, as in the blindness of his infatuation, he seemed to
think quite satisfactorily--'That he could not assent to the
honourable gentleman's reasoning, for that it went to this, that we
were never to attempt to mend the situation of our affairs, because in
so doing we might possibly make them worse.' No; it was not on account
of this abstract possibility in human affairs, or because we were not
absolutely sure of succeeding (for that any child might know), but
because it was in the highest degree probable, or _morally_ certain,
that the scheme would fail, and leave us in a worse situation than we
were before, that Mr. Fox disapproved of the attempt. There is in this
a degree of weakness and imbecility, a defect of understanding
bordering on idiotism, a fundamental ignorance of the first principles
of human reason and prudence, that in a great minister is utterly
astonishing, and almost incredible. Nothing could ever drive him out
of his dull forms, and naked generalities; which, as they are
susceptible neither of degree nor variation, are therefore equally
applicable to every emergency that can happen: and in the most
critical aspect of affairs, he saw nothing but the same flimsy web of
remote possibilities and metaphysical uncertainty. In his mind the
wholesome pulp of practical wisdom and salutary advice was immediately
converted into the dry chaff and husks of a miserable logic.
[14] I do remember one passage which has some meaning in it. At the
time of the Regency Bill, speaking of the proposal to take the king's
servants from him, he says, 'What must that great personage feel when
he waked from the trance of his faculties, and asked for his
attendants, if he were told that his subjects had taken advantage of
his momentary absence of mind, and stripped him of the symbols of his
personal elevation.' There is some grandeur in this. His admirers
should have it inscribed in letters of gold; for they will not find
another instance of the same kind.
[15] I will only add, that it is the property of true genius to force
the admiration even of enemies. No one was ever hated or envied for
his powers of mind, if others were convinced of their real excellence.
The jealousy and uneasiness produced in the mind by the display of
superior talents almost always arises from a suspicion that there is
some trick or deception in the case, and that we are imposed on by an
appearance of what is not really there. True warmth and vigour
communicate warmth and vigour; and we are no longer inclined to
dispute the inspiration of the oracle, when we feel the '_presens
Divus_' in our own bosoms. But when, without gaining any new light or
heat, we only find our ideas thrown into perplexity and confusion by
an art that we cannot comprehend, this is a kind of superiority which
must always be painful, and can be cordially admitted. For this reason
the extraordinary talents of Mr. Pitt were always viewed, except by
those of his own party, with a sort of jealousy, and _grudgingly_
acknowledged; while those of his rivals were admitted by all parties
in the most unreserved manner, and carried by acclamation.
ESSAY XV
ON THE CHARACTER OF LORD CHATHAM
Lord Chatham's genius burnt brightest at the last. The spark of
liberty, which had lain concealed and dormant, buried under the dirt
and rubbish of state intrigue and vulgar faction, now met with
congenial matter, and kindled up 'a flame of sacred vehemence' in his
breast. It burst forth with a fury and a splendour that might have
awed the world, and made kings tremble. He spoke as a man should
speak, because he felt as a man should feel, in such circumstances. He
came forward as the advocate of liberty, as the defender of the rights
of his fellow-citizens, as the enemy of tyranny, as the friend of his
country, and of mankind. He did not stand up to make a vain display of
his talents, but to discharge a duty, to maintain that cause which lay
nearest to his heart, to preserve the ark of the British constitution
from every sacrilegious touch, as the high-priest of his calling, with
a pious zeal. The feelings and the rights of Englishmen were enshrined
in his heart; and with their united force braced every nerve,
possessed every faculty, and communicated warmth and vital energy to
every part of his being. The whole man moved under this impulse. He
felt the cause of liberty as his own. He resented every injury done to
her as an injury to himself, and every attempt to defend it as an
insult upon his understanding. He did not stay to dispute about words,
about nice distinctions, about trifling forms. Be laughed at the
little attempts of little retailers of logic to entangle him in
senseless argument. He did not come there as to a debating club, or
law court, to start questions and hunt them down; to wind and unwind
the web of sophistry; to pick out the threads, and untie every knot
with scrupulous exactness; to bandy logic with every pretender to a
paradox; to examine, to sift evidence; to dissect a doubt and halve a
scruple; to weigh folly and knavery in scales together, and see on
which side the balance preponderated; to prove that liberty, truth,
virtue, and justice were good things, or that slavery and corruption
were bad things. He did not try to prove those truths which did not
require any proof, but to make others feel them with the same force
that he did; and to tear off the flimsy disguises with which the
sycophants of power attempted to cover them. The business of an orator
is not to convince, but persuade; not to inform, but to rouse the
mind; to build upon the habitual prejudices of mankind (for reason of
itself will do nothing), and to add feeling to prejudice, and action
to feeling. There is nothing new or curious or profound in Lord
Chatham's speeches. All is obvious and common; there is nothing but
what we already knew, or might have found out for ourselves. We see
nothing but the familiar everyday face of nature. We are always in
broad daylight. But then there is the same difference between our own
conceptions of things and his representation of them, as there is
between the same objects seen on a dull cloudy day or in the blaze of
sunshine. His common sense has the effect of inspiration. He
electrifies his hearers, not by the novelty of his ideas, but by their
force and intensity. He has the same ideas as other men, but he has
them in a thousand times greater clearness and strength and vividness.
Perhaps there is no man so poorly furnished with thoughts and feelings
but that if he could recollect all that he knew, and had all his ideas
at perfect command, he would be able to confound the puny arts of the
most dexterous sophist that pretended to make a dupe of his
understanding. But in the mind of Chatham, the great substantial
truths of common sense, the leading maxims of the Constitution, the
real interests and general feelings of mankind were in a manner
embodied. He comprehended the whole of his subject at a single
glance--everything was firmly riveted to its place; there was no
feebleness, no forgetfulness, no pause, no distraction; the ardour of
his mind overcame every obstacle, and he crushed the objections of his
adversaries as we crush an insect under our feet. His imagination was
of the same character with his understanding, and was under the same
guidance. Whenever he gave way to it, it 'flew an eagle flight, forth
and right on'; but it did not become enamoured of its own emotion,
wantoning in giddy circles, or 'sailing with supreme dominion through
the azure deep of air.' It never forgot its errand, but went straight
forward, like an arrow to its mark, with an unerring aim. It was his
servant, not his master.
To be a great orator does not require the highest faculties of the
human mind, but it requires the highest exertion of the common
faculties of our nature. He has no occasion to dive into the depths of
science, or to soar aloft on angels' wings. He keeps upon the surface,
he stands firm upon the ground, but his form is majestic, and his eye
sees far and near: he moves among his fellows, but he moves among them
as a giant among common men. He has no need to read the heavens, to
unfold the system of the universe, or create new worlds for the
delighted fancy to dwell in; it is enough that he see things as they
are; that he knows and feels and remembers the common circumstances
and daily transactions that are passing in the world around him. He is
not raised above others by being superior to the common interests,
prejudices, and passions of mankind, but by feeling them in a more
intense degree than they do. Force, then, is the sole characteristic
excellence of an orator; it is almost the only one that can be of any
service to him. Refinement, depth, elevation, delicacy, originality,
ingenuity, invention, are not wanted; he must appeal to the sympathies
of human nature, and whatever is not founded in these, is foreign to
his purpose. He does not create, he can only imitate or echo back the
public sentiment. His object is to call up the feelings of the human
breast; but he cannot call up what is not already there. The first
duty of an orator is to be understood by every one; but it is evident
that what all can understand, is not in itself difficult of
comprehension. He cannot add anything to the materials afforded him by
the knowledge and experience of others.
Lord Chatham, in his speeches, was neither philosopher nor poet. As to
the latter, the difference between poetry and eloquence I take to be
this: that the object of the one is to delight the imagination, that
of the other to impel the will. The one ought to enrich and feed the
mind itself with tenderness and beauty, the other furnishes it with
motives of action. The one seeks to give immediate pleasure, to make
the mind dwell with rapture on its own workings--it is to itself 'both
end and use': the other endeavours to call up such images as will
produce the strongest effect upon the mind, and makes use of the
passions only as instruments to attain a particular purpose. The poet
lulls and soothes the mind into a forgetfulness of itself, and 'laps
it in Elysium': the orator strives to awaken it to a sense of its real
interests, and to make it feel the necessity of taking the most
effectual means for securing them. The one dwells in an ideal world;
the other is only conversant with realities. Hence poetry must be more
ornamented, must be richer and fuller and more delicate, because it is
at liberty to select whatever images are naturally most beautiful, and
likely to give most pleasure; whereas the orator is confined to
particular facts, which he may adorn as well as he can, and make the
most of, but which he cannot strain beyond a certain point without
running into extravagance and affectation, and losing his end.
However, from the very nature of the case, the orator is allowed a
greater latitude, and is compelled to make use of harsher and more
abrupt combinations in the decoration of his subject; for his art is
an attempt to reconcile beauty and deformity together: on the
contrary, the materials of poetry, which are chosen at pleasure, are
in themselves beautiful, and naturally combine with whatever else is
beautiful. Grace and harmony are therefore essential to poetry,
because they naturally arise out of the subject; but whatever adds to
the effect, whatever tends to strengthen the idea or give energy to
the mind, is of the nature of eloquence. The orator is only concerned
to give a tone of masculine firmness to the will, to brace the sinews
and muscles of the mind; not to delight our nervous sensibilities, or
soften the mind into voluptuous indolence. The flowery and sentimental
style is of all others the most intolerable in a speaker.--I shall
only add on this subject, that modesty, impartiality, and candour, are
not the virtues of a public speaker. He must be confident, inflexible,
uncontrollable, overcoming all opposition by his ardour and
impetuosity. We do not _command_ others by sympathy with them, but by
power, by passion, by will. Calm inquiry, sober truth, and speculative
indifference will never carry any point. The passions are contagious;
and we cannot contend against opposite passions with nothing but naked
reason. Concessions to an enemy are clear loss; he will take advantage
of them, but make us none in return. He will magnify the weak sides of
our argument, but will be blind to whatever makes against himself. The
multitude will always be inclined to side with that party whose
passions are the most inflamed, and whose prejudices are the most
inveterate. Passion should therefore never be sacrificed to punctilio.
It should indeed be governed by prudence, but it should itself govern
and lend its impulse and direction to abstract reason. Fox was a
reasoner, Lord Chatham was an orator. Burke was both a reasoner and a
poet; and was therefore still farther removed from that conformity
with the vulgar notions and mechanical feelings of mankind, which will
always be necessary to give a man the chief sway in a popular
assembly.
1806.
ESSAY XVI
BELIEF, WHETHER VOLUNTARY?
'Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.'