PARLIAMENTARY ELOQUENCE
When Pitt was asked what he considered most to be lamented, the lost
books of Livy, or those of Tacitus, he replied that to the recovery of
either of these he would prefer that of a speech by Bolingbroke. Not a
fragment of what Dean Swift called the "invincible eloquence" of that
statesman is left to us. But though we are compelled to take his
reputation as an orator on trust, we should do wrong to complain, for
it is more than probable that a perusal of Bolingbroke's speeches
to-day would prove disappointing.
"Words that breathed fire are ashes on the page," and the utterances
that have stirred a thousand hearts in the Senates of old days too
often leave the modern reader cold and unmoved. We miss the
inflections of a magical voice, the stimulating plaudits of friends or
followers, the magnetism that can only be communicated by a personal
intercourse between a speaker and his audience. The reading of old
speeches is, as Lord Rosebery has observed, a dreary and reluctant
pilgrimage which few willingly undertake. It supplies, as a rule, but
a poor explanation of the effect which the eloquence of past orators
produced upon their contemporaries. It is like attending an undress
rehearsal of a play in an empty theatre on a cold winter's afternoon.
The glamour of costume, of limelight, is lacking; the atmosphere of
appreciation, excitement, enthusiasm, is absent. The difference
between the spoken and the published oration has been aptly defined as
the difference between some magnificent temple laid open to the
studious contemplation of a solitary visitant, and the same edifice
beheld amidst the fullest accompaniments of sacrificial movement and
splendour, thronged with adoring crowds, and resounding with solemn
harmonies.[315]
[315] "Quarterly Review," vol. xxii. p. 496.
It has often been affirmed that no speech in Parliament has ever
resulted in the winning of a division. Byron declared that "not Cicero
himself, nor probably the Messiah, could have altered the vote of a
single lord of the Bedchamber or Bishop."[316] There are, however, one
or two instances of orations which have been so moving in their appeal
that they may claim to be exceptions to this rule. Plunket's famous
speech in the debate on Grattan's motion for Catholic Emancipation in
1807 is said to have gained many votes. Macaulay won the support of
several opponents by an eloquent speech on the second reading of Lord
Mahon's Copyright Bill in 1842, and, on a Bill introduced by Lord
Hotham to exclude certain persons holding offices from the House of
Commons, actually caused the anticipated majority to be reversed.
[316] Moore's "Life of Byron," 185.
On one memorable occasion when Sheridan, with that impassioned oratory
for which he had already become famous, was advocating the prosecution
of Warren Hastings, the House of Commons was so stirred that a motion
for adjournment was made in order to give members time to recover from
the overpowering effect of his eloquence.[317] Again, during the
debate on Commercial Distress in December, 1847, Peel roused the fury
of the Protectionists by a violent and able speech, and, when he
resumed his seat, an adjournment was moved on the ground that the
House was not in a condition to vote dispassionately. Burke, too,
seems at times to have stimulated his hearers to an active expression
of their emotion; and when he was lamenting the employment of Indians
in the American War, a fellow-member was so moved that he offered to
nail a copy of his speech upon the door of every church in the
kingdom.[318]
[317] Barnes' "Reminiscences," p. 203.
[318] Prior's "Life of Burke," vol. i. p. 337.
Yet the speeches of Burke and Sheridan do not affect us to-day with
anything but a mild enthusiasm, chiefly founded upon our admiration of
their literary excellence. We remain comparatively indifferent to
their appeal; our hearts beat no faster as we read.
Sheridan's two orations on the subject of Warren Hastings'
impeachment--the one delivered in the House of Commons on February 7,
1787, and the other in Westminster Hall during the trial--have been
considered among the very finest ever made in Parliament. It was after
the first of these, which lasted for five hours, that the House
adjourned to enable members to survey the question calmly, freed from
the spell of the enchanter. Sheridan's style, according to Burke, was
"something between poetry and prose, and better than either."[319]
Even the fastidious Byron declared him to be the only speaker he ever
wished to hear at greater length. He was offered £1000 by a publisher
for his great "Begum Speech," if he would but consent to correct the
proofs; but for long he refused. Eventually he agreed to its
publication, but by that time popular interest had subsided.[320] As
much as fifty guineas was paid for a seat to hear his speech at the
trial of Hastings, when, as Ben Jonson wrote of Bacon, "the fear of
every man that heard him was lest he should make an end."[321]
[319] Moore's "Life of Sheridan," vol. i. p. 523.
[320] He never received the promised £1000. (See Harrington's
"Personal Sketches of His Own Times," vol. i. p. 429.)
[321] "Cornwallis Papers," vol. i. p. 364 n.
The speeches of Burke, whom Macaulay has described as the greatest man
since Milton, are perhaps the most suitable for perusal of any ever
delivered in Parliament. They read better than they sounded as
delivered; they are rather pamphlets than orations. Burke himself was
deficient in many of the qualities of an orator. His voice was harsh
and his gestures ungainly. He never consulted the prejudices of his
audience. His lapses from good taste were frequent, and among his most
splendid passages may be found occasional coarse and vulgar epithets
and expressions. Yet so great was his eloquence, so marvellous his
oratorical powers, that Byron has included him with Pitt and Fox among
the "wondrous three whose words were sparks of immortality." And the
florid Dr. Parr can scarcely find words sufficiently eulogistic to
sing his praises.[322]
[322] "Burke ... By whose sweetness Athens herself would have been
soothed, with whose amplitude and exuberance she would have been
enraptured, and on whose lips that prolific mother of genius and
science would have adored, confessed, the Goddess of Persuasion."
Prior's "Burke," p. 484.
[Illustration: EDMUND BURKE
FROM AN ENGRAVING BY J. WATSON AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR J. REYNOLDS]
In the seventeenth century parliamentary attendance and eloquence were
equally poor. Not only did many members speak indifferently; at times
there would be long intervals of silence when members did not speak at
all. "A pause for two or three minutes," ... "The House sat looking at
each other,"[323] are some of the entries in the reports which must
strike the modern mind, accustomed to the present House of Commons, as
peculiar. Steele described the House of his day as being composed of
silent people oppressed by the choice of a great deal to say, and of
eloquent people ignorant that what they said was nothing to the
purpose.[324]
[323] Townsend's "History of the House of Commons," vol. ii. p. 427.
[324] Forster's "Biographical Essays," vol. ii. p. 197.
It was not until the Georgian age that parliamentary oratory reached
its heyday. Then, too, speeches began to lengthen, and by the time
Lord North became Prime Minister it was not unusual for a member to
address the House for two or three hours on end. Lord Brougham once
spoke for six hours on the amendment of the law. Even in Walpole's day
occasional prolixity was not unknown. One Hutcheson, member for
Hastings, when the Septennial Bill of 1716 was under discussion, made
a speech of which the summary fills more than twenty-five pages of the
Parliamentary History.[325] Again, when David Hartley, a notorious
bore, rose to speak one day, Walpole went home, changed his clothes,
rode to Hampstead, returned, changed once more, and came back to
the House to find this tiresome member still upon his legs.[326]
[325] Vol. vii. pp. 339-367.
[326] Pryme's "Recollections," p. 218 n.
Chatham was the first statesman to make a habit of delivering long
speeches. The practice was never popular, and has now fallen into
desuetude. The rising to his feet of a tedious member has ever been
the signal for the House to clear as though by magic. Sergeant Hewitt,
member for Coventry in 1761, was a well-known parliamentary emetic.
"Is the House up?" asked a friend of Charles Townshend, seeing the
latter leaving St. Stephen's Chapel. "No," replied Townshend, "but
Hewitt is!"[327] The departure of his audience is, however, a hint to
which the habitual bore is generally impervious. A dull and lengthy
speaker, addressing empty benches in the House of Commons, whispered
to a friend that the absence of members did not affect him, as he was
speaking to posterity. "If you go on at this rate," was the unkind
reply, "you'll see your audience before you!"[328]
[327] O'Flanaghan's "Lives of the Irish Chancellors," vol. ii. p. 128.
[328] Townsend's "House of Commons," vol. ii. p. 394.
When Gladstone brought in his first Budget in 1853 he spoke for five
hours. He had been advised by Sir Robert Peel to be long and diffuse,
rather than short and concise, seeing that the House of Commons was
composed of men of such various ways of thinking, and it was important
to put his case from many different points of view so as to appeal to
the idiosyncrasies of each.[329] In the days of his Premiership,
however, Gladstone's speeches were considerably shortened, and even
the introduction of so momentous and intricate a measure as the Home
Rule Bill of 1886 was accomplished in three and a half hours. Lengthy
speeches are no longer fashionable, though Mr. Biggar spoke for four
hours on a famous occasion in 1890, and Mr. Lloyd George occupied the
same time in unfolding the much-discussed Finance Bill of 1909.
[329] Morley's "Life of Gladstone," vol. i. p. 143.
Though the oratorical masterpieces of the past may, for the most part,
be dull reading, to the student or historian they must always prove
interesting and instructive, as revealing those peculiar qualities
which appeal to a parliamentary audience. They explain to a certain
extent what it is that a speech must possess in order to meet with the
approval of either House.
Parliament--and more especially the House of Commons--is no very
lenient critic; but it is a sound one. It pardons the faults of style
or manner due to inexperience; it tolerates homeliness that is the
outcome of sincerity. It has a keen eye for motives, and anything
pretentious or dishonest is an abomination to it. Matter is of far
greater importance than manner, and Parliament agrees with Sir Thomas
More that whereas "much folly is uttered with pointed polished speech,
so many, boisterous and rude in language, see deep indeed, and give
right substantial counsel."[330] Sincerity, in fact, has far more
influence in the House of Commons than either brilliancy or wit, and
any attempt at platform heroics is certain to fail. There is nothing
the House is so fond of, Sheil used to say, as facts.[331] There is
nothing it so much resents, we might now add, as violations of good
taste. This fastidiousness is no doubt of modern growth, for we find
Burke's coarseness readily condoned, and Sheil himself lapsing into
occasional vulgarity.[332]
[330] Roper's "Life of More," p. 16.
[331] MacCullagh's "Memoirs of Sheil," vol. ii. p. 99.
[332] Speaking on Church reform, Sheil once said that when this was
effected, "the bloated paunch of the unwieldy rector would no longer
heave in holy magnitude beside the shrinking abdomen of the starving
and miserably prolific curate." Francis's "Orators," p. 274.
Like all assemblies of human beings, Parliament has always welcomed an
opportunity for laughter. In the House of Commons the poorest joke
creates amusement; the man who sits upon his hat at once becomes a
popular favourite; a "bull" is ever acceptable. When Sheridan, in
1840, attacked another member, saying, "There he stands, Mr. Speaker,
like a crocodile, with his hands in his pockets, shedding false
tears!" the House rocked with laughter.[333] Yet the phrase did not
originate with Sheridan, but was one of the many "bulls" that had been
coined by that prince of bull-makers, Sir Boyle Roche. It was Roche
who declared that he could not be in two places at once "like a bird";
who attempted to "shunt a question by a side-wind"; and announced that
he was prepared to sacrifice not merely a part but the whole of the
Constitution to preserve the remainder! "What, Mr. Speaker!" he
inquired on a famous occasion in the Irish House of Commons, "are we
to beggar ourselves for fear of vexing posterity? Now, I would ask the
honourable gentleman, and this _still more_ honourable House, why we
should put ourselves out of our way to do anything for _posterity_;
for what has posterity done for us?"[334]
[333] Raikes's "Journal," vol. ii. p. 256.
[334] Barrington's "Personal Sketches," vol. i. p. 213. (Curran once
made a happy retort to Roche. "Do not speak of my honour," said the
latter, "I am the guardian of my own honour." "Faith!" answered
Curran, "I knew that at some time or other you would accept a
sinecure." Philips's "Life of Curran," p. 59.)
"The House loves good sense and joking, and nothing else," said Sir T.
F. Buxton, in 1819; "and the object of its utter aversion is that
species of eloquence which may be called Philippian."[335]
Sentimentality of any kind is rarely tolerated in Parliament, as may
be seen by the indifference with which Burke's dagger and Lord
Brougham's melodramatic prayer were greeted. When Bright, during the
Crimean War, delivered himself of that famous phrase, "The Angel of
Death has been abroad throughout the land; you may almost hear the
beating of its wings!" it was a question as to how members would take
so sentimental a simile. Had the speaker substituted the word
"flapping" for "beating," as Cobden afterwards observed to him, they
would have roared with laughter.
[335] "Memoirs," p. 89.
The House of Commons, as a writer has remarked, is a body without any
principles or prejudices, except against bores. "He who comes to it
with a good reputation has no better chance than he who besieges it
with a bad one. It rejects all pretensions it has not of itself
justified, and all fame it has not itself conferred."[336] It has,
indeed, always been remarkable for a great reluctance in confirming
reputations for oratory gained elsewhere. Wilkes could sway the
populace with his grandiloquent declamations, but failed ignominiously
in Parliament; Kenealy was refused a hearing. The chastening effect of
the Lower House is notorious, and many a conceited, self-opiniated
individual has found his level after a brief course of subjection to
what Sir James Mackintosh called the "curry-comb of the House of
Commons."[337]
[336] Whitty's "History of the Session" (1852-3), p. 7.
[337] "Journal," vol. i. p. 342.
Besides bores and demagogues, of which it is justly intolerant, the
House of Commons may at one time be said to have numbered lawyers
among its pet aversions. The latter are apt to lecture their
fellow-members as though they were addressing a jury, explaining the
most patent facts, and generally assuming a didactic air which the
House finds it difficult to brook.[338] This perhaps explains the
failure of such distinguished men as Lord Jeffrey and Sir James
Mackintosh, both eloquent lawyers who made little or no mark in
Parliament, and of many other "gentlemen of the long robe," as
Disraeli contemptuously called them.
[338] "Accustomed in their courts to consider every matter of equal
importance," says Barnes, "they adopt the same earnest and stiff
solemnity of manner, whether they are disputing about violated
morality or insulted liberty, or about a petty affray where a hat,
value one shilling, has been torn in a scuffle." "Parliamentary
Sketches," p. 79.
Speaking in Parliament is indeed a matter very different to addressing
an audience in the country, on the hustings, or in some local town
hall. The platitudes that evoke such enthusiasm when delivered from a
village platform fall very flat in either House. The chilling
atmosphere and sparse attendance of the Lords is not conducive to
feelings of self-confidence: the critical gaze of fellow-members in
the Commons is little calculated to alleviate a sudden paroxysm of
shyness.
The unknown parliamentary speaker is greeted with a respectful but
ominous silence when he rises to his feet. He misses the applause of
electors or tenantry to which he is accustomed in his constituency or
on his estate. He has no table on which to place his sheaf of notes;
there is no water-bottle at hand to moisten his parched lips or give
him a moment's pause when the stream of his eloquence runs temporarily
dry. He cannot choose the best moment for delivering his speech, but
must be content to take such opportunities as are afforded by
circumstances. In the House of Commons a member may have waited half
the night to catch the elusive eye of the Speaker--though a man who
wishes to make his maiden speech is usually accorded this
privilege--and, by the time his turn comes, most of his choicest and
brightest thoughts have already been anticipated by former speakers.
It is not, therefore, to be wondered at that many men find themselves
unequal to the task of passing successfully through this ordeal, and
that the maiden speech of a future statesman has often proved a
complete fiasco.
In 1601, we read of a Mr. Zachary Lock, a member who "began to speak,
who for very fear shook, so that he could not proceed, but stood still
awhile, and at length sat down."[339] This same experience has since
befallen many another politician. The bravest men become inarticulate
in similar circumstances. After the naval victory of June 1, 1794,
Vice-Admiral Sir Alan Gardiner received a vote of thanks from the
House of Commons, and, though he had taken the precaution of
fortifying himself with several bottles of Madeira, could scarcely
summon up courage to mumble a reply.[340] And in our own time we have
seen another gallant officer overcome with "House-fright" to such an
extent as to be unable to deliver the message which, in his official
capacity as Black Rod, he had brought to the Commons. John Bright
never rose in the House without what he called "a trembling of the
knees." Gladstone was always intensely nervous before a big speech.
Disraeli declared that he would rather lead a forlorn hope than face
the House of Commons.
[339] D'Ewes' "Journal," p. 666.
[340] "Life of Sidmouth," vol. i. p. 119.
[Illustration: RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN
FROM AN ENGRAVING BY J. HALL AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR J. REYNOLDS]
A good description of the sensations felt by a panic-stricken member
making his debut is given by Lord Guilford, son of Lord North, whose
appearance in the House was brief, if not exactly meteoric. "I brought
out two or three sentences," he says, "when a mist seemed to rise
before my eyes. I then lost my recollection, and could see nothing but
the Speaker's wig, which swelled and swelled and swelled till it
covered the whole House."[341]
[341] Harford's "Recollections of Wilberforce," p. 95. (Guilford
hastily resumed his seat, shortly afterwards applied for the Chiltern
Hundreds, and retired into comfortable obscurity.)
The failure of a first speech has not always been the presage of a
politician's future non-success. Addison broke down on the only
occasion on which he attempted to address the House, yet he reached
high office as Irish Secretary before he had been nine years in
Parliament.[342] Walpole's first speech was a complete failure, as
was, in a lesser degree, Canning's, though both were listened to in
silence. Even the silver-tongued Sheridan himself made a poor
impression upon the House with his earliest effort. After delivering
his maiden speech, he sought out his friend Woodfall, who had been
sitting in the gallery, and asked for a candid opinion. "I don't think
this is your line," said Woodfall. "You had much better have stuck to
your former pursuits." Sheridan pondered for a moment. "It is _in_
me," he said at length with conviction, "and, by God, it shall come
out!"[343] It certainly did.
[342] His first effort in the Irish House, in 1709, was singularly
abortive. "Mr. Speaker, I conceive----" he began. "Mr. Speaker, I
conceive----" he stammered out again. Shouts of "Hear! hear!"
encouraged him. "I conceive, Mr. Speaker----" he repeated, and then
collapsed. A cruel colleague at once rose and remarked that the hon.
gentleman had conceived three times and brought forth nothing!
O'Flanagan's "Irish Chancellors," vol. ii. p. 8.
[343] Moore's "Life of Sheridan," vol. i. p. 348.
Disraeli, as is well known, was not even listened to, and had to bring
his maiden speech to an abrupt end. "The time will come when you
_shall_ hear me!" he exclaimed prophetically as he resumed his seat.
Such treatment was, however, unusual, for though the House of Commons
is occasionally, as Pepys called it, a beast not to be understood, so
variable and uncertain are its moods, new members are commonly
accorded a patient and attentive hearing.
Sometimes a momentary breakdown has been retrieved under the stimulus
of encouraging cheers from the House, and an infelicitous beginning
has led to an eloquent peroration. Lord Ashley, afterwards Earl of
Shaftesbury, had prepared a speech on behalf of the Treason Bill of
1695, which enacted that all persons indicted for high treason should
have a copy of the indictment supplied to them and be allowed the
assistance of counsel. He was, however, so overcome with nervousness
on rising to his feet, that he could not proceed. Wittily recovering
himself, "If I, who rise only to give my opinion on the Bill now
depending, am so confounded that I am unable to express the least of
what I proposed to say," he observed, "what must be the condition of
that man who without any assistance is pleading for his life, and is
under apprehensions of being deprived of it?" He thus contrived to
turn his nervousness to good account. Again, when Steele was brought
to the bar for publishing "The Crisis," a young member, Lord Finch,
whose sister Steele had defended in the "Guardian" against a libel,
rose to make a maiden speech on behalf of his friend. After a few
confused sentences the youthful speaker broke down and was unable to
proceed. "Strange," he exclaimed, as he sat down in despair, "that I
cannot speak for this man, though I could readily fight for him!" This
remark elicited so much cheering that the member took heart, rose
once more, and made an able speech, which he subsequently followed up
with many another.[344]
[344] Forster's "Biographical Essays," vol. ii. p. 195.
Although early failure is no sure gauge of a politician's reputation
or worth, many a happy first speech has raised hopes that remained
eternally unfulfilled. In the eighteenth century James Erskine, Lord
Grange, made a brilliant maiden effort in the Commons and was much
applauded. But the House soon grew weary of his broad Scots accent,
and after hearing him patiently three or four times, gradually ceased
to listen to him altogether.[345] William Gerard Hamilton, secretary
to Lord Halifax (Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland), and afterwards Irish
Chancellor of the Exchequer, though not fulfilling Bolingbroke's
definition of eloquence,[346] earned the title of "single-speech
Hamilton" by one display of oratory which was never repeated.
[345] Dr. King's "Anecdotes of His Own Time," p. 114.
[346] "Eloquence," said Bolingbroke, "must flow like a stream that is
fed by an abundant spring, and not spout forth a little frothy water
on some gaudy day and remain dry the rest of the year."
It is customary for the parliamentary novice to crave the indulgence
of the House for such faults of manner or style as may be the result
of youth or inexperience. This modest attitude on the part of a
speaker inspires his audience favourably; they become infused with a
glow of conscious superiority which is most agreeable and inclines
them to listen with a kindly ear to the utterances of the budding
politician. Not always, however, is this humility expressed. William
Cobbett began his maiden speech on January 29, 1833, by remarking that
in the short period during which he had sat in the House he had heard
a great deal of vain and unprofitable conversation.[347] Hunt, the
Preston demagogue, showed his contempt for the Commons and his own
self-assurance by speaking six times on six different subjects on the
very first night of his introduction.[348] William Cowper, afterwards
Lord Chancellor, addressed the House three times on the day he took
his seat.
[347] Dalling's "Historical Characters," vol. ii. p. 175.
[348] Barrow's "Mirror of Parliament" (1830).
In the House of Lords, too, can be heard maiden speeches delivered in
many varying styles. One perhaps may be made by an ex-Cabinet
Minister, a distinguished member of Parliament recently promoted to
the Upper House, apologising in abject tones for his lack of
experience, and commending his humble efforts to the indulgence of his
audience. Another emanates from some youthful nobleman who has just
succeeded to a peerage, whose political experience has yet to be won,
and who addresses his peers in the didactic fashion of a headmaster
lecturing a form of rather unintelligent schoolboys. It is not so very
long ago that a young peer--who has since made the acquaintance of
most divisions of the Supreme Court, from the Bankruptcy to the
Divorce--astonished and entertained his colleagues by closing his
peroration with a fervent prayer that God might long spare him to
assist in their lordships' deliberations.
There is a golden mean between the two styles, the humble and the
haughty, which it is well for the embryo politician to cultivate
before he attempts to impress Parliament with his eloquence.
Oratory has been defined in many different ways by many different
writers. Lord Chesterfield and Dr. Johnson, respectively, described it
as the power of persuading people, or of beating down an adversary's
arguments and putting better ones in their place. The business of the
orator, according to Sir James Mackintosh, is to state plainly, to
reason calmly, to seem transported into vehemence by his feelings, and
roused into splendid imagery or description by his subject, but always
to return to fact and argument, as that on which alone he is earnestly
bent.[349] Gladstone, again, defined oratory as the speaker's power of
receiving from his audience in a vapour that which he pours back upon
them in a flood.
[349] Sir J. Mackintosh's "Memoirs," vol. ii p. 192.
Oratory is perhaps the gift of the gods, but skill in speaking is
undoubtedly an art that can be acquired by practice, if sought
diligently and with patience. Demosthenes gloried in the smell of the
lamp; Cicero learnt every speech by heart. The former would go down to
the seashore on a stormy day, fill his mouth with pebbles, and speak
loudly to the ocean, thus accustoming himself to the murmur of popular
assemblies; the latter on one occasion rehearsed a speech so
diligently that he had little strength left to deliver it on the
following day. The sight of a modern politician sitting on the pier at
Brighton delivering a marine address as intelligibly as a mouthful of
gravel would permit, is one that would only excite feelings of alarm
in the bosoms of his friends; the thought of a Cabinet Minister
fainting before his looking-glass, as the result of an excessive
rehearsal of his peroration, is more pathetic than practical. There
is, however, nothing to prevent a member of Parliament from practising
his elocution upon the trees of the forest, as Grattan did,[350] or
upon the House of Commons itself, and it is thus alone that he will
acquire proficiency in that art in which it is so desirable for the
statesman to excel. "It is absolutely necessary for you to speak in
Parliament," Lord Chesterfield wrote to his long-suffering son. "It
requires only a little human attention and no supernatural
gifts."[351]
[350] Grattan used to walk about the park at Windsor haranguing the
oaks in a loud voice. A passer-by once found him apostrophising an
empty gibbet. "How did you get down?" asked the stranger politely.
O'Flanagan, "Irish Chancellors," vol. ii. p. 416.
[351] Letters, vol. ii. pp. 328-9.
Charles James Fox resolved, when young, to speak at least once every
night in the House. During five whole sessions he held manfully to
this resolution, with the exception of one single evening--an
exception which he afterwards regretted. He thus became the most
brilliant debater that ever lived, "vehement in his elocution, ardent
in his language, prompt in his invention of argument, adroit in its
use."[352] He was, however, too impetuous to be as great an orator as
his rival Pitt, whose majestic eloquence was almost divine,[353] and
offended continually by the tautology of his diction and the constant
repetition of his arguments. The hesitation and lack of grace of his
delivery detracted greatly from the force of his speeches; the
keenness of his sabre, as Walpole said, was blunted by the difficulty
with which he drew it from the scabbard.[354] In a comparison of the
two statesmen, Flood calls Pitt's speeches "didactic declamations,"
and those of Fox "argumentative conversations."[355]
[352] "Lord Colchester's Diary," vol. i. p. 23.
[353] "Pitt spoke like ten thousand angels," wrote Richard Grenville
to George Grenville in November, 1742 ("Grenville Papers," vol. i. p.
19).
[354] "Memoirs," vol. i. p. 490.
[355] Prior's "Life of Malone," p. 361.
It was said that it required great mental exertion to follow Fox while
he was speaking, but none to remember what he had said; but that it
was easy to follow Pitt, but hard to remember what there was in his
speech that had pleased one. The difference between the two men was
the difference between the orator and the debater. It resulted largely
from the fact that the one gave much time to the preparation of his
speeches, while the other relied upon the inspiration of the moment.
Pitt, as Porson says, carefully considered his sentences before he
uttered them; Fox threw himself into the middle of his, "and left it
to God Almighty to get him out again."[356] If the former was the more
dignified as a speaker, the latter scored by being always so terribly
in earnest. Grattan, who affirmed that Pitt's eloquence marked an era
in the senate, that it resembled "sometimes the thunder, and sometimes
the music, of the spheres," and admitted that Pitt was right nine
times for once that Fox was right, declared that that once of Fox was
worth all the other nine times of Pitt.[357]
[356] Samuel Roger's "Recollections," p. 80.
[357] "Memoirs of Thomas Moore," vol. iv. p. 215. (Francis Howard
compared Pitt's eloquence to Handel's music, see "Memoirs of Francis
Howard," vol. i. p. 149.)
No doubt the Parliament of those days was not so critical a body as it
has since become. Lord Chesterfield, at least, held it in the
profoundest contempt. "When I first came into the House of Commons,"
he says, "I respected that assembly as a venerable one; and felt a
certain awe upon me; but, upon better acquaintance, that awe soon
vanished; and I discovered that, of the five hundred and sixty, not
above thirty could understand reason, and that all the rest were
_peuple_; that those thirty only required plain common-sense, dressed
up in good language; and that all the others only required flowing and
harmonious periods, whether they conveyed any meaning or not; having
ears to hear, but not sense enough to judge."[358] This scathing
indictment of the intelligence of the Commons may possibly have been
true at the time when it was written: it would certainly not be
applicable to-day. Meaningless periods, however harmonious, are no
longer tolerated. In Lord Chesterfield's day, however, sound seems to
have been more important than sense, as may be gathered from an
account he gives elsewhere of a speech made in 1751 in the House of
Lords. He was speaking upon a Bill for the Reform of the Calendar, a
subject upon which he knew absolutely nothing. To conceal his
ignorance he conceived the idea of giving the House an historical
account of calendars generally, from Ancient Egyptian to modern times,
being particularly attentive to the choice of his words, to the
harmony of his periods, and to his elocution. The peers were
enchanted. "They thought I informed," he explains, "because I pleased
them; and many of them said that I had made the whole very clear to
them, when, God knows, I had not even attempted it."[359]
[358] "Letters to his Son," vol. ii. p. 329.
[359] "Letters," ii. 121.
The gift of oratory is most certainly heaven-born, but its development
demands a vast amount of purely mundane labour. The best speeches have
ever been those in the preparation of which the most time and trouble
have been expended. Burke's masterpieces were essays, laboriously
constructed in the study; Sheridan's elaborate impromptus were
carefully devised beforehand, and, if successful, occasionally
repeated.[360] Chatham, whose wonderful dominion over the House does
not perhaps appear in his speeches, chose his words with the greatest
care, and confided to a friend that in order to improve his vocabulary
he had read "Bailey's Dictionary" twice through from beginning to end.
[360] "The hon. gentleman has applied to his imagination for his
facts, and to his memory for his wit," is a remark he made in
different forms on more than one occasion. See Harford's
"Wilberforce," p. 167; Brougham's "Sketches," vol. iii. p. 294, etc.
The fervid eloquence of such men as Plunket, Macaulay, Brougham, and
Canning--"the last of the rhetoricians"--was the fruit of many an hour
of laborious thought and study. Canning especially never spared
himself. He would draw up for use in the House a paper, on which were
written the heads of the subjects which he intended to touch upon.
These heads were numbered, and the numbers sometimes extended to four
or five hundred. Lord North, when he lost the thread of his discourse,
would look through his notes with the utmost nonchalance, seeking the
cue which was to lead him to further flights of eloquence. "It is not
on this side of the paper, Mr. Speaker," he would declaim, still
speaking in his oratorical tone; "neither is it on the other side!"
Then, perhaps, he would suddenly come upon the desired note, and
continue his unbroken oration without a sign of further
hesitation.[361] Bright used to provide himself with small slips of
paper, inscribed with his bon-mots, which he drew from his pocket as
occasion required. He excelled, nevertheless, in scathing repartee.
Once, during his absence through illness, a noble lord stated publicly
that Bright had been afflicted by Providence with a disease of the
brain as a punishment for his misuse of his talents. "It may be so,"
said Bright, on his return to the House, "but in any case it will be
some consolation to the friends and family of the noble lord to know
that the disease is one which even Providence could not inflict upon
him."[362] He did not always get the best of it, however, and when he
ridiculed Lord John Manners for the youthful couplet--
"Let wealth and commerce, laws and learning die,
But leave us still our old nobility!"
the author justly retorted that he would far sooner be the foolish
young man who wrote those lines than the malignant old man who quoted
them.
[361] Stapleton's "Life of Canning," p. 21.
[362] "Men and Manners in Parliament," pp. 56-59.
That speeches should be as effective when read as when delivered is
the highest quality of oratory. For this reason, perhaps, some
speakers write out their speeches and commit them to memory. Disraeli
did so with his more important orations, a fact which greatly enhances
the pleasure of their perusal. Macaulay followed the same practice,
and, indeed, it is said that the excessive elaboration of his oratory
sometimes weakened its effect. Lord Randolph Churchill's earlier
speeches were all memorised in this fashion. But it is not every man
whose memory is sufficiently retentive to enable him to accomplish
this feat, and a breakdown in the very middle of a humorous anecdote
thoughtfully interspersed in a speech is a catastrophe which casts
ridicule upon the speaker.[363]
[363] Mr. R. Tennant, member for Belfast, in 1834, on O'Connell's
motion for a repeal of the Union, made a speech which he had learnt by
heart and sent to the papers, which lasted three and a half hours.
Grant's "Recollections," p. 66.
Though matter may be a most important element in parliamentary
speaking, manner undoubtedly counts for a good deal. Demosthenes
practised declaiming with sharp weapons suspended above him so as to
learn to keep still, and, as we have already seen, had some obscure
reason for filling his mouth with pebbles. Neither of these practices
is to be commended to modern orators, many of whom already speak as
though their mouths were filled with hot potatoes, while their
habitual gesticulations, if made in the neighbourhood of dependent
cutlery, would result in reducing their bodies to one huge wound. Sir
Watkin Wynne and his brother were long known in the House of Commons
as "Bubble and Squeak," the former's voice being a smothered mumble
suggestive of suppressed thunder, the latter's a childish treble.
Mannerisms of gesture, as well as of speech, are easily contracted.
Lord Mahon, "out-roaring torrents in their course," reinforced his
stentorian lungs by violent gestures which were at times a source of
bodily danger to his friends. Once, when speaking on a Bill he had
brought in for the suppression of smuggling, he declared that this
crime must be knocked on the head with one blow. To emphasize his
meaning, he dealt the unfortunate Pitt, who was sitting just in front
of him, a violent buffet on the head, much to the amusement of the
House.[364] The gesticulations of Sir Charles Wetherell, the
well-known member, were less dangerous, if quainter. He used to
unbutton his braces in a nervous fashion while addressing the House,
leaving between his upper and lower garments an interregnum to which
Speaker Manners Sutton once alluded as the honourable gentleman's only
lucid interval. The late Lord Goschen would grasp himself firmly by
the lapel of his coat, as though (to quote a well-known parliamentary
writer) "otherwise he might run away and leave matters to explain
themselves."[365]
[364] Wraxall's "Memoirs," vol. iii. p. 402.
[365] "Men and Manners in Parliament," p. 109. (Further on the writer
describes the peculiarities of another member who used to fold his
arms tightly across his chest when he spoke. Thereafter a constant
struggle went on, the arms restlessly battling to get free, and the
speaker insisting that they should remain and hear the speech out, p.
130.)
Parliamentary eloquence to-day makes up in quantity for what it lacks
in quality. The number of members who follow the advice of the
Psalmist and earn a reputation for wisdom by a continual policy of
eloquent silence[366] has dwindled to vanishing point, since to speak
in Parliament has come to be regarded as part of a member's duty to
his constituents. In Gladstone's first session, in 1833, less than
6000 speeches were made in the House of Commons; fifty years later the
number had increased to 21,000; to-day the steadily growing bulk of
each volume of the "Parliamentary Debates" testifies to the swelling
flood of oratory which is annually let loose within the precincts of
Parliament. And if La Rochefoucauld's maxim be true, that we readily
pardon those who bore us, but never those whom we bore, the House of
Commons has need of a most forgiving spirit to listen patiently to so
much of what can only be described as _vox et praeterea nihil_.
[366] "Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise; and he
that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding."
The level of eloquence is, no doubt, higher in the House of Lords than
elsewhere. Peers include a greater number of orators among their
numbers; opportunities for a display of their talents are more rare;
their powers are not dissipated in prolonged debates, as in the
Commons, but are reserved for full-dress occasions.
In neither House nowadays is there any exhibition of that
old-fashioned rhetoric, florid and flamboyant, which was once so
popular. What Mackintosh calls "an elevated kind of after-dinner
conversation," such as Lord Salisbury affected so successfully, is the
form taken by modern parliamentary eloquence. There are no appeals to
sentiment, no quotations from the classics, no bombastic
declamations.[367] The House of Commons is still "a mob of gentlemen,
the greater part of whom are neither without talent nor
information,"[368] and with such an audience learned generalities are
out of place. Passion has to a large extent given way to business, and
in Parliament to-day are rarely heard those "splendid common-places of
the first-rate rhetorician," which Lord Morley considers necessary to
sway assemblies.
[367] "Don't quote Latin. Say what you have to say and then sit down!"
was the Duke of Wellington's excellent advice to a young member.
Walter Bagehot, on the other hand, stated that he had heard an
experienced financier say, "If you want to raise a certain cheer in
the House of Commons, make a general panegyric on economy; if you want
to invite a sure defeat, propose a particular saving!" "The English
Constitution," p. 136.
[368] Dalling's "Historical Characters," vol. ii. p. 39.
We live in a material age. The flowers of rhetoric bloom no longer in
the cold business-like atmosphere of the parliamentary garden; only
the more practical but unromantic vegetables remain. The rich
embroideries of trope and metaphor have been roughly torn from modern
speech, leaving the bare skeleton of reason exposed to the public
gaze. The grandiose orator of the past, with his ornate phraseology,
his graceful periods, his quotations from the poets, has been ousted
by the passionless debater, flinging, like the improvident O'Connell,
his brood of robust thoughts into the world, without a rag to cover
them. No one to-day would dream of expending fifty shillings--let
alone fifty guineas--for the privilege of hearing a modern Sheridan
address a twentieth-century Parliament; no modern Grattan (as Sheil
might say) shatters the pinnacles of this establishment with the
lightning of his eloquence.
The successful parliamentary speaker is no longer one who is able, in
the words of Macaulay, to produce with rapidity a series of stirring
but transitory impressions, to excite the minds of five hundred
gentlemen at midnight, without saying anything that any of them will
remember in the morning.[369] Rather is he the cold judicious
politician who chooses his words less for their beauty than for their
immunity from subsequent perversion, who can crystallise in a few
brief sentences, within the compass of a few minutes, the opinions
that it would have taken his ancestors as many hours to express in the
turgid rhetoric of a bygone age. The orator--as the name was once
understood--is now a _rara avis_, but seldom raising his tuneful voice
above the raucous cawing of his fellows. And whoever feels with Gibbon
that the great speakers fill him with despair, and the bad ones with
terror, will leave the precincts of Parliament to-day more often
terrorstricken than desperate. That this should be so is no reason for
giving way to gloom or sorrow. Parliamentary eloquence is not
necessarily the sign of a country's greatness. The English Parliament,
which began by acclaiming Burke as the prince of orators, soon became
indifferent to his powers, and ended by labelling him the "Dinner
Bell." Fox has left no memorial of any good wrought by his oratory.
"Neither the Habeas Corpus Act, nor the Bill of Rights, nor Magna
Charta originated in eloquence," and if it be true that "a senate of
orators is a symptom of material decay,"[370] we may look forward to
the future of England with calm and perfect confidence.
[369] "Essays," vol. ii. p. 206.
[370] Sir H. Crabb Robinson's "Diary, Reminiscences and
Correspondence," vol. i. p. 330.