Members who consider themselves aggrieved or insulted have now no redress save by an appeal to the Speaker. In old days they often took the matter into their own hands, and many a duel was the outcome of hasty words spoken in Parliament. So prevalent, indeed, did the habit of duelling become, that in 1641 a resolution was passed in the Commons empowering the Speaker to arrest any member who either sent or received a challenge. The practice of parliamentary duelling long continued, in spite of every effort to stifle it. Wilkes was wounded in 1763 in Hyde Park by a member named Martin, who had called him "a cowardly scoundrel." Lord Castlereagh and Canning met in 1809, and had, in consequence, to resign their seats in the Cabinet.312 Lord Alvanley fought Morgan O'Connell, son of the Liberator, on his father's account. Charles James Fox was challenged by Mr. Adam, of the Ordnance Department, for a personal attack made in the House of Commons, and faced him in the old Kensington Gravel Pits. At the first shot Adam's bullet lodged harmlessly in his opponent's belt. "If you hadn't used Ordnance powder," said Fox, with a laugh, as he shook hands with Adam after the fight, "I should have been a dead man."313
If duels were fought in those days on very slight provocation, challenges were also occasionally declined on equally poor grounds. Colonel Luttrell, member for Middlesex, and afterwards Lord Carhampton, refused to fight his own father, not because he was his father, but because he was not a gentleman!
The last duel between politicians was that fought by the Duke of Wellington and Lord Winchelsea, as the result of some remarks made by the latter during a debate on the Roman Catholic Emancipation Bill in 1830. Since that time no parliamentary dispute has been referred to the arbitrament of the pistol.
Although there has been a perceptible improvement in parliamentary deportment as the centuries have advanced, the same can scarcely be said of parliamentary dress. In the time of Charles II., knee-breeches, silk stockings, and silver-buckled shoes were absolutely de rigueur for members of the Commons. A hundred years later members of Parliament always wore court dress, with bag-wig and sword, in the House. The formal costume prescribed by etiquette was rigidly adhered to, and none but county members were permitted the privilege of wearing spurs.314 At this time, too, Cabinet Ministers were never seen in Parliament without the ribbons and decorations of the various orders to which they belonged. The regulation which bids the mover and seconder of the Address to appear in court dress on the first day of the new Parliament is the only relic of this custom.
Fifty years ago no member of either House would have appeared within the precincts of the Palace of Westminster wearing anything upon his head but a high silk hat. Gradually, however, a certain laxity in the matter of head-gear has crept into Parliament, and to-day, not only "bowlers," but even "cricketing caps" may be seen reposing upon the unabashed heads of members. Peers, as a rule, conform to the older fashion, and Cabinet Ministers usually dress in a respectably sombre garb. But among the rank and file of the House of Commons may occasionally be found members wearing check suits of the lightest and loudest patterns, and hats of every conceivable variety, ranging from the æsthetic "Homburg" to the humble cloth cap. The passing of the top hat must necessarily appear somewhat in the light of a tragedy to older parliamentarians. In both Houses the hat has long come to be regarded as a sacred symbol. It is with this article of clothing that the member daily secures his claim to a seat on the benches of the House of Commons; with a hat he occasionally expresses his enthusiasm or sympathy; on a hat does he sit at the close of a speech, with the certainty of raising a laugh; and without a hat he cannot speak upon a point of order when the House has been cleared for a division.
When the Labour Party began to take an important place in the popular assembly, it was thought that this democratic invasion would have an actively detrimental effect upon the dress of the House. Old-fashioned members shook their heads and prophesied an influx of hobnailed artisans, clad in corduroys, their trousers confined at the knee with string, and in their mouths a short clay pipe. These gloomy forebodings have not been realised. With very few exceptions the dress of Labour members is little calculated to offend the most sensitive eye, though it was certainly one of their number who first entered a startled House of Commons in a tweed stalking-cap – a form of head-dress which it is certainly difficult to forgive.
CHAPTER XII
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
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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
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
"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.
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
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.
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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
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