“‘It’s owre true, Mr Butler,’ answered Bartoline, with a sigh; ‘if I had had the luck—or rather, if my father had had the sense to send me to Leyden and Utrecht to learn the Substitutes and Pandex’——
“‘You mean the Institutes—Justinian’s Institutes, Mr Saddletree?’ said Butler.
“‘Institutes and substitutes are synonymous words, Mr Butler, and used indifferently as such in deeds of tailzie, as you may see in Balfour’s Practiques, or Dallas of St Martin’s Styles. I understand these things pretty weel, I thank God; but I own I should have studied in Holland.’”
Such far-fetched illustrations necessarily tend to diminish the force of Mr Macaulay’s speeches, which is the more unfortunate, because he is peculiarly addicted to that kind of argument which the old rhetoricians styled the παράδειγμα, being that which is drawn from Example. Even when he does not pass into ground altogether unknown to his audience, when he refers in support of his position to some passages in British history, he avoids those which are most familiar, and selects the remoter and more obscure. Hence it is that he so often fails in exciting and maintaining enthusiasm. No sympathy can be roused by references to Sir George Savile, Hugh Peters, or Praise-God-Barebones; nor is the substitution of a political essay for a speech the best means of commanding the admiration or influencing the will of an audience. We are inclined to think that Mr Macaulay’s early oratorical training has exercised a prejudicial rather than a salutary influence over his subsequent style. He was, we believe, a member of the Union Debating Society at Cambridge, in which arena questions of immediate political interest were discussed quite as keenly as on the floor of the House of Commons. Without pronouncing an opinion hostile to the institution of debating societies, we may be allowed to remark, that the too frequent introduction of politics as the subject of discussion among the young can hardly receive the approbation of any thinking man of maturer years. The arguments employed on such occasions must be, and are, the spent weapons of politicians who are engaged in real warfare; and these are used by the juvenile enthusiasts without any examination as to their soundness or propriety. There is, in truth, little sense, and no advantage in this mimic warfare. Young men are thereby induced, not to reason, but to dogmatise—not to argue, but to declaim; and the opposition which they encounter to their borrowed views only serves to strengthen them in prejudice. The leader of a political debating society is usually an insufferable specimen of the juvenile prig. He can prate for the hour on such generalities as the constitution, the liberty of the subject, the rights of the people, and so forth; but, if you bring him to book, and demand a distinct explanation of what he has been saying, you will immediately discover that he is neither in possession of fixed notions nor of intelligible ideas. There is a kind of frothy rhetoric, very much used in debating societies, which serves to disguise commonplaces, and helps to make them appear almost brilliant to an inexperienced audience; and in that sort of rhetoric Mr Macaulay early became an adept. Most men who have acquired this style in public are compelled to get rid of it. At the bar it would not be tolerated; and it is worthy of remark that the most shining lights in debating societies usually pale their ineffectual fires when brought into the legal profession. In the senate, where less precision is required, they succeed better; but even there it requires an immense deal of attrition and wear before they can become expert masters of debate. Now it seems to us, after a diligent perusal of his speeches, that Mr Macaulay has never been able to emancipate himself from the bondage of the debating society. He speaks now, just as he might have spoken more than thirty years ago; only that his language is more select, his range of illustration larger, and his perorations more artificial, and therefore more frigid than before. In point of confidence, we do not believe that he has either gained or lost. Some men begin their public career with diffidence and trembling, and end by becoming remarkably self-possessed. Others, who had a fine stock of assurance to begin with, are so cowed by the buffets they receive, as actually to have modesty forced upon them; and we have known more than one instance of a young Boanerges who, by dint of constant punishment, has been brought to see the error of his ways, and the exaggerated estimate he had formed of his own natural powers. Mr Macaulay, however, belongs to neither category. He believed himself an oracle as a boy: he believes himself an oracle as a man. And, if justified in the one belief, who shall venture to say that he is erroneous in the other? Certain it is that, in 1826, when he penned his essay on Milton, he displayed as much power, taste, and vigour, as are exhibited in the volumes of his History given to the public in 1849. He spoke with more animation, clearness, and effect, on the subject of the Reform Bill in 1831, than on any subsequent occasion, though some of his later speeches may have been more highly elaborated. He is, of course, better informed now on points of history, science, and literature, than when he emerged from Cambridge; but we question whether he has gained much additional knowledge of the world, or of the motives which actuate mankind. Never, perhaps, did a man attain so high a point of literary distinction without possessing in a moderate degree the power of affecting the passions. We can scarcely refer to a single passage out of his whole writings, whether in prose or verse, which is likely to have drawn a tear. His speeches, as we now read them, are remarkably frigid. They may satisfy the understanding, but they never could influence the will. We are well aware that, in the House of Commons, as presently constituted, no speech, however eloquent, can be supposed to affect the votes of any considerable section; but the peculiarity of Mr Macaulay’s speaking is this, that we can hardly conceive the possibility of his making a convert. This is owing, we think, in a great measure, to a somewhat singular disregard—for we cannot suppose it ignorance—of the means which the chief orators, both of ancient and modern times have deemed it their duty to employ. In the first place, Mr Macaulay never seems to think it necessary to take the slightest pains to conciliate his audience. Of course there are many cases when such introductory conciliation is not required—for example, when addressing an entirely sympathetic meeting, or when retorting upon the direct attack of an antagonist—but in very few instances indeed does Mr Macaulay introduce himself, upon a debated point, otherwise than as a determined partisan. There can be no doubt that introductions of a conciliatory nature require the utmost delicacy of handling. They are made for the purpose of showing that the speaker comes to the consideration of the question at issue, with as much fairness, deliberation, and candour, as can be expected from man of mortal mould; and further, that he does not intend to dictate to his audience, but rather, by impressing them with his own views, to induce them to consider calmly whether his conclusions are true or false. This does not imply the abandonment of the strongest argument, or the most forcible illustration in the after-part of the speech. It is an arrangement dictated by nature; because in every case, when a man rises to address an assembly, his first care ought to be to dispel, if possible, personal suspicion if that should exist, and to secure a willing auditory. Of this art Cicero was an entire master; and it is no exaggeration to say, that his most remarkable forensic triumphs were achieved rather by the effect of his introductions, than by the subsequent ingenuity of his arguments, and his unrivalled skill in the disposition of narrative. We are quite aware that introductions of this kind, when badly framed, have exactly the opposite effect from that which was intended. There probably never was a worse one than that attempted by the late Sir Robert Peel, in his memorable speech delivered in the House of Commons on 27th January 1846, in which he beat about the bush so long, that he entirely destroyed the effect which he intended to produce. But, whether as regards the immediate impression on the House, or the subsequent effect on the country, we must hold that a speaker ought to endeavour, in the first instance, to divest himself of the appearance of being actuated by mere party motives. Such men as the late Duke of Wellington, or the present Marquis of Lansdowne, whose long and unblemished public lives have been accepted as full evidence of the purity of their motives, might indeed dispense with any such protestation; but there are not many who, from age and public confidence, have acquired a similar privilege. Now, it is rather curious to observe that Mr Macaulay seems, throughout his whole career, to have disdained any kind of conciliation. He has approached every question, not only with his mind made up upon it, but in the spirit of the strongest contempt and depreciation towards all who disagreed with him. He never, like Themistocles, volunteered to receive a buffet in order to gain a hearing. He rather, in imitation of Dares, walked into the arena with the gauntlets buckled round his wrists,
“And dealt in empty air his whistling blows.”
It is no business of ours to recount how often he has met with an Entellus, who has doled out severe punishment; we are now simply referring to what we consider to be his oratorical deficiencies or omissions.
Next we would observe, that the impression left on our mind by the perusal of these Speeches—which, referring as they do to bygone events, do not excite the slightest feeling of antagonism—is that the value of the matter is generally disproportioned to the grandiose nature of the style, and the uniform pomposity of language. It is quite true, that Mr Macaulay has spoken upon several interesting and important questions; and it is equally true that an orator, in addressing himself to themes of that description, is entitled to assume a higher tone than might be suitable to a meaner subject of debate. But then, he must take care that his thoughts and sentiments are raised to the like elevation. One distinguishing quality of the real orator is, that he rises with his subject. His intellect seems to expand in proportion to the greatness of his theme—he elevates himself in feeling and energy above the level of his audience, and the high thoughts which then rush upon his mind are expressed with corresponding dignity. The orator, like the poet, has his fits of inspiration, varying in intensity and degree according to the subject with which he deals. This, of course, precludes that method of slavish preparation, now unfortunately too common, by means of which not only the substance of the speech, but the very words, are elaborately fabricated in the closet, and committed to memory. The man who adopts that system may be a good speaker, but he never will attain the highest point of elevation as an orator. Like the swimmer on a stormy sea, the orator should rise and fall with the wave of his audience; for he is contending for the mastery over a moral element, than which the natural one is not always more fluctuating or fierce. It may be well to calculate and consider beforehand the line of argument to be adopted, just as a prudent general will make his dispositions before going into battle. But as no commander can foresee what may happen in the field, can provide for every emergency, or lay down for himself a course of action from which he will not deviate—so neither ought the orator to commit himself to a certain form of words, which possibly may prove either unappropriate to the occasion, or injurious to his cause. Men think differently in the closet, and in the scene of action. In the former they are comparatively unimpassioned—in the latter they must necessarily exhibit passion if they seek to rouse it in others. The most skilful and elaborate discourse, if coldly conceived and expressed, will have a drenching rather than an inspiring effect upon an audience which is already possessed with a considerable degree of enthusiasm. Their feeling, favourable to the speaker and his cause, must not be put back—it ought, on the contrary, to be heightened. The force of these observations will become apparent to every one who will take pains to investigate the subject, for there is nothing more certain, than that the success of an orator depends mainly upon the amount of energy which he can display. Energy was the secret of the success of Demosthenes; and Cicero, with all his art, could not find a higher quality to recommend. It must be confessed that modern statesmen have been too much in the habit of disregarding this evident truth. Some of them—and we would instance as a notable example the late Sir Robert Peel—might have secured a far more enthusiastic following than they ever could boast, but for their extreme and over-cautious frigidity. To this remark Lord John Russell, who perhaps has had more opportunities than any other living man of acquiring personal influence, is also peculiarly liable. On the contrary, take the case of Lord Palmerston. He is not implicitly trusted by any strong party in the state; and yet, in the House of Commons, no man can produce a greater effect, or possesses a larger personal influence. And why is this? Because he can carry an audience along with him—because he is never frigid, never dull, never addicted to circumlocution—because he possesses and exerts energy in a high degree; and is, in truth, what few of his contemporaries can claim to be—an orator. Read one of his speeches, and you see at once that it was not concocted in the closet—that he had not stooped to polish sentences beforehand, or to select language which should pass for a pattern of composition. Mark, too, the variety of his style—how quietly and playfully he disposes of a small matter—how, during debate and attack, to use the language of Canning, he “silently concentrates the power to be put forth on an adequate occasion.” No wonder that, when the occasion arrives, he should extort admiration even from his adversaries. Very different is the case with Mr Macaulay. Whatever be the subject, he rises to lecture, and has his lecture thoroughly prepared. He is speaking to-night, amidst the hum of the House of Commons, what he wrote yesterday in the quiet seclusion of his chambers in the Albany. He had no thought whatever of his audience; he was thinking simply of his style. That he may adorn and heighten; but he cannot vary it at pleasure. Ask him to pronounce a panegyric upon a deceased hero, and a discourse upon a drowned mouse, and he will execute both in the same strain. The victor in a hundred fields will not be celebrated in periods more stately than the invader of a hundred cheeses. Simplicity is not part of his nature—he must have recourse to rhetoric or be dumb.
Now, although this style may be tolerated in writing, it becomes very tedious when adopted in public speaking. Dress up a mere commonplace with the utmost skill and ingenuity, and yet, to the hearer, it retains its original character. The way in which a thing is said, does not alter the substance of the thing itself—the fine features cannot conceal the emaciation of the body beneath. We have gone over several of the speeches contained in this volume, for the purpose of ascertaining the real value, power, and ingenuity of the arguments set forth; and we are compelled to say, that in no one instance have we been able to discover the trace of an independent thought, or of a purely original idea. Some of them are unquestionably able speeches. Ask a man of high talent and extensive information, like Mr Macaulay, to deliver a discourse upon any possible theme, and he will do so in a manner which shall elicit shouts of applause from a Mechanic’s Institute. Nay, he will be loudly cheered even within the walls of Parliament, provided that a considerable interval is allowed to elapse between each exhibition—because, as we know from the history of Euphuism, fine language commands admiration, and rounded periods are always grateful to the ear. Besides this, it would be untrue, and highly unfair to Mr Macaulay to insinuate that he cannot make proper use and disposition of such arguments as lie before him. He states them well and adroitly; though, as we have already hinted, frequently marring their effect by the extreme remoteness of his illustrations. But neither our reading nor our recollection can furnish us with one case in which Mr Macaulay has put forth an original view, or disentangled himself from the general mass of debaters. In political life or strife, he appears simply as a furbisher of old iron, a process in which he certainly is expert; and he manages to make an exceedingly rusty rapier pass for a tolerable Toledo. More he seldom attempts. His speeches are often brilliant, in the same sense in which we apply the epithet to fireworks; tolerably, though not strictly logical; always sententious, rounded, and adapted to a mouthing delivery—but never ardent, never eloquent, never calculated to excite enthusiasm. If mere rhetoric could make an orator, Mr Macaulay ought undoubtedly to be the first of the age. He has studied it on the same principle as did Gorgias, who made it his boast that he could speak, and speak well upon any given subject, even though he was not conversant with its details, by aid of the commonplaces which he could dress up for the occasion. Gorgias had some reputation during his lifetime, but he is now remembered only on account of his extravagant boast. His works have long since perished; and we do not think that the efforts of Mr Macaulay, as an orator, will survive even so long as those of Gorgias.
If there had been, in this collection, one speech upon which we could have dwelt with any feeling of artistic interest—one which we could have withdrawn from the rest, to rank among the remarkable specimens of British eloquence—we should not only have been delighted, but proud to have selected it for eulogy. That which we have perused with the most pleasure, on account of its sentiment and manly feeling, is the speech delivered in 1846 upon the subject of the Ten Hours’ Bill. Regarded merely as an oration, it may not be of high value; but it displays, in a most pleasing light, the genuine kindness of his heart, his strong sympathy with suffering, and his genuine hatred of oppression. Such speeches are worthy of record, because they rank in the category of good deeds and noble actions; and deserve to be remembered with gratitude as exertions in the cause of humanity. We do not inquire now into the abstract merit of the speeches of Wilberforce, nor does his fame depend at all upon his oratorical skill. He has passed from the roll of speakers to the catalogue of philanthropists; and instead of directing the attention of youthful aspirants after public distinction to the force of his style, or the energy of his expression, we pay homage to his memory as the chief instrument, under Providence, of removing the fetters from the slave. In like manner, notwithstanding certain peculiarities which lead us rather to admire than to love, Mr Macaulay has high claims to the public gratitude and respect. In open questions, and those in which party considerations do not materially interfere, he has always shown himself accessible to conviction, generous in his views, and just in the expression of his sentiments. There are, among living public men, some who are more genial and attractive; but there are not many who are better entitled to our respect. Our criticism has been framed utterly irrespective of politics. We cannot boast, at the present day, of so large a list of men, either of genius or of high talent, as to omit the opportunity of paying tribute, where tribute is justly due. “I hope that I am,” says Mr Macaulay, in the last sentence of his last recorded speech, “at once a Liberal and a Conservative politician.” We hope so too; and we hope, moreover, that the avowal was made—not because Lord Aberdeen and Lord Palmerston, Lord John Russell and Mr Gladstone, Sir William Molesworth and Mr Sidney Herbert, have agreed to lie down together—but because Mr Macaulay wishes henceforward to emancipate himself from party trammels. It is certainly time that he should do so. He has occupied a subordinate rank in the Whig regiment longer than he ought to have done for his own reputation; and we are not sorry to see this disclaimer put forth in so marked a manner at the very end of his last publication. It is, like the reading of the closing line of the Iliad in the famous manuscript copy, which the supporters of the Cyclic theory point to as clearly indicative of further action, a phrase fraught with meaning; and when the coalition is dissolved, as it soon must be by the influence of a political thaw, we trust that Mr Macaulay’s tendencies may indeed appear to be Conservative, without the sacrifice of the true liberality which becomes the gentleman and the scholar. We do not believe that the general verdict of the public upon this collection will be of a different tenor from our own. But, after all, Mr Macaulay has no great reason to repine because he has failed to achieve a high place in the roll of British orators. His speeches will not be quoted for their eloquence and power, as those of Burke, Grattan, Erskine, and Canning are; but his history and essays, and even ballads, will insure him a reputation not less extensive and enduring. We need scarcely remind him that men who have attained high reputations as statesmen, and been conspicuous as public speakers, have altogether failed in their attempts to found a literary name. No one who has perused the historical chapters composed by Fox, can regret that his design proved abortive, and that the subject has been left to the more brilliant and dexterous treatment of Macaulay. We cannot say with truth that Lord John Russell’s literary efforts inspire us with an exalted idea of the author’s powers—we are even of opinion that he would have done well in abstaining from appearing before the public, either as a dramatist, biographer, or editor. Ne sutor ultra crepidam. It is by natural instinct that every man addresses himself to the occupation in which he is qualified to excel; and that ambition which prompts men to deviate from their destiny, and undertake tasks which are not congenial to their feelings and sympathies, ought to be repressed. We cannot view Mr Macaulay’s career without being convinced that nature designed him to play his part as a literary man rather than as a politician. He has indeed tacitly admitted that; for he has withdrawn himself very much of late years from debate, preferring literary occupation to the excitement of political strife. We are sorry that he has been induced to interrupt his more interesting labours for the sake of undertaking this collection; for, although the volume will find its way into many libraries—as what volume that bore his name upon the title-page would not?—it will be regarded hereafter with little interest, and may possibly be cited as an instance of unsuccessful ambition. We repeat that Mr Macaulay’s fame rests upon his writings, and that the publication of his speeches is by no means calculated to extend or heighten his intellectual reputation; though it cannot diminish the just estimation in which he is held as a man.