Many years before the occurrence of this incident, another failure had been turned into a success by a happy thought on the part of the speaker himself, which proved that his break-down could hardly be attributed to want of presence of mind. During the latter part of the seventeenth century, a young man, who was afterwards to become celebrated as third Earl of Shaftesbury, and author of Characteristics, sat in the House of Commons as Lord Ashley. A bill was introduced to grant the services of counsel to prisoners tried for high-treason; and though the proposal was based on the commonest principles of justice, it found many and bitter opponents. Lord Ashley, however, was among its warmest supporters, and rose to argue in its defence; but, unfortunately, after saying a few words, he found himself unable to proceed. A little time was given him to collect his thoughts; but at last the patience of his hearers was exhausted, and they called loudly upon him to go on, when, looking at the Speaker, he said: ‘If, sir, 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, what must the condition of that man be who, without any assistance, is pleading for his life, and is apprehensive of being deprived of it?’ It may safely be said that the most elaborately prepared and eloquently delivered oration could hardly have been more rhetorically effective than this happily extemporised argument.
A record of oratorical triumphs is less entertaining than a record of failures; but the stories of one or two maiden speeches which owed their success to simple assurance are amusing enough. Modesty and timidity have not been characteristics of all the members who have ever sat in parliament. They do not, for example, seem to have been very prominent in Mr Lechmere, afterwards Lord Lechmere, who, on his election for Appleby, turned round to address the House immediately after having taken the oath, and before he had gone through the formality of taking his seat. Mr Cowper, made Lord Chancellor in 1707, was not quite so precipitate, but much more copious in his rhetorical outpourings, for he spoke three times during his first evening in the House; and even he was excelled by the notorious ‘Orator Hunt,’ who on a similar occasion gave his fellow-members no fewer than six samples of his peculiar eloquence. The hero of one of the amusing stories just referred to was the well-known Thomas Slingsby—generally shortened to Tom—Duncombe. The speech itself was an extraordinary affair, being an all-round attack upon various prominent statesmen, delivered in a manner which may be described as fascinatingly impudent; but the funniest thing about it was the story of its production, which has been told by Mr Greville. ‘The history of Tom Duncombe and his speech,’ says this collector of gossip, ‘is instructive as well as amusing. Tommy came to Henry de Ros, and told him that his constituents at Hertford were very anxious that he should make a speech, but that he did not know what to say, and begged Henry to provide him with the necessary materials. He advised him to strike out something new; and having received his assurance that he should be able to recollect anything that he had learned by heart, and that he was not afraid of his courage failing, Henry composed for him the speech which Duncombe delivered.’ What it was in this story which Mr Greville found instructive, is not so clear; but its amusing quality may be readily conceded.
Teetotalers have so many good anecdotes, that those who take the other side in the great alcoholic controversy have doubtless made the most of a tremendous maiden speech which was delivered in the House of Lords in the year 1678 by the Lord Carnarvon of that period, and which was said to have been inspired entirely by claret. Lord Carnarvon had been dining, not wisely but too well, with the Duke of Buckingham; and the Duke, seeing his condition, induced him, by combination of raillery and flattery, to pledge himself to address his brother peers that night upon any subject they happened to be discussing. The Duke of course regarded the thing as a capital practical joke, and doubtless anticipated immense enjoyment from the flounderings of a half-intoxicated man, who had never spoken before, and who was not supposed to have any oratorical gifts even when sober. The debate was on the impeachment of the Earl of Danby, then Lord Treasurer; and as soon as an opening occurred, up rose Lord Carnarvon. ‘My lords,’ he said, ‘I understand but little of Latin, but a good deal of English, and not a little of English history; from which I have learned the mischiefs of such kind of prosecutions as these, and the ill fate of the prosecutors. I could bring many instances, and those very, ancient; but, my lords, I shall go no farther back than the latter end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, at which time the Earl of Essex was run down by Sir Walter Raleigh; and your lordships very well know what became of Sir Walter Raleigh. My Lord Bacon, he ran down Sir Walter Raleigh; and your lordships know what became of my Lord Bacon. The Duke of Buckingham, he ran down my Lord Bacon; and your lordships know what happened to the Duke of Buckingham. Sir Thomas Wentworth, afterwards Earl of Strafford, ran down the Duke of Buckingham; and you all know what became of him. Sir Harry Vane, he ran down the Earl of Strafford; and your lordships know what became of Sir Harry Vane. Chancellor Hyde, he ran down Sir Harry Vane; and your lordships know what became of the Chancellor. Sir Thomas Osbourn, now Earl of Danby, ran down Chancellor Hyde; but what will become of the Earl of Danby, your lordships best can tell. But let me see the man that dare run the Earl of Danby down, and we shall soon see what shall become of him.’ The assembled peers must have felt as if they were being swept from their feet by an historical avalanche, riddled by a fusilade of facts; and the Duke of Buckingham could only exclaim: ‘The claret has done the business!’ And indeed it looks like it, for Lord Carnarvon never had another such success.
Of course, maiden speeches which are in any way memorable either for their matter or their manner, the greatness of their success or the completeness of their failure, are comparatively rare. As a rule, the first speech of any member in either House resembles closely all his succeeding speeches; it may lack the force and fluency given by practice, but in its general characteristics there is nothing exceptional. The able man shows at least something of his ability; the dull man lets his hearers into the secret of his dullness. When Cobbett, the very first night he sat in the House, began his maiden speech with the words, ‘It appears to me that since I have been sitting here I have heard a great deal of vain and unprofitable conversation,’ his fellow-members probably thought that here was a unique display of self-sufficient assurance; but when Cobbett had delivered his second speech, the first was unique no longer, and when he had spoken half a dozen times, it had come to be regarded as comparatively mild. Brougham and Canning, who both became parliamentary speakers of the first rank, may perhaps, with Sheridan and Disraeli, be considered as exceptions to the general rule just given, for their maiden speeches were described as failures; but in their cases, all that probably was meant by the word failure was that they did not fulfil the expectations which had been formed. None of Lord Palmerston’s early speeches seem to have had the brilliance of his later utterances; but that he made a favourable impression at starting is proved by the fact that Mr Perceval offered him the Chancellorship of the Exchequer when he had only spoken once in the House; while Earl Grey, Lord Castlereagh, Lord Macaulay, and the late Lord Derby, who began their political careers in the House of Commons, delivered maiden speeches which immediately gave them a reputation.
During the last half-century, there has been such a change in the conditions of public life, that no maiden speech can excite the same curiosity as of old. One result of the lowering of the franchise has been to diminish the chances of any parliamentary candidate who has not some measure of ease and ability in speaking; and public meetings of all kinds are so numerous, that the quality and amount of oratorical talent possessed by every prominent man become well known long before he has a chance of displaying it upon the floor of the House of Commons. This change is not one to be regretted on the whole; but of course parliamentary life has lost one element of interest which it possessed in the days when a maiden speech might be looked forward to as a revelation of all kinds of unsuspected possibilities.
THE MINER’S PARTNER.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.
On a morning only a couple of days after the opening of our story, the sun had not yet risen high enough to strike the plains, which stretched as far as the eye could reach; but the mountains were all bright with his rays, from their peaks down almost to the ‘foothills,’ which, tolerable eminences in themselves, projected like so many capes out on the level ground, when a man came to the opening of a tent and looked out. Although he gazed across the rugged intervening ground and out upon the plain, and although sunrise in Colorado is worth seeing from a position of vantage, yet it was evident that it was from no appreciation of the scenery that the man stood there. From the spot, an irregular line of tents and huts—or ‘shanties’—led to the centre of Flume City; while the trenches cut in all directions, and the odd implements and vessels lying about, gave ample evidence that this was a mining camp, or town.
The man was dressed in buckskin—as were many others, who by this time began to show themselves—was tall and dark; of an eager, not to say cunning aspect; while from beneath his shapeless hat, his long hair hung straight and untidy. This description might serve for nine-tenths of the denizens of the camp, whether of high or low degree; but there was something in the aspect of this miner which would have prevented any expert from classing him with the lowest and coarsest of his calling. He was evidently deep in thought, and his meditation found support in a fashion very common in the United States—he drew a cake of tobacco from his pocket, and bit off a corner, as though it had been a biscuit; then, chewing vigorously, he remained with his absorbed gaze apparently fixed on the distant plains.
Presently the canvas of the tent was pushed aside, and another man came out. This second man was somewhat shorter than the first, although yet a tolerably tall man. He was fairer, as could be seen in spite of his sunburnt and weather-beaten countenance. His beard was brown, and was longer and fuller than the first comer’s; and he was altogether of a thicker, stronger build. These brief descriptions will serve to introduce the two partners Rube Steele and Ben, whose jarring took up so much time at the miners’ convention two or three nights before, and whose relation to the whole camp had grown to be of the most unfriendly character.