Somehow, although I know that Duff's speech was compounded of plain common sense interspersed with abundant facts (all Duff's speeches are like that), I did not begin to take notes that evening until Hartupp had reached his peroration, which was in this form:—
"Sir," said Hartupp (with an inflection of unspeakable pathos in his voice, which ought to make Pinceney shed tears—but does not), "before I sit down—before, Sir, I resume my seat,"—(this solemnly, as if he has a deep presentiment that he may never resume another seat)—"let me ask the Honourable Member who is responsible for the Motion on the paper this evening—let me put to him this single inquiry, this solitary question—and I shall await his answer with considerable curiosity." ... (Here Hartupp gazes with an air of challenge at Duff, who, however, is drawing Euclid's first proposition upon his blotting-pad, an occupation which seems to absorb the whole of his faculties for the moment.) "Is he here to-night to deny the existence of any good that is not visible, that is not tangible, that cannot be measured with a tape, or weighed in scales? Sir, that is the philosophy of the volatile sparrow, of the soulless hog, that skims the vault of the azure empyrean, and wallows content in the mire of his native sky—I should say" (with an air of careless concession to prosaic accuracy), "stye! That bird, Sir, that pig, like the Honourable Proposer himself"—(a titter here from the more frivolous; Duff rubs his nose, and evidently wonders whether Hartupp has been saying anything worth noticing)—"would find the universe none the poorer had Praxiteles carved nothing more immortal than an occasional cold fowl; had Homer swept his lyre, not in commemoration of the fall of an ancient Troy, but to celebrate the rise of a new soap (Hartupp rather prides himself on his talent for antithesis); "and had Titian lavished all his wealth of glowing colour and gorgeous hues upon the unretentive surface of some suburban pavement! But, Sir, I hope that we, by our vote to-night, will afford no encouragement to the gross and contemptible materialism which is the curse of the present day, and of which, I am compelled to add," (here he glances reproachfully at the unconscious Duff, who is sharpening a pencil), "we have been afforded so melancholy an example this evening. Let us proclaim to the world without that we, as Gentlemen and as Gargoyles, repudiate, that we loathe, that we abhor, that we abominate," (Hartupp seems to be screwing all these verbs out of himself, and throwing them defiantly at Duff,) "the grovelling tendency of our animal nature to ignore the joys of the soul and the pleasures of the intellect, and place its highest enjoyment in the ignoble pursuit of creature comforts!"
[Here Hartupp sits down amidst applause, and applies himself diligently to his whiskey-and-water.
At a later period in the evening, just as the debate was beginning to languish, Naylor started to his feet with a long strip of paper which, being shortsighted, he held close to his nose. Naylor invariably takes elaborate notes, with the intention of pointing out and refuting the errors of all previous speakers. Unfortunately, as he cannot always read the notes, and seldom remembers the objections he meant to urge, his criticisms are not as effective as could be desired. On this occasion, Naylor said:—"I'm not going to make a speech, Sir, I only want to point out one or two things which struck me as requiring to be met. I'll take them in their order." (Here he fumbles with his strip of paper, which will get upside down when he wished to refer to it). "Oh, here it is! There was a Gargoyle who said—I believe it was the Proposer of this motion—didn't you?" (To Duff, who shakes his head in solemn disclaimer). "Well, it was somebody, anyway, but he told us that——." (Here Naylor again refers to his notes). "I'm afraid I can't exactly make out what he did say—but I don't agree with him. Then there was another speaker who said, (I took it down at the time) that he'd rather have a good traction-engine than the finest poem ever written! Well, my reply to that is——" (here Naylor has another wrestle with his notes and comes up triumphant) "that's his opinion. I wouldn't. Next, someone asked, 'What practical use was Shakspeare to any man?'" (A pause.) "I've got an answer to that on my notes, somewhere, only I can't find it. But, anyhow," (cheerfully) "I know it was rather sticking up for Shakspeare, to a certain extent. Then, didn't someone else say, 'Music elevated the mind?'" (A Member acknowledges the responsibility of this bold sentiment.) "Well, I don't say it doesn't—only, how? you know, that's the point!" (A long pause, during which Naylor and his notes appears to be getting inextricably involved). "There was a lot of other things I meant to say, but I'm afraid I don't quite remember them at this moment."
With this, Naylor sat down suddenly, apparently very little depressed by the total absence of applause—he knew that a fearless critic is never popular.
After that we had a little speech from dear old Kirkstone, who rose to tell us an anecdote, which the subject had suggested to him. Appropriate anecdotes are always occurring to Kirkstone, and he applies them in the neatest and happiest manner, being gifted with the keenest sense of humour of any one in our Society. In fact, the very keenness of Kirkstone's appreciation operates almost as a disadvantage, as will be seen from the following extract, taken on the spot.
Kirkstone (rising, and playing with his watch-chain). "Sir, whilst listening to the speeches of Honourable Members this evening, I could not help being reminded of a story I heard the other day." (Here a slight spasm passes over his ample cheeks, and we all settle down in delighted anticipation). "There was an old farmer—one of the regular old-fashioned sort." (Faint preliminary chuckle down in Kirkstone's throat.) "Well, he had a daughter, who—tchick!—played on the—tehee!—the piano, and one day he was induced to go in for a"—(convulsion, followed by sounds like the extraction of a very refractory cork)—"for a Steam-plough! Soon afterwards he happened to meet a friend—another farmer, or the parson, I forget which, and it don't signify. Well, and the friend asked 'how he got on with his Steam-plough.' And the old farmer says—hork-hork!—he says, 'Don't talk to me 'bout no Steam-plough—ki-hee-hee!—when there's my darter at home, and she—crick, crick, criggle!' (Kirkstone proceeds gallantly, but is unintelligible until the close)—'with her darned pianner—haw-haw-haw!' Well, the House can apply the moral of that themselves—I thought it was rather to the point myself. That's all I got up to say."
I am afraid Kirkstone thinks we are all of us rather dull.