‘I am no party man. I have never acted from party feelings, but I must say I do not like the countenances of hon. gentlemen opposite.’
O’Connell, following, retorted amid what Q describes as peals of laughter:
‘We who sit on this side certainly have not such remarkable countenances as that of the gallant Colonel. I would not abate him a single hair’—here resounded a peal of laughter—‘in good humour on this or any other ordinary occasion.’
Macaulay, seated in the Commons as Member for Leeds, a connection broken when he went out to India as a Member of Council, did not escape Q’s searching and shrewd observation. He gives a description of his personal appearance founded on the style of the ‘Police News’ circulating particulars respecting an absconded criminal:
‘His personal appearance is prepossessing. In stature he is about middle size and well formed. His eyes are of a deep blue and have a very intelligent expression. His complexion is dark, his hair of a beautiful jet black. His face is rather inclined to the oval form. His features are small and regular. He is now in the thirty-eighth year of his age.’
Passing through the stately hall of the Reform Club, I often stop to look at a portrait of Macaulay hung on the wall at the foot of the stairway. One would not recognise it from this minute description of the Member for Leeds who sat in the Parliament in the early ’thirties of the last century. But between the printed letter and the painted canvas a period of thirty years stretched.
In his incomparable biography of his uncle, Sir George Trevelyan tells of the success of his maiden speech. Q, who heard it, describes it as electrifying the House. He adds that by refraining from early reappearance in debate Macaulay shrewdly preserved his laurels.
‘He had no gift for extemporaneous speeches. His contributions to debate were carefully studied and committed to memory. He bestowed a world of labour on their preparation. In every sentence we saw the man of genius, the profound scholar, the deep thinker, the close and powerful reasoner. His diction was faultless. As a speaker, he was not forcible or vehement, carrying his audience away with him as by force. Rather, by his dulcet tones and engaging manner, he took his hearers with him willing captives.’
Whilst the late Duke of Devonshire sat in the House of Commons as Lord Hartington, I frequently found in him curiously close resemblance, mental and physical, to Lord Althorpe, Leader of the House of Commons during Lord Grey’s premiership, and the short duration of the first administration of Lord Melbourne. The impression is confirmed by Q’s description.
‘He was one of the worst speakers in the House. It was a truly melancholy spectacle to see him vindicating the Government when in the progress of the Irish Coercion Bill of 1833 it was assailed by O’Connell, Sheil, and other Irish Members. He could not put three or four sentences together without stammering, recalling his words over and over again.’