The Mother of Parliaments

"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

It was said that it required great mental exertion to follow Fox while he was speaking, but none to remember what he had said; but that it was easy to follow Pitt, but hard to remember what there was in his speech that had pleased one. The difference between the two men was the difference between the orator and the debater. It resulted largely from the fact that the one gave much time to the preparation of his speeches, while the other relied upon the inspiration of the moment. Pitt, as Porson says, carefully considered his sentences before he uttered them; Fox threw himself into the middle of his, "and left it to God Almighty to get him out again."356 If the former was the more dignified as a speaker, the latter scored by being always so terribly in earnest. Grattan, who affirmed that Pitt's eloquence marked an era in the senate, that it resembled "sometimes the thunder, and sometimes the music, of the spheres," and admitted that Pitt was right nine times for once that Fox was right, declared that that once of Fox was worth all the other nine times of Pitt.357

No doubt the Parliament of those days was not so critical a body as it has since become. Lord Chesterfield, at least, held it in the profoundest contempt. "When I first came into the House of Commons," he says, "I respected that assembly as a venerable one; and felt a certain awe upon me; but, upon better acquaintance, that awe soon vanished; and I discovered that, of the five hundred and sixty, not above thirty could understand reason, and that all the rest were peuple; that those thirty only required plain common-sense, dressed up in good language; and that all the others only required flowing and harmonious periods, whether they conveyed any meaning or not; having ears to hear, but not sense enough to judge."358 This scathing indictment of the intelligence of the Commons may possibly have been true at the time when it was written: it would certainly not be applicable to-day. Meaningless periods, however harmonious, are no longer tolerated. In Lord Chesterfield's day, however, sound seems to have been more important than sense, as may be gathered from an account he gives elsewhere of a speech made in 1751 in the House of Lords. He was speaking upon a Bill for the Reform of the Calendar, a subject upon which he knew absolutely nothing. To conceal his ignorance he conceived the idea of giving the House an historical account of calendars generally, from Ancient Egyptian to modern times, being particularly attentive to the choice of his words, to the harmony of his periods, and to his elocution. The peers were enchanted. "They thought I informed," he explains, "because I pleased them; and many of them said that I had made the whole very clear to them, when, God knows, I had not even attempted it."359

The gift of oratory is most certainly heaven-born, but its development demands a vast amount of purely mundane labour. The best speeches have ever been those in the preparation of which the most time and trouble have been expended. Burke's masterpieces were essays, laboriously constructed in the study; Sheridan's elaborate impromptus were carefully devised beforehand, and, if successful, occasionally repeated.360 Chatham, whose wonderful dominion over the House does not perhaps appear in his speeches, chose his words with the greatest care, and confided to a friend that in order to improve his vocabulary he had read "Bailey's Dictionary" twice through from beginning to end.

The fervid eloquence of such men as Plunket, Macaulay, Brougham, and Canning – "the last of the rhetoricians" – was the fruit of many an hour of laborious thought and study. Canning especially never spared himself. He would draw up for use in the House a paper, on which were written the heads of the subjects which he intended to touch upon. These heads were numbered, and the numbers sometimes extended to four or five hundred. Lord North, when he lost the thread of his discourse, would look through his notes with the utmost nonchalance, seeking the cue which was to lead him to further flights of eloquence. "It is not on this side of the paper, Mr. Speaker," he would declaim, still speaking in his oratorical tone; "neither is it on the other side!" Then, perhaps, he would suddenly come upon the desired note, and continue his unbroken oration without a sign of further hesitation.361 Bright used to provide himself with small slips of paper, inscribed with his bon-mots, which he drew from his pocket as occasion required. He excelled, nevertheless, in scathing repartee. Once, during his absence through illness, a noble lord stated publicly that Bright had been afflicted by Providence with a disease of the brain as a punishment for his misuse of his talents. "It may be so," said Bright, on his return to the House, "but in any case it will be some consolation to the friends and family of the noble lord to know that the disease is one which even Providence could not inflict upon him."362 He did not always get the best of it, however, and when he ridiculed Lord John Manners for the youthful couplet —

"Let wealth and commerce, laws and learning die,But leave us still our old nobility!"

the author justly retorted that he would far sooner be the foolish young man who wrote those lines than the malignant old man who quoted them.

That speeches should be as effective when read as when delivered is the highest quality of oratory. For this reason, perhaps, some speakers write out their speeches and commit them to memory. Disraeli did so with his more important orations, a fact which greatly enhances the pleasure of their perusal. Macaulay followed the same practice, and, indeed, it is said that the excessive elaboration of his oratory sometimes weakened its effect. Lord Randolph Churchill's earlier speeches were all memorised in this fashion. But it is not every man whose memory is sufficiently retentive to enable him to accomplish this feat, and a breakdown in the very middle of a humorous anecdote thoughtfully interspersed in a speech is a catastrophe which casts ridicule upon the speaker.363

Though matter may be a most important element in parliamentary speaking, manner undoubtedly counts for a good deal. Demosthenes practised declaiming with sharp weapons suspended above him so as to learn to keep still, and, as we have already seen, had some obscure reason for filling his mouth with pebbles. Neither of these practices is to be commended to modern orators, many of whom already speak as though their mouths were filled with hot potatoes, while their habitual gesticulations, if made in the neighbourhood of dependent cutlery, would result in reducing their bodies to one huge wound. Sir Watkin Wynne and his brother were long known in the House of Commons as "Bubble and Squeak," the former's voice being a smothered mumble suggestive of suppressed thunder, the latter's a childish treble. Mannerisms of gesture, as well as of speech, are easily contracted. Lord Mahon, "out-roaring torrents in their course," reinforced his stentorian lungs by violent gestures which were at times a source of bodily danger to his friends. Once, when speaking on a Bill he had brought in for the suppression of smuggling, he declared that this crime must be knocked on the head with one blow. To emphasize his meaning, he dealt the unfortunate Pitt, who was sitting just in front of him, a violent buffet on the head, much to the amusement of the House.364 The gesticulations of Sir Charles Wetherell, the well-known member, were less dangerous, if quainter. He used to unbutton his braces in a nervous fashion while addressing the House, leaving between his upper and lower garments an interregnum to which Speaker Manners Sutton once alluded as the honourable gentleman's only lucid interval. The late Lord Goschen would grasp himself firmly by the lapel of his coat, as though (to quote a well-known parliamentary writer) "otherwise he might run away and leave matters to explain themselves."365

Parliamentary eloquence to-day makes up in quantity for what it lacks in quality. The number of members who follow the advice of the Psalmist and earn a reputation for wisdom by a continual policy of eloquent silence366 has dwindled to vanishing point, since to speak in Parliament has come to be regarded as part of a member's duty to his constituents. In Gladstone's first session, in 1833, less than 6000 speeches were made in the House of Commons; fifty years later the number had increased to 21,000; to-day the steadily growing bulk of each volume of the "Parliamentary Debates" testifies to the swelling flood of oratory which is annually let loose within the precincts of Parliament. And if La Rochefoucauld's maxim be true, that we readily pardon those who bore us, but never those whom we bore, the House of Commons has need of a most forgiving spirit to listen patiently to so much of what can only be described as vox et praeterea nihil.

The level of eloquence is, no doubt, higher in the House of Lords than elsewhere. Peers include a greater number of orators among their numbers; opportunities for a display of their talents are more rare; their powers are not dissipated in prolonged debates, as in the Commons, but are reserved for full-dress occasions.

In neither House nowadays is there any exhibition of that old-fashioned rhetoric, florid and flamboyant, which was once so popular. What Mackintosh calls "an elevated kind of after-dinner conversation," such as Lord Salisbury affected so successfully, is the form taken by modern parliamentary eloquence. There are no appeals to sentiment, no quotations from the classics, no bombastic declamations.367 The House of Commons is still "a mob of gentlemen, the greater part of whom are neither without talent nor information,"368 and with such an audience learned generalities are out of place. Passion has to a large extent given way to business, and in Parliament to-day are rarely heard those "splendid common-places of the first-rate rhetorician," which Lord Morley considers necessary to sway assemblies.

We live in a material age. The flowers of rhetoric bloom no longer in the cold business-like atmosphere of the parliamentary garden; only the more practical but unromantic vegetables remain. The rich embroideries of trope and metaphor have been roughly torn from modern speech, leaving the bare skeleton of reason exposed to the public gaze. The grandiose orator of the past, with his ornate phraseology, his graceful periods, his quotations from the poets, has been ousted by the passionless debater, flinging, like the improvident O'Connell, his brood of robust thoughts into the world, without a rag to cover them. No one to-day would dream of expending fifty shillings – let alone fifty guineas – for the privilege of hearing a modern Sheridan address a twentieth-century Parliament; no modern Grattan (as Sheil might say) shatters the pinnacles of this establishment with the lightning of his eloquence.