The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 8, July, 1836

Here and there you may have observed other distinguished members of the house; Daniel O'Connell, the great O'Connell, calm and absorbed in the reading of some new book, of which he is cutting open the leaves, in the midst of his sons, his nephews, and his Irish Catholics, who form what is called _his tail_; a tail, if you please, but one which leads the head of the state. After them, Lord Stanley, the young heir of the house of Derby, that ambitious and disappointed _elegant_, who has yet only in heart deserted the benches of the reformers.

Next you have remarked two young men standing up, and differing as much in their height and figure as in their opinions; but equally celebrated, each one in his own way, in the world, and who, in consequence, deserve to be described.

The first is Viscount Castlereagh, son of the Marquis of Londonderry, a mad conservative like his father, but less simple and possessed of much more discretion. Thin and pitiful in his person, without figure and without talent, it is not in the house that he really exists; in the saloons of the west end is his true atmosphere—it is there alone that his stupidity finds the air that it can respire. Lord Castlereagh is one of the chiefs of the new school which has regenerated English fashion. This school is entirely different from that of Brummell, which founded its distinction upon dress. The new fashionables of the sect of the noble lord, affect, on the contrary, entire negligence in the dress, and the greatest freedom of manners. Nothing is brilliant in their equipages, nor in the style of their servants. Their vehicles are of dark colors and sombre liveries; for themselves extreme simplicity in appearance. No flowered vests; no gold or silver lacing about them; no jewels; at the most the end of a gold chain at the button of a black coat; an engraved ring betraying some mysterious sentiment known to the whole city. Add to this the most refined impertinence of vanity, a sublime contempt for every one not of the exclusive circle into which they alone find admission, and an ambitious senseless jargon. Lord Castlereagh is the perfect type of this first and principal class of London fashionables.

The second, Mr. Edward Lytton Bulwer, the well known author of _Pelham_ and other novels, is, like his brother, an avowed radical. He is large, and would, did he not stoop and hold himself in other respects badly, appear to advantage. His hair is thick, light, and curly. His long inexpressive countenance, and his large moist and fixed eyes, scarcely reveal the writer of genius. I suppose it is in some measure the incontestible success of his writings that has opened to him the doors of that exclusive society, with which he is very much at home. For the style of his costume he is indebted to old traditionary fashions. You will rarely ever meet him but with his bosom open, the skirts of a luxuriant surtout lined with velvet or silk floating to the wind, with the rest of his dress of clear brilliant shades, and varnished boots, brandishing some cane encrusted with a rich head. He would remind you of those _parvenus_ of bad taste who encumber the _avant_ scenes of the opera at Paris. I do not deny the really interesting character of some of the novels of Mr. Bulwer, though they are in other respects so wretchedly written; but it seems to be that he acted very ridiculously in endeavoring to exaggerate their real value, at the expense of exhibiting the absurd vanity betrayed in every page of the sad rhapsodies he has recently published under the title of the _Student_. I would however sooner pardon him for this last work, than an act of his of which I have been informed. A young American called on him the other day, with letters of introduction. “I am delighted to see you, sir,” said Mr. Bulwer, “but I will tell you beforehand that it will be difficult for me often to have that honor; I have already more acquaintances than my leisure will allow me to cultivate, and, in conscience, it is to them that I owe the moments at my disposal.” Do you not discover in this piece of politeness something that even surpasses the characteristic amiability of the English? The English do not ruin themselves by hospitality. If a stranger is introduced to them by letters of introduction, they give him a heavy and long dinner, with a supper for dessert; then, having stuffed him with roast beef and filled him with Port and grog, and having spared no pains to cram him, they take their leave of him; and if the unfortunate individual survives this cheer, their doors are afterwards closed against his entrance. Sir Walter Scott, who was perhaps as great a novelist as Mr. Bulwer, did not consider himself exempt from the common duties of politeness and attention to visitors who happened to be introduced to him. So far from it, he treated them with much more hospitality than is the custom in England; it is true, however, that Sir Walter, though a great novelist, was not a great _fashionable_.

There also you may have recognized Doctor Bowring searching about, running up and down, from one bench to another, shaking the hand of every member who will allow him to do so. The doctor is well known in Paris; and as he did not quite waste his time in promenading the streets of that capital, he soon discovered that charlatanism was one of the most powerful means of success. {475} He took the most direct route to attain his end, and proceeded straight to the journals. The French journalists, when one knows how to deal with them, are complacency itself. In a short time no one was talked of but Doctor Bowring. The doctor did not take a single step that was not duly registered; it was Doctor Bowring here, and Doctor Bowring there, every where the doctor; and the honest public of the French capital, deafened by these trumpet-tongued praises, took him for some extraordinary important personage. On this side of the channel we better understand the puffs of the press, so that every body laughed, I assure you, when this Doctor Bowring was strutting through France, so splendidly decked out with the importance which he had purchased from the newspapers of Paris. He returned to London, but without this glorious mantle. That had been detained at the custom house as a sort of prohibited French merchandise. In fine, the doctor remains just what he was before, that is to say a reformer, anxious to profit by reform, a pale disciple of the utilitarian school of Lord Brougham; a sort of travelling clerk of the foreign office, speaking sufficiently well three or four living languages; a poet, who furnishes some stanzas of ordinary poetry to the magazines; as for the rest, the very best physician in the world.

It was now near six; no one remained to be heard; the moment had arrived for opening the lists. According to the order of the motions for the day, the speaker gave the floor to the minister of the home department. Suddenly the waves of the assembly subsided; a profound silence ensued; Lord John Russell rose to speak.

Lord John Russell, third son of the Duke of Bedford, is extremely small, scarcely five feet high; the smallness of his person almost renews his youth; one would hardly suppose him forty-five years of age, as he really is. A head large about the forehead, and small towards the chin, forming a sort of triangle; chesnut-colored hair, short and thin; large eyes surmounted by well arched brows; a countenance pale, calm, soft and phlegmatic, marked by a sort of half-concealed cunning, are the features that would alone strike you. His manner of speaking is in perfect harmony with his modest and quiet exterior. His voice is weak and monotonous, but distinct. In speaking, his body is scarcely more animated than his discourse. All his action consists in gliding his left hand behind his back, seizing the elbow of his right arm, and balancing himself indefinitely in that position.

Lord John Russell expresses himself plainly and without effort; his language is cold and dry, but clear and concise. An author more concise than elegant, his style of writing exhibits itself in his off-hand speeches. He has nothing of the tiresome volubility of Thiers, who is minister of the home department in France; he says no more than is necessary, while he says every thing that he wishes. His sarcasm though frozen, is not the less sharp. The blade of his poignard does not require to be made red hot to inflict a deep wound. He has none of those sudden flashes which electrify and inflame an assembly; his light is of that peaceable and steady nature that illuminates and guides. His mind is a serious one, full of appropriate, condensed, and well resolved reflections.

In less than an hour he had unrolled the whole plan of his bill, and concisely explained its principles and details, not without letting fly some well sharpened arrows against the corrupting influence of the tories over the municipal constitution, the reform of which he demanded.

As soon as Lord John Russell had resumed his seat, and in the midst of the various murmurs which his speech had excited, Sir Robert Peel rose to address the speaker.

The ex-first lord of the treasury is of moderate height; his figure would be elegant, but for the fatness which has already begun to render it heavy; his dress is neat and studied without being dandyish; his manner would not convict him of the approach of fifty; his regular features have an expression of contemptuous severity; he seems to affect too much the manners of a great man; natural distinction has more ease and carelessness about it.

Moreover, studied affectation is also the prevailing characteristic of his oratory. Gesture and language both betray his ambitious affectedness. He has more of the actor than becomes a public speaker. It is irksome to see him agitate, struggle, and throw himself incessantly about. I do not like to see a statesman exhibit so much acquaintance with the positions of an elocutionist. It may be well enough by one's own fireside to cross one leg over another and to play with the guineas in the pockets of one's pantaloons. One may play with his collar in a drawing room, or throw back the skirts of his frock, without any great impropriety; but in public, and, above all, in places devoted to the solemn discussion of the laws of a nation, this style of flirting manners is by no means appropriate. Sir Robert abuses the purposes for which his hands and arms were given him. One almost loses his words in the incessant agitation of his person.

In other respects I will acknowledge that his elocution is spirited, easy, and intellectual; he may be listened to with pleasure. I am always well pleased with the manner in which he applies his rhetorical skill to public affairs. He has every thing which the art of speaking can give him; but the warmth which animates him is always artificial. The true fire of conviction which is so naturally communicated from the speaker to his audience, is always wanting. There is no sincerity about him. He is an ambitious tory in disguise, who, in order to seize again the golden reins of government, has hypocritically cloaked himself under the mantle of a reformer, and who would pass over to the radicals with his arms and baggage, if there was any chance of remounting by their aid to the power which he covets, and of securing himself in its enjoyment.

In accepting, with ample reservations, the principle of the bill, Sir Robert Peel, in answer to the sharp insinuations of Lord John Russell, made several witty and amusing observations, which diverted a good deal the house.

The minister replied in a few polite but firm observations. The serenity of the noble lord is perfectly unchangeable. He is as calm when defending himself, as when attacking his adversaries. I consider this political temperament as the most desirable for a statesman actively engaged in public affairs. Such coolness disconcerts the fury of one's assailants. One is never worsted in a combat when he retains such undisturbed self-possession.

{476} Some remarks on the details of the bill were made by different members. No one having opposed its introduction, the members began to move off. It was already night, and the hour for dinner; the candles were not yet lit; the house rose in a body.

An individual in a brown curly wig, and dressed in a blue frock, whose broad shoulders and athletic form displayed great personal strength, descended from the ministerial benches, and stepped in the centre of the hall. The sound of his voice called every one back. Silence ensued. This was the great Irishman, the _giant agitator_, as he is called—a giant they may well call him. This energetic old man has alone more youth and life than all the young men in the Commons together, than the whole chamber itself.

The darkness of the evening was not sufficiently great to conceal him from my view. I see him now before me, erect on his large feet, his right arm extended, and his body inclined forwards; I seem to hear him speak. His remarks were not long; he said but a few words, but all his power was condensed in them. The lion fondled while he growled. His approbation was imperative and threatening. “So the bill has only looked to England and Wales! Must Ireland then be always forgotten, that its turn never comes but after the other countries of the United Kingdom? Has it not enough of venal and corrupt municipalities? Nevertheless, he would support openly and with all his strength, the plan of ministers. It was a noble and glorious measure; he wished for nothing more for Ireland.”

He did not wish for more, that is to say, he did not order more for Ireland. The wishes of O'Connell are not to be despised. In consequence, Mr. Spring Rice hastened to satisfy him. “He need not give himself any uneasiness,” said the Chancellor of the Exchequer; “the government would equally do justice to Ireland. It should likewise have its corporations reformed, and perhaps during the same session.”

“Thanks!” murmured O'Connell, mixing himself with the crowd of members pouring out of the hall; “I will remember this promise for Ireland.”

_Ireland!_ you should have heard him pronounce its name with that excited, trembling accent, so full of tenderness, which emphasizes and lingers on every syllable of the beloved word; you should have heard him, to comprehend the power of his irresistible eloquence. Pure love of country lends one a super-human strength. A just cause, honestly and warmly embraced, is an irresistible weapon in hands capable of wielding it.

I am not surprised that desperate conservatives, seeing their tottering privileges ready to be trodden under the feet of O'Connell, should treat him as an agitator, madman, destroyer. But how is it, that among the reformers themselves, he has so many inconsistent admirers, who will never pardon him for the bitter violence and inexorable severity of his speeches? Do these moderate and quiet men believe that honeyed phrases, and the submission of prayers, would have obtained the redress of even the least of the Irish griefs? No! had he not struck roughly and pitilessly, the old edifice of usurpation and intolerance would be still entire. Let him go on—let him be pitiless; he has made an important breach in the walls—let him level them with the ground. To overthrow such things is not destruction; it is but the clearing of the ground to build up public liberty.

O'Connell is unquestionably the best speaker, and the ablest politician in Parliament. Friends or enemies, every one acknowledges, at least to himself, that he is the master-spirit; thus he is the true _premier_. The members of the cabinet are nothing but puppets, dressed up for show, and worked by his agency. His influence over the masses of the people is also immense and universal. He is not the popular idol in Ireland only, but also in England and Scotland. Long life to him! the hopes and future welfare of three nations are centered in his person.

I have nothing further to say of the sitting of the 5th of June, except to remark, that a sufficient number of working members were left in the room to continue for many hours the despatch of business of secondary importance. It is but justice to the House of Commons to state, that great political questions do not retard the execution of local and private business. They will often get through in a single night, more work than the French Chamber of Deputies would in a month of thirty days.

You have seen that the opposition of the conservatives gave way before the corporations bill. It was not without deep mortification, as you may imagine, but prudence rendered it indispensable. It is necessary, at any sacrifice, to assume the appearance of not hating too violently the principles of reform. The plan is not without cunning.

But the opposition counts with confidence on regaining its ground on the question of Irish tithes and their appropriation. It is on this question that it has halted and offers combat. “We have abundantly proved,” say their proclamations, “that we are reasonable reformers, but our love of change cannot induce us to sacrifice the church.” And their church, that ungrateful and unnatural daughter, which has denied and plundered its mother, invokes with all its power the old prejudices of the Protestants to the aid of its champions; it sounds the tocsin with its bells taken from Catholic steeples. Every where it stations its bishops in its temples without altars, and makes them preach a new crusade against Catholicism. Hear them: Of the innumerable religious sects which encumber the three kingdoms, taking them in alphabetical order, from the Anabaptists to the Unitarians, there is not one so hateful and dangerous as the Catholic church. The Popish sect is the only one that endangers the state, the throne and the property of individuals. It is necessary to burn again the Pope in effigy and in processions, as formerly under the reign of Queen Elizabeth; and it would not be bad to burn on the same occasion that impious majority in the Commons, who wish to appropriate a part of the Protestant tithes in Ireland to the education of the poor of all religions! God be praised, the selfish and insensate voice of the conservatives has only cried in the desert. Their fanaticism will not succeed against the general good sense of the nation. Within as without the chamber, their defeat is inevitable. To use the beautiful metaphor of Mr. Shiel, the first Irish orator after O'Connell, the church of Ireland will be the cemetery of toryism and Protestant intolerance.

{477}

THIRD LECTURE

Of the Course on the Obstacles and Hindrances to Education, arising from the peculiar faults of Parents, Teachers and Scholars, and that portion of the Public immediately concerned in directing and controlling our Literary Institutions.

_On the Faults of Teachers_.

It will be recollected, my friends, that my last effort was to expose the vices and faults of parents, so far as they obstruct the progress of education. Those of instructers shall next be exhibited, since they are certainly entitled at least to the second in rank in their power to do mischief. I might sum up all _their_ faults in one sweeping condemnation, by saying that they render the persons guilty of them enemies to themselves, to their professional brethren, and to the public. But specifications are wanting, and such I propose to give, as minutely and distinctly as I can.

In the first place, they injure themselves by the style and language often used when they tender their services to the public. The expressions are frequently such as to encourage the idea, already too prevalent, that _they_ are the only party to be obliged—_they alone_ to be the receivers of favors never to be adequately compensated. Whereas the truth is, if they are really fit for their business, and desirous to perform it faithfully, they never receive the millionth part of a cent for which they do not make a most ample return—a return, the real value of which can never be measured by mere dollars and cents. But the language in which they seek or acknowledge employment, often expresses a degree of humility below the lowest gospel requirement—a doubt of their own qualifications to teach, which, if true, ought forever to exclude them from the class of instructers. It sometimes, in fact, deserves no better name than a servile begging for patronage, as if they considered it a species of gratuitous alms. Ought it to be wondered at, when this is the case, that the public should understand them literally, and treat them accordingly? If they avoid this extreme in tendering their services, it by no means follows, as a necessary consequence, that they should run into the other, which is also very common, of making themselves ridiculous by extravagant pretensions. The middle course in this, as in many other things, is best. Let them always state plainly and explicitly, without exaggeration, what they believe they can do—their willingness to make the attempt with persevering fidelity, and the pecuniary compensation expected for their services. If this were always fairly and fully done, there could not be even the shadow of a pretext on the part of any who might then choose to accept their offers, for underrating their labors, and talking or acting as persons who had conferred obligations beyond all requital, by giving much more than they had received, or could be paid. When teachers are treated in this way, it is, in a great measure, their own fault, and it arises chiefly from the causes just stated. To render their intercourse with their employers what it ought to be, and what it certainly might become, there should be not only a feeling of entire reciprocity of benefit as to the money part of their dealings, but a mutuality of respect and esteem well merited on both sides. This kind of regard can never be felt towards teachers who receive such civilities as may be paid to them, like unexpected and unmerited favors; for if they themselves do not appear to hold their own profession in the honor to which it is justly entitled, who else can they expect to rate it any higher?